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prael · 1 day ago

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Day 12: Three Shades of Sin

Le Sserafim Kazuha & Yunjin & TripleS Xinyu

words: 11,736 12 Days of Praelmas Masterlist

Look, you know this story starts with the way Xinyu has her fingers threaded beneath Kazuha's jaw, her lipstick smeared off in bits and pieces, but that’s not actually how it ends. It’s a slow descent; watching your girlfriend kiss someone new is a beautiful disaster that never really loses its lustre, and the truth is, there’s no moral at the end of this tale - the closest you’ll get to something cathartic is this:

Yunjin grinning at you, sunshine-bright and wickedly gorgeous. “You gonna invite us in, or what?”

First things first: the bar is packed - oh, it's always packed - but especially so on the nights when Kazuha performs. It's not a burlesque club, not really; in theory, it's not all that much more than an upscale lounge for yuppies with more money than they need, trying to pretend they're living sophisticated lives with a splash of debauchery on the side.

It's packed, obviously, because they're getting a little more debauchery than expected tonight - but all the familiar faces are there: the grad-school crowd who treat this club like the neighbourhood dive bar; the pretentious A-list types who claim to hate this kind of thing but always seem to show up anyway; the trust-fund kids and their vices and habits; the semi-locals, like you. They’re the mainstay: you know their drink orders, what they’re into, whether you’ve gone home with them before. You know who is dating who. Who's got a looser distinction between romance and just fooling around. Who got fired. Who's always fucked up beyond all help. You know the girl sitting at the end of the bar nursing a cosmo and waiting for you, alone.

She'd come to see Kazuha perform like everyone else.

"You missed my boyfriend," Xinyu says to you, just shy of winking. She looks beautiful - she always does, of course, but this time: she's wearing black leggings and a crop top that shows off the cut of her waist, her toned abs. The skirt is so small it's basically an accessory to how she's got her dark hair pinned up into something half-bedroom, half-backstage-chic, hoop earrings that dangle just above the slope of her neck.

"Did I?" you reply, coy. It's not flirting - or maybe it is, you're not sure.

She tips her head, cheek resting delicately on her knuckles. You end up staring at her mouth; the words coquettish and prurient and absolutely, unquestionably fuckable are swirling around your brain. "Yep," she says, and her lips curve beautifully. "You did."

Xinyu turning up the dial until she's impossible to resist is pretty much standard-operating-procedure here- it's sort of like this place runs through her blood. She's claimed ownership of it for herself.

"It's too bad," she says, drumming acrylics on the countertop. She shoots you a look that's all bedroom eyes: that drowsy, liquid-lidded kind of want that tells you she'd have her head tilted back against your pillows in less than a few minutes if you asked. "I think you would've really gotten along."

"Guess I'll just have to settle for his girlfriend." You lean closer to her, conspiratorial. "This is fun. What else are we doing tonight?"

"Oh, yeah, you know." She stretches long and languid, satisfied. "Same as usual." That means dancing - some partying, probably lots of drinking, flirting. You're going to take her home and pin her wrists to the pillow above her head. You don't mind any of that - it's become your life, these last months, too. You know the routine here like you've known it for years.

"Want something to drink?" you ask her, and Xinyu considers you. Like she's going to pounce.

"Not really," she says, and then her chin fits into the dip between her thumb and pointer finger. You get closer. "Think I'm thirsty for something else." There's nothing left of the distance between you, and you're not kissing her yet, not yet - but the tension is making a point of shuddering and cracking.

All that promise of something more.

"Don't let this go to your head, but." Xinyu reaches out a hand. You play into the script; you take it and bring her knuckles to your lips. Her wrist smells like the perfume you bought her a Christmas ago. You kiss there, too - for a split second. "I love my boyfriend. He's great." Your eyes dart to hers again - she's always watching, waiting for the attention to come back her way. "But sometimes girls just hit differently, right?"

"See anyone in particular?" you say, still nonchalant, while Xinyu hooks a fingertip onto the neckline of your shirt.

"Oh," says Xinyu. Her grin is devilish, dangerous: like she'd carve right through your throat. "That's cute of you. Like, you really wanna know, hm? I have a list."

"How long is it?" You raise an eyebrow, feign boredom. She likes the challenge.

"Depends on the night."

"But I'm at the top," you continue, unabashed - your usual brand of charming. "Right?"

Xinyu laughs; it's a delight, musical and precious. You'd listen to it for hours if you could.

"You already know, honey." Her nails skim your neck; they catch in your hair. The strands fall over the silver around her fingers. "Top of my list, and everyone else's, too."

"Nope." You lean even further over the bar, stealing the inches, taking them for your own. "Not tonight."

"I don't share." Xinyu taps your nose, prim, smirking. Her eyes are shining, brimming with energy - you can't look away from her. She's intoxicating. She's beautiful. "He wouldn't like that anyway."

"Oh, come on. That sounds like a 'him' problem. Right?"

There's a raucous chorus of laughter from across the floor: people coming in from the cold, wanting to see the show, see a gorgeous girl in next-to-nothing strut her stuff up onstage. You watch as Xinyu's eyelashes flutter, delighted - she's waiting for something to begin; this is a ritual that repeats, the fervour starting low and ending high.

And it starts, and it ends, always, with you looking at her.

"We'll see," sings Xinyu, and she twirls on her stool, one leg neatly hooked over the other. The bar erupts into thunderous applause - the lights dim, and Kazuha emerges onstage.

See, the club isn't normally about stripteases - sure, some girls dance - but this is still a place with bottle service and $18 cocktails, not one where dancers make a show of stripping out of their lingerie. And it's not like you care much for how people try to make themselves seem better than they are, really: if you wanna be trashy, fine. If you want to keep up appearances, put on some kind of show like you're worth a dime more than anyone else out there, great, fine, do that. This place may be the latter, but in the end, it's all the same; everything falls apart once the night sets in. Everything stays messy, no matter which box you paint yourself into.

That's a long preface to say: you're just not expecting her in the slightest.

To be honest, most nights aren't all that exciting - there are people to remember, drinks to mix up, tabs to close and mouths to kiss, sometimes - but mostly, there's not a lot worth mentioning. When people come into the bar - the people who are new, the people who think that this is an opportunity for the night to turn interesting - you look up, size them up, wonder who they're going home with, if you're interested at all. More often than not, it's none of the above.

"Hi," says the new face as she slides up to you on the stool. Well, okay, so this part is different.

Xinyu stepped out earlier - said she had someone else to find, said you'd probably like who she had in mind, but whatever. You'll see when you see. You're not picky. You were ready to dick around on your phone until your girlfriend figured out which plaything you were both in the mood for tonight - you're not opposed to another addition, not at all - but then-

Then the girl sits at the bar, leans on her elbows over the polished surface. Rakes her fingers through the wisps of dark hair at her forehead, pushes it back, and -

And meets your gaze dead on, and doesn't break it. Not even a bit.

Okay - so, she's blindingly, impossibly stunning. A textbook fucking ten.

"Hi," she says again, firmer, like she knows what you're thinking. "Do they serve anything here that isn't blue or tastes like putting your tongue to a nine-volt?"

It's such a shockingly mild opener that you immediately laugh at her. It just spills right out of you.

"Yeah," you say, leaning against the bar, mildly amused. You call over the bartender, order in duplicate - you're pretty sure that's how this works, you have to get the drink in front of her, not even mention it, just let her know that you're calling the shots here - and then fix her with another look, eyebrows quirked. "New in town?" you ask. Small talk. Sure.

"No," she replies, "just new in here." She tosses her silky red hair over her shoulder. Reveals the halter-neck of her blouse and the deepness of the dip. Her collarbones are out. You barely even notice. "Also," she continues, "this place is a fucking zoo."

There's no patience to her. She's harsh, no filter. Your drinks arrive, and she hardly reacts when they do.

"It's a bit crowded." You're trying somewhat to stay diplomatic. "It's the girl on stage," you offer, and you gesture vaguely towards Kazuha's figure: long legs and curves in all the right places, raven-black hair falling to her waist. Everyone looks at her like she's a gift sent down from heaven. She's dressed in something gold, sequin, and she knows that they're pretty much right.

"Well, I guess that explains it."

"Everyone's hoping she'll take off more clothes." You shrug your shoulders at your new companion. "But she never does, so I'm not quite sure why everyone thinks tonight will be the exception."

"No shit," the girl drawls, her tone entirely blasé - she's so painfully disaffected, the disinterested, entitled type; your heart skips a beat. "No offence to you, man, but I think most of the guys here are either idiots or creeps." The redhead wrinkles her nose. "Or both."

"A fair assessment, honestly," you muse. Sip your drink. It's bitter. She hasn't touched hers. "You think I'm any different?"

The corner of her mouth ticks up. "No," she says.

The room seems to tilt sideways, and everything gets fuzzy: it feels like you're supposed to be talking in code or perhaps just reading between lines - there's a whole secret conversation happening beneath this surface-level, meaningless banter. You're making contact, making plans. She knows where this is going. You're right there with her.

"The girl up there is cute," the redhead says after a while, thoughtful. "What's your deal with her? How come you haven't turned into one of the animals in the horde yet?"

It's an obvious line of questioning.

"She's nice," you admit, "but I've already got something good going with someone. No need to push my luck with anyone else."

At this, she raises an eyebrow, curious, cautious, wary. "Nice, how?"

"I mean, she's beautiful," you say, "very pretty." Easy things. Surface things. These things anyone could list off. "Cute voice."

"Nothing in particular, though, huh." Her eyes flick back to the performer onstage - Kazuha's walking the catwalk, kicking her heel out at the men closest to her; her skirt rides up, and everyone goes absolutely wild for it - and then returns her focus to you. "Not your type?"

You've been in this seat - or one just like it, at least - watching Kazuha's ass onstage for countless nights. You're well aware of her appeal, but you can't figure out a harmless way to say your mind is giving you three images of a palm-print burning across the same expanse of skin at any given moment.

You shrug, ambivalence feigned. "I guess not."

"It's funny." She props her chin on her palm, her nail polish glittering against her jawline. She's barely touched her drink. "The girl's normally such a doll, right? Kind of girlish. Could barely hold a conversation with a boy when I met her. And now she's all that. On stage."

"Hmm," you reply, like you can't imagine it. "Is that right?"

"Oh yeah," she tells you, half-smiling. Her lipstick leaves marks on the glass as she takes her first sip. "Years of ballet school will do that to a girl. Though maybe something about performing just became second nature."

"Explains the legs," you mutter, feeling the look she levels with you; dangerous. "And the gracefulness," you amend quickly. She raises an eyebrow at you, and you raise one right back; it's a power struggle, and when her fingers curl across her chin, you almost choke on nothing.

"Legs and grace," she says. "That's about it for her, huh?"

You nod, your voice quiet, soft.

"How do you know her?" you ask gently.

"Oh, honey," she croons. Her face is halfway to laughter, mirth perched like a threat in her voice. She puts a palm flat on the counter and slides it forward so her manicure scrapes at the varnish. Leans into you over the edge of the bar and presses her lips to your ear. "I'm fucking her."

Everything in your brain stops, and starts; everything crashes down around you; everything rearranges.

"You know," the girl continues like she's explaining something casual, something innocent, "she's real fun on her hands and knees. Can't get enough of me." She tilts her head, contemplative. "I suppose she is beautiful," she adds, almost thoughtfully, and then reaches out her fingers. Tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "And graceful."

All you can picture are those gorgeous, creamy thighs marked up by nails like razors: bruises shaped like fingertips, angry scratches that would leave scars if pushed hard enough. Things for her to return to.

You swallow. You blink.

"She's very lovely," you say, careful, careful.

"Listen." The girl leans away, sweeps her red hair back over her shoulder, fixes you with her heavy-lidded eyes again. "We don't have to pretend we're in love or anything." Her voice is velvet, husky; the words catch at your eardrum and melt there, dripping down the bones of your skull like liquid seduction. "She's busy, clearly. So, I'm looking for a little company tonight, and I think I've found it."

"And your girlfriend?"

"Can't make it." She smiles, wolfish. "Which, if you don't mind me saying, is very lucky for you."

"Girlfriend, who you fuck into the mattress," you clarify. "She'd have no problem sharing?"

"With a pretty thing like you?" Her eyelashes flutter - the way they sweep low makes shadows across her cheeks, delicate. "No chance she'd object."

Your mouth twists to the side. "What's the catch?"

"No catch," she purrs. "Just: I'm going to go to the bathroom, and I think you could follow me there in five minutes, tops. Sound like a plan, handsome?"

Oh.

Okay. You think vaguely that Xinyu's probably got a hand in this, somehow. Doing this on purpose, leaving you here to fend for yourself - and it's a very Xinyu kind of move, really: setting you up with some stranger, letting her proposition you, and waiting for it to escalate past the point of return. Sending you right up to a pretty pair of vices, telling you to chew them down to size. Maybe if you do good - you already know how she wants you to perform - you'll get an actual reward later. Another girl for you to fuck, or maybe Xinyu herself. Or both. Your brain is spinning in circles. You really, really can't think straight with her breathing right onto your pulse.

"What, you've got something better to do than fuck two girls tonight? The girl seems to weigh something out in her mind; watches you through a side-long glance. "You really can't drop everything to play around for a little bit?"

So maybe it's not Xinyu's handiwork - this is a little too far-fetched, even for her - but you can't lie. When she goes ahead, drags her fingers on your shoulder as she glides by and doesn't bother looking back, the way your cock throbs makes it easy to decide that it doesn't matter.

You get lost a bit on the logistics. (That'll actually be a recurring theme.)

There's a pair of single-occupancy toilets in the back of the bar, ostensibly family washrooms; for mothers with children, wheelchairs, sloppy bathroom sex with god-blessedly gorgeous strangers, that sort of thing - but they're occupied. Both the handles spun up; red tags flipped up to indicate engagement, a motif, and symbolism in spades. Something heavy-handed and easily ignored.

"Maybe I should just get on my knees right here," she suggests eventually - like a joke, but she'd do it. You're pretty sure.

"Absolutely not," you counter, only a little bit scandalized. She grins and presses a palm flat to your abdomen.

"Just problem-solving." She's totally blasé. "Critical thinking."

"Careful with that," you warn her, sorta unreasonably given where your fingers are on the cut of her hips.

She pretends to think about it, fingers tapping thoughtfully on her lip, a comical exaggeration, and you just roll your eyes. You think about getting her name, maybe a number - you could just leave it at that, save her contact info under tall, great ass, (fuckable) lips and pray to hell it never comes up as recommended when someone else texts you.

Yeah, right. It's better to just bury yourself in this until it all dissolves - stick to the immediacy of it. Get your mouth on every part of her body and lick her clean, and then be gone before the sun rises. Right?

She pulls you down by your neck and slots your lips together again, slow, agonizing, her lips slipping over yours like they're made to be there. She kisses like it's an art form - something you can perfect, practice - and her tongue darts along the seam of your mouth like she wants to coax you open. There's the bite of cherry lipstick, sweet and candied; her fingertips into your belt loops, then yanks you toward her with her nose scrunched and a wicked smile.

"I can't believe you'd let me fuck you with your back against the wall like this." Her hips bump forward into yours - she's playing at bashful, coy and innocent. She's failing miserably. "What if someone sees?"

"I think you'd like that," you answer.

"Mmm," she agrees. She's tipping her head back, sliding her tongue across her upper lip, baring her neck to you. Her eyes flick back up, dragging like a blade. "Letting someone walk by, seeing you pushing into me, knowing I was about to make you lose control...yeah. Sounds hot, honestly."

"Shut up," you murmur, leaning closer.

"Make me," she kisses back, eyes flashing; oh, if you didn't feel it before, this is definitely how you know you'll see her again: you recognize the power in her stance, the firecracker-red blaze in her glare - it's like looking in a mirror, that domineering aggression. It's the promise of a rivalry; something you'll want to tame.

A wayward thought lingers: oh, hell - your mind is rapid on the recall, an endless, eager, addicting memory loop - how she kisses, too. The silky sweetness, the enthusiasm - the way her hands bury in your shirt and her pitched, muffled sounds of appreciation spill right into your throat. How she's such an obscene daydream, and the filthy, filthy things she tells you with her hands in your hair - the shock of that, her bold, pretty mouth telling you what she's fantasizing about right now and the fact that those fantasies line up with yours in nearly every sense. Her very presence is a contradiction, her mismatched gestures: tender kisses and wandering hands; how, for every inch given, she'll take five more.

You get your fingers under her skirt, pull her legs up to your waist; she wraps her palm over your cock; smiles against your lips, almost smitten but too arrogant for it: a villainous grin. You hitch one of her thighs over your hip, her panties damp against your slacks. Oh, how good she is - how perfect the feeling, how beautifully her teeth sink into the soft underside of your lower lip like you belong to her: a piece of property.

"That's it, sweetheart," you groan, kissing the apple of her cheek, letting the blush seep right under your tongue. Your hand hovers near her inner thigh. "God, you're so fucking sexy."

"Touch me," she hisses into the skin of your cheek.

"So demanding," you hum.

"Oh, shut the fuck up," she moans, arching into your chest - but her eyelashes flutter as your thumb ghosts across the fabric of her underwear, teasing. "Ah-ha..."

You'll justify it later, somehow: a cheat night, maybe - Xinyu's so used to getting other girls all to herself, you should have a few all to your own - and this one doesn't count as one, really; she belongs to someone else anyway, the raven-haired girl with the siren voice, long legs in silk stockings and pearls across her neck and high-heeled boots clicking across the pavement. And Kazuha doesn't even have to know: she's busy, probably; off with another guy or two or three. No reason to tell her what happens - you certainly won't complain. One orgasm and the redhead will be out of your hair.

There's a side door, some stairs. Nobody stops to ask who you are or where you're going, or even so much as bat an eye as you spill out into the alley - where people go to smoke or fight or vomit; she kisses you outside in the cold air, sliding her hands into your pockets and pushing up to the tips of her toes. There's a smile on her face like you're her best idea ever. It's cold out; she doesn't appear to care.

"God, I'm wet," she breathes, and you don't have to believe her.

"I bet I can help with that." Your jacket slides across your shoulders, off onto the concrete. You're leading her around a corner and against a brick wall. It's dark here. Dark enough for mistakes. Dark enough that you can press her spine to the bricks, slide your hands to her sides and lift her up, taste the lipstick across her jawline-

"Oh my god," comes a voice - softer, sweeter, a total siren lilt. "Please, fuck, that feels so-"

Both your heads swivel.

One streetlight illuminates Kazuha with her back pressed to the bricks and her hand curled tightly in all this black hair, panting, pleading: a perfect fucking masterpiece. She's got her eyes screwed shut, her lips parted; she's absolutely lost.

"Huh," says the redhead, dispassionate - and her fingers curl loosely over your forearm, drumming rhythmically. "Looks like she got distracted after all."

The hand between her legs is fucking her up and doing it fast, snapping sharp wrist motions accompanied by these rhythmic, throaty gasps from Kazuha as she holds onto the edge of a dumpster lid, clawing at metal. There's a muffled string of curses as the woman crouches, leaning forward - shoving her tongue inside. "Fu-uck," Kazuha manages, two distinct syllables - and her grip tightens around her waist, her spine. You catch the light shining off her gold earrings like a flash-warning, and you fall short of a breath.

“Xinyu?” you sputter. “What’re you-”

Xinyu extracts her hand from Kazuha’s cunt, licks her fingers clean and turns to you, not at all guilty - but she isn’t sorry, either. You blink hard.

“Oh, hey,” says Xinyu, cheery as anything. She brushes off her dress. “Didn’t think I’d find you here.”

“Neither did we,” you choke, dry-mouthed. “Are you…”

“We’re making use of some downtime,” offers Kazuha, smoothing down her hair, wiping off her smudged lipstick. The makeup is so precise that it doesn’t look smudged at all - or maybe that’s just how used she is to covering it up. “Is there a problem?”

“No, none-” Your mouth snaps shut as Xinyu meets your stare and gives you an impish little shrug, biting back a smile. She saunters over to where you stand, keeping a respectable distance.

“Look at this, babe," Xinyu says. She gestures to the girl you were making out two seconds ago, casual. "I found him first. Isn’t he handsome?”

“You’ve got weird taste,” replies the redhead, not unkindly, tilting her head back against the wall and exposing all that gorgeous skin. You can see her chest rise and fall in ragged breaths. Xinyu walks a hand up your torso, palms your collarbone with a suggestive smile - it's a little possessive, but then again, you realize you’ve forgotten to let go of the other girl's hand.

“You would be into him,” retorts Kazuha. She laughs softly. “Hi, Jen,” she adds, almost as an afterthought.

