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samkerrworshipper · 6 months ago

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las 15.

mapi leon x reader, alexia putellas x reader (platonic)

warnings: the spanish federation ick

erm look at me posting something 😮 anyways enjoy haha i kinda hate it but need to feed yall somehow

“You need to be aware of the consequences of what could happen if you sign this document.”

You stared down at the mahogany surface of your lawyers desk, it was dark, sanded, smooth and shiny. Contemporary, but it also looked old, like a heirloom. It distracted your from the non stop drawl.

“I don’t care, I’m signing it.”

Your eyes travelled along the surface, lookinbg at the different waves of wood and the way that the dark colours marbled together.

“The RFEF could come for you, they could try and take your license. You might not compete at the world cup, the press will come for you, Vilda will come for you, Barca could reduce your playing time, it could be the end of your career. There are other negatives.”

You’ve thought about all of them of course, how could you not?

“I’ve already said it, I don’t care. Let them come for me, let them do whatever they want. I am done with it all. Fourteen other players have signed it, no? I will be the fifteenth and that is final.”

You weren’t a big fan of your lawyer, he was old and money oriented. He also didn’t have your best interest in mind, his sole focus was earning you as much money as possible, which had been fine up until today.

“So what? You plan to be the best in the world and never play international football again? This will ruin your career, it will put an end to the Ballon D’or campaign, it will change things for you, you can’t just do this because your girlfriend does it as well, this will be detrimental for you.”

The wood grooved at the edges, flattening out and curving so the edges weren’t too sharp.

“I refuse to stand by and submit myself to abuse. That’s what happens every time I go to that place, every time I go to camp I submit myself to abuse, torture, horrific conditions. The fact that you would even dare imply that I would do this for anybody but myself is preposterous. I am better than the condition I am being subkmitted to, I deserve better than to be objectified and treated as if I am dirt on that man’s shoe and I refuse to be treated as such. I have standards for myself and the people around me and I refuse to live by these for much longer. I’ll draft up the letter, I’ll send it to you for editing purposes and once your done you will send it to the RFEF, consequences be damned. You should be glad that I lasted two more windows then everyone else, honestly I’m ashamed that I didn’t do this earlier, but I’m ready to take a stand with everybody else now. I don’t want to play in a World Cup if it means this is how I will live my life.”

You looked up at your lawyer, hoping the fire burning in your soul was reflective in your eyes.

“This is a bad decision, you are thinking with your heart and not your head, this is unlike you.”

You pulled your eyes from the mahogany, standing up from your seat slowly.

“No, I’m thinking with my own interests, not yours, not my managers, not my bank accounts. I’m thinking with my mental health, my emotional health and my physical health. For the first time in my life I am taking time to focus on myself, so tyeah maybe it’s unlike me, but I’d like to think this might be the a better version of me, I’ll email you my letter, all you havr to do is forward it, if it’s such a struggle don’t even bother reading it, I don’t care what you have to say, I’m legally obligated to make you aware of any contractual issues so here I am. Give a fuck, don’t give a fuck, it doesn’t change anything for me, I’ve made my decision and nothing or nobody will make me change my mind.”

You didn’t wait around to hear what he planned to say in rebuttal, exiting the stuffy office as quickly as your legs would allow.

You made it to your car before you felt the tears flooding down your face. Even now, even after you’d tried to speak out you still felt like you were being silenced, like nothing had changed. That’s why you were doing what you were doing, why you knew this was what you needed to do. It didn’t make it any easier though, knowing that no matter what choices you made, even if they were for the good of you there were still going to be people around you who condemned them.

You were supposed to be at training, but you’d taken the day of to finalise all this bullshit. It was frustrating, knowing that the choices you were making for the good of yourself could end up being harmful to your career in a multitude of ways, it was all so fucking hard.

Everybody was at training, and yet here you were balling your eyes out in the carpark of your stupid fucking lawyers office.

If you hadn’t hit rock bottom at the last camp, the this was it, this was your final straw.

It was all too much, you’d been holding out for too long, but the mixture of the other 14 girls refusing to come back and Alexia’s injury had been enough of a motivation for Vilda to try and ruin your life. It had started with extra training after your sessions, then sessions in the mornings, then separating you from the rest of the team, limiting your diet, gym sessions, changing your schedules to everybody elses, punishing you for nothing, treating you like you were a slave to the Spanish Women’s team.

You were the best midfielder they had, excluding Alexia, and she was hurt, you were the scapegoat for the team, you were responsible for the wins and the reason for the losses.

You knew that with your leave, somebody else would end up taking your role, probably Aitana who was far to young to deal with that kind of pain, and you felt bad, you felt more guilty than you thought possible, but you couldnt do it for any longer, you couldn’t act like it wasn’t killing you on the inside for every second that you spent away with those people.

You hated it, you hated feeling like nothing, you hated feeling worthless, you hated living your life like it was pointless, you couldn’t do it for any longer, not when you were giving up every single part of yourself to keep yourself together.

You couldn’t stay how you were, crying in the drivers seat of your car milling over the memories of your last camp, you needed to leave, needed to go somewhere, needed to talk somebody.

Before you really knew what you were doing you’d started driving, letting the tears drip onto your lap and the steering wheel as you frantically drove your way through the city.

You couldn’t be alone, but you also couldn’t handle all the eyes of your teammates, so you drove to the one other place that you could think of where you hoped somebody would be.

You tried your hardest to wipe the tears from your face, but they kept falling, the sleeve of your shirt getting damper by the second as you tried to wipe up the evidence of your breakdown. It was useless, and eventually you gave up, stepping out of your car and ducking your head as you walked towards the lift and navigated your way through the apartment building.

The person you were looking for didn’t answer the door, instead you were put face to face with Olga.

“Hola chica, Ale didn’t tell me she was expecting visitors.”

You bit down on your lip, tapping your foot against the floor as you peeked around Olga, searching for the person you were seeking out.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t tell her, I can go home, I know she’s been busy with her rehab, I don’t even know how I ended up here.”

Olga tugged at your arm before you could spit anything else out, tugging you through the door and closing it from behind you.

“Nonsense chica, you’re very welcome here, Alexia is sitting out on the balcony doing her exercises, she’ll be more than happy to have your company, just head on through, your always welcome here.”

You nodded at Olga, smiling at her as much as you could with your lip still stuck between your teeth.

“Thank you, thank you so much, I really appreciate.”

You tried to ignore the tears that were still dripping down your face, it didn’t feel like you were crying, even though you were, it more felt like you were shedding a layer of yourself, the layer that was holding all of the trauma that you’d been holding in, like it was your way of getting rid of it all.

Alexia’s apartment was meticulously clean as ever, but you spotted her out in the sun easily.

She was standing outside, in a pose similar to ones you did in your yoga sessions.

She looked at peace, like she was calm, like she was serene, the complete polar opposite to how you felt and you really didn’t want to burden her with your problems, but you were here now anyways.

You tiptoed over to the glass sliding door, pushing it open, causing Alexia’s head to peak up at you. She looks at you with curiosity, but doesn;t move, instead her head nods you towards one of the outdoor lounges beside her, which you beeline for.

She stays in her position as she addresses you.

“The appointment with your lawyer didn’t go well then?”

You did a double take as you stared at Alexia, shocked at the information she’d somehow managed to obtain.

“You don’t take me for a idiota do you? Mapi told me you had a appointment you were keeping quiet about this morning, it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out who it must have been with, considering recent events. Although your girlfriend wasn’t smart enough to work it out herself.”

Alexia stayed in her stretch, looking at you as if to prompt you to tell her more.

“Yes, I had a appointment with my lawyer, Alexia.”

Alexia smirked to herself, she was one of the most obersvanet people you knew, nothing got by her, you weren’t all that surprised to find out that this hadn’t.

“You’ll be joining the group then?”

You hadn’t really comes to terms with it, let alone saying it out loud.

“That’s the plan, should be official by tomorrow.”

Tears were still dripping down your face, you couldn’t find yourself caring though.

“Good for you. You deserve better, we all deserve better, may we all hopefully make a change.”

Alexia wasn’t officially a part of the movement, but she was everyway besides a signature as equally involved as everybody else.

“It just feels like i’m letting the team down, that I’m letting everyone down.”

Alexia nodded at you, finally coming out of her stretch and walking over to sit down next to you.

“You’re doing what’s good for you chica, your doing something that is going to make you happier, that is going to make your life better. Nobody else matters beyond that, trust me.”

Alexia looked at you, like she was genuinely struggling to help you out in the moment. She had been your mentor at Barca for forever, you seeked out her advice more than anybody elses, especially in this moment.

“I don’t know how to do it anymore, it’s like he was trying to ruin my fucking life, like his whole purpose for everyday was to make my life a living hell, and I just couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t walk around camp acting like it was fine, I couldn’t smile at cameras and talk to the press and tell them about how great I was feeling when it was all lies, all I wanted to do was leave, or sleep, or die, all because of his and his staff. They were hardly feeding me, hardly letting me sleep, hardly giving me a break and expecting me to perform at the same level as everybody else, if not better. I just couldn’t do it anymore Ale, it was too much.”

Alexia’s arm placed itself on your knee, squeezing your covered skin.

“You shouldn’t have to, you needed to leave and you did, you made the right decision chica, you made a impossible decision that will make your life 100 times easier, it doesn’t make you weak, it makes you so incredibly brave for being able to identify that you were being treated wrongly and that you needed to remove yourself from that space.”

The tears kept falling, your pants were slowly becoming soaked with the raw emotion.

“Mapi did it because of the abuse, because she had a legitimate reason, I’m leaving because they worked me a little bit harder than everybody else, it feels like I’m overreacting.”

You could feel Alexia rolling her eyes from beside you.

“Really? Has Mapi told you that?”

Mapi had told you that you deserved the world, you deserved everything you wanted, you deserved to be treated like a queen, not how the RFEF was treating you. She’d told you the decision was yours, that she would support you no matter what you did, but she’d also told you that after every camp you came back with a little bit less of yourself, that Vilda was stripping parts of you away to use at his mercy.

“It’s not the same thing, Patri, Pina, Mapi, they all have good reasons, they’ve all been hurt, Vilda is just trying to make me better, trying to make me worthy.”

Alexia’s hand squeezed tighter.

“You’re lying to yourself and you know it. As long as he is in charge, you aren’t going to get treated how you deserve, none of us are. We’ve all paid our dues, yet they don’t give a shit, they break us all down until we’ve got nothing left to give. They broke me down until I did my acl, if you hadn’t of left they would have done the same to you. It’s nonstop, even if it isn’t the same kind of abuse as Mapi, it’s still abuse, they still rip out every part of you in the process. Each time you come back you have less of yourself to offer, but they keep taking, and taking, they make us feel nothing. It’s a waste, it’s a waste of the wonderful life we’ve all been gifted. We deserve to be happy, we deserve to be free of the pain.”

You nodded your head, you’d been avoiding telling Mapi about all of this. You were conscious that she was still working through a lot of her own trauma, and you didn’t want to reopen scars that were only just beginning to heal.