“Hey,” Yunjin says, wiggling her fingers, lazy. “Loved the performance."

"Shut the fuck up," snipes Kazuha, rolling her eyes, but she's flushed, halfway to an orgasm that's not gonna happen because everyone is apparently choosing now to puzzle this one out. "Could see you flirting with him the entire time, idiot."

"He's super fucking hot," says Yunjin. "Oh, speaking of which-" She tugs you closer by your wrist - you're stuck, standing still, trapped between three gorgeous women ready to argue over who saw who first.

“Wait,” you manage, breaking free. Yunjin huffs. Xinyu frowns, blinking. Kazuha leans back against the wall.

“We didn’t plan this or anything,” explains Kazuha. “Xinyu just likes what she sees sometimes.” There’s a practised ease in the way she says this - like this has all been rehearsed before between the two of them. "Or, well-" Kazuha lifts a shoulder, delicate, polished. "A lot of the time, I guess."

"Yeah," Xinyu says, not defensive. "So?"

"Well," you say, after a long moment - your mind working furiously to process, reconcile, synthesize - this scene where you're being pulled in six directions at once, trying to put this story together before any more pages flip.

"That's your girlfriend," you say to Yunjin, finally - and point a finger towards Kazuha.

"And yours," says Kazuha, one hand on Xinyu's hip. “Hi,” she adds.

"Yep," says Xinyu. "How about that."

She steps up close to you and bats those dark lashes. Behind her, Kazuha’s gaze catches your glance; it takes you a solid ten seconds to realize she’s trying to place where she’s seen you before - it clicks for her all at once, though it's a lot quicker for you - and then it all slots neatly into place, every cog and screw lining up in an easy motion.

“So.” Yunjin chews idly at the pad of her thumb. "What, you guys met once at the mall or something?"

"Yeah," you reply, realizing exactly how you and yours have come to fall for two of the same type. "We met at the mall."

If you'd like to imagine that this goes smoothly after that - it doesn't. Not really. It's more accurate to say that Yunjin looks at you, your blank stare, the panic - and the three girls just dissolve into laughter, giddy and conspiratorial like they've just pulled off the world's greatest coup.

"C'mon," says Yunjin. She's so good at reading social cues - like, oh, you being totally stunned-silent by the sheer amount of sexual energy suddenly coursing through this alleyway. "You said it yourself," Yunjin reminds you, gesturing at Kazuha, "beautiful, very pretty, nice legs." She brings her lips to your cheek. "You didn't lie about that."

"What?" says Kazuha.

Yunjin just smiles, brushes a lock of red hair behind her ear. "We have taste," she tells Kazuha, confident and poised - and then to you, hushed under her breath, "I'd watch you rail her," she murmurs. Her tongue darts out, pressing wet and warm into the shell of your ear. "Would you like that?"

"That's-" you start. You stop. Xinyu looks over at you, a devious flicker lighting up her eyes - oh, god; if that doesn't spell disaster, nothing does -and the grin she gives you is so downright evil you wonder why you ever dared dream you stood a chance. She looks back over at Kazuha, reaches out a hand to clasp gently at that impossible waist, pulling her in close.

"Sweetheart," Xinyu drawls, tracing a thumb over her jawline. "Doll," she continues, letting the nickname linger. She leans up, pecks a kiss against Kazuha's mouth - but her eyes don't leave yours for a second. She bites down gently on Kazuha's lower lip, tugging lightly at the skin before letting it snap back.

"You know I wouldn't ever get jealous over sharing something with you," Xinyu murmurs. She says it like a proclamation; something binding, solemn - a pact signed in ink, wax-sealed and pressed into the skin of Kazuha's collarbone. They're practically the same height. It makes your throat run dry. "You get me," she says.

Yunjin laughs, but not meanly. "It's cute how you pretend you aren't selfish," she says to Xinyu, rolling her eyes. Her lips curve upwards. "Tell me something I don't know." And then - you feel her fingertips trail delicately over your waistband, slipping her thumb below the hem of your jeans. "Hey, Kazuha?"

Kazuha drags her focus off Xinyu with visible effort, snapping back into the conversation.

"Wanna ride his face?"

Xinyu is grinning like a lunatic, gorgeous and predatory.

Kazuha gathers her hair off her neck. “He seems like the type who would want to eat pussy for hours."

"I wouldn't complain," you croak out - and Yunjin laughs. It’s genuine, unpracticed, the sort of thing that shakes her shoulders; it fills you up.

"Why don't you sit back down against that wall," she tells you, nudging at your ribs. Her touch feels electric. "Relax."

Oh. She says it like an order, and you realize that she knows full well what it'll do to you. She's still smiling, though it's sharper now, sharper, hungrier - like the glint of fangs that'll tear you apart. It's really no wonder you ended up exactly where she wanted you - but then you realize Kazuha's looking at you, and you realize that you're not entirely sure whose team you're on or if there even are any teams here. It's not like you can complain. The most you can manage is a grunt of acknowledgement, sitting down slowly, trying not to trip over your own feet and ruin everything.

"Good boy," Yunjin quips, quiet enough to feel private, intimate. You blink up at her, still holding her hand in your lap as you sit down, staring like she holds the key to all seven wonders of the world in her palm. "Kazuha," Yunjin calls over her shoulder, patting your arm. "Get over here. Come meet my new friend."

And that's sorta how you wind up in some kind of...what-the-fuck situation? Some otherworldly thing you shouldn't even hope to explain - some alternate dimension shit with two beautiful women pressing you back against some dirty-ass brick wall in the alley behind your usual haunt, a third one laughing hysterically at all four of you. You feel like the dumbest motherfucker alive, especially when Xinyu whispers something in Yunjin's ear, and it earns a resounding laugh, but mostly just because your girlfriend's hands are everywhere and Yunjin's sitting back and watching like it's prime-time television.

That - and also because Kazuha's decided she needs your face buried in her cunt ASAP, and frankly, you can't even muster up the energy to disagree.

First things first: the bar is packed - oh, wait, no: it's always packed. But especially so on the nights where you're trying to navigate this stupid situation, you got yourself into where three fucking goddesses have you on rotation, like clockwork.

You're collecting coats and closing tabs, doing your absolute best not to bring any more attention to how Kazuha's wobbling on both legs because she can't quite walk straight anymore.

Yunjin - your current distraction, clad in the most perfect shade of red lipstick, clinging onto your favourite girl like a lifeline - keeps leaning over to Xinyu, whispering frantically in her ear, and it's like the more they talk, the more amused Xinyu gets.

"I told Yunjin your apartment's the closest," Xinyu says to you, eventually, a small smirk forming on her face. "Think she wants you alone for a while. Sounds like she thinks you could really, uh-" She nods toward you, gesturing pointedly towards your belt. "Blow her back out, is how she phrased it."

Oh. Well, then. Yeah, no, you'd be perfectly okay with that.

When you glance back over at the rest of your - you don't have a word for it - entourage, all three pairs of eyes are locked on you, expectant and eager. Jesus fucking Christ. You make brief eye contact with Yunjin; her smile grows impossibly wider. This was meant to be a casual night, wasn't it? A nice outing at the lounge bar where you down drinks and enjoy the scenery - that was how it started, right? Then Yunjin had shown up, demanding all your attention like you owed it to her just for existing (and honestly? You kinda do). It'd been an excuse to look at Kazuha's tits, and then another to press your mouth all over Xinyu's - but the way your girlfriend's looking at you makes it abundantly clear that that ship's already sailed.

Kazuha raises a water bottle to her lips, looking cool and confident as ever (oh, you know better).

"Didn't mean to invite everyone over, but." Xinyu preens, adjusting the hem of her skirt and checking for signs of wear. She knows exactly what she's saying, exactly what you're thinking - there's an intentness to her words. "You wouldn't mind, right, baby?"

"Yeah, sure," you agree, glancing up at all of them with a nod. You've never moved faster in your life; your coat's over your arm, keys in your pocket, the whole ensemble. They're watching you, waiting patiently. Xinyu raises an eyebrow. "Lead the way?"

She beams. She turns, slips her purse strap over her shoulder. "Alright," she chirps - and the four of you take off into the night.

It's funny, you think: Xinyu's also had a weak spot for Kazuha, probably since the first time she saw her perform. (That's the part that sticks out in your brain.) But then again, maybe Kazuha knew about Xinyu too; they seem pretty damn cosy for this being their first interaction with each other, though you suppose you can't judge - you were practically aching for Yunjin within an hour of meeting her, weren't you?

But whatever. Your cock is in Yunjin's hand, and your mind is very much not present right now. That's the important thing.

By the time you finally unlocked your front door, all four of you stumbling in - everyone tipsy, aroused, dying to get their hands on someone's skin - Yunjin immediately glued herself to you, pushing your coat off your shoulders. She'd gotten your zipper undone in record time. It's not the first time, obviously: she's got this ghost of a grip around your cock already, a knowing stroke, this way of handling your arousal that feels almost proprietary in its control.

There's an island in the kitchen; you're washed up on its shore. Fingers spread across the marble sand as the edge presses against your lower back. "Drinks are in the—"

"You can skip the fanfare." Yunjin is stroking you, her other hand at the nape of your neck to pull you down, kiss her; your mouth meets hers, hot, messy, too hard. Pick up where you left off sort of thing. Some unheard conversation must have planned this, on the street or in the hallway or the elevator—they'd figured out some secret plot, who got what, how they would split up, and it starts here.

It's in your periphery that you see them cross, hand in hand, watching you come undone by the vixen in red. Xinyu is taking the lead, and you can see her mind working overtime to figure out what would drive you the most insane right now. She stops at the couch, centre-view, perching herself on the back of it to pull the other girl against her. Kazuha giggles in the high pitch, something that sounds too sweet to come from someone whose job it is to get men going—and maybe she does that on purpose: the look over her shoulder accompanies a feigned innocence.

Xinyu looks past her, gaze falling over Yunjin first: red dress, blood red lips, hair like a hearth-fire, and the hand moving on your cock in your unbuckled jeans. "A head start? How unfair." She rolls her eyes with all the mocking derision she can muster, but her smirk betrays her. She's pushing Kazuha by the shoulder, putting the dancer down on her knees. Even in the most compromising position possible, she looks immaculate: she sinks, legs together, ass perched on her heels. There's not a strand of hair out of place, and even in her lust, Xinyu strives to maintain the fact, so she takes care in the way she pulls Kazuha between her thighs. A gentle, fingertip hold, as she spreads her knees to frame her.

You watch with rapt attention; you can hardly look away. The whole thing is artfully posed.

Yunjin says your name, the first word you've heard from her, and you've only missed it a little. Your gaze moves to her. You expect another comment, snide, but her mouth parts, like the words have been stolen right out of it.

"You good?" You're trying to be a gentleman, if not an asshole—and it works, too; it spurs her back. She bites the corner of her lip and hums.

"Yeah, you know." A half-shrug accompanies her words as she lets you slide a strap from her shoulder. "Still waiting for you to blow my back out."

Oh. You laugh, hoarse. Yeah, that's—that's on the agenda, for sure.

It's just—the show, right across from you, has started.

Kazuha, in her performance, has Xinyu's skirt pushed up around her waist, face against her thigh, breath hot on her skin, fingers splayed over her knee to press her legs even wider. The most natural seduction; the effortless allure that laces every part of her. Her lips against skin are soft and pink, moving against the curve of the muscle, mouthing up higher. You know how that feels—travelling the vast expanse of Xinyu's long legs in search of something to bury your face in.

"She's in for a treat," Yunjin whispers.

"So am I," you return, placing a hand on Yunjin's now strapless shoulder and putting just enough weight into your hand that she knows she's going down.

"Can't promise I won't bite," she warns, in the tone that makes your throat dry, in the way you think she just might. But you've also had the image of Yunjin's head bobbing in your lap the whole cab ride home.

If there's a heaven, you'll find it in a mouth like this one: soft-lipped, warm and wet, tongue on you. You reach for the back of her neck, feel the silk of her hair under your palm as she sucks hard enough to make your hips jerk. Then there's the gentlest of grazes—her teeth on your shaft, and it makes your jaw tighten. She's all smirk and smoulder, eyes coming up to see what kind of face she's making you pull.

"Oops," she laughs.

"Fuck," Xinyu gasps, the loudest sound in the room. There's the slightest shift of Kazuha's shoulders, the way her back bows when her tongue drags from slit to clit; nose pushed up tight.

Xinyu, still leaning over the back of the couch, turns her gaze toward you, then, heavy, desperate, and dark: an intensity that hits right in the base of your stomach and twists like a dull knife.

Xinyu trades pleasured gasps for a coy remark. "Look at her go. Eats pussy like she'll starve to death without it." It's like she needs to comment on it, all casual, as if there weren't someone between her legs, making her thighs tense.

Yunjin pulls back just long enough to say, "Tell me about it." Then she goes deep enough that you see your cock hit the back of her throat. No warning. You cough out an obscenity. It's good, and it's better because of what you're looking at.

"Yeah?" Xinyu says. "Be pretty easy to cum like this, you know?" The implication hangs in the air, unaddressed.

Just like Yunjin before you, you agree. "Tell me about it."

Your girl, on the couch, her body twists again. Kazuha is making her work to keep the upper hand in all this, if there's such a thing, and she has to put conscious effort into keeping her words steady. Her focus is on you, on your face, on how your mouth opens every time Yunjin sinks her mouth to the hilt.

"Do you wanna cum like this?" Yunjin says to the underside of your dick, her hot breath against your length.

You look to Xinyu for a final answer: her head's back and her chin tilted high in a groan that fills the room, an arcing note in a rising song that starts between her thighs. Her hands grip the cushions.

"She's close," You say off-handedly. An easy observation. It doesn't answer her question.

"Could finish you so easily," Yunjin hums. You feel her words against the crown. She swirls her tongue, and you clench your fists.

"Faster than Kazuha?"

"Much faster." Yunjin grins like she's just thrown down a challenge. And you get why it works: competitive to a fault.

"No chance," Xinyu manages. There's sweat on the skin that shimmers with highlight, her chest heaving with every laboured breath, "absolutely—" Kazuha presses forward, and the rest comes out a curse. She grits out the words. "Impossible."

"Bet?" says Yunjin, her nails dug deep enough into your skin that it leaves little crescent moons.

Xinyu's head lifts. There's a smile on her face that's just shy of wicked, "I'd say winner takes all."

There are very few bets that Xinyu won't take and fewer stakes that she won't gamble with, but she's got confidence in Kazuha's ability, and time is a-ticking. Even with how wound up Yunjin's got you, watching them, it's still an even race at this point. Kazuha has a lot to prove: this is a test to see if her pretty lips and clever tongue can get her girl to the finish line faster than anyone else.

And, oh—she can taste it, can't she: Xinyu dripping wetness to her chin, her folds spread and cunt eager. The dancer's a performer of many skills: her fingers slide inside, her mouth locked in place and sucking hard until Xinyu is fucking her mouth with the back and forth of her hips. In a moment of indulgence, she presses Kazuha's face deeper, harder. It's rougher, meaner: she pushes her up tight enough that her air might just get cut off, if it weren't for the moans that slip from the singer's mouth. "God—" You think she says, and then nothing but sharp inhale and the jolt of her hips that has Kazuha's nails in the flesh of her inner thighs.

Yunjin's picking up the slack on you. Maybe to wipe the smirk from your girlfriend's face, or maybe she just really wants your cum down her throat. That's fine. You're not opposed.

Mouth briefly replaced by hand, strokes hard and tight, so she can talk and please. "Better cum in me soon. You'll lose." She winks. She's not wrong, and she sucks in her next breath like she knows it. That mouth on you again.

Let's be real. Let's not get it twisted. You win. You always win.

Xinyu will cum first. It's one of those facts in life. Death, taxes and Xinyu's climaxes.

It starts in her chest—a hitch that becomes a heavy rise and fall, a moan from deep in her throat. Her body follows it: every limb taut like strings in a bow. Tension: her head back to the sky and the arch in her back like a crescent. Her legs start to shake. It's there that you feel your blood thrumming, the adrenaline that starts that climb before your fall, and Yunjin takes her cue to speed things up on her end as Xinyu tumbles over on hers. Her thighs tense, tight, trembling.

"Oh—oh fuck—Kazuha." Xinyu moaning another woman's name always has a certain kind of kick to it, even more so with you down Yunjin's throat. She's never shy about this. Never timid. Always, unabashedly, the way it is with you and how she'll scream and cry for it, for the orgasm that wracks her like an electric current.

Kazuha has no interest in easing her down: the pads of her fingertips work her open, pumping inside, tongue flat to lap against the pulsing heat, riding her through each wave and crest, drawing them longer, higher. Xinyu's shaking with the overstimulation, hands in hair, but not pulling back.

"God. Fuck, Kazuha—" This time, there's the edge of desperation to it, so close to pleading for it to stop.

There's a moment when you lock your eyes. Xinyu looking through the strands of her dark hair that stick to her cheeks, and the sweat that glosses her forehead, the flush on her skin, her lipstick smeared in places. And that smile, her wicked grin in full bloom. Her breath coming in shallow heaving puffs. Kazuha is slowing. Stilling.

You've been teetering close to that razor's edge, the precipice of it, but there was only ever going to be one winner. Yunjin pulls her mouth from you and she has no idea just how close you were, just how cruel the denial, as she stands.

You say her name as a question: why would she ever fucking stop?

Her mouth to your ear, and you feel her smirking again, her teeth against the shell: "You lost," she murmurs.

"You lost," Xinyu echoes from across the room. She pushes Kazuha away, legs still unsteady, as she slides from the couch to her feet and straightens out the fabric of her dress. You watch as Kazuha touches the gloss of her lip and sucks it off her finger. Her smile is soft and warm when she gets to her feet. It's like a stage; everything posed: Xinyu and Kazuha, standing side-by-side and arms entwined.

"Second place," says Xinyu, looking you right in the eyes.

"I get it," you say. Your cock stands at full mast. "You don't need to remind me."

"Oh," she grins, leaning against the dancer, "I absolutely do." Her hand touches Kazuha's chin and lifts, kissing her deep, tongues dancing against one another's. When Xinyu's teeth drag along her bottom lip, you know she must be able to taste herself. "She's real good. Though I do wonder what her girlfriend is like," she whispers as she eyes Yunjin.

Kazuha speaks up. "She can definitely make a girl cum." She speaks with such nonchalance as if she's discussing the weather or what brand her shampoo is and not the way she's had Yunjin eating out of her cunt.

Kazuha is a professional; it's no surprise to hear she knows how to get a girl to see god, and it's no surprise that anyone she lays with has to be on top of their game. Xinyu knows, too. She grins, and she laughs, and she holds her waist like Kazuha's some sort of prize, and it's just so Xinyu, this display. "Lucky us." She touches a hand to the dancer's hip. She says to Yunjin, "We oughta try her out."

"You're going to leave him hanging?" says Yunjin, running a hand down your chest dangerously low before taking it back, a gentle press of lips on your jaw. "That's not very fair."

"He can help you out, right?" Xinyu offers, gesturing in your direction with one of those looks in her eyes. You know that one. "Make us cum." And her hand slips to the swell of Kazuha's breast, groping greedily. It's a demand that comes out as a suggestion.

Kazuha whispers something inaudible to Xinyu's ears and it must've been good because the woman hums, intrigued, the smile on her mouth turning wider and more mischievous by the second. They both take a step, both reach out, Kazuha takes your wrist and Xinyu takes Yunjin's. Wordlessly, they take you away from the kitchen and to the window: the massive wall of windows that line your apartment with the city behind.

"I want the world to see," Kazuha explains. "To wish they were you."

"Sounds a little cheesy," you quip.

"Sounds hot," Xinyu retorts as she places her hands on the glass. She bends forward so that the swell of her ass pushes out against the hem of her skirt, and against Yunjin, who is standing right behind her. "Don't you think, babe?" she teases Yunjin.

"Very," Yunjin says. She moves her fingers along the seams of Xinyu's body, finding their way underneath her top. You hear Xinyu breathe out through her mouth. Yunjin moves closer to Xinyu's ear and bites it. "But the only ones that'll actually get to touch you, to taste you... that'll be us, huh?" She moves her fingers along the waistband of her skirt.

Xinyu turns her head back at her, smiling. "They'll be able to see how well I can take it, too. You'll let them see, won't you?"

Kazuha perches in front of you, spreading her fingers out against the glass, lowering her shoulders, arching her spine and lifting her ass to the sky for your taking. In an instant, you're on your knees and appreciating her for everything she's worth. "You don't need to be a gentleman. Just go for it. You already had the courtesy earlier," she tells you as you move closer.

"Can't I take a moment to appreciate you first?" you reply.

"Do you have to?" Her laugh is half a moan, and she's pulling up her own dress. "Are you so infatuated by the sight of me? Because, believe me—" and her words are cut off as you sink your teeth into her cheeks, your fingertips pressing tight into the skin at her hip— "you've seen more than most get to."

You run a hand up the expanse of her thigh. "Savouring every moment," you hum into her skin.

"How romantic," she laughs. There are the smallest noises in the back of her throat that come with your touch as you caress her ass. Fingers into flesh, gentle pressure until you feel her roll against it. The perfect ass. The kind people would kill for.

You hear Xinyu gasp, the sharp breath: Yunjin's got her face pressed hard between Xinyu's spread thighs from behind. "Y'know—" your girl manages between moaning pants, "wasn't sure what to expect. This isn't how we usually do things." She's trying to hold the conversation together while Yunjin works to make a ruin of it. Xinyu braces herself against the glass. "Two girls at once is a pretty good score."

"I'd call it that," you hum in agreement as you pull Kazuha's delicate panties down her thighs.

"The two of you do this often?" Yunjin asks between licking Xinyu's dripping cunt and then slapping an ass cheek hard, enough to sting. It leaves an angry pink imprint on the flesh of her. Xinyu hisses, her fingers curling against the glass as she struggles to hold herself steady. Kazuha arches her spine to give you better access.

"See them all the time," Kazuha gently laughs, the breathiest moan breaking her sentence up, and she rocks herself back against you. "Taking someone home before my show even ends."

Xinyu's eyes open, and her vision is clear. She looks over her shoulder. Her hips are slow, riding the tongue that pushes deeper inside. Her voice is steady, and she's trying hard not to let Yunjin catch her completely, though the pressure on the glass betrays her. "Been keeping an eye on us, hm?"

You're dragging your tongue against Kazuha, circling around the wetness between her legs. You taste the sweet musk of her, and then you drag the flat of your tongue along the folds. She hums with a laugh that sounds a little breathier, more strained. Your tongue moves deeper, dipping into the parting of flesh, to taste the soft, velvet feel of her, the slick heat that comes with her arousal.

"You're not exactly subtle. Hard not to notice."

You push a little firmer, face into her ass, tasting the deepest parts of her and as she shifts on her knees, she lowers a hand to your hair and grabs a handful of it, keeping you where she needs you, fingers curled around the strands and the sting that follows. You hear the noise she makes, the way she shivers under your attention. It feels good.

"We have a fan," Xinyu jokes, but her laughter is cut off by a moan as Yunjin sucks harder on the soft folds between her legs. "Maybe two." There's the sound of skin hitting skin, and then a gasp. You know the sounds of Xinyu when her skin is slapped, or her flesh is bit.

Yunjin's hands roam her body freely. They're everywhere: touching, teasing. Her nails scratch and drag, and Xinyu groans when teeth meet her inner thigh again.

Kazuha is dripping against your chin now. Every lick sends another jolt up her spine, and every circle against her sensitive clit has her moaning. You squeeze her ass. She rocks forward. "Mhm..." Her lips part, and her jaw goes slack.

"What a pretty fucking mess," you hum against the wetness.

Xinyu takes Kazuha by the chin, pulling her into a kiss, and there's no way for anyone else to appreciate how beautiful they look against each other. Xinyu runs a hand up into Kazuha's hair, and her hips are still grinding, still pushing down onto Yunjin's mouth. "I'm gonna cum if she doesn't stop."

"Cum with me?" Kazuha says. It sounds desperate, almost needy in its demand: an urgency to share this. To do it together.

It doesn't sound like a bad idea at all.

"Not stopping," is the last thing Yunjin says as she continues to feast. You think she might have a point to prove, but if that means she wants to eat a pussy that good, then so be it. Your mouth works Kazuha faster: you spread the folds with your fingers and go to work on her clit. Your teeth catch the sensitive flesh, and she shakes with it, thighs threatening to tremble and tense, a strangled cry falling from her lips that she smothers by moaning it right into Xinyu's lips.

The taste of Kazuha on your tongue is something you'll never get tired of. Her sweet juice spills over, and when she arches, she cums harder, cries out louder until finally, her knees start to shake. That's how it starts, and with her orgasm comes Xinyu's too. There's a moment when the two are tangled together, when the sounds that fall out of them echo each other's. Their voices meet, their moans mix, and their tongues clash in their kiss, like they can't bear to keep any distance from one another. It's intimate, even amidst the other mouths on them. Even as Yunjin and you coax them through it. When it passes, the two cling onto each other, holding each other up, both of them trembling with the aftermath of a shared bliss.

Kazuha falls first: with a slow slump she sinks down to the floor, falling away from your hungry mouth and onto her hands and knees on the hardwood. She pants, heavy breaths, her head bowed, her hair in her eyes. There's a contented hum to the room as it all begins to settle down. Kazuha turns to you: there's that gorgeous smile, as she pushes back hair from her face. Her makeup is smudged. Her lipstick's a mess.

Xinyu follows after, but not without first stroking Yunjin's hair and kissing her, thanking her. Xinyu falls into Kazuha's embrace, the two of them holding each other up on the floor. Their heads are on one another's shoulders.

You lose your balance to a hard push. Your ass hitting the ground hard, sitting flat on the hardwood.

"Your turn." Yunjin grins, a hand pushing at the centre of your chest, keeping you from rising.

"You're going to do that right here?"

She grins at you. "Right now."

From here on out, it's just an inevitable, sordid decline into depravity. There is no message here, no moral, no meaning beyond the mindless, the reckless. There's nothing profound about the way Yunjin slips the other strap off her shoulder and pulls the material down to her waist to expose her braless chest. There's no wisdom in the way she moves into your lap, arms hooked over your shoulders.

No revelations come from how her bare pussy slides against the head of your cock. No matters of the world solved by the way you grope her tits in your palms. Nothing poetic about the sound that slips between her pretty red lips when you enter her cunt. This is just the way things are. This is barely a footnote on the night, not an epic climax. It's not a resolution or a denouement. Just another impending orgasm. You're just lucky you're at the centre of it all.

"Give us a show, won't you?" Xinyu murmurs.

Yunjin's got a smile on her lips that says, sure, sure, I can do that. She puts her hands on your chest, pinning you against the ground, her hips lifting and rolling as she slides you in and out of herself. "You think we should thank them? The people in the toilets?"

"Why's that?"

"Well, we'd have gone in there." Yunjin pushes her hips down hard onto you to punctuate her sentence. "We'd have fucked." She's taking control here: riding you in the centre of the hardwood floor. "You'd have cum." Another roll of the hips. "In me. On me." She gasps, moans. "That would have been that." It's all being said so nonchalantly. "But now, it's like this."

You laugh a little as you watch the woman ride you for all you're worth. "It's fitting," you say as you push yourself up from the floor, sitting face-to-face with the woman riding you. "Because you deserve so much more than a quickie on a dirty toilet." You wrap an arm around the small of her back. "And I'd much rather take my time with you." You buck your hips up into her, commandeering the rhythm as your pace starts to climb. You drive into her, pounding hard, as you bury your face between her breasts.

There are the smallest of noises that break free from Yunjin: the whines that get trapped behind her throat and the moans that slip between her teeth. She lets you handle her, and the only sound she makes is that soft whimpering and that sharp hiss when your fingers grip tight at her skin, and when her body slams down against your cock, you feel her tense and then shake around your shaft, squeezing and clamping down hard. She stifles her sounds.

"You good?" you whisper. She doesn't answer. At least, not at first. She gives herself a moment to catch her breath, as her nails drag across your shoulder blade.

She moans out a reply. "Oh yeah. So good. I'm so—" her words trail into a hiss of a breath.

You push her onto her back, pinning her to the ground as she laughs, arms above her head and eyes on yours, as you pick the pace back up again. "Show's still on," Xinyu says, somewhere on your peripheries.

"He fucks like a..." Kazuha whispers, unable to find the right words.

"I know," Xinyu laughs, before leaning in to kiss at Kazuha's jaw. "Doesn't he just?" The words are barely a whisper in her ear.

There's this shift in your periphery, Xinyu taking a place on the floor, her hand behind Kazuha's head as she spreads her legs again. It's rare you've found anyone who can keep up with Xinyu, but tonight's proven to be the exception. Kazuha's on all fours, leaning in for another taste. The sight has you groan.

Yunjin laughs at that, pulling your face back to hers, her legs wrapping around your hips, locking behind your back as she pulls you into her. "Don't get distracted now, honey," she says. Her fingertips trace along the muscles in your shoulders. Her lips curl up into a smile as her body shivers underneath yours, and you can feel it: that sweet clamping down of her pussy around your cock, and you know that she's close to coming again.

"Got an idea," you whisper.

"Wait, wait—" Yunjin claws at your back, holding you closer, tighter. "Just let me—" and you feel it. Her wet heat coating your length, pulsing. You roll her into it, feel the slick mess as her hips twist against the hardwood. She shakes, head thrown back, eyes fluttering shut, and lips parted. "There we go. Now, idea?"

"Come here." It's seamless, the way you move her around and behind Kazuha, positioning her face right against her girlfriend's ass. "Doesn't that look so good?"

"Beautiful," she says.

"Bet you eat that ass every chance you get, I know I would."

"Me too," Xinyu chimes.

"Yeah?" Yunjin says as she traces her hands along Kazuha's hips and curves, the lines that make her. She touches her thighs, and then she moves her fingertips to the cheeks of her ass. "Well." A kiss on the flesh of it. "You know. She does have such a pretty ass," she whispers.

"You both do," you reply as you mimic Yunjin's touches on her own ass.

She smiles into the skin, pressing more soft kisses along it. Her fingernails dig in gently as her mouth presses a little harder against it. Yunjin drags her nails over it, making marks. Yunjin moans softly, burying her mouth deeper between the cheeks. Kazuha arches with a moan of her own, rocking back. Yunjin sinks deeper, eating her girlfriend's ass like it was the last meal she'd have for days. The sounds are wet and hungry. Her moans are muffled as her mouth does its work. "God..." Yunjin groans into the flesh. Her hands roam up to Kazuha's sides, and she digs her fingers in and holds her, rocking the woman's hips against her face. It's like she can't get enough, and the taste must be so fucking intoxicating.

You're back inside Yunjin, the end of the train. She shivers again, moans again. Her nails drag up the small of Kazuha's back, marking the line of her spine with the gentle red trails. Her teeth scrape against Kazuha's skin, and she presses the pad of her tongue between her asscheeks again.

Yunjin's dress is still bunched at the waist, you bunch it and then hold it firm: it pulls tight across her toned stomach and gives you a handle, a grip to hold. You thrust into her, hard. She groans into Kazuha, and in turn, Kazuha gasps into Xinyu.

You hear Xinyu moaning, a note that arcs and echoes and then tapers off again. Kazuha is humming, soft and quiet, and Yunjin groans deeply. When the three of you all start to sync up, to fall into one steady beat, it feels right. It's everything falling together. Waves on the sand.

Xinyu is gasping; her head is back, and her throat is exposed, and her body is writhing with pleasure. She has her fingers buried in Kazuha's hair, clutching at it desperately, as she rocks back onto her tongue, onto her mouth, her hips bucking erratically. You're fucking Yunjin in slow and deep thrusts that have her moaning and shuddering, her fingers gripping hard into the dancer's thighs, and she's eating that ass with hunger, her own body responding to each motion of your hips in a ripple of a wave that runs up her spine, one after the next after the next.

This was never meant to last. There is no way.

You're on edge. Xinyu's on the precipice, and Kazuha is shaking.

There is no way, you say it again, and that's how your mind feels: unsteady, untethered, and it's in that haze that you slip your free hand to Yunjin's hip and guide it under her, have her press two fingers into the slickness that's so familiar, that she knows so well. You tell her. "Make your girlfriend cum." It's not an order. You've no authority here, in the mess that this has become, but she does, doesn't she: she's the only one who could get someone to sing for the world to see.

It's just seconds after when she slips the digits up inside that the woman is shaking, her back arching, and she's moaning in tandem with the way her hips roll back on you. Yunjin's fingers plunge deeper inside, and Kazuha shivers in delight. And then there's the smallest cry of a sound, and she's spilling wet onto the hand that keeps pushing her down. "You're so beautiful, Kazu," Yunjin murmurs, the words muffled by how she's buried her face between those cheeks, she's so damn close to her own climax. Kazuha is trembling, shaking. She moans out her release into Xinyu's wet cunt.

Thighs clamp hard on Kazuha's head. "Yes—" Xinyu cries out, as her hips rock upwards, bucking on Kazuha's mouth as she rides the orgasm hard, hands at her own breasts, groping greedily as her tongue drags her bottom lip under white, teeth bared: it's like a growl, almost, or a snarl, her eyes open wide, but staring right through everything.

And that's what pushes you over. You grab hard onto Yunjin's hip, the bunched fabric of her dress. Your fingernails drag against her flesh as you rut into her, hips thrusting again and again. She can't help the gasp, the sound, as your nails scrape deep into her thigh. She's so sensitive. The skin so soft and so receptive to touch. That noise turns into a moan. You know the sounds of her now. She doesn't need to tell you. You know. The pace of her breathing changes, and you hear the breathy little whimpers. When she gasps and when her cunt flutters, you can tell that she's close. And you know, when she cums because of the shuddering that runs up her body, the tensing of her muscles and that moaning that starts low and quiet before it grows, and then it explodes out of her in a sudden burst, like fireworks.

Xinyu's curling a finger. A beckon. You have a place to take, kneeling over her, and a finish that she demands.

"You know what to do, don't you?" she teases, a laugh on the tip of her tongue: that sharp and mischievous smirk, and the eyes that gleam in the light.

"I do."

She turns her gaze on the couple on the floor, the girls who've sunk onto one another. You can hear Yunjin laughing. Kazuha's fingers trail over her face, tracing the outline. "Go ahead," Xinyu says to you: not permission but expectation.

She presents her face as if it's a canvas and, yeah, sure, maybe you've done this more times than you can count, but you've still got your hand on your dick and the other on the back of Xinyu's neck, rubbing like it's the first time, and—

There it goes.

"God," Yunjin groans, "that's pretty."

Kazuha's contented hum agrees. They both reach a hand out to run their fingers across the mess of your cum, spreading it across the smooth expanse of skin, painting their art of Xinyu. There are no lines, no patterns, just the abstract swirl and the smearing that follows.

"Should take a photo," Kazuha suggests. "For posterity's sake."

"Too late," Yunjin mutters as she leans in to lick at the slick of white on the woman's cheek.

Soon, they're both at it, cleaning your girlfriend like she was the world's finest delicacy. And she basks in the attention. The centre of it. She's used to that kind of spotlight, though you don't think anyone shines as bright as her.

Yunjin takes a mouthful, opening to show the white on her tongue, and then her lips collide with Xinyu's. The cum is passed, tongue-to-tongue, a kiss shared. They share it with each other, a kiss that is truly sordid. You hear Kazuha's moan of excitement before you even realise what's happening: she joins in, making the kiss a trio. Three mouths passing your cum back and forth and the sound of their soft moans of delight.

It's hard to fathom that this is only the beginning. It's almost as difficult to comprehend just how far it's already gone, and the truth, as you see it, is that it doesn't need to make sense. Some nights are destined for excess. Nights like these. With a trio like this. You're not asking for any answers: all you're asking is that the four of you sink deeper, lose yourself to it.

The girls break the kiss, and Xinyu says, "You know, he has this walk-in shower. The big kind." You can hear the smirk in her tone like she knows just the kind of trouble she'll cause with her words.

"Yeah? I bet we could all fit in it," Kazuha hums, and there's that look of hers again, a little devious but mostly playful: a look of a girl who just wants to please everyone she comes into contact with. She can't seem to get enough, and she's just dying for a taste of more. Her hands slide along both women's waists, pulling them in a tighter embrace. Xinyu looks at you.

"You did always say—"

"I did."

"And, honestly, there's no better—"

"I know," you tell her, climbing to your feet and holding out a hand. "Come on."

#Yunjin smut #Kazuha smut #Xinyu smut #lesserafim smut #triples smut #male reader #kpop smut #m reader #Kazuha x reader #praelmas #smut #kpop fanfic #Yunjin x reader #kazuha x yunjin #xinyu x reader #xinyu x yunjin #xinyu x kazuha #it's a hot mess #partner swapping

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anotherdayforchaosfay · 1 day ago

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The lack of kudos and comments also results in writers losing interest in writing at all. Why put in all that work and energy into something that could live in their mind? I know because this is what happened to me. I lost all interest because I had zero interaction. Lots of hits, but it doesn't mean shit. It could be someone who didn't like it halfway through and decided to not read the rest. Maybe they clicked the wrong link. How can we possibly know if anyone liked what we wrote? Especially when it says something like 300 hits but only 14 kudos. Do you have any idea how depressing that is?

Already left kudos? Do as I have done. Leave a comment. Even as simple as "here a cake made of kudos" or "OMG I LOVE YOUR WORK!!!" Even a fucking keyboard smash.

It takes you a hot minute to do that much. How much time do you think it took to write that story you've just read?

I really don't understand how "without getting kudos or comments a fanfiction author is going to assume that people who clicked their fic didn't like it" became a controversial take.

I don't know why some people think an author should imagine, or guess that people who click their fic enjoyed it it when nobody is telling them that.

If you're re-reading a fic constantly, or leaving it up in your tab so that it re-loads every day for a hundred days the author is not going to know that unless you tell them. They'd love to hear it. It would make their day.

And if you don't tell them you liked their fic, there's no reason for them to assume you did.

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fandommothfreak · 20 hours ago

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I think Duke should be immortal in the "cannot die" sense and Jason should be immortal in the "cannot stay dead" sense and that they should keep this a secret from everyone including each other. And then they should both get caught in a situation that Absolutely Should Kill Them Instantly, miraculously not die, and then be like:

Like Jason shields Duke from some massive explosion or something, and Duke is horrified because he thinks Jason just pointlessly sacrificed himself for someone who would've been fine anyway - only for Jason to very casually come back from the dead, look at a completely unscathed Duke Thomas, and go, "Hey, what the fuck."

And Duke should look at a freshly revived Jason Todd and be like, "Me what the fuck? No you what the fuck."

And they end up both agreeing to not say a word about this to the rest of the Bats. Which poses issues. Because here you have a pair of unhinged vigilante siblings that do not fear death, that additionally now know they don't have to fear each other's deaths either, both unwilling to give anything less than everything they have to do what they think is right (and/or what they really, really want to).

So. Some things that happen in consequence:

Duke throws Jason off a fifty-story building in pursuit of some shoplifting rich asshole that was caught on camera insulting Duke's favorite metal band and being a classist fuck about it. This does, incidentally, re-traumatize Nightwing, who was ten feet away and not prepared to see his little brother yeeted off the side of a building, no grapple in sight - but it also traumatizes the shoplifter when Jason lands right in front of him, grotesquely knits himself back together, and rises from the ground in a distinctly horrifying fashion just to beat the shit out of him. So Duke takes the win.

Jason shoots Duke in the head to get him to stop shining light in his eyes in the middle of a gunfight. He does stop, but only because Batman shows up out of nowhere, and now Duke gets to pretend to be grievously injured while Batman yells at Jason about "self-control" and "maturity" and "putting teammates at risk." Meanwhile Duke is playing up this horrible concussion that he doesn't even have. Jason is seething. (Duke gets checked out at Leslie's. They convince her to lie for them by appealing to her inner petty bitch.)

Jason gets his payback a few months later by poisoning himself at an undercover op and subsequently forcing Duke to drag his dead body around a mob-owned nightclub for like half an hour trying to convince seasoned criminals that this brick shithouse of a man sprawled awkwardly across his back is just... really wasted. Totally not a corpse.

Both Jason and Duke get caught in many, many, many explosions after that initial reveal, and it's always terrifying for the rest of the Bats. It gets to a point where Batman refuses to partner Duke and Jason together for literally anything, because they always act fucking insane. Big metal vehicle moving hundreds of miles an hour towards an unsuspecting civilian? That's okay! Jason will just throw Duke in front if it. Unknown, volatile substance potentially being used by a notorious serial killer to murder his victims? No lab testing required! Duke will just pour a whole pint of the stuff on Jason's bare arm to see how it reacts. Bomb that can't be disarmed? Why wait for backup when these two psychopaths can just grab the thing and jump into the harbor? Like, genuinely. The stress. Bruce is one particularly traumatic incident away from actually considering therapy.