“I don’t know what to do Ale, I sign the papers, I write the letters and I’m taking a stand, I’m trying to make a change. I stay, I wreck it all, but I keep my career. It feels like I’m at a crossroads with myself, and I can’t talk about it weith Maps because god forbid shes already been through enough with her own struggle through it all, she doesn’t need me on top of that.”

Alexia stood back up, getting back onto her mat and pushing herself into another stretch, all whilst she maintained eye contact with you.

“Mapi’s talked to you about her struggles, si? She’s burdening you with her own problems, yet it doesn’t feel that way, because you love her and you’d do anything to make her pain less. I guarantee she’d feel the exact same way. You’ve been through a lot, none of us will ever be able to completely comprehend what you’ve been through, but if you started talking to your loved ones about it we’d be able to support you better. Or a therapist, I know Barca has been giving you sessions, but I mean a real psychologist, not just a person who tells you that you need a day off. You need somebody to help you, to actually make you feel like you deserve better than how they treated you, because I know that you know that but I don’t think you really believe it.”

The tears were slowly coming to a standstill, slipping less frequently down your face as Alexia talked to you.

“I don’t want to make her hurt any more than she already has.”

Alexia just looked at you, with that double eyebrow raise and little crinkle in her forehead.

“If you think that Maria wouldn’t do anything for you, even if it meant sucking every single inch of pain from your body and putting it into hers, she would do it and she would do it with a smile on her face. Her whole world, her whole solar system revolves around you and she’d want you to talk to her about this. She knows better than anybody else what you’re experiencing, she’s literally been where you are, so why not talk to her about it?”

It was true, for as long as Mapi and you had been together she’d tried to fix every single thing, she would do anything to make you feel better, this didn’t feel the same though.

“She deserves to live in a world where Vilda, where the RFEF, don’t affect her anymore. She signed the petition, she’s cleaned her hands of it all, and I should have done it with her, but I didn’t. I chose to keep playing for the benefit of my career, because I was greedy and decided that a Ballon D’or and any kind of accolade I was a shot at was more important then taking a stand and I hate it. I hate that now that I’ve won things that suddenly it’s all hit me that I don’t like what’s been happening, and I don’t want to support it. Mapi doesn’t deserve to go through it a second time, all because I was greedy.”

Alexia switched sides on her stretch, the sun was radiating off of her olive skin and her blonde hair, she looked ethereal.

“Have you told her anything about it?”

Alexia was frowning, like she was shocked by your actions.

“She knows that I was struggling at camp, she told me I was welcome to talk to her. After the last one she knew something had changed, she told me she was worried and I shook her off, because I thought she was being overprotective, but she was right, she had reason to be worried, I wasn’t okay. I’m not okay, i don’t know how to process it all.”

Alexia nodded.

“Go home, tell her what’s happening, see what she says, I think it’ll be a lot better than whatever you’ve thought up. Mapi has been my bestfriend for years, she’s dated my sister, she’s dated my friends and I can confidently tell you that she loves you more than any of them, you’re her do or die, all she’ll want to do is support you, please just go and talk to her.”

Alexia looked at you with such conviction and honesty that you couldn’t find it in you to try and fight her on the topic.

“Thank you Ale, I needed this, I needed to talk to somebody, needed to feel less crazy.”

Alexia did one last stretch before standing up, pulling you into a tight hug before you could pull away.

“You’re not crazy chica, you’re going through a very real, very hard time, and you deserve to have the people around you show you how much they love you.”

Alexia let go of you, shoving you back towards the door.

“Go talk to your girl, and sign those papers, and be happy, enjoy life, enjoy peace. You deserve it, chica.”

You nodded into Alexia’s shoulder, letting go of her and slipping back into her apartment, leaving her to get back to her stretching.

You shivered when you spotted Mapi’s car already parked in her spot. You knew you’d be cutting it close with getting home earlier then her, but you’d held a silent hope that you would be the first home. You hesitated to exit your car, scared of what the inside of your apartment held. You weren’t scared so much, more a little bit tentative of the conversation that you were about to have, knowing that it could majorly impact your relationship. In your heart, you knew that Mapi would love you no matter what, but it didn’t calm the nerves inside of you as you pulled your keys from the ignition, pulled out the papers that your lawyer had given you and exited your car.

The whole walk from your car, to the elevator and then down the hallway to your apartment had your heart thrumming inside of your chest. Your hands were quite literally shaking as you pushed your key into the door.

You toed your shoes off at the door, slotting them down beside the door before slowly walking your way through the entrance. It wasn’t hard to find Mapi, she was right in front of you, sitting down at the island bench, patting Bagheera and eating a post training salad. You knew that there was one meant for you still sitting on the shelf of your fridge, from when the two of you had meal planned yesterday. She looked so undisturbed, with the afternoon light coming in through the gaps in the blinds and the general silence that you were about to break.

You announce yourself by slinging your bag down against the wall, a loud enough noise that seems to wake Mapi from her happy daze.

She smiles as soon as her eyes set on you and it only makes the weight in your gut feel ten times heavier and the pain in your heart ten times worse.

You wanted to turn around and walk right back out the door you’d just walked through, but you couldn’t, not with the way that Mapi looked at you, like her whole day had been made by your appearance.

“Hola bebita, how was your meeting?”

Mapi’s smiling ear to ear, quite literally, you swear you can see every single one of her teeth. It had hurt you to lie to Mapi about where you were going today, telling her that you’d had a crucial appointment with your manager about some media things, it wasn’t a direct lie. You had met with your manager, instead of it being positive though, it had been quite the opposite.

You didn’t have any words to reiterate to Mapi, so instead you just picked up the papers that were tucked away in your hands and placed them down on the island infront of her.

Mapi looked at you with confusion for a few seconds.

“Just read them, you’ll understand it more once you have.”

Mapi didn’t hesitate, picking up the first piece of paper and scanning over it, before moving onto the second, then the third and so on, till she’d made it through the entire stack.

You stood anxiously on your toes the whole time, balancing from one foot to the other as you contemplated how Mapi was going to reply to this sudden change.

When she did finish, she looked up at you, a lot of questions hidden behind her curious eyes.

“I’m resigning, or requesting they don’t call me up. I don’t want to play for a federation that doesn’t care about me. I’m sorry I didn’t do it earlier, but I wasn’t ready and I’m sorry I’m bother you with it now but I’m also sorry I didn’t tell you about it earlier, I met with my lawyer for the first time today to sign the documents and write my statement. If it all goes to plan then they should be out in the next week. I don’t want to do it anymore, I can’t do it anymore, I’m sorry.”

Mapi blinked a few times, like you’d just blindsided her completely, and you figured you had.

“I didn’t even really know it was happening until after last camp, and I just realised that I was so exhausted and so tired and so sick of it all that I couldn’t do it again. I should have done it earlier, I should have been a part of it all from the start but I was scared and I still am scared Maps. This is supposed to be my job, I’m supposed to be grateful for the opportunities I’m given and yet I feel like I’m a fraud and I’m lying when I say that because I’m not grateful and I’m not happy and I can’t do it anymore, I just can’t. I’ve been praying every night that I get injured, so that I get a break like Ale, and I don’t want to feel like that anymore.”

Mapi just stood up and pulled you into her arms, silencing the rambling and making you realise that you were now crying again.

She slowly led you towards the couch, bringing you into her arms as you tried to take control of yourself.

It felt like every piece of anguish, every piece of fear, every piece of internal hatred was slowly being pulled from your body and it felt so good, like you were somehow being healed.

Mapi wiated until you were coherent enough, until you felt more resurfaced, and less like the bloodn was rushing through your ears and every though of self-doubt was spirally through the different ridges of your brain.

“Princesa, you’ve made this decision for you, si? Not because of me, not because of anybody else, because you believe this is best for you?”

You nodded into her chest, enjoying the feeling of your own skin pressed directly to hers.

“I’m sick of them making me feel this way Maps, I don’t like it, I don’t think it’s right.”

Mapi’s body was surrounding you, her scent, her feel, her everything, and it was all you’d needed today, everything that Alexia had assured you would make you feel better.

Mapi’s salad was forgotten on the counter.

Bagheera was somewhere else.

It was just the two of you, just the two of you to face everything.

“We’re put into boxes, as women, men try to make us be everything and yet nothing. It’s not right, we’re expected to be as good as the men, but we have to behave eloquently, say our pleases and thank yous and never be ungrateful for the piss poor conditions we put up with. We’re supposed to be passionate, but we’re not allowed to over react in any way. We can only underperform, not overperform. There are no expectations for us, because we’re women and we’re supposed to be worse than the men, but they’re are also so many expectations for us to meet. It’s okay for you to be done with that, there is nothing wrong with you saying no to constantly being abused. You’re not a fraud bebita and I’m here for you no matter what. You’re my girlfriend first, a person second and a soccer player last. It doesn’t matter, none of it matters, you matter, you’re feelings and how you feel is what matters.”

Mapi’s hand pulled your head from her neck, her lips connecting with your forehead with ease.

“I’m not doing it anymore Maps. I want to be strong, I want to say no. I want to be a part of the right side of history. I don’t want to sit around pretending everything’s fine when it’s not fine. It’s nowhere near fine and until there is a change it won’t be.”

Mapi nodded, pressing a series of kisses to your forehead.

“Then we’ll work it out, you’ll keep me in the loop and we’ll figure it out together, no more hiding these big feelings from me. We’ll go and see our therapists and take soe time off and do whatever you need to feel safe and happy, because what matters is you, nobody else, si?”

You nodded your head once again, enjoying the same smile that her face was covered in. her lips migrated down to your cheeks, pressing kisses to the rosiest parts, pushing the tears away.

“I’ve got you bebita, we’ve got each other, we’re going to be fine, we all are.”

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brujamala-aka-gigi · 3 months ago

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random messages from the tarot

so, this is a short pac reading with no theme, anything essencial will show up on this readings. feel free to pick more than one pile <3

pile 1 pile 2

pile 3 pile 4

images from pinterest and dividers by @fairytopea

꒰ঌ ✦ scroll down for the results ໒꒱ ༘*.ﾟ

-ˋˏ ༻ ❁ Masterpost and Tarot Menu ❁༺ ˎˊ-

*˚‧͙✧ PILE ONE ✧‧͙⁺*

During this very moment of your life, you need to stop expecting good fortune and luck to be on your side when you are thinking about taking any kind of new direction. It’s understandable that hope might be a great motivator for you, but you are limiting yourself if you’re ignoring how important are your own actions and your virtues, things that go well in your life, are not because of good luck, they go well because you did well. If you focus on developing your skills and your confidence, you will achieve a lot and actually enjoy those achievements without any sort of impostor syndrome. Please understand that anything good that happens to you, in your case, is a reflection of what you do on your own in order to keep the abundance and the positive energy coming your way.

*˚‧͙✧ PILE TWO ✧‧͙⁺*

I get this feeling you are watching yourself detach from your own emotions and you are not sure what to do about it. When it comes to feelings of anxiety or sadness, it’s common to want to detach, or ignore them, but at some point this can happen sort of by accident, you know you’re feeling bad, but you don’t quite feel it sometimes. What I can say about this is that: try to deal with this by being deeply conscious on how and why these feelings are being ignored, don’t focus too much on what is causing them right now, but instead focus on why you are not allowing yourself to experience something completely human: feelings. Try to understand them as ways in which your mind and body communicates the needs you’re unconsciously ignoring. And please ask for help if you need to.