#canon is my playhouse and the gnomon blood works however I want it to work #immortal robins au #yes that third bullet point was inspired by weekend at bernie's thank you for asking #duke thomas #signal #dc signal #jason todd #red hood #dc comics #batfam #batfamily shenanigans

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isaspsp · 2 days ago

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I think my parents did pretty similar things. I'm feeling sensitive right now so, story sharing time.

I did misbehave every now and then, as all kids do. I don't remember this incident, but my mom does. I was doing whatever naughty thing, and she hit me to make me stop and discipline me. I stopped, started crying, and went away. My mom never hit me after that. She says it's one of her biggest regrets.

I remember when we got our big TV. I was maybe 8-9 and we had been at the store all day. I wasn't particularly interested in picking out a TV cus that seemed like adult business, and children have no right to poke their nose of that. But then, my dad crouches next to me, points to the final two tvs they were deciding between, and asked me which one I thought was best. And I do remember asking, "Why are you asking me this? I am a child." He laughed and said something among the lines of, "Children are always honest." And that gave me all the confidence and reassurance to choose what would be our TV for the next 10+ years.

They took the effort to see my side aswell. I grew up with my cousins. We were 6 kids in total, and with two of them being older, we 4 youngsters played together a lot. Of these four, the oldest used to bully me a lot (I bit him really hard once as revenge, but that is another story) and I had two younger cousins, the youngest of which, was the one I saw most often. He would come with us to trips and such. But he was the younger child, so he had preferences over me. If I had anything he wanted, I HAD to share. If he wanted to sit where I was, I had to move, lest he makes a fuss. But, if he had something that I wanted? He was under no obligation to share. It was Easter time, I was about 13 (?), and we had gotten ourselves fancy chocolate eggs. My aunt had gone along with us to shop. I'd done my research at the site of the store we were going to, so I knew exactly what I wanted. My aunt didn't know what to get my cousin, so she followed my lead and got him the same two eggs. My aunt used to be paid to clean our house once in a while and just so happened that that week my little cousin had come along. I was going to travel that weekend, and my eggs would be left behind, I'd only have them when we came back. So, having been thinking and fantasizing about the chocolate eggs for weeks, I sneaked around, opened one of the boxes, grabbed a piece, ate some, and put the rest in the refrigerator My aunt saw me do this. Later, my parents confronted me about it; my aunt had told them what happened, that I tried to hide just so I wouldn't have to share. I started crying about how if I didn't sneak around I would've had to share with my cousin, who had the exact same egg at his home, who wouldn't have to wait to come back from a trip, and that I would never get the same kindness back, the piece he would've taken from me, the egg that I so researched to get, that I beheaved and did well in school to get, I would have to give away, even if it was a small piece, and tgat, even if I asked nicely, my cousin wouldve said no, and nothing would be done anout it. And the damn was broken, so I mentioned also all the other times I had to give in because I was older, he was younger and I was bigger and could hurt him more. They looked at each other... and agreed with me. I was forced to share less after that. I still shared, of course, but now... I wasn't forced as much. (At least by my parents, we couldn't control everyone or course u_u)

I genuinely remember very VERY few times of my parents taking away my stuff or banning m3 from activities. If I remember at all, because all I have are "vague feelings" that it happened. And honestly, I think I turned out better for it.

I am exceptionally lucky in that my parents never hit me, grounded me, confiscated my things, banned me from my hobbies or threatened any of these actions to make me behave as a kid. as an adult it has made me realise how very very long a road most people have to traverse before they can take a statement like 'no rule that must be enforced by threat is legitimate' seriously.

#my cloudy mind

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diushek · 2 days ago

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Well, he (user: HeavenlyPillar666) is just a guy who only reads a webnovel out of boredom after his martial arts classes and finds himself unfortunately trapped- the plot is uninteresting in the first instance, the descriptions are long and absurd (SERIOUSLY, FIVE PARAGRAPHS TO DESCRIBE A DAMN PLANT? TEN PARAGRAPHS TO DESCRIBE A MONSTER? More action scenes than dialogue!? Who the hell is that IcedBlueBeast and why the hell does he insist on making everything SO DENSE AND SLOW?), but... one of his characters? DEFINITELY HIS FAVORITE CHARACTER IN THAT HORRIBLE WORLD. HIS MISUNDERSTOOD BLORBO. HIS BELOVED.

In a summary not summarized, a story about two twin brothers who were separated at birth, and both found their way to cultivation world in different ways. Reunited first like disciples and then Peak Lords of different peaks of the same sect, suddenly, the brother who remained with his wealthy family - Shen Yuan - was seen as something of a villain for having had kind and lovely parents, a home and an education, always portrayed as the spoiled rich kid who bought his way into the Sect, while the REAL SCUM VILLAIN ACCORDING TO HEAVENLYPILLAR666, that bitch Shen Jiu who was stolen from his family and raised as a slave and then on the streets, ended with basically a harem of peak lords, fanning himself with his fourth-rate victim role.

And the rest of that pathetic novel it's just... shit full of dramas, betrayal and eternal descriptions being an ode to finding the hundreds of ways in which Shen Yuan's inherent kindness was misinterpreted as manipulation, judged and accused of wanting to do something bad just because he comes from a rich and well-off background.

And how it should be fair after all that gaslighting and psychological torture, Shen Yuan finally agree with them!

Crack under the pressure and the mistreatment of everyone, he just decide that if everyone thought he was a villain, then he was one!!

Allying with the demons first as an informant spy and then rising to power among the court, he ended up being something like a emperor-demonic cultivator eager for revenge and proving that no matter where he came from, he would show them what he was capable of! If the Cang Qiong Mountain Sect believed that a powerful cultivator was only forged through hard work and suffering, look at him now!

So all that good revenge plot would go to shit with Shen Yuan start to fucking monsters in scenes that were almost fade to black despite the deep descriptions and CHEMISTRY between the passionate Shen Yuan and the mythical creatures to have more power for the revenge that never seemed to come... To end with a completely unsatisfying shitty ending in which Shen Yuan gave up his revenge for filial love and the power of forgiveness, giving his own life to save his fucking damnit brother's life!

Where was the cruel revenge?! The taking over of the world?! HeavenlyPillar666 is RAGING, more than anyone else in all those damn comments!! Dumbfuck author, dumbfuck novel!!!!!

...

Yea, the user HeavenlyPillar666 shouldn't have said that while choking on his damn glass of water. It's not that he thinks he could die by drowning in a glass of water, LITERALLY. That's ridiculous. It's the height of ridiculousness.

But now he is dead, and he has transmigrated into one of Shen Yuan's less filial disciples who would ultimately be the person who would hurt him the most when he turned his back on him, after having been practically raised and adored by Shen Yuan, this damn disciple who always treating his Shizun with contempt and disdain knowing his invented reputation, but despite that, he was so dear to Shen Yuan who more than once was capable of putting himself at risk for him...

No, nothing like that!! No more of that trash!!! Shen Yuan deserves MORE, and the one who now is Luo Binghe is going to make sure Shen Yuan has all of it. A happy ending, a filial disciple, someone to count on, someone to stand up for him when no one else will. Someone by his side when he decides to destroy the cultivation world, someone to HELP HIM DO IT AND GET REVENGE ON ALL THOSE ASSHOLES SONS OF A B-

If only that fucking System would stop yelling at him for being OOC. Luo Binghe already knows!!! Fuck you System!! He's not going to respond that rudely to his Shizun, he is a beautiful little sun, what's wrong with you!?

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lilianne-tarot · 2 days ago

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PICK A CARD: Which Artist Wrote Your Future Spouse? ✮⋆˙

I. II. III.

˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁˖ ˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁ ˖

How to Pick Your Pile: Take a deep breath, clear your mind, and look at the images below. Which one pulls you in the most? Trust your gut! Once you choose the image, The number below your chosen image is your pile. If more than one catches your eye, that just means there’s extra tea for you—go ahead and read both!

For personal paid tarot reading click here!

˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁˖ ˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁ ˖

♬⋆.˚Pile l

Ooooh, okay, let’s get into this. You pulled The Magician, Page of Wands, and Ten of Swords—and lemme just say, this is already giving "main character energy meets redemption arc with a spicy twist". Like, your future spouse’s vibe is bold, restless, charmingly reckless at times, but also carrying some deep emotional baggage. So now, let’s spill the tea on which two singers could’ve written their essence into existence.This person has a very "put-together" look, almost effortlessly charismatic and stylish. they might look younger than their actual age or just have that playful, adventurous glow. (seriously, you’ll catch yourself staring for too long)

The Singers:

1. Bruno Mars – Because tell me why this person screams "Grenade" and "Talking to the Moon" energy while also somehow being the embodiment of "24K Magic"? Like, The Magician + Page of Wands together? This is someone who can literally manifest whatever they want and also a very smooth talker😉

2. Shawn Mendes – WELL I TOLD YOU the tortured yet idealistic lover-boy energy is STRONG. This person is the type to run headfirst into love, say all the right things, and make your heart melt, but (and it’s a big BUT) they also struggle with self-doubt and the fear of not being enough because of their bad past perhaps. They have that youthful, adventurous spirit, probably love travel or trying new things, and are always looking for their "great love story" moment.

What This Says About Their Personality:

this person is a natural at commanding attention. They know how to use their charm, words, and presence to get what they want (lowkey, they probably flirt without realizing it—you might have to tell them to chill sometimes. BABY, they love with their whole chest (WHY DOES THIS PERSON SOUND LIKE A KDRAMA 2ND MALE LEAD😭). But the downside? They might have a history of falling for the wrong people or giving their all too quickly, leading to major emotional crashes. Although This person has had their fair share of heartbreaks or betrayals, but instead of staying down, they come back stronger. One thing about them which i see is, They HATR feeling stuck. Whether it's their career, love life, or personal growth, they need movement. Stagnation = death to them. Tbh, they might have commitment issues at first, not because they don’t love deeply, but because they fear getting stuck in the wrong thing again. They believe in deep, soulful connections, but they’re also witty, a bit cheeky, and have a playful side.

Overall they have that mix of "boy-next-door but also lowkey a heartbreaker." Like they could be the flirty lead in a rom-com but also have that deep, emotional intensity. If they walk into a room, you’d definitely notice them, even if they’re not trying to stand out.

For personal paid tarot reading click here!

˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁˖ ˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⟡ ݁₊ .Pile ll

OHHH, okay, i should say this, this spread is givinga "rich daddy aesthetic but also a secret softie"—and I am OBSESSED. This person is so layered, so multi-dimensional that you’re not just getting a future spouse, babe—you’re getting an experience😭. Now, let’s talk about singers.

The Singers:

1. Lana Del Rey – LISTEN. The High Priestess + The World combo SCREAMS "mysterious, poetic, and possibly on a higher spiritual plane than the rest of us." Your future spouse embody a WHOLE DAMN aesthetic. They have depth and an "I know something you don’t" energy that makes people naturally drawn to them. But oh, honey—this is someone who isn’t just vibing in They give off a "tragically beautiful but also rich and successful" vibe. SO LANA CODED.

Althtough i feel like this person has that hardcore LANA aesthetic and i wasn’t going for any other singer for this pile but i am also hearing hoizer???? Cuz look, This is the type of person who might have everything—money, status, power—but they’re still searching for something deeper, and if that ain’t this spread’s energy, I don’t know what is.

What This Says About Their Personality:

This person does NOT spill their secrets easily. They’re the type to just stare at you for five seconds, and you feel like they know all your past lives. It’s giving "intimidatingly intuitive," like you can’t lie to them even if you tried. Probably has a strong work ethic, maybe even runs their own business or is at the top of their field. But here’s the thing—they’re not flashy. They’re rich in a "quiet luxury" way rather than a "LOOK AT MY GOLD CHAIN" way. (Omg i feel like i am writing a wattpad fanfic😭) . they’ve been through enough life experiences to be WISE AS HELL. So that means, ther standards? High. This isn’t someone who jumps into relationships impulsively—they observe, and they only commit when it’s real. This person doesn’t do loud, over-the-top gestures Their love language is probably acts of service and deep conversations over wine while jazz plays in the background. They have a very ‘If You Know, You Know’ Aesthetic (lana reference again💅) They have this untouchable aura. Not everyone gets to see their soft, romantic side, but the few who do? Game over. People are either intimidated by them or completely mesmerized.

So overall, They might seem reserved or intimidating at first, but once they let you in, you’ll realize they’re the kind of person who loves profoundly, protects fiercely, and builds an empire while contemplating the universe. Good luck handling this one, bestie. They’re not for the weak.😀

For personal paid tarot reading click here!

˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁˖ ˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁ ˖

✶⋆.˚Pile III

Your future spouse isn’t just built different—they’re built for the grind, the patience, and the long game. This is someone who knows struggle, doesn’t quit easily, and is out here crafting their legacy.

The singers:

1. Taylor Swift – I mean, COME ON. The Nine of Wands + 7 & 8 of Pentacles? This is someone who has been through battles, faced major setbacks, and STILL got back up every time. Your future spouse has that same relentless work ethic—they’re not the type to sit back and wait for things to happen; they MAKE them happen, even if it takes years. This person has had doubts, failures, maybe even moments where they felt like giving up—but they’re still here, still pushing, still thriving.

2. The Weeknd – Okay, hear me out. This person is obsessed with mastery. They aren’t just working hard for the sake of it—they want to be THE BEST at what they do. This energy is very ‘work now, enjoy later’—like they probably spent their younger years hustling, learning, and leveling up, while other people were out partying. They have discipline, ambition, and an almost obsessive drive to perfect their skills.

What This Says About Their Personality:

This person has been through hell, taken hits, and STILL keeps going. They’ve probably had moments of exhaustion, burnout, or self-doubt, but instead of quitting, they just rest, re-strategize, and come back even stronger. They’re like that one character in a movie who’s bruised, bleeding, and still smirking like ‘That all you got?’ Babe, this person is MARRIED to their work. Like, actually(you’re the third wheel) . They probably live and breathe their career or passion. Late nights, early mornings, constantly improving, never satisfied— this is someone who values progress over comfort. (Have they ever heard of a vacation? Probably not.) So by this you just know, if they are going on dates with you, giving their time to you, you’re the ONE FOR THEM🫠. This person doesn’t half-ass anything. If they’re going to do it, they’re going to do it RIGHT. They have high standards for themselves and expect the same from others. Translation: If you’re slacking, they will side-eye you.

I also see, your future spouse is strategic as hell. They’re not impulsive or reckless—they think ahead, invest wisely, and understand that real success takes TIME. (Financially stable king/queen? Love that for you.) So when they propose you, just know each of their actions were planned weeks before LOL.

For personal paid tarot reading click here!

˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁˖ ˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁ ˖

Thank you so much for reading till here! I hope my reading resonated with you and you had a good time reading it! Let me know what pile did you choose and i love hearing your feedbacks of my readings♡

Note: tarot cards provide guidance and possible insights into what could happen based on current energies, thoughts, and actions. the cards can highlight potential paths or outcomes, but they do not predict the future in a fixed way. this is a general reading so take what resonates!

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aeolianblues · 2 days ago

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Every Canadian news website has top stories about developments on the American tariffs, every Canadian newspaper and even press releases from government officials pretty much spell out 'we have no idea what Trump really wants' because it's not actually to invade Canada.

They're circulating the Molson ad from 2000, of the guy that goes up to a mic and has a minute long rant about he's not an American, he is Canadian. They're booing the US at hockey, they're selling 'Made In Canada' hats, 22 Minutes is selling 'War is no time for soft cheezies' t-shirts (initially made by a US t-shirt seller, an 'error' that was swiftly corrected), in reference to a sketch they did a few weeks ago about buying Canadian food brands.

The LCBO import ban has been paused for now, so has the ban on other provinces' liquor outlets, but people are already seeking out Canadian alternatives. (BC had in fact specifically proposed banning liquor from American red states, which is low-key petty king behaviour.) The US' meddling may even be the reason inter-provincial tariffs come down, something that has been in limbo for over 30 years. There was a CBC article last week headlined, 'Could Canada join the EU?' (in short: no). They were discussing the impact it will have on every Hollywood film set in NYC and shot in Vancouver. They're yelling bloody murder at US officials with Canadian origins for being traitors to Canada. Elon's alma mater (well, not really, he dropped out) has dropped any mentions of him that they hadn't already dropped in the last 10 years.

QUEBEC IS POLITICALLY ALLYING WITH THE REST OF CANADA, that's how seriously they're taking it!

Canada is feeling genuine anger at America's 'betrayal' and going full-steam ahead on setting to divest itself from the US in the coming years, in the meanwhile most magats are going 'uhhhhh I think that should be Canada's choice, they can join if they want to'; not even the most rotted-brained of their lot wants this. What is the worm in his brain telling him to do next.

it's kinda funny reading posts about Trump trying to put tarrifs on Canada because the Canadians are like genuinely mad about this. They're booing the Star Spangled Banner at basketball games, cancelling their vacations to the U.S., taking American liquor off the shelves at LCBO stores, talking about how much genuine hate they have for the American people for ruining our longstanding alliance. Like even without the tarrifs going into effect this is a Category 5 Diplomatic Incident up north.

Meanwhile the Americans are just looking around like John Travolta in pulp fiction like "wait why are we beefing with Canada?"

#if they lost the hockey dudes they've really lost Canada ngl. That was the last remaining link #otherwise Canada's attitude to the US is usually 'sometimes it's nice to cross the border to shop or work #and many of us have family there but it's unfortunate we have to be that close to them' at best #Anyhow half the NHL is Finns and Swedes and Russians so I don't think the US is gonna get that much more sympathy from Canadian hockey dude #Sad to say but Trump's mistake was picking on all of Canada—white Canadians.#He'd have totally got away with it if he'd singled out anyone else. As much as I hate to say that.

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lowkeyerror · 3 days ago

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Our Soul

Agatha Harkness x Reader

Word Count: 2.3k

Notes: Requested, soulmate au, mostly fluff, like the smallest dash angst maybe

Summary: When searching for coven members, Agatha finds her soulmate. Her nerves about the woman being involved only grow when The Witches' Road turns out to be legit.

An: Sorry the request took so long, I did simplify it a bit I hope that it's still enjoyable.

Masterlist

Agatha made a mistake. The moment she had looked into Y/n’s eyes, she was sure of it. She’d always thought finding her soulmate would be this horrific thing. That the description of having your soul intertwined with someone else's sounded painfully, boring, and wasteful. Yet when she had it all wrong.

It was the soft pull of a flower to a summer breeze. It was if something warm finally reached her freezing soul. The souls were translucent with glowing specs shinning inside. Agatha’s, dark purple like her magic; Y/n's, golden like the tint of her irises sparkling in the sun. They twirled up together, two halves becoming one whole. Then they lay flat, into a singular form.

She visualized it, beautiful, all encompassing, and complete. However she was still horrified in some ways. She glanced at the paper with Y/n’s name scrawled across it and then back at her. It was too late to take back the offer. The way that Y/n's wyes lit up at the mention of the road was impossible to miss.

She’d have to do something about it. There was no way she was going to let her end up like the rest of the people on the list. Y/n dying was nowhere in Agatha’s plans.

Y/n made a mistake. She was sure of it when Agatha’s hand pulled her down on to the road. The way her mind had called Agatha’s hand a perfect fit for her’s. The entire reason she had agreed to come in the first place was now jeopardized. All because of Agatha’s illustrious blue eyes, her cunning smile, and the warm softness of her hand in yours.

She was here to find her soulmate. That’s all she wanted from the road. Yet here she is swooning over Agatha Harkness, known most for her treachery. It felt like she was failing her one true love.

When Agatha stops abruptly at the last step, Y/n crashes into her. Agatha is quick to tug at your wrist, pulling you back into her, rather than tumbling backwards.

“Are you alright sweetheart?”

Y/n watches Agatha’s eyes scan over her, worry easily perceived. The younger woman respond with a loose nod. She was being pulled in by the current of Agatha’s crystal-esque eyes.

“Yeah,” is all she can manage to say.

She smiles slyly knowing she had Y/n flustered. Agatha doesn’t let go of her, the older witch’s pull persisting. The older woman doesn’t trust this road. She knows it isn’t real, that this shouldn’t be happening. Whatever this is, she wouldn’t let it claim you.

While she takes charge of the others, Agatha never strays far from you. She felt like she had to protect Y/n. After the road’s first test Agatha knee she was right. Mrs. Hart was dead, and everyone was shaken up about it. Especially Y/n.

As everyone walks away from her body, Agatha falls in step with Y/n.

“How are you holding up?”

Y/n’s gaze stays on the ground she shake her head slightly, as if she expects a thought to fall out, “I don’t know.”

“Is this your first time dealing with that kind of thing?”