*˚‧͙✧ PILE THREE ✧‧͙⁺*

It’s time to stop being resentful with your past self, and /or the people who hurt you. You’re carrying way too much baggage that is affecting your decision making skills, usually taking you to places and people that are far too similar to the situations that got you the baggage in your first place. This is a great moment to begin healing journeys aimed to allow yourself to have a deeper comprehension on your past, by taking a more objective look on it and being more understanding with your old self, more patient and comprehensive. For you, it’s necessary to see what thought are behavioural patterns are keeping you away from moving on from the past.

*˚‧͙✧ PILE FOUR ✧‧͙⁺*

You’re going to experience a lot of creative energy and fast changes soon. It’s key that you can embrace the fun yet chaotic but overall positive experiences that’ll come your way. These are not only meant to give you new perspectives and new opportunities regarding the material aspects of your life, but they’re also a manifestation of your own energy changing and attracting both positive and negative challenges. You will be put in situations where your passions will become a great source of guidance and hope, while becoming more and more present in your life. Expect new people wanting to approach you during a time of change and evolution like this, some come to help, some to test you, some will stay and others not.

hi, i'm gigi :)

i hope you enjoyed this readings and hopefully found something useful. check my masterpost if you want to know more about this blog or if you want to keep reading some more PACs. also, my bookings for personal readings are open!! so don't hesitate to take a quick look at my tarot menu if you're interested in that.

as usual, im thankful for all the good vibes on here, i hope everyone can get something out of this blog!! i'm really struggling to get consistent with posting since i prioritize my job as a tarot reader on an app and doing personal readings from here (and omg thanks to everyone who trusts me with that and thanks to everyone who books).

so yeah, thats pretty much it.

much love, gigi <3

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hoseoksluna · 7 months ago

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MURK | myg ft. jjk

pairing: boyfriend!yoongi x oc (feat. jungkook)

genre: angst, smut

word count: 16.9k

summary: one encounter with jungkook heals you enough to mend your boyfriend's heart.

pinterest board: murk

warnings: anxiety attack, different forms of self-harm and self-sabotage, mental agony, mutual masturbation, toying with polyamory, foreshadowing the use of a sex toy, alcohol consumption, seduction, provocation, teasing, oc wears pretty lingerie, cuckold kink, guided female masturbation, dom/sub dynamics, nipple play, clit rubbing, ass play, oral sex (m. receiving), fingering, facial, cum eating

note: oh my god, this was supposed to have three parts, but it was getting way too long and i decided to prolong the series. i'm not gonna even mention how many parts this series is gonna have bc my characters surprise me every time i finish writing so... they're the boss of me. ANYWAYS, pls i am so proud of this work of mine and i can't wait for you all to read it. pls, spam my inbox anonymously! i need to hear your thoughts, so pretty please, let me know everything you're feeling, hating, expecting etc. i'm absolutely obsessed with oc, jk and yoongi. ALSO, let me know what team you are. team yoongi or team jk? i'll put a poll in the final part if i remember. hehe ENJOY READING ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

Sensing Yoongi’s emotions, the clouds pull in, shunning the sunlight and you feel it. You feel it, enormously.

The wind becomes violent. Curtains of sheer gray slap against the windows, undulating with such might that you sense its urgency. You stare at it in deep thought, naked and barren—void of any dignity, void of any rightness of feelings. A hole of blackness takes form in the middle of your chest, where the memory of Yoongi exiting the room hastily plays on a loop and there’s a faint, feeble hand in you, one of that urgency, that reaches for him, while the other remains slack at your side, caressing your own skin, pacifying your selfishness, your hypnosis—dragging you away from the side you had unwittingly and so unrightfully chosen.

And while you want to mend what you’ve caused in your relationship, the only side you want to take at the moment is your own. The defeat pains you still, but what aches even more is the feeble wish there wasn’t any defeat at all. Not on Yoongi’s face, not on yours.

You don’t regret what you’ve done. You don’t want to regret anything anymore, which is why you’re still standing dressed in your femininity as Jungkook apprehensively rakes his hands through his hair on the bed. You care very little for it because a bigger part of you is concerned about the well-being of your boyfriend. You wonder what he’s up to downstairs. Is he pacing? Is he busying himself from the onrush of his negative emotions, not able to stand the sight of you? You’d run to him, but there’s a bigger matter at hand. You have to fix your mind first. You have to cleanse yourself of the mess and the chaos, sort out the darkness so the light pours in.

The light that will guide you to make the right decisions at last. The light that will burst your ugliness to smithereens, smother you with its heat so the hypnosis won’t penetrate it again. The light that should, ultimately, help Yoongi, help your relationship—fix its face, soothe out the overbearing tension.

You’re aware Jungkook put you under a spell, now that the wind and Yoongi’s coldness has sobered you up. Turned you against him. Made you forget about him. You give zero fucks about how he does it time and time again. What you will concentrate on in the present time is making sure it won’t happen again. How? You’ll figure it out. Somehow.

You don’t want any of the males to regard you as of now—and you wish you were alone, you wish you could escape like Yoongi did. That thought leads you, conspicuously, to begin to understand the reason behind his actions, but you don’t allow it to unfold in you. Not yet. You turn around to look at Jungkook.

Elbows propped on his thighs, he’s digging a hole into the hardwood floors with the blackness of his irises. A small mole kisses the side of his ribs, the only visible part of his body that is otherwise clouded in shadows. You take your eyes away from that sight, not trusting yourself, hating yourself for naturally looking at that intimate part of him. Upon the sound of your movement, Jungkook flicks his eyes towards your form. You dislike everything about his attentiveness to you with every fiber of the betrayal that your body has become.

His face is squished in his hands. He doesn’t look at your bareness. Merely studies the emotions written on your face. Like the healer he is, you know he wants to find something, anything to latch himself onto. And while you once obsessed over this need of his to mend, to make right, you despise it now. In spite of it, while you swallow down your distaste for it, your hand yearns to pet him like the wounded puppy he is, because you know that the tumultuous darkness both men are facing is of your origin, of your doing.

You keep it clenched in a tight fist.

You don’t want to touch him anymore. You don’t want to touch any of them. Don’t want to cause any more harm than you already have with your desires.

Jungkook startles when you make your way towards your travel bag. You hide your breasts beneath your forearm, not wished to be seen, not wishing to be vulnerable like that. The feeling of your stickiness along the inner sides of your thighs makes you cringe, worsens your hatred, and tears begin to sting in your waterline when you unzip your bag and grab the first thing you see. Jungkook opens his mouth to say something, but for the last time you avert your gaze from him and bolt to his bathroom. At the sound of his heavy steps, you slam the door shut.

He calls your name and it is only then, when you’re alone, that you let those bitter tears and whimpers emit out of you. The sound is hidden by each strike of his palm upon the wood and your hand flies to your mouth in effort to stifle your emotions, feeling undeserving of them, feeling wrong, ugly, not worthy of his damned attention—not worthy of anything.

“Sweetheart,” Jungkook whines. The first pet name he ever called you. You let out a pained sound and he forces the door open with all his might. Even though you don’t want to, you let him see the state of you—clutching your wrinkled dress and panties, concealing the evidence of the pleasure he gave to your body, of your femininity that he had put under his spell.

You step away from the threshold, slinking deeper into the shadows of the bathroom. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be looking at you with such solicitude and affection. His brows shouldn’t be knitted like that, those eyes bigger and rounded than they usually are, fists tight and clenched, veins thumping and thick. Yoongi should be standing in his place with the intention to heal. Not him.

“Please, go away,” you whisper, hot tears pouring down your pallid cheeks. You’re ashamed of them because you know full well that at this point you should be doing anything but crying. You’ve gone through so much turmoil, mingled with the darkness to such great extent that you should be proud of your work. You wanted this at some point—you wanted to remain the opposite force with separate feelings. You wanted to be his, when you had no right to choose.

Jungkook’s eyes glisten. You turn your back to him, unable to be a witness to his emotions. You can’t see that; you don’t deserve to and he shouldn’t be feeling like this. He should’ve long exited this disorder—

You sob louder, exhausted of your thoughts, exhausted of shoulds, of wrongness. Turn the shower on, aware of the traces of disobedience and pain on your backside and you want to hide, but you have nowhere to go to.

Jungkook turns the main lights off, leaving only the soft flickering bulbs on by the mirror. Ever the healer who senses your emotions by some sixth sense that you hate. Dimness covers your shame.

He takes away your dress and panties and you let him. Folds them neatly on his laundry hamper. You watch him treat your underwear with such gentleness that it hurts. A flashback of him ripping your thong and making your bum red fills your brain, causing your feelings to expand in your chest—so much that you think your body is too small to keep them in. You can’t breathe, your lungs don’t have enough space to stretch and you panic, taking small breaths that don’t appease your need for air. Not at all.

You step into the shower, needing to get away.

The hot water burns on the curves of your behind and you hiss, but it alleviates your hatred. You deem it is precisely what you deserve. Your hand turns the temperature higher, sobbing into the stream of water, lungs heaving with such heft and it is okay, for it camouflages your hypocrisy. That is, until Jungkook notices it.

“Are you crazy?” he mutters in dismay, fixing the temperature, but you grip his wrist briefly, pushing it away. Don’t look at him. Only warn him this way, silently. His miffed sigh wafts into the mist rising along your form, diffusing into your hair that still carries the scent of the pond. You want to wash it all out. “It’s going to hurt more like this.”

You scowl, cupping the water in your hands like a child. “I don’t care. Leave.”

The outward pain of your body isn’t the problem here. It aggravates you how he doesn’t see it—how he can be so ignorant to the more important matter at hand. Yoongi left because of him and because of you, because of the single-minded pleasure between you both that had nothing to do with Yoongi. You might as well have been there alone with him—Yoongi being just a pair of helping hands. Redundant.

Burning. Burning of eyes, burning of skin, burning ache of heart.

Jungkook scoffs at your forwardness, dumbfounded. Has the audacity to follow the drop of water trickling down the small of your back. You splash him, willing him to go away, but he stays put. Unbuttons his cargos. Hooks his thumbs under the waistband of his boxers, ridding himself, and stepping into the shower with you, sliding the door shut.

You whisk your eyes to him with as much ill-will as you’re able to muster and he seizes it, unafraid of it, backing you against the wall. Solemn mien, subdued and so soft amidst the hardness of his decisiveness. Small pearls of emotion are stained upon the wrinkles around the corners of his eyes, twinkling in the shadows in tandem with the ever persisting glint perched on top of his irises. “I told you to leave.”

He doesn’t blink. “You splashed me,” he utters, lowly. Grips your waist and pushes you against the coolness of the tiles. It takes a hold of the burn and rips it away, relief flooding in its place and your features relax against your will. “See how it feels better?”

It does, but you don’t give him the benefit of the doubt—you refuse to. Not when you deserve to rot for hurting your boyfriend enough to make him leave, not when it should be him standing here with you—

“Don’t punish yourself,” Jungkook whispers, fixing the temperature yet again, letting the mist disperse. Such a tender, velvety sound that reaches deep inside of you, even when you want to fight him, even when you think that punishing yourself is the least you can do, considering how despicable you’ve become. But then he dabs a small amount of body wash onto his palm, rubs it across your sternum and it nobbles the drift of your self-sabotage.

You feel the snugness of his touch, the darkness thickening in you and you take a fright of it.

You put a stop to it.

Grasping his wrist, you blink through the unrelenting fragrance of cherries filling your nostrils. “Don’t touch me.”

Seeing the panic flitting over your damp eyes, he lets go, respecting your wish. Smears it on the broadness of his chest instead. “Alright, I won’t touch you.”

You sigh a whiny, vulnerable breath of relief. The glint of his irises ripples as tears pool across them. He, too, blinks them away. Stills as a sculpture while watching the film of your emotions. For a mere moment. Your throat constricts. Time, then, resumes.

Jungkook hands you the bottle. Silence suffuses the profound atmosphere as you lather yourself in the cherry aroma. Almost without touching your skin, he peels your hair away from your back, capacitating you to reach your shoulder. As if his hands, now that they’ve acknowledged themselves with your body, simply cannot keep their distance. You shoot him a look that forces him to drop his limb. Note that it trembles on its way down to his side; note the same trepidation beginning its course on your body. Your mouth rounds in yet another rush of emotions, but you don’t cry.

You’re so tired. So tired of feeling. So tired of guilt, of shame, of getting up and falling again.

You avoid your intimate parts, your breasts and your behind. You hold your body instead, arms wrapped around your ribcage in effort to put yourself back together. You don’t understand why he’s here, why he cares; why he thinks he has the right to touch you without your boyfriend being present, why he thinks the situation between you and Yoongi is something he needs to remedy. And why, ultimately, he thinks it’s right to be on your side, instead of Yoongi’s.

He’s not your friend. He doesn’t know you.

You look up at him to fire that question at him, but Jungkook clutches the shower head and, with lukewarm water, he cleanses you of the foam, the bubbles and the stickiness on your thighs that he never got to wipe clean because you had pushed him away earlier. And then it happens.

He cleanses you of your dirtiness, of your hatred and of your tiredness, too. With the same shower head, the same lukewarm water. And you can’t explain how he does it, how your body lets him, how it willingly lets go until there’s nothing in you anymore. Just the cherry perfume and the hole in your chest with a murky cloud in the middle. You merely watch it dribble down your skin, plop onto the tiles on the floor, swimming around your feet and his. Dumbstruck.

You feel like stomping on it, but you don’t have the energy. Figure it will drown in the small pool of water on its own, die a slow, painful death, before it trickles down the drain.

You don’t know how it came about now that it’s gone and you can’t take your eyes off of him. All he did was rinse you off. And the ridiculousness of it all is that, the more Jungkook deepens your eye contact, the more you want it back. You want to be the one who purges you of it. Steal the magic from his hands and splatter it back on your skin, in place of the cherries. He can keep those.

Why did he come? Why didn’t he go to Yoongi?

And you ask him. “Why are you here?”

He fishes for a bottle of shampoo. “Will you let me wash your hair?”

You scowl up at him. “I asked you a question.”

Stillness in his features. “So did I.”

That damned stubbornness, so reminiscent of yours, of your muted, silent one, hidden within you. Fair enough. You search within yourself for any hint of protest. Find none—find it’s been washed away, find cherries and the heft of the cloud, no darkness, much to your dismay. You turn your back towards him.

“Tilt your head back.”

Thankful that he didn’t do it himself, you do as he says. Jungkook wets your hair and you feel the pond leaving you, your heart skipping over to latch onto it, adamant on not letting it leave, but alas—it disappears along with everything else. You wish your heart would trickle down the drain, too. You have no need for it, anyways.

Jungkook’s touch on your hair is benign, careful as he rubs the shampoo on your scalp. You flutter your eyes shut, welcoming in, somehow, the massage that diminishes the intensity, which your thoughts are hurled at you with, as though he was the owner of them and he came home to make order. And they settle altogether to listen as he begins to speak. “It shattered my heart. To see both of you so broken because of me. I saw it at dinner at first. Then I saw it again today. It pains me. It pains me that it’s my fault.”

Silence, hefty, strong silence. The principle of being seen by another pair of eyes; the principle of your agony being seen and understood, no longer obscured within your mind, within your heart. Jungkook didn’t just see you, he saw Yoongi, too. Saw through you both. Something about that, along with the work of his fingertips, mitigates the heaviness of your emptiness, of your cloud, but it doesn’t tear the misty body. Not yet.

Your throat is dry. “Why are you here, then? Why aren’t you with Yoongi? He’s your friend.”

He gently drags his palms across your length. “Because Yoongi deals with things like this on his own. He doesn’t need a friend when he goes through shit. He needs to be alone.”

You don’t understand. Yoongi always needed you when his mental health was at stake. Needed you as he unraveled the entanglement of ropes of that darkness that had enveloped his mind by talking to you about it. Then, he would eat with you, fuck you and try again the next day. It would be a long process, but it would be something you’d go through together. There never was a time he’d walk that path alone.

And then it hits you.

That was before you. Before he met you, he meandered through that decaying meadow alone. Jungkook served in the military—he doesn’t know anything about the change that occurred. Doesn’t know that Yoongi gave up his isolation.

And you tell him. Merely a hint of it. Figure it’s Yoongi’s story to tell and you don’t have the heart to snatch that opportunity away from him.

Listening to your words, Jungkook slackens. You only hear the sound of the shower head being put back into its place that indicates his shock to you. You figure he wanted to rinse off the shampoo, but the information paralyzed his body. You turn around to see that bewilderment writing verses across his features. Tenderness, too. A tendril of liquid emotion swirling past his waterline. “I tried my best to make that happen when I could,” he utters and you don’t think he realizes he said it, eyes unfocused, fixed on the tile beside your arm. “You can’t imagine how difficult it was for him. To let you in.”

You feel the same tenderness curling into your cloud. Your mouth rounds again. Touched, terribly touched. Gladness holds hands with that tenderness, gladness that he didn’t leave when you had told him to. Because if he had never stepped inside the shower, you wouldn’t have known. You wouldn’t have known the secret that changes everything.

You yearn to see Yoongi. Yearn to hug him, hold him, to pour out your love into him. Think you’re ready now. Stable enough to satisfy your craving. And in the love that you feel for him, you sense the light swarming, begging to be seeped into him.

You stand beneath the stream to rinse off the shampoo, the water blanketing your head, peace penetrating your skull, tidying up the mess in your mind. Hushing out your thoughts now that your negative feelings long slinked away. You’re a new person. Clean, purified. And while you find it hard to believe, all you want to do is truly run to Yoongi.

You can’t let him venture back to that forlorn meadow, to the ghost of his isolation. You might have shown him the way, but you have the will to stop him—and that’s more than enough.

The healer that Jungkook is… he did it again. He dismantled your attachment and now he fixed your mind. You don’t know from what source he had rooted out the light, but he gave it to you. He gave it to you when you needed it the most, without knowing a thing about it.

Blindly, you hook a finger around his index in a gesture of thanks. You don’t want to look at his nakedness. Don’t want to be pulled into that energy again. It brings his attention to you and you want to weep. Differently now. You want to weep due to the fact he somehow, seemingly, knows because he cups himself. Due to the roundness of his eyes that you know, that still live under your skin—differently now, too. Due to the fact that you got to be acquainted with him, despite the ruckus and the pain it came with.

And you hope, in all truthfulness, that you remain something along the lines of friends after this day is over. How else would you have gotten to this healing?

You open your mouth to express your gratitude, but Jungkook speaks first. “Don’t look at my worm.”

The laughter that dribbles out of your mouth is so lightweight, so full of breezy and summer-breathed relief that the tears, which were held in, do break through the confinement and roll down the apples of your cheeks. Different, different tears.

Friends, yes, please. You beg the heavens. May they let him become your friend.

Jungkook scrunches his nose, squeezing your finger, relief, too, washing over him. “Don’t cry, I swear it’s not small like this all the time. It gets bi—”

“Get me a towel, you dummy,” you say, softly, amidst your sputtering laughter, wiping your tears away. Jungkook smiles, the change of the atmosphere illuminating him from beneath, and he slides the door open, letting the slight cold air in. You turn off the water, focusing your eyes on the last ripples of water draining your negative emotions until they slip, entirely, away.

Jungkook holds out a beige towel for you. Doesn’t wrap it around you; still respects your wish. Lets you take it from him and then he disappears into the bedroom, closing the door shut behind him.

You used the alone time to doll yourself up for Yoongi. At least a little bit—you didn’t want to overdo it, amongst other things that you already had.

Although you missed your favorite mango scent, the cherries didn’t seem so bad and you got accustomed to it fairly quickly as you swiped a tiny bit of your cream blush along your cheeks, where you’ve let your relieved tears dry. You smeared the same tint of soft red upon the puffiness of your lips, connecting it to the perfume, connecting it to the healing that sank lower and lower in your gut. And you sealed it into the entwistment of your braid—sealed it fully.

You won’t let it leave you. Not this time; not again.

By the time your feet pad down the wooden stairs, you discover what Yoongi was up to in his absence. Three plates of ramen are prepared on the dinner table, gone cold by now, along with utensils and opened cans of fizzy drinks. The sight lids your eyes with tears, but you stifle them, blink them away. You thought he wanted to forget you, when in reality he had you in mind the whole time. And not just you, but your culprit as well—and he cooked him food.

A sudden roar forces your head to whisk towards the balcony. And your heartbeat quickens. You don’t feel your legs as you speed outside.

Yoongi sits on top of the stairs, a cigarette in hand, torso twisted, facing Jungkook, whose shoulders sag in consternation, palms open towards him. He makes a move to his side, but Yoongi raises a limb to stop him. Looks at you for a moment. At your wet hair, at the same state of Jungkook’s. Your heart lodges in your throat—

“Get away from me,” Yoongi mutters, taking a long drag from his cigarette, and you don’t feel anything at all. Not your legs trembling, threatening to drop to the ground. Not the standstill of your bloodstream. You’re struck, unable to speak, to think. Yoongi rises to his feet and points his busy fingers at you. “Did you enjoy your shower?” he spits the venom in your face, ruining your makeup that you diligently put on for him—your tears flow, mingling with it, hot to the touch. “Did you enjoy fucking him?”

You gasp. “No, Yoongi, I didn’t—”

Yoongi’s own tears pool in his clouded eyes. You’ve never seen them before and they break you, tear apart the cloud in you. “You didn’t what, honey?” he croaks out. Repeats the question.

Your sobs ache, but you don’t care. You take a step towards him, reach out your hand like you should’ve done earlier before he left and he takes it. The light that spills out from your chest radiates him, radiates him enough that he gives you the chance to explain yourself, to redeem his heart and you’re willing to do anything for it. His palm is cold, more cold than it’s ever been and Yoongi squeezes you, as if to beg you to undo the gashes upon his heart. Jungkook looks at the intertwinement for a mere second and you refuse to note the sliver of pain whirling past his eyes. Not this time; not again—this is about you and Yoongi. And you’re glad when he leaves. You don’t watch him go.