Y/n tilts her head, “Agatha we’re hundreds of years old. I’m no stranger to death or dead bodies. It’s just… been a long time.”

“Right.”

“Why’d you bring her?” Y/n couldn’t help but ask.

Agatha fumbles for an answer. The truth being that she didn't think things would go this far. This was supposed to end in the basement. She would’ve stolen everyone’s powers then manipulated Mrs. Hart’s memories and she would be none the wiser. She was intended to be a placeholder not a carcass.

Y/n watches Agatha carefully wondering what kind of lie she would tell, how the woman would spin the story. Instead she sees a small dip in the character Agatha was always playing.

“I didn't think she'd get hurt,” it’s a small, but honest truth.

Agatha was scared of the woman’s response. Perhaps Y/n would call bullshit and turn on her. Everyone was always so quick to point a finger at her. She had been taking the blame since she was a child all that time ago. So it would be nothing new to her.

“I believe you.”

Y/n doesn't know why she said it. She didn't plan on responding, but something inside of her was begging her to speak. It was another flaw in her eyes, wanting to bring comfort to Agatha. The woman that was distracting her from her soul mate.

Agatha is fighting the urge to question why you believe her. She didn't deserve your trust. She’s staying to begin to believe she didn't deserve Y/n. Yet that didn't necessarily matter anymore, their souls were already intertwined.

“We should try summoning another green witch,” Y/n suggests.

It causes a bit of commotion in the group, but with no choice left, they try it.

“M’lady.”

When Rio Vidal comes crawling out of the ground Agatha lunges at her. The rest of the group is stunned by their clear complex past. Agatha’s not the only one who reacts to The Green Witch.

Y/n’s eyes widen, “Oh no.”

When Rio sees Y/n she turns away from Agatha. She stalks towards the woman, cautiously taking Y/n’s hand in her. With a charming smile she presses her lips to the backside of the younger witch’s hand.

“Mi vida.”

Agatha watches with her jaw nearly on the floor. The blush on Y/n’s face told her everything she needed to know.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Rio drops Y/n’s hand, “What? I was just in the neighborhood and thought I'd come by, help out.”

“So are you a green witch?”

Before Rio responds Y/n cuts her off, “As green as it gets, let’s keep moving.”

“I like that idea,” Agatha seconds that and begins to walk off, Y/n trails behind her.

The rest of the coven eventually joins.

“So... you know Rio too?”

Agatha keeps her gaze straight ahead, “Yup.”

Y/n let’s out an amused huff of air, “Seems like we know her in the same way too.”

“It does look that way. I gotta say, I would've never guessed she was your type.”

“At one point in time I thought she was my soul mate. You have to admit under all that cunning is someone so tragically lonely, but eternally beautiful. I always doubted that love would exist without fear of her."

Agatha knew what the girl really meant when she said ‘her'. Death had an air of beauty about her not only in appearance.

“Rio is everything you said, but you forgot to add irritating,” Agatha adds.

Y/n laughs at her, “Always showing up at the most convenient times for herself. Which just so happens to be inconvenient to everyone else.”

“I can't believe you thought she was your soulmate.”

Y/n looks away bashfully, “Well you must’ve too all things considered.”

Agatha disputes the statement instantly, “I never really bought into the whole soulmate thing.” She takes a moment to look into Y/n’s eyes, “At least not until recently.”

“Why not?”

“Agatha didn't believe in any of those kind of happy ending fairytale like romances sweetheart, just not in her character,” Rio steps in between the pair to get in on their conversation.

“Something to do with you maybe?” Y/n shots at Rio.

Rio gasps in faux-shock, “No, I’m the perfect wife. Right, my love?”

Agatha rolls her eyes, “Ex-wife, current thorn in my side.”

“Aww she’s so grumpy without her magic, Y/n. She’s usually a much more cheerful spirit.”

“Fuck off,” Agatha starts walking faster.

She reaches over Rio, to grab Y/n’s wrist pulling her along in a similar way she did down the road in the first place.

Whatever conversation that was going to play out died upon seeing another trial. By the look on the witch ‘s face it was obviously Alice’s. The outfits, the rock band, the grunge of it all was a bit fun at first. Yet the fun never lasts in these things, especially when threatened by a generational curse.

The ballad was once again the key to the trial. Almost reminiscent of your way onto the road, singing the ballad helped Alice defeat her curse. However it was not without a cost, as Teen had some how gotten injured.

The responsibility fell on a group. A second trial and second death was looming over the group. The care and distress in Agatha’s movement was stark contrast to what had happened when Mrs. Hart died.

Y/n couldn’t help it as she silently asked Rio if it was the boy’s time. Lady Death stood silent, pensive, as if she herself was gauging the situation. Then she shook her head.

It was during this time that his wound was healed. Though he lay unconscious, it was general consensus that he'd be alright. While this placated the others, Agatha was not leaving his side.

The rest of the coven went to set up camp for the night. Y/n knew she wasn’t obligated to stay with Agatha and Teen, but she wanted to.

Whatever Agatha was feeling, for once it was plain on her face. The moment was fragile, something Y/n was mindful of as she sat quietly next to Agatha.

“Have you ever lost something so pivotal to your existence that without it, you no longer feel whole?”

“My brother,” Y/n’s gaze lingers on Billy.

“Do you… have you seen him in other people?”

Y/n nods, “Sometimes I can’t help it. I see someone that looks like him or likes the things he likes or acts like him, but they’re not him.”

Agatha turns her attention to Y/n. The far away look in her eye makes the older witch move close to her.

“What happened to him?”

Y/n’s bottom lips curls up into her mouth, “I happened.”

Agatha’s hand finds it’s way on top of Y/n’s. The younger witch intertwines their fingers. Y/n lets out a large breath, trying to center herself.

“My son,” Agatha whispers. “I see Teen and I see the kind of boy that mine could’ve grown to be .”

“Agatha,” Y/n says her voice softly.

Agatha clears her throat, “Let’s go see what kind of camp they’ve set up.”

She stands abruptly, but makes sure to extend her hand to the other woman. Y/n takes the help to stand. Agatha is reluctant to drop the girl’s hand, but she does. That doesn’t keep the woman away from her. Y/n walks close enough that their arms brush as the walk to camp.

When both sit, the other’s are full of laughter, reminiscing about their battle scars. Agatha shows off her's and the rest give her a roar of laughter that she didn’t expect.

The laughter dies down as Rio talks about having a scar. Something that both Agatha and Y/n know to be false. The younger of the pair can’t help, but glare as Rio spins a tale of a woman. Someone that Y/n knows to be Agatha.

A trick to rile the woman up. It works as Agatha storms off. Rio tries to go after her.

“I think you’ve done enough,” Y/n stands to stop her.

Rio raises her hands in defensive before gesturing them in the direction Agatha ran off in, “By all means then, you go after her. Just remember at the end of the road, your soulmate will be waiting for you.”

“Fuck you Rio,” Y/n goes after Agatha.

She finds Agatha just standing in a field. Y/n approaches her, moving to stand in front of Agatha. The powerless witch doesn’t look at her.

Y/n takes Agatha’s face in both of her hands. Agatha’s expression has a million facets to it. Sorrow, regret, anger, but most prevalently Y/n sees a plea.

“Death has a nasty way of lingering doesn't she?”

A single tears slides down Agatha’s cheek. Y/n wipes it away with her thumb.

Her laughter is shaky, “You didn't have to come after me.”

“Agatha, I wanted to be here,” Y/n reassure her.

“I don’t deserve you,” she leans into Y/n’s touch.

It’s like Y/n’s says it to herself when she speaks, “ I decide what I deserve.”

Agatha’s crystal blue eyes meet Y/n’s, “And what about your soulmate?”

“This isn’t about that.”

Agatha’s holds Y/n’s in place against her face, “What if it is?”

Y/n’s eyebrows furrow, “What are you saying?”

Agatha steroids out of the woman’s hold. Her hands move wildly as she talks, “Don’t you feel it? When we locked eyes, I saw our souls mixing. I know that you're too good for me. I’m this no good evil hag, with a reputation that makes dictators seem like saints. I don’t deserve to have a soulmate, especially one as good as you.”

When Y/n looks into Agatha’s eyes she feels it. She sees what Agatha saw when they first met. Their souls coming together, in what is certainly the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen.

Tears form in Y/n’s eyes. She strides over to Agatha, again cupping the woman’s face in her hands. Y/n smiles through her tears.

“I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.”

A smile fights it's way onto Agatha face, “Didn’t you hear what I just said?”

“Agatha I’ve dated the physical embodiment of death. I don't care,” Y/n tucks a piece of Agatha’s hair behind her ear.

“I’m no good-”

Whatever Agatha had planned on saying didn’t matter to Y/n. The younger girl plants her lips on Agatha’s firmly. The older woman melts into the kiss the words dying on her lips.

“You’re good to me,” Y/n breathes out as the kiss ends.

Agatha hugs Y/n’s waist, keeping her close. Their foreheads rests against each other. The brunette’s eyes slowly open. There’s fire behind the blue orbs

“I will be, I promise.”

The road wasn’t finished and Agatha had yet to regain her power. However, she already felt more complete with Y/n in her arms. A part of her restored upon connecting with her soulmate.

#lowkeyerror #agatha harkness #agatha x reader #agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness #agatha harkness imagine #rio vidal #billy maximoff #agatha all along

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wandascrush · 21 hours ago

Text

For the first time

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x f!reader

Summary: “It’s just like seeing her, for the first time, again”

Warnings: kissing, intimacy, small allusions to sex, angst, descriptions of the female body

Song: For the first time by Mac Demarco

A/N: Some lyrics will be infused in this story (always italicized) Also I swear fluff coming soon for Wanda and Nat!

One Year Ago

“Promise me,” you whispered, voice barely above a breath as you traced slow, lazy circles against Natasha’s bare shoulder. You two lay tangled together in bed, limbs entwined, sheets a mess from the night before. The city hummed softly outside the window, but here, in this moment, you were in your own world.

“Promise you what?” Natasha murmured, her fingers ghosting over your spine.

“That you won’t shut me out. No matter what.”

Natasha hesitated. She wanted to promise. She really, really did. But some things weren’t that simple. Instead, she kissed your forehead, pulling you closer, letting herself believe—just for a little while—that she could have this.

That she could keep you.

Two years ago

It had been raining that night.

The soft patter against the windows mixed with the smell of tea and fresh laundry as you paced the tiny apartment, rambling about something that Natasha had long since lost track of. She was too distracted by how beautiful her girlfriend looked in that oversized sweater, her socks sliding slightly against the hardwood as she moved.

“And then she had the nerve to say I should’ve just let her cheat off me—Nat, are you even listening?”

“Hm?” Natasha blinked, trying to focus.

You rolled your eyes but smiled, stepping closer. “You’re staring.”

“Am I?” Natasha smirked, catching your wrist and pulling you forward until you were pressed against her.

Your breath hitched, hands coming to rest on Natasha’s waist.

“You love me.”

The words were meant to be playful, but Natasha’s heart clenched. Because it was true. And suddenly, it didn’t feel so scary to say it anymore.

“I do,” Natasha admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I love you.”

Your eyes widened for a fraction of a second before a smile broke across your face—radiant, breathtaking. She threw her arms around your neck, pulling you into a deep, lingering kiss.

“Good,” you murmured against her lips. “Because I love you too.”

The kiss turned more and more heated, Natasha sliding her hands between your legs, filling you up with her fingers as you moved against each other on the couch. Your moans filled the living room, Nat whispering, “Mine,” between each thrust.

A Lazy Sunday Morning

The smell of coffee filled the apartment as Natasha shuffled into the kitchen, still groggy from sleep. You were at the stove, humming a soft tune, hair a mess from sleep.

Your girlfriend leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching with a lazy smile.

“You gonna make me coffee, or are you just gonna look pretty and tease me?” Natasha rasped, her morning voice thick with sleep.

“Both.”

The redhead chuckled, stepping forward to wrap her arms around your waist from behind, nuzzling your neck.

“Mm, I think I like waking up to this.”

“You’re getting soft, Romanoff.”

“Only for you.”

You knew what Natasha did, it was impossible not to. She was an Avenger, a hero, a SHIELD agent. Natasha tried so hard to protect you from her life, keep you safe and guarded. But life has a funny way of messing things up. That’s all it took really, one overheard conversation, one unguarded file for your life to change.

That day would live on in her mind forever, playing like a horror movie. The look of despair, terror on your face when you found out things that no one should ever know. Civilians, should never know.

You two argued that night, a boxing match, if you will. You both left the ring bruised. Pleading, crying promises- telling Natasha you’d forget everything you knew, if she just told you the truth. And she so desperately wanted to believe you, but the Agent in her had to tell Fury. She just had to.

His suggestion never occurred as a possibility to Nat, was never even a thought in her mind. If it was, she would have never told him.

“I’m sorry. We just can’t risk it.”

“Nick, please-“

”It’s not up for discussion.”

————

The beep of the heart monitor filled the lab. Sedation kept you peacefully unaware, the dinner you ate that night immediately putting you to sleep before you could stop chewing.

“Are you sure about this?” Bruce asked gently, standing beside his friend, expression unreadable.

No. For the first time in years, Natasha Romanoff wasn’t sure. But it wasn’t about what she wanted. It never was.

“Just do it.”

Bruce hesitated for only a moment before pressing the button. Dr. Cho kept your vitals in check, making sure your heartbeat and blood pressure were reasonable. Soft hands gently pressed cold compresses to your limp body.

It was agony. Watching you twitch, the way your chest rapidly rose and fell, the groans leaving your mouth before you went quiet.

Bruce carried you into the car, lying your head across Natashas lap in the back seat. It was thirty minutes to the hospital, the last thirty minutes she would ever be able to stroke your soft hair, feel the skin of your arms, or hold your gentle hands.

And it was thirty minutes until they would place you in a hospital bed, dress you in a medical gown, hook IV’s up to your arms, and Cho would play the part of a typical doctor. She would tell you that you were in an accident, and you would cry. Your memory of Natasha Romanoff, the girl who captured your heart, would cease to exist. From that moment forward, you would become just another civilian.

And Natasha—broken, bleeding inside—had forced a small, bittersweet smile as Cho wheeled you into the back entrance of the hospital. It was time to play pretend.

Present Day – Some NY bagel shop

The bell above the café door chimed softly, the Avenger barely noticed. She was staring into her black tea, thoughts elsewhere—until she felt it.

While she’s been away, living day to day has been tough. Without her at my side, simply being alive has been rough.

A pull. A warmth.

Her green eyes shot up.

And there you were.

It’s just like seeing her, for the first time, again.

Bathed in golden sunlight, wrapped in a soft sundress that clung to you in all the right ways. So effortlessly beautiful that it physically hurt.

Natasha’s breath hitched. Her hands clenched around her cup.

It had been a year. A year since she erased herself from your life.

Her body involuntarily got up from the table, quickly walking toward the exit. At the same time you quickly turned, bumping into her and knocking the smile off your face.

“Oh!” you gasped, stumbling slightly.

Your eyes met.

Natasha should have left. Should have gotten up and walked away before you could even process who you were. Your brows furrowed slightly as you studied the beautiful woman before you, lips parting in soft confusion.

“I’m sorry…you just look so familiar.”

Natasha’s heart shattered.

She forced a tight smile, gripping her bag strap so hard her knuckles turned white.

“I—I don’t think we’ve met,” she lied.

You weren’t convinced. Squinting, head tilted slightly as if trying to place Natasha in the depths of your mind.

“I swear I’ve seen you before…” you murmured, mainly to yourself. “Maybe I just have one of those feelings, you know? Like déjà vu.”

Natasha swallowed the lump in her throat.

Déjà vu.

“Yeah,” Natasha whispered. “Maybe.”

When you smiled, it was the same smile. Natasha had fallen in love with. Bright. Warm. Unaware that it had once belonged to the redhead alone. Then, as if drawn to by some unimaginable force, you hesitated.

“Hey, um…” you played with the edge of your cup. “Would you maybe want to sit with me? I—I don’t know why, but I feel like we’d get along. And my date is late anyway.”

Natasha should say no.

She should walk away.

But somehow, she found herself nodding.

#natasha romanoff angst #natasha romanoff fluff #natasha romanoff x reader #Natasha Romanoff #natasha romanoff x female #wlw #natasha marvel #marvel cinematic universe #wandascrush fanfiction

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bitchinbarzal · 2 days ago

Text

Dad | J Woll

summary: he’s the dad that stepped up.

The first time Joey meets Finn, it’s chaos.

You’d given him a heads-up that your four-year-old was a ball of energy with no filter but you don’t think Joey quite believed you.

Not until Finn comes sprinting into the living room, arms spread wide like an airplane, skidding to a stop right in front of Joey’s legs.

Finn stares up at him, wide-eyed. “Mom says you play hockey.”

Joey, crouching to Finn’s level, nods. “That’s right, bud.”

Finn narrows his eyes. “Are you good?”

Joey laughs, glancing at you. “I like to think so.”

Finn’s head tilts. “Are you the one who stops the pucks?”

“Yep. I’m a goalie.”

Finn’s expression turns skeptical. “That’s a really big net.”

“Yeah, but I make it look small,” Joey grins.

Finn seems to consider this, then folds his arms. “Prove it.”

Your eyes widen. “Finn—”

But Joey is already on board, holding out a hand. “Alright, how about this? We grab a couple of socks, make a ball, and you try to score on me. If I stop it, you gotta call me the best goalie ever.”

Finn eyes him suspiciously before nodding. “Deal.”

Joey winks at you before following Finn to the hallway, where the impromptu game begins. You lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching as Finn lets out exaggerated commentary about his own skills while Joey plays along, blocking each shot with ease.

Finn, ever competitive, tries harder, but Joey anticipates every move. Finally, Finn huffs, hands on his hips. “Okay. You’re kinda good.”

Joey grins. “Only kinda?”

Finn squints at him before conceding. “Fine. Best goalie ever.”

You shake your head, hiding a smile. Joey catches your eye and winks. And just like that, he’s in.

Joey eases into Finn’s life like he was always meant to be there.

At first, it’s small things — watching cartoons together, answering Finn’s endless questions about hockey, letting him steal his Leafs beanie even though it keeps slipping down over his eyes.

But then it turns into real things — taking Finn home from daycare, carrying him on his shoulders when he gets too tired to walk, knowing exactly how to soothe him after a bad dream.

And Finn? He adores him.

It’s easy to see in the way he lights up whenever Joey walks into the room, the way he tugs Joey’s sleeve at dinner to show him the “coolest dinosaur ever” on his placemat, the way he demands that Joey helps with bedtime stories because “he does the voices better.”

One night, you find them on the couch, Finn curled up in Joey’s lap, completely knocked out. Joey meets your eyes over the top of Finn’s head, his hand rubbing small circles on Finn’s back.

“Guess he likes me,” Joey murmurs.

You swallow past the lump in your throat, brushing a hand over Finn’s messy curls. “Yeah. He really does.”

Joey doesn’t say anything, just presses a soft kiss to Finn’s head before settling back against the cushions. And something in your heart clicks into place.

One afternoon, Finn storms into the kitchen, frustration written all over his tiny face.

“Mom,” he declares, arms crossed. “I don’t like that my last name is different than Joey’s.”

You nearly drop the plate you’re holding. “Oh.”

Joey, who had just walked in behind Finn, pauses. “What brought this on, bud?”

Finn turns to him, serious. “Jack said only real dads help with homework. And you always help me. So you should be my real dad.”

Silence hangs heavy in the air. You glance at Joey, unsure of what to say, but his expression is soft, careful.

“Well,” Joey kneels down, resting a gentle hand on Finn’s shoulder. “Family isn’t just about names, you know. I don’t have to be your real dad to love you like one.”

Finn frowns. “But I want you to be.”

Your heart clenches. Joey’s lips press together for a moment before he cups the back of Finn’s head. “No matter what, I’m always going to be here for you, okay? Names don’t change that.”

Finn studies him for a second, then seems satisfied. He nods, then reaches for Joey’s hand, tugging him toward the living room. “Okay. Can we play mini sticks now?”

Joey glances at you. You nod, offering him a smile, and he squeezes Finn’s hand. “Of course, bud.”

You watch them go, warmth spreading through your chest.

The first time Finn calls Joey “Dad” it’s completely accidental.

You’re in the kitchen, clearing up dinner plates, when Finn runs in, face bright with excitement.

“Dad, can we play mini sticks?”

Joey freezes. You do too. Finn, oblivious, just looks up at him expectantly.

Joey recovers first, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Yeah, buddy. Go grab your stick.”

Finn takes off down the hall. You and Joey stare at each other. Your heart is in your throat.