“I didn’t have sex with him,” you whisper, the only way you could keep your voice still, your tears soaking the neckline of your lacy dress. You will your healing not to quiver, but to remain strong, remain unbreakable. “I swear on my life that I didn’t.”

The same drops of pain pour down his face and you can’t bear it. You bury your face into his clothed chest, bunching the material of his T-shirt in your fists, needing him to believe you, needing him—

“You took a shower with him,” he breathes in pure disbelief. You feel it palpitate in his heart that your forehead is pressed against. This time, you understand right away how wrong that was—that showers are something that belongs to you and him, your shared rose garden of some sort that they could become, even though you were too smothered by the darkness to realize it fully in the moment.

You halt the shame creeping in. The guilt, the wisps of darkness. You’ve healed, and it shall stay that way. No more.

“I took a shower alone.” The wind nips at you and it is like a slash of a whip on your back. “He came in—”

Yoongi sucks in a breath. Lets his cigarette fall to the floor of the veranda. With his lips pursed and like a bolt of lightning you can’t keep in your hands, he rips himself out of your hold and lopes inside the cabin with heavy, wrathful steps.

And you can’t stop it—the colliding of Yoongi’s fist on Jungkook’s cheekbone.

You yelp, grabbing a hold of the fabric of Yoongi’s T-shirt to pull him back, your sight blurred enough that you can’t see. You can’t see properly the way Yoongi doesn’t let Jungkook fall to the floor, but instead grabs him by the collar and fumes in his face. Your sobs choke you and you press yourself against his back, wrapping your arms around his torso, willing him to stop, begging him in your silent language.

You feel the heavy, long thuds of his heart, the trembling lift and fall of his chest and you squeeze him tighter, weeping into the cloth of his garment, emitting liquid fear—fear of Yoongi receiving the same hit, fear of the darkness, much bigger one, enveloping all three of you. And you don’t have the time to blame yourself for causing this. Yoongi’s words stop you dead in your tracks.

“You forced yourself on her?” he hisses, pushing him to and fro like the curtain billowing behind you. “Are you that fucking desperate for pussy that you forced yourself on my girl? Should I fucking kill you?”

A momentary stillness. Your breath is loud. Louder than the hard huffs of air escaping the mouths of the two males.

“Let go, hyung,” Jungkook croaks out, defeated. And you don’t know how the sound of it makes you feel. Perhaps, you’re feeling nothing, which is a good thing. You put your boyfriend first in your weak heart, his feelings, his well-being. Not Jungkook; not yourself. Even though your heart silently, painlessly cracks.

“I asked you a question.” Yoongi’s wrath rises, absorbing the room, despite the fact his voice is deadly calm. You squeeze him harder.

He did force himself into your personal space, but if he hadn’t, you wouldn’t have been healed. You wouldn’t be here, on your boyfriend’s side. And the thought of being the opposite force if he hadn’t done that, cradling his back instead of Yoongi’s terrifies you enough that you speak up—in need to fix the situation.

“He didn’t, Yoongi. I promise,” you whimper, burying your face deeper into the middle between his shoulder blades. And there you feel his spine shake. You caress his stomach to soothe him, peppering kisses along that strong column.

Yoongi punches him again. It reverberates throughout your whole body. You only hear the crash of Jungkook’s form onto the floor.

“Only over my dead body will you lay a finger on her again,” Yoongi hisses and he twists his wrist to alleviate himself of the affliction scattering along his knuckles. “And what you’ve done to her, the pain you’ve caused her is something I will never forgive you for.”

Stillness. Terrible, terrible stillness. The whip of the wind. A roar of an upcoming storm in the heavens far, far away. You don’t become it. You remain yourself. His girlfriend, defended.

Yoongi turns around and cradles your face in his hands. Wet, worried eyes, begging you for something that you can’t pinpoint. Shiny, sniffling nose, suppressing his emotions. Red, regretful mouth, breathing out exasperated breaths. Quivering chin—quaint in the rawness of his expressed love towards you. You yearn to kiss him, you yearn to take him home, so terribly remorseful that you got him into this gut-wrenching mess. And you listen to your body, fulfill the only right decision you’ve come across since meeting his friend.

“Let’s go home, baby,” you whisper, pecking him softly. Yoongi nods, wiping your tears away. Takes your hand and leads you towards the front door.

Jungkook, now standing on his wobbly feet, bruised and bloodied, merely watches the pair of you. Sorrowful. And as you walk away from him, you clutch in your heart what he’s done for you.

Yoongi hands you his car keys. “Wait in the car.”

You nod and you go. Don’t stick around to see the unfolding of the storm. Don’t say goodbye.

The rain pitter-patters on the roof of the car. You’re tired of it. You’re tired of the summer. Don’t find any beauty in it. Not even in the mountains and the trees.

Yoongi hasn’t come back yet.

Your stomach grumbles, but you don’t feel any hunger. You’ve nibbled on your bottom lip so much that rawness of blood is all that your teeth sink into. The same blood that, much like your darkened self-sabotage, trickled out of Jungkook’s nostril. It tastes bitter on your tongue.

A ruthless carousel of scenarios spin in your mind and you’re tightly buckled in the seat of fear with no way out. The fear that, in your absence, Yoongi’s hit got reciprocated. The fear that the same blood you taste could, possibly, be on your own hands.

You want to get away from here. Far, far away.

When Yoongi emerges from the cabin, a thunder announces it. The only blood you detect is the dried one on his knuckles. The rain didn’t get to clean it and once he places the same hand upon the shivering coldness of your thigh, a decision perks up in you. A decision to not let anyone get in the way of mending and cleansing anymore.

You shall be the one who does it now. Not the rain, not Jungkook. They’ve both done enough.

And when you lift that wounded hand to your lips, you wish you could clean it with your tears—but you fear the salt would only pain him more. So you settle for your sighs of relief, for your gentle kisses and for the light in you to do the work.

“No more tears, honey,” Yoongi murmurs, cupping your chin and pecking you. “It’s over now.”

You drift to sleep during the ride home.

And you sleep through the whole afternoon in an anguished effort to forget. Forget the blood, forget the sound of Jungkook’s body hitting the floor… forget yourself.

You didn’t dream about anything at all. Only the darkness consumed you, a lullaby of nothingness.

And when you awake, your feet groggily take you to Yoongi. They seem to know where he is, even when your eyelids are still half-closed, even when your brain still dozes. A canopy of dusky, darkening heavens, with hues of roses dispersed all around, gently fondles your eyes to rouse them fully and right here, on the balcony, much different to the one you spent your afternoon on—much smaller, much more confined—is where you find your boyfriend. An empty pack of cigarettes on the table, a cold purple lighter and a dark bottle of liquor.

His strained back greets you first. He doesn’t hear your steps; he doesn’t sense your presence and it isn’t until your fingertips touch his saddened spine that he turns around. Wrinkles of the same dejected nature, absolute despair wrung into the paleness of his face. You cradle it and you bolster it when he spills into your hands, when you feel the hotness of his tears. And you spill with him—the only thing left to do.

You will your light to swathe him. Press his head against your chest as you lead him to take a seat with you on his lap. And you keep your mouth tightly shut when the soreness of your muscles, the slight discomfort of the burn on your skin forces a whine out of you. You keep it caged in. Put your boyfriend first.

Sifting your fingers through his hair, you kiss his scalp—kiss his mind, even when you don’t know its contents. To ease it, whatever it was that caused him to break.

You sit like this until the moon springs from the clouds. You don’t look at it. Refuse to.

It’s Yoongi who speaks first, cold fingers sunk beneath your thighs, seeking your warmth.

“Tell me everything from the beginning,” he murmurs, weary eyes boring into yours. “I need to hear it from you.”

You’d give him anything he asked, anything he wished for; you’d pierce your heart if the time asked for it. And so you nod, place your hand on his chest, lie against his good shoulder and you begin to leak. Leak the simplest of words you’re able to find in your windswept mind.

“He put me in a trance when we were intimate. So much that I lost my mind, lost my surroundings, lost my sense of home.” You swallow, dryly, thinking that’s the best way you could explain it without deepening the gashes upon his heart. Decide you will not overdo it. “And when you left and I breathed in the fresh air, it was like I’d woken up from it. It hurt so much. I was worried about you, but I wasn’t ready to face you. Not when I had to deal with the repercussions.”

Yoongi squeezes the flesh of your thigh to comfort you, thumb fondling the skin back and forth, listening intently.

“I didn’t understand at first why you left. I was so out of it. But little pieces started to put it together in my mind as I was thinking about it. And then I saw Jungkook with his head in his hands and I knew I’d done something really, really bad. I wanted to run away, like you did, but I had no other place to go to other than the bathroom. And Jungkook…” you trail off, taking a deep breath, preparing yourself mentally for this part of the story—the thread that is linked to the bruises upon Yoongi’s knuckles. “I thought he wanted to comfort me, and maybe he did. I pushed him away but he relented. He was concerned because I—” A lump forms in your throat, your lashes quiver. “I made sure the water was boiling hot because I wanted to burn off—I wanted to punish myself for making you leave, for hurting you. And then he got in the shower and I didn’t say anything.”

You pause for a moment, thinking about how you’re supposed to mention the matter of the burn of your backside and his concern regarding it without wounding Yoongi.

“He—” Your throat constricts and Yoongi cradles your face in his palm, lifting your head so you can gaze into his eyes, draw strength from him. He nods, encouraging you to continue, while seemingly giving you as much time as you need. Tears the lump apart. “He was worried because the hot water was making the burn on my butt worse, but I—I didn’t feel it. I was crying so hard.”

His eyes search for something in yours and you know right away what it is. The answer to his question on whether he touched you. You wrap your arm around his neck. Glad it didn’t wound him. Enough that you overbrim with the desire to assuage his disquiet.

“He didn’t touch me,” you whisper, although it’s not entirely true. Cold sweat dribbles down your spine. “Not in the way you think. I told him to stop. He wanted to wash me. I told him no.”

He blinks, but you can’t read his solemn features. You see the memory of Jungkook gripping your waist and pushing you against the tiles, so you wouldn’t burn your skin, and you saying nothing displayed on them. It overwhelms you, but you fight it. What’s done is done.

The worst part of the story awaits you. You pluck it, ready to get it over with.

“All he did was rinse me off. And he told me about how it hurt him to see us like this because of him. I felt everything leaving me when I was listening to him. I don’t know how, but I did. He asked to wash my hair and I let him. I felt so relieved to be ridded of the guilt and the pain I felt that I started crying again. He made me laugh. And then he left me alone. I don’t know what would’ve happened to me if he hadn’t been there.”

Stillness, awfully quiet stillness—like the one at the cabin, but you do not fear it. An abrupt onrush of strength fills your bones, giving you the notion that whatever comes next is something you’ll be able to endure.

Yoongi drops his hand. You will your heart not to drop along with it.

“The lines have been blurred so much that I—” He averts his gaze. Towards the glimmering stars up above as if they could give him the strength he’s now void of. “I don’t know if it’s fair for me to feel the way I do, when—when I let him have you.”