“Did you hear that?” Joey’s voice is quiet, careful.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He hesitates. “Are you okay with it?”

You swallow, stepping closer. “Are you?”

His expression softens, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “More than okay.”

That’s all you need to hear.

From that day on, Joey is Dad. Maybe not by blood, but in every way that matters.

And when Finn, half-asleep one night, mumbles, “Love you, Dad,” Joey’s voice wavers just a little when he whispers, “Love you too, buddy.”

#joey woll x reader #joesph woll x reader #joesph woll imagine #nhl imagine #joey woll imagine

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frogsandfries · 2 days ago

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I was introduced to the concept of zines in college, because of a partnered creative project. The first zine I ever contributed to was about social media. It did cost a fortune to print because it was done at the school's favored print shop, in full color.

I don't know how prevalent small bookshops selling zines used to be before the age of the internet, but I think I've only been to one bookshop that sold zines. Which is a real loss, imo. I wish there were more small bookshops and that I had more opportunities to explore zines. I think it's kind of inevitable that the internet caused things to change. Chicken wings and ribs used to be poor people food until they got gentrified. Printing on paper used to be the only way to access and disperse information. Now that we have the internet, it's unfortunately not surprising that zine making has been gentrified.

Plus, I'm sure a lot of people who would like to make zines wouldn't know what to put in one that they'd actually like to share with people. Furthermore, it can be hard to swallow the concept of "if I spend five dollars, I can share this with (let's say three people, for example)" when I can hit reblog or forward or send or submit.......for free.

And then there is the cliche of turning your hobby into a grind. If I can spend five dollars, make three zines, sell them for three dollars apiece, etc etc, maybe I don't need enough money to sell a hundred zines, I just need money to make fifty and I can use the rest of that money for groceries or rent and still keep making fifty zines every time I want to make a new one.

Oh, let's not forget that a lot of USians don't carry cash often if ever, anymore, so now I have to factor in the cost of card transactions, into the cost of my zines. Most people aren't going to find themselves in an avant garde bookshop. Most people may not even find my zines on Etsy or Shopify. This kind of forces an (optional) evolution: if I make a fifty page basically a proper magazine, but because it's full of (idk messages about the best places for poor people to eat in LA), I 'can' call it a zine, I can sell it on like, Amazon, or use a Kickstarter and distribute it nearly infinitely.

I can't look at zines through a pre-internet perspective. I don't have that perspective. I understand that zines should be accessible to those who have very little if any money left over after Life. It can feel tempting to make the flashiest, full color zine. It can feel necessary to print your twenty page zine in full color. It can feel necessary to do the entire thing on the computer. It can feel necessary to make it as professional as possible. It can start to feel like making an "old school" black and white, no computer, xeroxed zine is going to get your zine looked over because it's not flashy enough and nobody likes plain ole boring black and white. Or if I add a cardstock cover, maybe my zine will look a little more professional.

I think a lot of us don't come into zines with any kind of mentor to guide us and regulate the culture, and us younger folks come into it with a mindset that we have to have in the rest of our lives: one upsmanship. If the last guy or the first zine we ever saw had a really professional looking cover, we need one full color page. If that guy used a black and white cardstock cover, we need a color accented cardstock cover, we need a glossy full color cover.

Anyway, all this to say, personally, I don't think zines are the right medium for my creative endeavors. I don't think I say this as like, begging for someone to prove me wrong. I say this as a person who cannot tell a short story. I don't need to rely on zines to get my fanfic (although, even if AO3 did not exist and a monthly zine was the only way to get my Spirk fix, personally, I still wouldn't know where to get some sweet sweet Spirk zines; but that's a me problem).

I feel like I'm about twenty-five years too late to the zine scene.

the whole point of a zine is that it's cheap to produce, amateur and homemade. if you're being asked to apply to participate in a print project, it is not a zine. if the final product is being printed and bound professionally, it is not a zine. if you are being asked to enter into any kind of licensing agreement more complex than "my work can be reproduced as part of this publication" it is not a zine. nine times put of ten if the final product costs more than $5 you have left zine country. im so serious about this.

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mymarifae · 2 days ago

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i'm in tears. do you know how beautiful this subversion of expectations irt death is to me. do you even understand how important it is. she's all warmth and love, always surrounded by vibrant displays of life - rather than the expected wither and decay. because death is not the antithesis to life: it is life. they are a part of each other. saying goodbye is always hard, but you have to let everything go, eventually. it's okay, it's not a punishment, it's not scary, it's not lonely - it's one last well-earned rest. releasing your borrowed energy back unto the universe so it can feed a new budding life, starting the cycle anew. and she's here to hold and cradle you until you're ready to go. you lived well. you were loved. sweet dreams, okay?

#IDK like #fear of death petrified me when i was younger and i spent an absurd amount of time agonizing over the concept #ironically wasted away a good number of my middle and high school years because i was just scared all the time #doing a lot of introspection and Thinking and realizing death is not something to fear was a weight off my shoulders #and it gave me a proper appreciation for life #hard to appreciate the delicate nature of your existence if you're too focused on what could end it #and yknow just. it's really nice. to see depictions of Death within stories that have positive connotations #castorice carries an air of grief but that's the nature of goodbyes. she's not bitter or cruel about it #it can be so hard to lay someone/something down to rest one last time but they've earned it. let them go #and continue on with your life. carry their memories forward with you until it's your turn to join them in that eternal sleep #don't rush. don't go seeking it out. enjoy how precious and fragile this universe is. never become apathetic to the beauty of life #that's what castorice embodies. and it's really . really lovely to see. ok :')

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seokmn · 3 days ago

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✎ᝰDEAR DIARY .ᐟ⋆⑅˚₊

pairing: jaehyun x gn!reader wc: 1.2k words warnings: mention of reader wearing heels and having period cramps

“you melt me down”

Jaehyun has been your best friend since kindergarten, and your friendship has always been strong.

You never saw Jaehyun as more than a friend, you didn’t even consider him a man. To you he was just… Jaehyun. You kept thinking like that until his older brother’s wedding ceremony and party.

All those boring and annoying jokes about how you two would be such a cute couple made by his family members made something change a little bit in your mind. Followed by how good he looked, how he stole one of the countless pairs of slippers that the guests were supposed to take home way earlier just because your feet were hurting from the heels and how it was a romantic night, you couldn’t help but start to see Jaehyun as something more, as an actual guy. An actual guy that wasn’t that bad, in fact he wasn’t bad at all.

Since that day, you started to look at Jaehyun with other eyes. Your heart would beat faster with any of his caring or gentle attitude towards you that you would usually not even care or think too much about.

No one knew about your new feelings towards Jaehyun. No one but your diary.

Ever since his brother’s wedding, you’d been writing about Jaehyun every night. If it was a person, it would roll its eyes as soon as you wrote down the letter J.

“Y/N, I thought you were already ready! The movie starts at 5PM!” Jaehyun barged into your bedroom – definitely not an unusual action – and looked at you as if you committed a crime. “What are you still doing in your pajamas? Go get dressed!”

You groaned and got up from your bed, leaving the book you were reading open on your bed. “Fine! I’ll go get dressed,” you walked towards your closet, took a pair of jeans, a shirt and a leather jacket, and showed them to him, waiting for his approval. Jaehyun gave you thumbs up and you walked out of the bedroom, heading to the bathroom to change your clothes and fix your hair.

Jaehyun stayed in your room, waiting for you. He took the open book in his hands and took a look at the cover and read the page you were reading before. “Another romance story,” Jaehyun sighed and shook his head. “Poor Y/N, will become a hopeless romantic person. Why are they making it more difficult for me?”

Jaehyun started to look around for a bookmark, but as he was searching for one, he found another book open resting on your study table. However, it wasn’t any book, the word’s font looked a bit strange to Jaehyun, until he noticed that it was your diary.

He wasn’t going to read it, he didn’t even want to touch it, but he read a name and the word “love” written with a red glittery pen and a few hearts around the name and that caught his attention. It was his name.

Did I see it right?

He leaned forward and read it again, feeling bad and guilty for doing that, but the curiosity was stronger than any bad feeling. It really was his name.

“You gotta be kidding me,” Jaehyun said, but there was a hint of a smile forming in his lips.

He knew it wasn’t right to read your diary, the object that you put your heart and soul in it. An object that's only yours.

“Sorry, Y/N,” he mumbled before starting to read your last entry.

January, 27th.

Dear diary,

I almost screw everything up.

I had pretty bad period cramps during class and even silently cried. No one but Jaehyun noticed, fortunately, the last thing I would want was getting all my classmates’ and teacher’s attention.

Jaehyun gave me his sweater so I could get warmer and lessen the pain. Didn’t help, but it was the best thing he could’ve done at the moment.

What seemed to lessen the pain (I know it’s not physically possible, give me a break, okay?!) was the sight of him secretly texting his brother’s wife asking her what he could do to help me out with the period cramps.

During lunch break he disappeared for minutes, and then came back with some of my favorite snacks, a heating pad and painkillers. I was impressed. I got even more impressed by the way he was treating me. He never treated me poorly, but I never saw him so worried.

I kept asking him where did all of that come from and he said he asked help from his brother’s wife, she gave him some tips and he asked her to bring those things to me. That’s when I almost screwed up.

I almost told Jaehyun that I love him! I started saying “I…” then I stopped, stared at him and said that I think he’s the best.

My heart was beating so fast I thought I was going to throw it up. That was too much for me.

I wish he was my boyfriend. I’ve always heard my friends telling some awful things her boyfriends said or did to them, but if Jaehyun was my boyfriend I know that I wouldn’t have any problems with that.

People always talk about how love and relationships are so difficult, but loving him isn’t hard at all. It’s quite the opposite, it’s easier than breathing, it’s safer than a bunker.

I guess I’m lucky to be in love with my best friend and not with some random guy who I know almost nothing about. I know basically every Jaehyun’s secrets, I know everything he likes and dislikes, I even know how he’s going to react about something that didn’t even happen. That’s how much I know about Jaehyun, and I know he knows about me that much as well.

I hope one day I have the courage to tell him about my feelings without the fear of ruining our friendship. It sucks to not know what he feels towards me, but I wish he has at least a little crush on me.

Tomorrow we will watch a movie and go to a pizzeria after his band practice. I hope everything goes smoothly and we have a great time. I also hope he wears that grey hoodie, he looks good on it.

Wish me luck, Diary.

Jaehyun didn’t know if he should gasp, smile, jump around your room or shout from happiness, but at the end all he did was sit back on your bed and pretend to be reading the earlier book because he heard your footsteps approaching the bedroom.

“I’m ready, and what are you doing with my book?”

Jaehyun clicked his tongue, folded the corner of the page and closed the book before standing up and looking at you, trying his best to not smile at your cute face and at the thought of you liking him in secret. “These books will be the death of you. Did you know there are many other book genres to read?”

“Shut up, I like romance.”

He placed his arm around your shoulder and started to walk with you towards the front door of your house, the closeness between you two made your eyes widen and you swallow hard. “One day, someone will love you and treat you better than any of those little characters love and treat the protagonist. Maybe sooner than you expect.”

“What?! What are you talking about?”

“Shhh. Let’s go, the movie waits for us.”

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blackswan0613 · 2 days ago

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Of Salt & Shadow | myg

yoongi has always been the embodiment of salt and shadow—a creature of the deep, shaped by the weight of tides and secrets, masking his wounds behind icy detachment and a stoic facade. But then there’s you, a flicker of warmth in his endless gray. You stay when others drift away, your words like whispers of sunlight breaking through his storm. Slowly, you unravel the delicate threads of his pain, exposing the fragile heart beneath his hardened exterior. Yet, the question lingers like a distant tide: can he rise above the currents of his past, or is he destined to drown in the cycle of his own making?

→ Pairing: yoongi x reader (female) → AUs: mermaid!au, fantasy!au, magical!au → Trope: strangers to lovers → Genres: fluff, smut, ANGST, drama → Rating: mature/explicit/R18 (this is mature/explicit content, so minors, please do not interact.) → Word count: 9.6k → Warnings (general) + triggers: mention of childhood trauma, FEELINGS, ANGST, brokenness, love, hope, healing, yoongi has a fuckboy attitude, and he really just needs a hug, insecurities, abandonment issues, mention of past suicide (it’s a very minor characher, not one of the tannies), emotions. → Warnings (explicit): unprotected sex, mention of multiple orgasms, oral, creampie, it’s just very light, poetic and sweet. → Read on AO3? [link] → Author’s note: 🫣🫣🫣 Yes, it’s me—Lissa (formerly known as kingofbodyrolls, may it rest in peace 😭). This story is for all of you I had to leave behind, not because I wanted to, but because I needed to. To every one of you who reached out, checking in on me, making sure I was still breathing and dreaming—I’m doing okay. Not amazing, not terrible—just somewhere in between, like a song stuck on a bittersweet chord. I’ve been on a break from Tumblr (RIP again, kingofbodyrolls) and writing fanfiction, but then it happened—one ordinary day at work, inspiration hit me like lightning. The final piece of this story clicked into place, and I knew exactly how to make it ache. Sad and raw, angsty enough to sting, but with the kind of happy ending you’ve all been hoping for. This one’s for you—for caring, for asking, for being such breathtakingly kind humans. I love you. I adore you. I hope this story brings you something—a spark, a feeling, a tear, or maybe even a little healing. Fair warning: it’ll probably make you cry, but I promise, it’s beautiful. The smut? Oh, it’s feather-light, soft and poetic, just what my heart wanted to write right now. And please, when you meet this Yoongi in the story, wrap him in the biggest, warmest hug you’ve got, okay? He needs it 🥹

[s.masterlist] → this is part of a collection of series that are stand-alone one-shots, but all of them are set in the same universe. They are slightly connected though 🤭

Life feels like a washed-out canvas, smeared with ash and shadow, even as the bass thrums through his veins, loud enough to shatter silence but not the emptiness. The cup in his hand is an elixir of forgetting, filled with fire meant to scorch his senses and cauterize the wounds of what he’s about to do tonight. Again.

He exhales, the weight of the world dragging him down like chains, his shoulders curving inward as he sinks against the cold, indifferent embrace of the bar stool. His eyes sweep the crowd—a kaleidoscope of strangers: glittering, laughing, unknowing. The usual suspects. Painted lips, swaying bodies, secrets exchanged between half-hidden smiles. But then there’s you.

He sees you. And then he doesn’t. He forces himself to look past you as if you’re a ghost, a memory he refuses to resurrect. But your presence has a gravity of its own, pulling at him like the moon calls the tide. Against his better judgment, his gaze drifts back, and when it lands on you, he feels the punch of it, sharp and breathless.

Your eyes—damn them—look so raw, so fractured, as if you’ve been waiting for him to glue the pieces together. Don’t look at me like that, he thinks, biting down on his bottom lip until the metallic tang of blood blooms on his tongue. The taste is grounding. It reminds him of who he is, of the rules he’s made for himself.

He takes another slow drag of his drink, the burn a welcome distraction from the ache clawing at his chest. He tells himself not to care, not to notice how you linger, how your fingers tighten around your glass like it’s the only thing tethering you to the room.

Why can’t you see it? The warning etched into every move he makes? He’s a tempest—beautiful to watch, but fatal if you step too close.

No. He can’t do this. Not again.

The decision is made before the thought fully forms. He drains the rest of his drink in one defiant gulp, the liquid fire smothering whatever ember of guilt still glows within him. His eyes catch a flash of gold in the crowd—a blonde, smiling, unaware—and he latches onto her like a lifeline.

He moves to her with practiced ease, whispers into her ear words he doesn’t mean, words that make her laugh as if they’re true. Her hand slips into his, and together they disappear through the pulsing haze of neon light.

He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t have to. He knows you’re still there, still watching. He knows your expression, the same way he knows the sting of regret that waits for him in the quiet hours of the night. But regret is a demon he’s learned to live with, and tonight, it won’t be you who haunts him.

“Hyung!” Jimin’s voice cuts through the shimmering expanse of water, desperate and unyielding as he surges forward, his limbs slicing through the waves with frantic determination. The ocean is a mirror of emotions—ripples distorting the light above, casting fleeting patterns over the seafloor.

Yoongi slows, his movements fluid and effortless, a predator at ease in his domain. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t speak, simply lets his younger friend close the gap between them. Silence is his armor, but it also leaves room for the currents to carry truths neither of them want to face.

“I’m sorry for what Tae said,” Jimin gasps, his voice heavy with guilt as he treads water beside him. His eyes glisten—not with the saltwater, but with something far more fragile.

Yoongi huffs, the sound rough, like the grind of a stone against the seabed. “Don’t apologize for someone else,” he mutters, the words carrying the sharp tang of dismissal.

Jimin’s lips curve into a wry smile, but there’s no humor behind it. “Fine,” he says, exhaling. “But you’ve got to see it from his point of view too.” His tone is coaxing, like someone trying to tame a storm, but Yoongi doesn’t want to be tamed. He doesn’t want to see anything. Not now.

The accusation still clings to him, stinging like brine in an open wound. Fuckboy. The word slithers into his thoughts, unwanted and cruel. Yes, he sleeps around—he won’t deny that. But somehow, hearing it aloud, weaponized, leaves him hollow.

“I don’t want to explain myself,” Yoongi says, his voice dropping into something quieter, something broken. “I don’t need to.”

“I know,” Jimin says softly, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “He didn’t mean it.”

But as if summoned by the apology, Taehyung swims into view, his silhouette framed by the flickering sunlight above. His arms are crossed, his expression thunderous.

“Oh, I meant it,” he spits, his voice cutting through the water like a blade. “Yoongi just likes to get his dick wet and doesn’t give a damn about the girls he leaves behind. It’s pathetic.”

The words hit their mark. Yoongi flinches, his composure faltering for a fraction of a second before he tightens it again, a coil wound too tight. Anger blooms like ink in water, dark and suffocating.

Jimin, ever the peacekeeper, senses the shift. He moves quickly, placing himself between them, his hands raised as if to hold back a brewing storm. “Tae, stop—”

But Taehyung isn’t done. “Hobi told me everything,” he presses, his voice relentless. “How every night it’s a new girl. Don’t you ever feel it? The emptiness? The loneliness?”

Yoongi’s blood surges hot, his patience snapping like a frayed rope. He surges forward, his presence suddenly immense, like a shadow swallowing the light. Their faces are inches apart now, the tension crackling like lightning.

“Listen to me,” Yoongi growls, his voice a deadly whisper, his teeth bared. “I don’t owe you, or anyone, an explanation. We’re friends, Tae, but if you don’t shut the fuck up, I swear—” He gestures sharply toward a jagged underwater cave in the distance, its dark maw gaping like a warning. “I’ll make you regret it.”

The threat lingers, cold and sharp. Taehyung swallows hard, his bravado crumbling under the weight of Yoongi’s glare. “Fine,” he mutters, backpedaling. “I’ll go. Whatever.” He turns and swims away, his retreat quick and graceless.

The silence that follows is heavy, the ocean itself seeming to hold its breath. Yoongi exhales, his chest tight with anger, frustration, and something he can’t name.

“Yoongi…” Jimin’s voice is quiet now, careful, as if speaking too loudly might shatter what remains of his friend’s resolve. He stays close, his presence a tether to reality. Yoongi wishes he wouldn’t—wishes Jimin would let him drown in his own anger, his own choices.

“We just want you to be happy,” Jimin says, his hand finding Yoongi’s shoulder. His touch is grounding, warm.

Yoongi laughs, but it’s a hollow, bitter sound that leaves a sour taste in the air. “Sleeping around makes me happy,” he says, trying to sound convincing. But the words betray him, falling flat, stripped of all conviction. Even he doesn’t believe them.

Jimin doesn’t push. He simply pulls Yoongi into a brief hug, a silent reassurance, before swimming back toward the others.

Alone, Yoongi sinks lower, his tail brushing the sand. The seafloor stretches endlessly before him, littered with clams, kelp, and scattered stones. Tiny crabs scuttle past, fish darting in pairs—happy, connected, alive.

He stares at them, his chest tight with the crushing weight of solitude. He is surrounded by life, by warmth and light, yet it all feels so distant. He is an island, untouchable, unreachable. And though he tells himself it’s by choice, deep down, he knows the truth:

He has nothing. And no one.

You’re back at the bar again, the air thick with smoke and music that throbs like a heartbeat, and there he is—Yoongi. The man with skin pale as moonlight and hair dark as obsidian, a creature carved from the night itself. His presence is magnetic, an otherworldly pull you can’t resist. Yoongi. His name echoes in your mind, a soft whisper that lingers like a spell cast two weeks ago, when you let him into your bed and, briefly, your soul. He told you then that he doesn’t do relationships, his voice cold, his eyes distant.