You are able to endure it. A motherly stimulus creeps in, one that has the capacity for the mightiness of whatever it is that he’s feeling. You want to swallow it down. You desire to.

“What do you feel, baby?” you whisper, nudging your nose against his, an Eskimo kiss to relieve him, to help him. “Tell me.”

Yoongi narrows his eyes in regret. “It should’ve been me,” he breathes. You nod, agreeing with him, even though you’ve accepted that fate wrote it was meant to be Jungkook. Perhaps for that very reason, he was inscribed to be pulled into that whole situation to begin with, no matter how lewd it was. “And it should’ve been me under that—”

He doesn’t let himself finish his sentence, but you know what he wanted to say. It brings tears to your eyes, the fact that he hated what you had done to yourself and instead wished it was him—to whom the harm was done.

You let them pour out. You don’t want them smothering you. You want everything out, so you can move on—so both of you can.

“It’s okay,” you whisper. Another Eskimo kiss, a longer one this time. Yoongi sniffles against you and you want to pull out more from him, to rid him completely of those negative feelings. “Like you said, it’s over now.”

Yoongi nods, vulnerably, and you peck him on the mouth. And he’s unable to reciprocate the kiss, for his features twist in another rush of liquid emotions. You stroke the back of his hair, running your fingers down its length, urging softly more out.

“I don’t regret anything,” you continue, pressing your cheek against his tears, letting them seep into your skin. “Even though it hurt, I don’t regret it, Yoongi. Neither should you.”

He sobs and it reverberates through your body. You remain strong. Strong like the mountains. “I hurt him.”

The breath you inhale is knifing you sharply. “He loves you—”

“And I hurt him,” he cuts in, squeezing you against him, needing you. “I didn’t trust a word he said. I didn’t—” he heaves, unable to catch his breath, hiccups. “Because I thought he hurt you, I didn’t hear him out. I didn’t know he helped you.”

“What did he tell you?”

“He told me he didn’t force himself on you, but I didn’t believe him. I gave him so much shit for it, for spanking you. And then he begged me to hit him again.”

The healer deemed it would make Yoongi feel better. Your heart warps.

“Did you?”

“No.”

You kiss his temple and you don’t realize that it’s a silent thanks until you lift your lips, however you’re not thrown off balance. It should be like this. You should feel for both men. You should feel. It makes you a living, breathing human. And Yoongi’s reactions and emotions make him human, too, even if they seem wrong in the moment. It’s not something to hate him or judge him for—it’s something to love him for. He should feel safe. Deserves to.

It’s better than to feel nothing.

And you tell him. A thousand times until he nods, sloshing your words in his mouth before carefully swallowing them, accepting them.

“It’s not a lost cause. You can talk to him. And you can try again.”

Yoongi looks at you as he takes in what you’ve said, as if the concept never crossed his mind—or, if it did, it perhaps seemed too unrealistic to make happen. As if he was doomed for life. As if he lost him forever.

Love is never lost. And you tell him that as well.

Yoongi lights up from within. You wipe away his tears. Brush his hair away from his face. And you give him every last drop of your light, hugging him. And he hugs you back until birds begin to sing in the sky.

It took several weeks for Yoongi to gather courage to call Jungkook. Liquor bottles piled in a row on the balcony and you didn’t count them anymore, you just joined your boyfriend, who had become a frail skeleton, whenever his nerves asked for the burning liquid. Either you would keep him company or you’d bring your own shot glass. And each time, it would end with a subdued, murky therapy session, without the fucking.

Yoongi hasn’t touched you since the afternoon spent in the cabin.

He wasn’t in the mood and you stifled yours. Your body was so accustomed to the daily release of pleasure that because it didn’t have it now all of a sudden, it felt weird—it felt out of place, and you drowned it out with alcohol and smokes, drowned it out with shopping sprees until money ran out and stashes became empty. So you had to settle for your own hand.

And it was easy. You daydreamed about Jungkook. Felt the ghost of his fingers on every sensitive place your hand roamed. On your breast, on your thigh and on your clit, in your entrance. You replayed everything he’d done to you and it didn’t hurt; you didn’t feel shame. You’ve healed to the point that it drenched you, aroused you enough to coax your orgasm out in mere minutes.

And it didn’t feel shameful because Yoongi had told you the reason why he fled the scene.

“You were in pain and I couldn’t stand it. You wouldn’t look at me and if you did, you’d look away as if I had no role in the sex. He took control when it should’ve been me. And I didn’t do anything to stop it.”

It wasn’t about you being so preoccupied in the trance. It was about Jungkook taking charge as if you were his. Which was what led Yoongi to think he forced himself on you in the shower. It was about him being silent and not speaking up, prioritizing your pleasure.

It made sense to you, but you still apologized. For what, you didn’t know. Just felt the need to. And Yoongi made you feel so safe, as safe as you had made him feel that night on the balcony, that you couldn’t help but yap about how enjoyable it was for you—what Jungkook did to you. And Yoongi agreed.

You were content that you’ve moved past the hurt and focused on the real truth beneath, revealing it: you both had enjoyed it when you were pleasured.

You didn’t check if the conversation made him hard, for you ran into your bedroom to relieve yourself of the ache between your legs as fast as possible. But he found you. Watched you. Validated you. Validated your daydreams. Told you what to do as he smoked a cigarette, standing in between your outstretched legs before the bed, the summer wind cooling the sweat on your body. And then he told you to do it again.

And again.

Until he couldn’t pull out any more orgasms out of you.

He became obsessed with it.

Because the next day and the many after that, you did the same thing. He would watch you while you fingered yourself. He’d tell you what he’s doing to you in your daydreams, taking charge of them, what Jungkook is doing to you. Other times he’d jerk off and come all over your tummy and cunt. Still remain hard; still remain needy. He wouldn’t fuck you. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t even insulate it. Wouldn’t slip it inside the dreams. And once his desire would run out of its sweet wine, yours simply wouldn’t. And the more you both indulged in this act, you figured out two things.

One, Yoongi used it as a coping mechanism. As a healing tool to recuperate from the afternoon spent in the cabin, one that would ultimately help him have sex with you in the long run. Two, you were riding the waves of ideas and excitement with no real fulfillment, with no release.

Tasting the picture of the sin at first might have been enough—but the more you did it, the more you wanted to sink your teeth into the real thing.

You wanted Jungkook again.

And like the intelligent man Yoongi is, he figured it out, too.

A certain number of orgasms was an indication of an ending to this playful time. And the last time you did this, Yoongi—at this number—was ready to withdraw and jump into the shower, but you grabbed his arm and pulled him back. Hungry, starved, devouring his neck, grinding your still wet pussy against his softening cock.

He put two and two together. Immediately.

“You’re hungry for what I haven’t given you yet, aren’t you?”

You begged for it, moaning against his artery, reveling in the feeling of his cock against you after such a long time. And when you looked at him, you saw drunkenness seizing his features. Drunkenness without the consumption of alcohol. And you felt the same inebriation enclosing around yours, knowing your desire sparked this inside of him. It felt different. Way, way different.

“Think about how you want it. Make yourself come as many times as you want. And when I come back from the shower, tell me about it. We’ll figure it out; we’ll make it work.”

It grazed your hunger. Squeezed it in such a playful way. Like a human hand squeezing an animal because of the cute-aggression it feels towards it.

You didn’t know how many times you came. You were too lost in the story you constructed, soaking the bed sheets even more than you already had. Your fingers had turned wrinkly by the time you opened your eyes, finished with the plot, to see Yoongi leaning against the doorway to the bedroom, not having the heart to disturb you in your passion.

And while you showered, playing the story in your head over and over, Yoongi cooked you food. Poured you liquid courage. Waited for you at the table, dressed only in a pair of joggers. Chain-smoked, the rule of only smoking on the balcony long forgotten during his process of healing.

When you sat down to eat, you slid your feet across his lap. Lifted your camisole, let him see your bare cunt the way he liked it that one time; the scent of your mango body butter wafting in the air, the sultriness of an August evening carrying that eccentricness right into his senses, readying him for what you were about to tell him.

And you began, casually, with every bite of the delicious food he made you. You got ahead of yourself, though, dumb by the intensity of adrenaline and arousal coursing in your veins. “I want you to dictate every move. And it’s up to you if you let him fuck me or not. My first idea from the start was—”

“I want you to tell me your full fantasy. What you touched yourself to. From the beginning ‘til the end.”

You fixed your mistake quickly.

“I dreamed about him watching us. You gave him rules. No touching. Hands on the armchair I wanted him to sit in. No talking. Then, I began with you letting him see what we’ve been doing. Loudly, vulgarly. Me playing with my pussy while you jerked off until you came all over me. Then you ate me out and wouldn’t stop until I begged you to fuck me. From behind. While you stretched my ass with a butt plug.”

“Did I talk? Like I do normally?”

“Yes. He heard it all. Every word you used. And I wanted you to do it to make him needy. Needy enough to beg you to let him fuck me.”

Yoongi only cursed. And you felt him hardening again under the soles of your feet. You caressed his ache with your toes.

“He thought the butt plug was used to stretch me for him, but it was for my pleasure, for decoration. You only let him pump your cum deeper into me. You didn’t let him come. And you held me from behind. Held me open for him in the air. And then he begged you for mercy. You gave in. Dropped me to the floor. And he fucked me ruthlessly, keeping me still on the floor with his thighs around me. He wasn’t able to last long. Begged you to let him come in me and you did. And then… then he ate me out. And so did you. At the same time. And I came so hard that I squirted. Then we took a shower. All three of us.”

“Did anything happen in the shower?” Quick, hard breaths, as if he was on the verge of an orgasm from your footjob.

And he proved to you, with a groan, that he was when you finished your story and his joggers dampened. “No, you both just held me. And we kissed like crazy.”

And it was this release of cum that drove him to make that phone call.

When Jungkook picks up on the first ring, Yoongi grabs his keys, blows you an air kiss and leaves. The joy that thrums in your heart is unlike any you’ve ever felt. You know where he’s gone. You know it fully well.

And in the meantime, you doll yourself up.

Hours later, he returns. With a grin blossomed on his face, one you haven’t seen since the day at the cabin, and a pink bag in his hand, one he hands you as soon as he takes off his shoes.

Inside you find the butt plug you dreamed of. Silver with a purple faux diamond in the middle. Fairly small, just the kind you’re certain you will be able to take. With a freebie of a much smaller packet of lube. To be safe playing out the fantasy.

Yoongi kisses you so hard when you look up at him that he steals all of your breath, ridding you of your chance to thank him.

“He’s coming over later.”

You kiss him, equally hard. Happy that he’s happy, happy to see movement in his healing journey. You give him tiny kisses, a hundred of them, and he breathes a laugh into your mouth, his joy filling you with energy and exhilaration. Finally, finally, finally—you’ve missed this emotion of his. Glad for the sadness, for the murkiness to be gone.

And you pray nothing gets in the way.

When Jungkook announces his arrival by knocking on the door, the sight you’re met with is quite uncanny. Though your heart isn’t stirred by it, bouncing in your chest like a small child seeing its father after a long, long time.

It’s been almost a month and he’s become older since the last time you saw him. His hair, grown longer and thicker, curls at his temples, ears and the nape of his neck. Round eyes have stayed the same, as well as the glint, and there’s a hint of the same joy that you’ve found in Yoongi, whirling in circles past it. Nose void of any blood, cheekbone healed from bruises. His demeanor is careful as if he had been punished enough by the fight and the silent treatment that followed it, taking off his shoes and his zipper hoodie, revealing a much bigger broadness of shoulders and arms, exposed in a tight fit of a black tank.

While Yoongi drowned his sorrow in alcohol and smokes and then came across his relief, his air in a sexual fantasy with his friend involved, he—the said friend—clearly found his coping mechanism in the gym.

He’s huge. As if he hadn’t already been from the military.

You lick your lips at him, and it’s such a natural reaction that you don’t even think about what you’ve done until you perceive that he doesn’t look at you at all. And it turns you on. It turns you on that he’s holding himself back from you. You know what hides beneath, what comes out when he lets go of his good boy persona.

Glancing at Yoongi, he’s already smirking at you with a playful gaze. Affected by his ignoring of you just the same. The shared connection thickens the energy around, but Jungkook breaks it.

He breaks it once he lifts his head, hangs his hoodie on the back of a chair and envelops you in a hug. Defaces your evident tendency to view him as an object, scribbles it in slashes until the ink runs out. All by a few strokes of his hand down your hair, down your back clothed in a new silky robe.

And when he withdraws from the hug, you see the healer that helped you become the person Yoongi needed on his journey.

His somber eyes skim over the long length of your nighttime attire, as if lamenting over the fact it’s not the red one. Over its dusty-pink color that parts the fabric to reveal your smooth leg and your toes. And then he’s gone, pulling your boyfriend in the same hug that lasts a bit longer, uttering silent words that should’ve been said that afternoon at the cabin with each increase of squeezes and pats within the hold.

You know they’ve said what they needed to hear during the phone call to mend what’s been broken. You feel a certain proudness of Yoongi for managing so well, for being at this very part of the journey. It’s praiseworthy.

“You hungry?”

Jungkook looks at you at last, imaginary puppy ears perking up at your question. And his eyes soften, wet with emotion from the reunion. He rubs his belly. “Starving.”

You shuffle your feet to make your way into the kitchen, but Yoongi beats you to it. Wave a hand towards the table, inviting him to sit and, out of habit, you pour some liquid courage into a shot glass for him from the bottle you keep there instead of a vase filled with flowers.

He merely glances at it. Doesn’t drink it.

“How have you been?” you ask, screwing the lid back on, not being able to take your eyes off of him—your entire history faintly blanketing your sight.

And he deepens the eye contact.

“How do you like your butt plug?”

Taken aback, you laugh, the atmosphere so airy all of a sudden that your cheeks flush and your lungs heave with affability. This is the friendship you had begged the heavens for. Without strings, without pain. Light-natured friendship, with flirtation in the middle. You find it hard to believe you have it. Find it hard to believe he’s here.

Find it hard to believe that when you had told Yoongi he could try again, he took your words and created this, embedding it into your fate.

“It’s pretty,” you say, grinning so wide your cheeks hurt. Jungkook smiles, fondly, fingers wrapping around the shot. You’re reminded, momentarily, of the way he teased you with the foot of his wine glass on your first dinner date.

As if thinking about that night, too, his other fingers sneak to your bare knee, tapping it once. “We picked it for you.”

You nod in feigned, exaggerated gratitude, even though you mean it, even though the thought of them choosing a sex toy for you makes you burst into flames from within. “Thank you, Oppa. Thank you so much. I will use it well.” And you bow to him with each word in your seat next to him.

Jungkook laughs and it’s such a sweet sound that you feel unfamiliar flowers growing in you, laughing along with him. He lays his palm flat on the entirety of your knee. Heavy, strong, warm. Then, he widens his eyes, as if he only now realized what you’ve called him. “You’re younger than me?”

You’ve guessed he was older than you. “I was born in 1999. I take it you’re around the same age as Yoongi?”

Not the same, entirely. You recall him calling Yoongi ‘hyung’. He must be a year or a few years younger.

That tenderness you know flashes in his face. “I was born in 1997. Yoongi is older than me.”

Your mouth opens in the shape of ‘O’. Jungkook’s eyes flick to it before he averts them, slapping the side of your thigh gently, sighing as if he held his breath the entire time. Only then does he down the shot you poured him, keeping his hand there.

Such a blessing, the simple act of getting to know him.

He slouches in his seat and you ask him again. “How have you been?”

Smacking his mouth, he roams his gaze along the perimeters of the dinner table. And you realize he’s avoiding the question. Avoided it the first time you launched it at him, too.

You fold your fingers under his palm on your knee, signaling your understanding and sympathy. Don’t want to think about the healing journey he had to walk through by himself. He’s reached the end and that’s the most important thing as of now. You caress his reddened, tattooed knuckles, smeared with flecks of violet and yellow—much like your bum that one afternoon—with your thumb, wondering how that tinge came to live there. “What happened to your hand?”

Jungkook contemplates your study of his hand, stoically, still as ever. Then, his mouth rounds, barely, in a tiny suggestion of sadness. Your heart catches it before it disappears, making it hers. In such a swift moment that you don’t realize what you’ve done.

“Boxing,” he murmurs, eyeing the way your hand is enclosed around his large palm, the way your thumb hovers over his knuckles, as if afraid to cause them any more pain. Seems touched by it and your brows knit, your heart speaking to you, telling you something, urgently, but you don’t understand her.

“You don’t wear boxing gloves?”

Jungkook shakes his head ‘no’. “Didn’t want to.”

And then it hits you—the language of your heart unfolding within you, deciphered at last. It hits you how you and him are very much alike.

This is his coping mechanism. Hurting his hand as he lets out his negative emotions. Knowing, just like you, that the pain is the gain, the relief. And by the state of the bruises, you were wrong. He’s not at the end of his healing journey—and he’s nowhere near the beginning. He traipses around it, steering clear of it, ignoring it.

Your lungs swell. And that motherly impulse you’re familiar with croons around them, extends towards him with the dutiful intention to heal.

And you will.

You will heal both of the males.

And the decision is strengthened even more in you when Jungkook hears Yoongi’s footsteps and startles, extracting his hand from your hold, from your thigh. Like he startled upon hearing your movement back then, scurrying towards your bag as if you were intending to leave him, abandon him.

It is your heart that weeps now for him, not your eyes, remembering the words Yoongi uttered over his bruised cheek and bloody nose. Only over my dead body will you lay a finger on her again. You try your hardest to remain strong on the outside. For him, for Yoongi, for yourself. You try your hardest to forget that declaration, that physical pain of his, considering it over—long gone, a lifetime away.

And when your boyfriend sets the full plates of food in front of him and he digs in wordlessly, you watch him. With a landslide in your insides. With a hand on his muscled arm, stroking back and forth, eyes flicked momentarily to Yoongi, willing him to see how broken his friend is.

But Yoongi can’t bear to see it.

He settles for a drink instead, fixing his gaze on the table. Takes a step back on his journey, his nerves pursuing him. And so he’s not alone, because it is your duty, you follow him into that rabbit hole like the Alice you are. With empty hands, void of any control, despite the onus you own in your heart.

By the time sex is even mentioned between the three of you, you’re tipsy and your head is swimming.

You’re conscious, aware of your body, aware of your surroundings and your home. Aware that you’re intoxicated, too, and it’s a peculiar feeling—to be present in your body and out of it just the same. And you owe it to the males sitting around the table. To the owner of the house, mainly.

Yoongi has taken such a dominant role naturally that he’s the reason why your head is taking laps in his energy. And it was him who put the topic of sex to the front after double meanings found their way into the gradually unfurling conversation, imbued with exuberance. Asked Jungkook straight away if he’d been sexually active with people after you, to which he merely shook his head ‘no’, too vulnerable to express it in his own words. You don’t think Yoongi even realized the gravity of the question, influenced by the alcohol, the lighthearted energy and the fact that he got his friend back. And Yoongi… he praised him for it, making his head lift in disbelief and coyness. You saw the way it healed him, brought color to his face— it happened so quickly, too quickly, Yoongi turning the leaf over right after, seamlessly leading the conversation back to the double meanings, working them up until you and Jungkook blushed.

But you didn’t listen entirely, and neither did Jungkook. You surveyed the way he turned the praise over in his mind, dwelling on it. And you knew, without a doubt, that, besides healing him—undoing the ugly words flung at him that day, it turned him on. He played with his bracelet in the air, a faint smile on his mouth, legs outstretched, touching yours, and you… you wanted to play with him, too. Your body begged you for it, telling you it’s time.

In fact, you knew very well what the little bit of alcohol Yoongi drank was doing to him. Much like Jungkook, it helped him avoid the matter of his friend’s sensitive burden at hand while collecting information. Especially about where he stands in the realm of the three of you and sex. And while you’ve let him do it, thinking it was something he needed to do on his journey, you've also been deciding for the last half an hour when it was time to put a stop to it. The sexual comments, the double meanings—it became too much, became too obvious, even though he, in most probability, wasn’t even aware of it, was doing it for you unconsciously. And your body agreed, whispering to you that the only way you could do that was to take advantage of what was right before you.

You were going to outrun your boyfriend and seduce them both.

You light up a cigarette, bringing Yoongi’s attention to you. You graze your foot on his shin as you cross your legs, lifting it higher until you reach his thigh. And when you take a long drag, you skim your hand on Jungkook’s knee, briefly—calling for his attention, too, preparing him. Your toe feels up Yoongi’s soft manhood and he stops talking, your hand trailing along the side of Jungkook’s thigh, inches away from his intimate parts. They let you touch them, both heads turned in your direction.

Stillness, arousing stillness. You smile, innocently.

Before Yoongi has the chance to scold you for interrupting him, you withdraw. You withdraw entirely. Pretend to take your cigarette to the balcony. Jungkook lifts his hand to grab yours, to put it back where it was, but you’re gone before you could take him up on it.

You feel both of them watching you as you leave. You sway your hips a little. It makes you chuckle. Makes you feel invincible.

You stay there but for a mere moment. Don’t even finish your cigarette before you put it out in the ashtray. And when you return, you undo the knot while they are preoccupied, unaware of you. Uncover the outfit you spent your money on while Yoongi healed.

A sheer, black crop top, with polka dots and puffed sleeves, that ties in the middle, ending beneath your breasts and adding nothing to the imagination. Could be mistaken for a wireless bra. Panties of the same tulle material with frills on the side. You leave your robe undone, the act of revealing yourself so casually stiffening your nipples. You consider taking a seat as if you did no such thing, but an idea pulls you to your boyfriend, who’s ignorant to your scheme, listening to something that Jungkook is telling him.

You don’t grasp any of the words coming out of his mouth, however you do focus on the deep intonation of his voice. Let it curl beneath your skin; propel you to act out on your whim.