And yet, here you are, back at the club every night, hoping for a fleeting glance, a flicker of acknowledgment. But Yoongi doesn’t see you—not anymore. He lets other women take him home instead, their faces blurring together in the low, shifting lights of the club. His detachment should disgust you, but instead, it hurts. Not because you love him—you don’t. Or at least you tell yourself you don’t. But there’s something about him, an unspoken ache that calls to you, as if you were meant to carry part of his burden.

He seems so lonely. So unbearably sad. His face, stoic and cold, masks something deeper—a raw, unhealed wound buried beneath layers of indifference. It makes your heart ache, not because of his beauty or the ghost of his touch, but because he looks like a kicked puppy, or a man drowning in an ocean of his own making. You see through the cracks in his armor. You feel it in the way he avoids your gaze, in the heaviness of his sighs when he thinks no one’s watching.

There’s more to Yoongi; you know it as surely as you know your own name. And you’ve made up your mind—you’re going to find out what lies beneath. It doesn’t matter how many girls he lets lead him away into the night. This isn’t about jealousy. It’s about the way his sadness haunts you, the way you can’t help but want to see him smile, even just once.

A few days later, you’re back at the club. The air feels heavier tonight, almost electric, and your eyes immediately find him—Yoongi. But this time, he’s not alone. A man with fiery red hair sits beside him, his smile warm and radiant, a stark contrast to Yoongi’s storm-cloud demeanor. If Yoongi is the night, this man is the sun, shining unapologetically.

For weeks, Yoongi hasn’t looked at you, hasn’t acknowledged your presence. But tonight, you’re done waiting. With determination in your step, you weave through the crowd, your heart pounding with every beat of the bass, until you’re standing at his table. Without hesitation, you pull out the chair across from him and sit down.

Yoongi’s eyes snap to yours, startled and—yes—a little annoyed. His lips press into a thin line, while his friend looks at you with an amused grin.

“Hi, Yoongi,” you say softly, offering a smile that doesn’t waver under his glare.

He grunts in response, his gaze flicking away from you.

The red-haired man leans forward, his grin widening. “Hi, I’m Hoseok,” he says, his voice bright and inviting.

“Yoongi told me about you,” Hoseok adds, laughter dancing in his tone when Yoongi rolls his eyes dramatically.

You blink, surprise coloring your expression. “He did?”

“Not in detail, or many words,” Hoseok chuckles. “But yeah.”

Your lips curve into a small, almost shy smile. “I know Yoongi’s a man of few words,” you tease, leaning forward slightly. “You’re more the listening type, right?”

For a fraction of a second, Yoongi flinches—barely noticeable—but you catch it. He recovers quickly, his expression hardening. Another grunt escapes him, which only makes you and Hoseok laugh.

“It’s okay. I don’t mind,” you say lightly, though your voice softens as you add, “But I’d love to hear more about you.”

“There’s nothing to learn,” Yoongi replies, his tone flat and unyielding. “I told you before—I don’t do relationships.”

The words sting, but you push the feeling aside. You lift your chin, meeting his cold gaze with calm resolve. “Who said I wanted a relationship?”

Yoongi scoffs, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t sleep with the same person more than once.”

“Who said I wanted sex?” you counter, your smile unwavering. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Hoseok hiding a laugh behind his hand.

Yoongi freezes, his expression momentarily slipping into something vulnerable, like a crack in ice. He looks at you as if he can’t decide whether to be insulted or intrigued.

Taking your chance, you lean closer, your voice lowering just enough to draw him in. “Listen, I won’t deny that you were amazing in bed. But this isn’t about that.” You pause, your gaze softening. “You seem… broken.”

The word lingers in the air between you, heavy and raw. Yoongi’s reaction is immediate—he stiffens, his eyes widening like a cornered animal. For a moment, you think he might run. You reach out, gently placing your hand over his, grounding him.

“I know it’s not my business,” you say softly, “but you can tell me. I can be your friend.”

His hand retreats from yours, his movements abrupt, his walls slamming back into place. “It’s not your business,” he says, his voice colder than ever. Then he stands, turning away from you without another word.

You watch his shadow retreat, your heart sinking as you lean back in your chair with a sigh. Beside you, Hoseok lets out a chuckle, his eyes sparkling with something between pity and admiration.

“If it’s any consolation,” Hoseok says, “that’s exactly how he treats his friends.”

You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head.

“But,” Hoseok continues, his voice more serious, “you should try again. Yoongi’s got a hard shell, but sometimes, the ones who seem the most unreachable are the ones who need someone the most.”

He slides a drink toward you, his smile kind, and you take it with a grateful nod. As you sip, your thoughts linger on Yoongi, on the mystery of him, and on the ways you might find the cracks in his walls.

Yoongi is trying to fill the void again—just like every day. The club, with its pulsing music and flickering neon lights, has always been his preferred poison, a place where the noise drowns out the silence inside him. But lately, it’s been harder. Harder to find someone, harder to slip into his usual rhythm.

Because of you.

You’re always there now, sliding into the booth across from him with a brightness that’s almost jarring in the shadowy haze of his world. You talk—about everything. Your life, your friends, your work, your family. At first, it was all surface-level chatter, the kind of words people throw out to fill silence. But over the days that stretched into weeks, the conversation deepened. You’ve started sharing your dreams, your struggles, your quiet hopes for the future. And still, Yoongi listens in silence.

He doesn’t mind. In fact, he hears every word, even if his eyes occasionally drift to the dancefloor, to the swirl of bodies moving to the beat. But something has changed—his heart feels heavier, more unsettled, every time you speak. It’s as if your words are planting seeds he doesn’t know how to nurture. And he doesn’t understand.

Why do you keep talking to him, when he offers you nothing in return? When every night ends the same, with him slipping away, letting someone else take him home? He can see the flicker of hurt in your eyes, the way you mask it with a soft smile, as if you’ve already accepted his nature. But Yoongi isn’t blind—he knows he’s hurting you.

And yet, you stay.

You should run, he thinks to himself, over and over. But you don’t.

And he doesn’t understand.

He’s not special. He’s nobody. Just a hollow shell drifting through life, alone.

“Yoongi?” your voice cuts through his thoughts like a bell, and he blinks, realizing he’s blanked out again. The sound of his name on your lips pulls him back into the present, and he takes a sip of his drink, stalling for time.

“That’s why you’re like this, right?” you ask softly, your eyes searching his face with an intensity that unnerves him. Yoongi stares at you, his mind scrambling to piece together what you said before. He feels his pulse quicken, feels the weight of your question pressing on him like a heavy stone.

“Someone hurt you?” you ask again, your tone quieter this time, sadder.

He huffs a laugh, low and bitter. “Nah, darling. No one hurt me,” he lies, his voice rough and strained, as if the words have clawed their way out of his throat.

You tilt your head, your gaze piercing, and he feels like you can see straight through the facade he’s spent years perfecting. “You and I both know that’s a big, fat lie,” you say with a knowing smile, taking a sip of your drink. “But okay.”

Yoongi blinks, caught off guard. How do you know? How can you see the pieces of him he thought he’d hidden so well?

As if reading his mind, you add with a grin, “Don’t worry, I can’t read your thoughts. I’m just trying to figure out why you’re so… cold.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but you cut him off, leaning across the table with a gentleness that takes his breath away.

“It’s okay,” you murmur. “You don’t have to tell me. Not until you’re ready. I don’t want to force you.” And then, without hesitation, you reach across the table and take his hand.

The touch is soft, grounding, and yet it sends something blazing through his veins—something foreign and unnameable.

Since that moment, things have shifted. Yoongi still shows up at the club every night, but now, he doesn’t leave with someone else. He stays. He lingers. He sits with you, and for the first time, he talks.

At first, the words come slow, halting. But as the nights go on, he finds himself sharing bits and pieces of himself, fragments of the person he’s hidden away.

“My friends wouldn’t believe me if I told them I’m actually talking to you,” he says one night, a faint chuckle escaping his lips.

“Why?” you ask, leaning closer, as if the world beyond the booth has faded away.

“Because,” he replies, his voice tinged with self-deprecation, “like you said all those weeks ago, I’m more the listening type. Actually, I’m not really a ‘people’ type of guy.”

You stare at him for a moment, your gaze steady and understanding, before nodding.

After a beat of silence, you speak again, your voice softer now. “Do you want to meet me at the pier tomorrow?” you ask, a shy smile gracing your lips. “Maybe we could hang out somewhere else for a change. Somewhere… quieter?”

Yoongi leans back, his lips curving into a small smirk. You’re right—the club is loud, chaotic. How the two of you have managed to hold any kind of conversation here is a mystery. “Sure,” he says, the word slipping out before he can overthink it.

The smile that lights up your face sends something bubbling in his chest, something he doesn’t have a name for yet. And though he tries to push it down, to keep the walls around his heart intact, he can feel them beginning to crack.

Yoongi awakens to yet another day, the soft, golden sunlight filtering through the water, its gentle rays cascading down to the room he shares with his younger brother, Jimin. The light dances across the rippling surface above, a delicate ballet that makes their underwater world shimmer like a dream. Yoongi stretches, his body arching fluidly like the waves outside their window.

Beside him, Jimin stirs, his sleepy voice breaking the tranquil silence. “Do you have that date thingy today? With that human girl you’ve been talking to for weeks?”

Yoongi freezes for a moment, the question catching him off guard. He almost blushes—how ridiculous. Him, blushing? And in front of Jimin of all people? There’s no point in trying to look tough. Jimin sees through him anyway.

“Yeah,” he stammers, his voice barely audible. He feels his skin grow warm—uncomfortably so, like the temperature in their room had suddenly risen.

Jimin’s lips curl into a soft, knowing smile. “I hope it goes well.”

Yoongi just grunts in response, his tail flicking in irritation. He doesn’t want to say he hopes so too—doesn’t want to jinx it. But Jimin already knows. He always knows.

With a slow sway of his tail, Yoongi swims to prepare himself. He’s never put this much effort into anything before—not like this. He’s never even had a date before, if this can even be called that. You didn’t call it a date, after all, but to Yoongi, it feels like one. Just the two of you, meeting under the open sky in the middle of the day. Why, then, is his heart pounding like this? The unfamiliar sensation makes him clench his fists, trying to will it away.

Languidly, Yoongi swims toward the surface, the sunlight growing brighter and warmer as he ascends. When he reaches the shore, he finds a hidden spot, the transformation from tail to legs smooth and practiced. Behind an ancient tree, he retrieves the clothes he’d stashed away: simple sneakers, faded jeans, and a hoodie to ward off the sea breeze.

The pier stretches out before him like a bridge to another world. Small boats bob gently in the water, seagulls wheel lazily above, their cries sharp yet soothing. Yoongi sits on a weathered bench, his gaze tilting upward to the endless expanse of sky.

How free they are, he thinks, watching the gulls soar effortlessly. Free to roam wherever the wind takes them. Are they happy? He wonders. He is as free as they are—free to swim the vast, sprawling kingdom of Naraeum. Yet, for all its beauty, it cannot take him to the place he truly craves.

His throat tightens as unwelcome memories rise like shadows from the depths. He tries to push them back, clenching his hands against the swell of emotions threatening to drown him. Not now. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about them. About what they did. About what you lost.

“Yoongi… Are you crying?”

The soft voice pulls him back to the present, and his head snaps down from the clouds. There you are, standing before him, radiant in a summer dress that flutters gently in the breeze. The sunlight catches in your hair, and for a fleeting moment, you look like something out of a dream. Your smile is warm, but your eyes are filled with concern as you step closer.

Before he can respond, you sit beside him, your arms wrapping around him in a gentle, unexpected hug. He stiffens, caught off guard, but doesn’t pull away. He can’t. He doesn’t know how.

He says nothing. He doesn’t think he can.

The tears he tried so desperately to hold back slip free, falling silently onto the strap of your dress. And still, you hold him, your voice soft and steady. “It’s okay, Yoongi. Crying isn’t bad.”

He scoffs, a bitter, self-deprecating sound. “I don’t like to cry,” he murmurs, his voice so quiet it’s almost lost to the wind.

You hear him anyway. “I think it’s a sign of strength,” you say thoughtfully. Then, after a pause, you add, “Or maybe… maybe you’ve been strong for so long, you’re finally breaking.”

The words hit him like a tidal wave. Time seems to freeze. How? How can you see him so clearly when everyone else only ever looked through him?

You smile, a little awkwardly, and say, “Or, you know, maybe the wind just hit your face too hard.” You laugh softly, but Yoongi doesn’t. As much as it stings, he prefers the moments when you’re real, when you say the things that cut to the core.

“Maybe I am breaking…” he whispers, the words so soft they feel like a secret shared only with the breeze.

Without warning, you shift the conversation, your voice light and curious. “Have you slept with anyone lately?”

The abruptness catches him off guard, his head snapping toward you. “No,” he says, his brows furrowing. What does that have to do with anything?

But when he sees the way your lips curve into a gentle smile, he realizes. He hasn’t sought out anyone else’s touch since he started spending time with you. He hasn’t tried to fill the emptiness with fleeting nights and hollow embraces. He hasn’t needed to.

You rest your hand on his knee, your touch grounding him. “Maybe you’re healing,” you say simply.

Healing. The word lodges itself in his chest, unfamiliar yet strangely comforting. Could it be true? Could you—you—be the reason he’s beginning to feel something other than the ache of emptiness?

He wants to tell you this, to share the storm of thoughts swirling in his mind, but before he can, you speak again, your tone soft and hesitant. “I actually wanted to tell you something.”

He turns to you fully now, his eyes locking onto yours. “What is it?”

You look up to the sky, your eyes tracing the same infinite blue Yoongi gazed at just moments before. The breeze tugs at your hair, a playful reminder of the world’s ceaseless motion. You inhale deeply, as though trying to draw courage from the air itself, and then your gaze lowers, heavy with hesitation.

Yoongi’s sharp eyes catch the way your fingers curl around the hem of your dress, twisting the fabric like you’re wringing out your thoughts. He wonders what storm you’re holding back, what truth is weighing you down, and if he’s ready to hear it.

“I don’t have many friends,” you begin, your voice quiet, fragile—like a single note trembling in a vast, empty room. You turn to face him fully now, and Yoongi watches the weight of the words settle in your expression. “Actually… I don’t have any friends,” you continue, your voice cracking under the strain. “Not since my best friend… took his own life.”

Yoongi feels the breath hitch in his chest. He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t move. He knows what it’s like to tread these waters, the ones that pull you under no matter how hard you swim.

“I guess…” you pause, looking down at your hands as you push a strand of hair behind your ear, “maybe I saw some sadness in you, and it scared me. I wanted to be there for you, even though I didn’t really know you. Maybe I still don’t.” Your voice dips into something softer, more uncertain. “But…” you trail off, running a hand through your hair in frustration. Yoongi notices the way your cheeks flush slightly, and somehow, he finds it endearing. You’re endearing.

You exhale shakily. “I’m sorry. I’m a mess.”

He surprises himself by laughing—low and soft at first, then louder as he fails to hold it back. You stare at him, bewildered, your expression a mix of confusion and irritation.

“Sorry,” he says, trying to smother the sound with a cough. “But if anyone’s a mess here, darling, it’s me.”

You blink at him, and your lips curve into a tentative smile. “I just wanted to tell you… you matter to me. Since that day we—” You hesitate, the memory flickering in your eyes before you look away. “Since that day we slept together. I know it didn’t mean the same to you, and that’s okay.” You shrug, but Yoongi sees through it. The slight tremble in your shoulders, the way you avert your gaze—it’s all there, laid bare for him to see.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice quieter now. “But you shouldn’t care about me so much.” His words are a shield, one he raises instinctively, though he knows it won’t stop you. “I don’t deserve it.”

“Why?” you press, leaning forward, the intensity of your gaze almost unbearable.

“I just don’t,” he says flatly, crossing his arms over his chest like a child refusing to admit they’re wrong.

“But why don’t you think you deserve friendship, or love?” you ask again, your voice softer now, the sadness in your eyes like a dagger to his heart.

Yoongi says nothing. He stares at the ground, his jaw tightening as memories rise unbidden to the surface—memories he’s spent years burying beneath layers of denial and indifference.

“I just don’t,” he repeats, his voice weaker this time, like the weight of his words is dragging him down.

You take a deep breath, your next question as gentle as a whisper. “Because you lost someone?”

His body stiffens, his tailbone aching with the ghost of a movement—the urge to run, to dive back into the water and escape.

“A sibling?” you ask. “A friend?”

The ice in his chest spreads, freezing him in place. The world feels too bright, too loud, and too heavy all at once. But for some reason, he doesn’t run.

“My parents,” he says finally, the words breaking free like stones tumbling off a cliff. His hands are trembling now, damp with sweat—or are they wet from something else?

“Oh, Yoongi,” you breathe, and before he can react, your arms are around him. He freezes at first, but then he feels the warmth of your embrace, the way it softens the edges of his pain.

The tears come without warning, spilling down his cheeks and onto your shoulder. “They left me to die,” he chokes out, the words raw and jagged. “They didn’t want me. They didn’t love me.”

Your hand moves in slow circles across his back, and though you don’t say anything at first, your presence speaks volumes. For the first time, he lets himself feel the depth of his loss.

“I’m so sorry, Yoongi,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. And that’s when he realizes—you’re crying too.

“Please don’t cry,” he says softly, the sound barely audible over his own sobs.

“It’s okay,” you reply, dabbing at your tears with the back of your hand. “I feel sad for you. And it’s just feelings. It’s okay.”

He nods slowly, his tears ebbing like a tide retreating from the shore.

“Thank you for telling me, Yoongi,” you say, your voice steady now, though your eyes still glisten.

He looks at you, his heart aching with something unfamiliar—gratitude? Hope? “I’ve never told anyone before,” he admits. Then, after a pause, he adds softly, “And… I’m sorry about your friend.”

You smile, though it’s bittersweet. “I always feel like I didn’t do enough for him…”

Yoongi shakes his head gently. “I’m sure you did everything you could. You’re doing it now—for me. And you don’t even have to.”

You huff, crossing your arms in frustration. “Will you stop thinking so low of yourself? I do care about you, and before you try to argue, let me just say this: You are a lovable person, okay? Got it?”

The sheer conviction in your voice startles him, and he can’t help but smile. It grows into laughter, and soon, you’re both laughing—soft, genuine, and unrestrained.

“Do you want to come back to my place?” you ask through your laughter. “To hang out, nothing else,” you quickly clarify, your cheeks turning pink.

Yoongi feels his own face warm at the memory of the last time he was there, but he pushes it aside, shoving his hands into his pockets to hide his sweaty palms.

“Sure,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant, though his heart is racing again.

It’s been weeks, and Yoongi feels it—feels the shift in his chest every time he looks at you. It’s in the way his breath hitches when you laugh, how his heart steadies when you sit close, and the way his walls crumble entirely when he’s tangled with you in the quiet sanctuary of your bed. You both promised this wasn’t what your friendship was about—something deeper, something purer—but somewhere along the way, it happened. Your body became his solace, your presence a balm to wounds he thought would never heal.

He wonders if this is what love feels like: to be seen—not for what he can give, not for his strength or his silence—but for the person beneath it all. The boy who’s carried too much for too long. With you, he’s slowly unraveling the stoic mask he built to shield himself. You’ve coaxed out the softness he buried long ago, showing him that vulnerability isn’t weakness—it’s courage.

You’re the good kind of different, the kind he never believed could exist. His friends tease him mercilessly for it, saying he’s “whipped,” calling him “domestic,” but he doesn’t care. Not when being with you feels like this—like the world could break apart, but so long as you’re with him, he’d survive it.

He’s always treated intimacy like a bandage for his fractured soul, a fleeting comfort to dull the ache. But with you, he’s learned it’s more than that. You’ve shown him that the most profound intimacy doesn’t lie in physical connection alone but in baring the parts of himself he once kept hidden—the pain, the doubt, the fragile hope. You let him shatter in your arms without judgment, kiss the tears from his face, and remind him, again and again, that he’s strong. Strong for carrying his burdens for so long, but stronger still for letting them go.

And to Yoongi, there’s nothing sexier than the way you cradle his fragility, whispering that it’s okay to break, to be human. It’s a new kind of addiction, this trust you’ve built together, and one he never wants to let go of.

On a warm summer morning, the world outside hums with life—birds singing, the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze—but Yoongi’s world is here, with you. The sunlight filters through your window, casting golden streaks across your skin, and he’s utterly mesmerized. His lips trail down your body, worshiping every curve, every scar, every piece of you, until he’s between your legs, breathing in your scent like it’s air itself.

“Yoongi, oh—right there,” you gasp, your voice raw and unrestrained, fingers threading through his hair like you’re anchoring yourself to him. He grips your thighs, spreading you open as his tongue moves with deliberate purpose, savoring every sweet taste of you. The way your body arches, the sounds spilling from your lips—it’s a symphony, one he never tires of hearing.

“I’m close,” you pant, your voice trembling, and Yoongi hums against you, the vibration making your whole body shudder. He doesn’t stop. His tongue traces the places he knows will drive you over the edge, lapping and sucking with a devotion that borders on reverence. He’s not in a rush. This is about you, about giving you the pleasure he’s memorized in his mind like scripture.

When you finally shatter, your body trembling, a soft cry slipping past your lips, Yoongi feels the heat of your release like a wildfire burning through him. He watches as your chest rises and falls, your face glowing with the aftershock of bliss. It’s beautiful, and it’s enough to make his own need surge to the forefront. But he holds back, his focus still entirely on you.

He doesn’t say it—not yet—but in the quiet moments after, as he rests his head against your thigh and listens to the rhythm of your breathing, he knows the truth: he’s falling for you. He’s already fallen. And for the first time in years, he doesn’t feel afraid of what that might mean.

“Yoongi…” You moan his name like a hymn, your trembling hands caressing his cheeks, now slick with your essence. His dark eyes meet yours, and in their depths, you see something raw, something reverent. Your own gaze is weary yet soft, radiating warmth, like the flicker of a hearthfire on a cold night. He licks his lips, leaning in to taste you once more, but you halt him, your thighs squeezing gently around his head, urging him to pause. You sit up, your skin glowing with a sheen of sweat, and the words that leave your lips are unguarded, crystalline in their sincerity.

“You’re incredible with that tongue of yours,” you murmur, voice tinged with a teasing smile, “but I want you inside me. You must be so hard, Yoongi. Why don’t you fuck me real good?”

A low chuckle rumbles from his chest, and he sits up, pulling his sweatpants down with one swift motion. His cock springs free, thick and aching, slapping against his abdomen, and for a moment, his breath stutters as he strokes himself, a groan spilling from his lips like honey. You recline again, spreading your legs, inviting him in, and he aligns himself with your entrance. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he pushes inside, your walls clenching around him, drawing a strangled moan from his throat.

“Shit,” he breathes, his hands gripping your hips as if to anchor himself. Your moans spill into the air like a prayer, and the tightness of you has his mind spiraling, clouded with a pleasure so consuming it feels otherworldly. He begins to move, his thrusts growing deeper, harder, until your bodies find a rhythm, a harmony that feels eternal.

Yoongi has never been one for positions like this—too vulnerable, too raw—but with you, it’s different. Everything about you makes him different. Your chest heaves, your breasts bounce with every snap of his hips, and you’re radiant, glowing in a way that makes his heart ache. You’re unafraid, unapologetic, giving him all of yourself, and he doesn’t know if he’s ever felt more alive.

“Shit,” he gasps, his pace faltering. “I’m not gonna last long.”

You chuckle, even as your breaths come short. “Come inside me, Yoon,” you whisper, your voice like velvet, and it’s all he needs. His thrusts grow erratic, and with a deep, guttural moan of your name, he spills into you, his entire body trembling as he finds his release.

“You didn’t come,” Yoongi pants, his forehead resting against yours as he catches his breath.

You smile, stroking his flushed cheek. “I don’t have to. You already made me come three times. And feeling you come inside me is the best feeling ever.”

His cheeks flush a deep crimson, and he averts his gaze, embarrassed but touched. Slowly, he pulls out, his softened cock glistening, and a mixture of your shared pleasure trails down your thighs.

“Maybe we should take a shower,” he murmurs, chuckling softly as he admires the beautiful mess you’ve become.

Flustered, you laugh. “You go fill the tub. Add some bath salts if you want.”

“And you?” He leans down, stealing a soft kiss, his lips lingering against yours.

“I’m cleaning up. The sheets are a disaster,” you tease, shoving him lightly toward the bathroom.

He grumbles in mock protest but obeys, making his way to the bathroom. Inside, he turns the faucet, steam curling up as water fills the tub. He finds a jar of lavender and chamomile salts, sprinkling some into the water. The scent fills the air, calming and warm, and for a moment, Yoongi pauses, catching sight of his reflection in the mirror.

He looks… happy. Happier than he’s ever seen himself. There’s no trace of the shadows that once haunted him, no lingering ghost of his past. Just him—content, smiling. He enters the tub and soaks in the water that wraps around him like a familiar blanket, warm and soft, and he sighs, relaxing into it. But his smile falters as a familiar, unsettling sensation ripples through him.

“Babe!” he shouts suddenly, splashing water as panic creeps into his voice.

“Yeah? What’s wrong?” Your voice comes from the bedroom, growing closer.

“Nothing!” His voice cracks, betraying his discomfort. “But… uh… was there sea salt in those bath salts?”

“Yeah, why? Don’t you like it?”

Before he can respond, you enter the bathroom, naked and holding fresh clothes that tumble to the floor as your gaze locks onto him. Your mouth falls open, and your eyes widen, taking in the sight of him in his true form.

“Yoongi…” You say his name softly, stepping closer to the tub. Your gaze is transfixed on his tail—glossy black scales that shimmer like obsidian, the translucent fins catching the light. It’s otherworldly, beautiful.

He flicks his tail nervously, water spilling over the edge of the tub. “I… I should’ve told you sooner,” he murmurs, his voice thick with uncertainty.

“Can I touch it?” you ask, your voice quiet but filled with wonder.

He nods hesitantly, watching as you kneel by the tub and run your fingers along the smooth, cool scales. His eyes flutter closed at the gentle touch, and for the first time, he lets himself relax.

“Aren’t you afraid?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Why would I be?” You meet his gaze, smiling. “You’re still Yoongi. That’s all that matters.”

Your words make his chest ache in the best way. When you tell him to scoot over and climb into the tub beside him, he’s stunned. No one has ever stayed—not like this. Not when they’ve seen the truth of what he is. Not that a human has ever seen his true form, but as soon as he’d shown how fragile he really is, people tend to leave.

“So, you’re… a merman?” you ask, your voice soft, curious, like a whisper carried by the tide.

He nods, a faint smile curling at the edges of his lips, though his eyes glimmer with something unspoken, a secret weighed down by the ocean’s depths.

“And your parents… they’re merpeople?” you venture cautiously. But the flicker of pain in his gaze stills you, and your words falter. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to talk about them if it hurts.”

He exhales a sigh, long and heavy, like the pull of a distant current. “It’s okay,” he says quietly, his voice tinged with bittersweet acceptance. “Yes, they are merpeople.”

Silence stretches between you, a pause as vast as the open sea. You hesitate, unsure if you should ask the question weighing on your mind, but finally, you gather your courage.

“Are they still alive?”

Another sigh escapes him, deeper this time, carrying the ache of a wound long scabbed over but never truly healed. “I think so,” he murmurs. “I don’t really know. They left me when I was three years old.”

The words fall like stones into the still waters of your heart, rippling outward. He takes a steadying breath, his gaze drifting as if he can see it all again, playing out before him like a dream fading into a nightmare.

“They told me we were going on a trip to another city. I was so happy, so excited—I’d never been away from Naraeum before. That’s the name of the city I’m from,” he adds softly, a faint smile flickering for a moment before it’s swallowed by the tide of his memory. “We swam for hours, far from the coral spires and glowing reefs I knew as home. Eventually, we stopped at this cave to rest, to sleep. But when I woke up, they were gone.”

His voice wavers, and you see the boy he once was—small, scared, alone. “I waited for them. Days turned into nights, and I tried to search, but I wasn’t strong then. I was tired, hungry, terrified. I didn’t eat. I didn’t sleep. I just… waited.”

You feel your chest tighten as he pauses, swallowing hard. “One day,” he continues, his voice quieter now, “I heard something outside the cave. I thought it was them, finally coming back for me. I swam out, desperate to see them again, but… it wasn’t them. It was someone else—another pair of merpeople from our cove. They had a baby with them, Jimin.” His lips curl into a faint, bittersweet smile. “They took me in, made me their son. Jimin became my brother. And that’s… that’s how I survived.”

You reach out, your hand trembling as it finds his chest, resting over his heart. Beneath your palm, you feel the steady, strong rhythm of his heartbeat—proof that he’s here, that he endured.

“You’ve been through so much,” you whisper, your voice breaking with emotion. “And yet, you’re still here. You’re so kind, so gentle, despite everything you’ve suffered. I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”

Your words are a balm to his aching soul, and as you move closer, your arms wrapping around him, he feels something shift inside him—something that feels a little like hope. Your skin presses against his, warm and tender, your embrace like the tide itself—gentle, enveloping, unyielding.

The softness of your chest against his makes his breath hitch, not with desire but with something deeper; a feeling that he is no longer alone, that for the first time in his life, he doesn’t have to tread water to stay afloat. Your warmth seeps into him, filling the cracks he thought could never be healed, and he closes his eyes, letting himself be wrapped in the sanctuary of your love.

“I told you he’s head over fins for this human,” Taehyung says, rolling his eyes in dramatic flair, his tail flicking against the current.

“He’s in love,” Jimin retorts with a huff, crossing his arms. “Don’t judge him.”

Yoongi wonders—not for the first time—why he bothers letting his friends meddle in his life. Don’t they have better things to do than dissect his feelings like fish in a net?

“I think it’s great, hyung,” Namjoon says, his voice warm, his smile kind. “She’s good for you. And now that she knows you’re a merman… maybe it’s time you show her Naraeum? Show her your world.”

The idea lingers in Yoongi’s mind like a whispered tide. Show you Naraeum. The city of his origins, a place of glowing coral spires, shimmering schools of fish, and seas that held as many memories as wounds. It makes sense, doesn’t it? To take you to the other half of his heart—the one that doesn’t belong entirely to you yet. But how? How can he merge these two pieces of his life, these two homes, when they feel as distant as the stars above the waves?

Mark’s voice cuts through his thoughts like a jagged reef. “Don’t you think you’re just going to hurt her? Do what you’ve always done?” His tone is sharp, indifferent, like a hook slicing through flesh.

The words hit Yoongi harder than he expects, making him flinch. His chest tightens, his mind spiraling. Hurt you? Leave you? The thought feels foreign—and yet, uncomfortably familiar. Because once, that was who he was. He’d flee at the first sign of intimacy, drowning in his fear of vulnerability. And if he’s honest with himself, a small part of him is still scared. Scared of you leaving him. Scared of not being enough.

His heart pounds like a storm-tossed sea. The doubt, planted by Mark’s careless remark, takes root. It twists through him, a dark, creeping thing.

“Don’t say that, Mark,” Jimin snaps, his voice sharp as breaking waves. He pushes Mark back with an annoyed flick of his tail.

“Yeah, how can you be so inconsiderate?” Taehyung chimes in, his glare cutting through the water like sunlight through the shallows. Namjoon nods, his silent support steady as a reef.

But their words can’t reach Yoongi, not when his mind is a whirlpool of insecurities. His throat feels tight, like the ocean itself is pressing against him. He wants to believe you love him—you stayed when you found out he wasn’t human. You didn’t run. But what if you’re just tolerating him? What if you think he’s too broken? Too weak? Too… unlovable?

“Hyung,” Jimin says gently, trying to pull him back to shore. “Calm down. Don’t listen to him.”

But Yoongi shakes his head, the weight of his fears pulling him under. “What if he’s right?” he whispers, his voice cracking like fragile glass. “What if she doesn’t really love me? What if she’s going to leave me?” He pauses, his words trembling with raw vulnerability. “I don’t deserve her.”

Jimin’s face twists with frustration. “You’re not making sense, hyung. Of course, you deserve her.”

But Yoongi’s voice drops to a hollow murmur, barely audible over the rushing tide. “I don’t deserve to be happy.”

And with that, he turns, his tail flicking once, twice, before he swims away, leaving his friends behind. Jimin calls after him, but the sound fades as Yoongi dives deeper into the sea.

He doesn’t stop swimming until he reaches the cave—the place where his pain began. It’s here, in the shadows of jagged rocks and the soft hum of the ocean’s lullaby, that he lets himself break.

He screams, the sound raw and guttural, muffled by the water. He cries, tears lost to the sea that surrounds him. The words Mark said play on an endless loop in his mind, each one carving a deeper wound. Is it only a matter of time before he hurts you? Or worse—before you hurt him? Everyone else has. Why would you be any different?

Days pass, and Yoongi is a shadow of himself, a ghost haunting the waters of Naraeum. He avoids you, thinking it’s for the best. But as the days stretch into lonely nights, a part of him stirs. You deserve closure, he thinks. You deserve an explanation. Even if it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done.

That’s how he finds himself at your door, long after the world has fallen silent. His hand trembles as he knocks, the sound soft but resolute.

When you answer the door, your emotions collide—a tempest of fear and relief swirling in your chest. You step aside, letting him in, though his presence feels heavier than the crashing waves of an approaching storm. He enters with a sigh, already cloaked in guilt. Guilt for being away, for the words he’s about to deliver, words that taste bitter even before they leave his lips.

You greet him with a soft, trembling smile, one that doesn’t reach your eyes. Both of you settle onto the couch, the silence between you taut as an unstruck harp string.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, your voice gentle but laced with unease. He flinches, your concern cutting through him like shards of glass.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he says, the words escaping him in a broken whisper. He can’t meet your gaze—if he does, he knows the dam will break, and the flood of his own emotions will drown him.

Your breath catches, fear rising like a tide threatening to pull you under. “What do you mean?” you ask, voice quiet and fragile, as though afraid the answer might shatter you.

“I can’t be with you anymore,” he says, his hands clenching tightly, his lip trembling as he bites down on it. He tells himself this is the right thing to do—leave before you have the chance to hurt him.

Tears spill down your cheeks, glistening like liquid starlight. “Why?” you choke out.

“I wasn’t looking for love,” he lies, each word a dagger he twists deeper into both your hearts. “I was just looking for some fun. I told you I don’t do relationships.” His voice is sharp, cold as the abyss, but you both know it’s a mask. He clings to it, his last line of defense, because if he lets the truth slip through, he’ll unravel.

“How can you say that?” you cry, your voice raw, your tears falling faster now.

“I don’t love you,” he says, the words tasting like poison.

Your sobs grow louder, shaking your frame, but you press on, your voice breaking with desperation. “How can you say you don’t love me? After everything we’ve been through? After everything we’ve shared?”

His resolve falters for a moment, your words piercing through his armor. Damn it, he does love you. He loves you so much it terrifies him. But he’s too afraid—afraid of the pain you might bring, afraid of the inevitable heartbreak he’s convinced himself will come. To survive, he has to end this now, even if it means destroying himself in the process.

“You were just a good fuck, that’s all,” he says, forcing himself to look up. The moment he sees the agony on your face, he feels his heart crack, fissures spreading deep within him. You believe him now, and it’s killing him.

You’re crying so hard it’s difficult to breathe. “I’m not crying because you don’t love me,” you manage to gasp, your voice trembling with pain. “I’m crying because I still love you, even though you don’t love me.”

The weight of your words crushes him. He feels like a monster, a wretched creature unworthy of the love you so freely offer. He can’t take the words back now. He’s too far gone. He feels hollow, a shell of himself, and every beat of his heart screams that he’s made the worst mistake of his life.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice breaking under the weight of his regret. “I told you I wasn’t good for you.”

You sob into your hands, and he watches, helpless, broken. Slowly, he rises from the couch. He knows he can’t stay, can’t bear to see the pain he’s caused you. He’s fractured, and now he’s fractured you, and he tells himself it’s for the best.

Through your tears, you cry out, “Why do I always fall in love with people who want nothing to do with me?”

He freezes, your words slicing through him like a harpoon. He knew you carried your own wounds, scars you never fully revealed, and now he’s only deepened them. He feels like the worst kind of coward. He thought he was protecting himself, but he’s only destroyed something beautiful.

Still, he runs. It’s what he does best. The sound of your cries follows him, haunting him, but his heart is a storm, drowning out everything else. He doesn’t turn back. He doesn’t dare.

When he finally returns home, his body trembling, Jimin wraps him in a firm embrace, whispering, “You’re so stupid, hyung, but you’re loved. You’re loved even when you don’t think you deserve it.”

Seokjin, ever the voice of reason, glares at him. “Go back to her. Apologize. Tell her you were wrong and scared.” His words are sharp, biting, but laced with truth. Yoongi knows he’s right.

But he can’t. Not yet. Not when he feels like he’s drowned in his own guilt. He’s afraid—afraid that you’ll never look at him the same way again. And that fear keeps him paralyzed, even as the longing for you claws at his heart.

It’s been almost a year since Yoongi disappeared—since he ran not only from you but from himself. You’ve replayed those moments endlessly, searching for clarity, clinging to the truth you both felt: what you had was real. It thrummed between you like a shared heartbeat, too raw, too wild to ignore. But fear has a way of stealing even the purest things. You’re certain he left before you could leave him—though you never would.

Not a day has passed without you searching for him. You’ve wandered to the edge of the sea, his home, calling his name to the waves. The ocean, vast and unyielding, has given no answers. It feels cruel, as though it conspires to keep him hidden from you. And now, summer has returned, and with it, the town’s festival.

The streets are alive with lantern light, laughter, and music that spills into the air like the hum of magic. You move through the crowd like a ghost, drifting past merchants hawking trinkets and sweets, their cheerful cries fading to a dull hum in your ears. You don’t belong here—not without him.

Then you see him.

Or you think you do.

A man with raven-black hair stands in the distance, his profile soft beneath the golden glow of festival lights. Your heart stirs to life, pounding wildly against your ribs. Could it be?

Your feet move before your mind catches up, weaving through the crush of people, breath hitching as you near him. You’re running now, every step a prayer whispered into the night. And then, finally, you’re there. Your hand reaches out, trembling, and taps his shoulder.

He turns.

Wide, startled eyes meet yours, and the world stills. Time seems to ripple, folding in on itself, carrying you back to the moment he left, the hollow ache he carved into your soul. But now he’s here, flesh and bone, and you feel as though the universe has just exhaled.

It’s him.

The regret in his gaze hits you like a tidal wave, his anguish laid bare in the depths of his dark, glassy eyes. Your breath catches as you bite your lip. What were you thinking? He left. He doesn’t want you.

This was a mistake.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, his voice cracking under the weight of unshed tears. His hands curl into fists at his sides as if bracing to run again, and your heart splinters all over. But just as you’re preparing for the inevitable—the shattering of hope—he moves.

He collides with you, his arms wrapping around you with an urgency that takes your breath away. The softness of your summer dress flutters around you both as his body presses into yours. You feel his heartbeat thundering against your chest, frantic and raw, as if trying to prove he’s real, that this moment is real.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, his voice breaking as he buries his face into your shoulder. His tears warm your skin as his body trembles against yours. You wrap your arms around him instinctively, pulling him closer, your fingers tangling in the soft strands of his black hair.

He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his own eyes shimmering with vulnerability. “I won’t run anymore,” he says, his voice like a solemn vow, a plea carried on trembling lips. “Do you still want me?”

And in his words, you hear the echo of every moment you spent missing him, every wish cast into the sea for his return. You press your forehead against his, the answer trembling on your lips, carried by the truth you never stopped feeling.

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→ Author’s endnote: I don’t really know what I think—just that I’m proud I wrote it, that I finished it. One less mermaid tale to tell, with just one more left swimming in my mind. And yes, I’m going to write that one too—because I owe it to you. I’m sorry for the way I disappeared, like a ghost slipping through a locked door. I’m not back—not really—but something sparked in me, and it felt like a crime to let it fizzle out. So here we are. There are still three stories waiting in the wings, three restless works-in-progress that will meet the page when inspiration decides to knock. Will they be any good? Who knows. My writing feels like a mess, like a tangled net that catches doubt instead of stars. Maybe that’s why I wrote Yoongi this way—because, surprise, I’m Yoongi in this one. Hahaha, the plot twist no one asked for! Trauma makes excellent fuel for fiction, doesn’t it? (For the record, no, my parents didn’t abandon me—this story has truth, but not all of it belongs to me). Anyway, this little corner of Tumblr is my new blog, but I won’t use it much. I’ll post the final mermaid story when it’s done (+ the rest I mentioned above), and after that, the curtain falls. If you’re looking for my old work or want to dive into the rest of the mermaid tales, you’ll find them tucked safely on my AO3. Thank you for reading—for caring enough to stay, even when I didn’t. And hey, in case no one has told you today: you’re extraordinary, you’re seen, and you matter to me🫂

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