You take a seat on Yoongi’s lap. Jungkook’s gaze falls on your intimate form, bare under the almost translucent fabric, and he parts his lips. He watches as Yoongi wraps an arm around your middle and smiles at the feeling of your bare skin. You rock your hips once, backwards, pretending you’re shifting to make yourself comfortable and Yoongi grips your waist until his fingers turn white. Jungkook doesn’t stop talking, hides his astonishment at your behavior, at your boldness. Doesn’t stop looking at you and neither do you at him, nodding to every other word as if you were listening. That is until you grab a handful of cheese balls and pop one by one into your mouth, purposefully letting one of them fall into your cleavage.

“Can you get it for me? My hands are full.”

You have a perfectly free hand by your side.

You’ve interrupted him so rudely that you’re surprised that he doesn’t frown at you, but smirks instead. Yoongi caresses your thigh, validating you, catching onto your scheme, and it spreads the fire that burst in you hours ago, making it bigger, hotter.

It’s time. You want both of them, badly.

You lean forward for him, fingers ready for the next move you’re planning. Jungkook lifts a hand, reaches for the orange treat in the middle of your breasts and before his digits have the time to grasp it, you pull on the loose knot on your top, your flesh spilling, the treat slipping onto the floor.

He only chuckles, deeply. Teased, but pleased.

“Oh, no.” Fake pity; fake pout. You look at the cheese ball, then back at Jungkook. Your impishness reflects in the blazing fire of his eyes, the same one that courses through your body. “I guess I didn’t tie it properly. Can you do it for me? My hand is dirty.”

You eat the last remaining cheese balls while staring him dead in the eye. Show him your orange-tinted fingers once you’re done. A spark flashes in the fire; piques his interest.

Leaning forward even more, Yoongi uses your position to slide your robe down your shoulders. Lifts you for a second to rid you completely of it, setting you back down sharply, causing your breasts to bounce. Throws it on Jungkook’s lap. A gesture that tells him playtime has begun. He sucks in a breath, biting his bottom lip, the way Yoongi gathers your hair in his fist stealing his attention fleetingly from you, fingers clutching the fabric.

And when he takes the swinging laces in his hands and barely tightens them, you click your tongue, disapprovingly. “Tighter.”

It arouses the beast in him, eyes lidding ever so slightly. He pulls on the laces until your breasts are squished together. “Like this?”

You wet your lips before you quirk them up. “Yes. Make a bow for me.”

Jungkook deepens the eye contact as he obeys. You lift your chin, asserting Yoongi’s dominance, taking after him, the inkling to own that beast in him absorbing you whole.

And you shall.

When he’s finished with the bow, he grazes the material of your top, fingers flat against your nipples before he slouches back in his chair. The touch was too brief for your liking, yet it spurs your cunt to soak your panties, the notion that you’ve done it intoxicating your senses—you’ve seduced him.

You mimic what he did, theatrically—you slouch back into Yoongi’s chest, turn your chin to the side to tell on him. “Yoongi, he touched me.”

Yoongi only smirks, playing along. “Did he? How? Show me.”

Your fingers fly to your pebbled nipples, stroking them in downward motion like he did before you repeat it. Again and again. Your hips begin to slowly rotate, your body reacting to your touch, to the pleasure you’re giving it. “Like this.”

Jungkook’s breath hitches in his throat. He spreads his legs. You do, too. And when you whimper, he twitches, your robe slipping onto the ground, joining the cheese ball.

“Did it feel good? When he touched you there?” Yoongi asks, hands spreading across your thighs. You make a noise of agreement, whining into it. “Does it feel as good now?”

You shake your head ‘no’, meaning it. “No, it makes me needy.”

Yoongi hums. “Where?”

You cup the soaked material of your panties, right over your cunt with one hand, while the other squeezes your breast. “Here.”

Your boyfriend opens your legs wider, as if to take a closer look at what body part you’re showing him. “You should do something about that, shouldn’t you?”

“Like what?”

“Touch yourself.”

Jungkook stills. Doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t blink. Neither do you.

“How?”

“I don’t know, maybe I should ask him,” he mumbles, fingers playing with the frills on your hips. “Do you want me to ask him?”

The asking of consent, beckoning out your slick. You nod your head. “Ask him, please, I can’t take it anymore.”

Jungkook’s mouth is parted in an enigmatic manner, waiting—waiting to be given what your boyfriend long teased him with. And you like the suspense, the tension pulled so taut, the process before he’s gratified. It makes you even needier and, like Jungkook, you clutch the fabric of your panties in impatience.

Yoongi doesn’t ask right away. He tortures Jungkook until his lips lose their moisture. Dry, like a withered flower asking for the tiniest raindrop to refresh. And you want to give it to him. You’re leaking so much dewiness it is only right that he could get to drink it. You tuck that thought into your heart.

Yoongi hooks his thumbs under the waistband of your panties and slowly, like your robe, drags them down as far as he can reach. Then, he lets them pool by your knees. “Take them off of her,” he commands in a hushed tone, fingers drifting to your waist, stopping by your mound and your stomach on the way. And it isn’t until Jungkook rids you fully of the wet undergarment that he finally asks: “How should she touch herself?”

Jungkook crumples it in his fist, tightly enough that white comes into view across his colorful knuckles upon the denim of his jeans. And among other things, his breath hardens. Gazes into your eyes as he says to Yoongi, “Tell her to lift her legs, lick her fingers and rub her princess parts until it feels good.”

He’s tuned in into the role-play. You think about how you wanted to turn off your brain for him when he had told you to not think that he’d ever get sick of you. How you wanted to keep it stupid for him.

You know that if you were to do that, if you were to let go—that he’d put you under his spell again, but you’re not letting that cave in on you. Because when Yoongi imparts the instructions to you and you lift your leg, propping your foot on Jungkook’s thigh, saliva-coated fingers finding your clit, you feel a sliver of something indescribably exhilarating.

Jungkook moans at the first few careful circles. And it’s him who becomes hypnotized.

It’s your green light to play the role of a stupid, innocent girl—in the hands of two very experienced, aroused men. Seduced, more like. You pat yourself on the back, mentally.

And the proud feeling of your achievement, the feeling of his vigorous and ardent observance of your pleasured cunt, of the tendril of the profound reminiscence that sweeps in as if he truly missed the sight of her—it all incites you to speed up your movement. To consciously immerse yourself deeper in the role, in the pretending. You figure it should work like this; you won’t get submerged in the water of the hypnosis if you remain in control, clinging to it with all your might. Not if Jungkook is the one spellbound this time.

You feel your orgasm drawing closer at that thought, breathing against your body.

“Am I doing it right?”

Jungkook sneaks a hand around your ankle, hard breaths puffing out of his still parted mouth, cheeks full of vibrant color, eyes dazed—so awfully dazed and fixed on your cunt, on the sheen of your arousal splattered on your folds. Then, he licks his lips, slouches further in his seat after he moves his chair to be more in line with you. Horny, curious puppy, needing to see the full view; your work of art. Yoongi’s soft chuckle rumbles against your scalp and you realize he’s been watching him this entire time, studying him—assessing the situation meticulously.

“Is she doing it right?” Yoongi asks and you can hear the smirk coating his voice. Jungkook’s other hand, with the panties still clutched, wraps around his hard length, brows furrowing and you whine at the sight, but Yoongi tuts, disapproving. “No touching.”

Jungkook lifts his hand and so do you—to stall your orgasm, the principle of Jungkook obeying so easily almost throwing you over the edge. You breathe heavily, a tingly sensation swarming within your skin, a certain string of words rising on your tongue.

You turn your head towards Yoongi. Dart out your tongue to lick swiftly at his bottom lip before you kiss him. Yoongi hums, pleased. “Tell him he’s a good boy.”

Another similar sound, one that makes you smile. You drift a hand towards the back of his head, fingers sinking into the dark length of his hair. Yoongi purrs, blinking down at you like rose petals fluttering—you feel as though you were at the very beginning, living through the moment you learned Jungkook’s name, as if no pain, no murkiness never settled upon the three of you. You don’t know how it makes you feel and you hardly want to decipher it; you gravitate towards enjoying yourself more, thoughts and feelings pushed to the side.

“He is, isn’t he?” Yoongi murmurs, taking your arm gently in his hand and joining it to your other one around the back of his head, then he roams his back, takes his time, until he plants it upon your cunt. You spasm at the long-awaited contact. “He listens well. So out of it, the poor thing forgot to speak. Maybe we should help him with that, don’t you think?” Poor thing. Your hole clenches, drooling with your dewiness and you groan, the aspect of Jungkook being degraded like this, after he dominated both of you the last time, making you utterly, utterly feral.

At your noise, Yoongi begins to play with your slippery folds, pressing them together with his fingers flat on each side—not touching your pussy, but pleasuring her nonetheless. You give him more at each squeeze he bestows on your clit, elated that he’s touching her after such a long time, elated that he’s able to.

It is, undeniably, working like this. Your heart thrums with elation. Happy it has come to this, happy it’s different this time—happy that both parties are happy.

Not wishing to lose the momentum, you gaze at Jungkook. At the light cascading dimly from his lip ring—that pink, puffy, dry mouth that you long to kiss, that you long to feel on your bundle of nerves. His eyes seem to grow in size at your attention and you’re so touched to witness something like that. You need to ride his face; you need to watch those eyes roll back. You can see his need to take charge, to tell both of you what to do by his irregular breaths, clenched fists and bulging muscles, veins so prominent that you do well not staring at them at all—but he subdues that need, perhaps for you, perhaps for Yoongi. Both possibilities graze your feelings with such fondness that he’s putting himself last, prioritizing the hard truth: you’re not his, not in the sexual ambiance of your time spent together, not even in the lasciviousness of your daydreams.

You’re Yoongi’s and he’s the boss, one he should’ve been since the beginning. And that’s the core of the difference. The key that makes this work.

Covering your mouth, you spill your idea of how you should help Jungkook speak into Yoongi’s ear while keeping your eyes on his round ones. He aches to be let in on it, to know, but you don’t allow him that satisfaction. In fact, when you beam at Yoongi once you withdraw, it’s more of a provocation directed towards the puppy than an expression of your true joy.

“Yes, fuck yes,” Yoongi agrees, orbs aglow by the idea, by something that you can only pin down to a feeling of safety within the environment. He feels safe. Feels comfortable. Feels okay—more than okay by the hardening length against your bum, by the moonbeams flecking across his irises, by the extension of his index finger to your clit, which makes you freeze, stop breathing altogether. “But I want to make you come first. Can I?”

You peck him, deeply, to seal that package of positive feelings in him, to seal that sense of safety and comfort. Nod a million times. “Yes, please, baby. I need it.”

Yoongi coos at the pet name, at your willing submissiveness to him and expression of neediness. Nudges his nose against yours. “Need what?”

You giggle softly. Happy, so awfully happy. “I need you to make me come,” you say, but your words are muffled by the way he skims his mouth over yours, and you don’t think over the next words directed to the other male that tumble out of you. “You want to watch?”

A stupid, stupid question because he’s been watching this entire time, although it breaks something. Breaks the invisible wall between you, Yoongi and him—breaks his coyness as he sets your foot down and leans forward, smiling fondly. “I’d be happy to watch. Honored.”

It breaks the unspoken, unseen tension. Breaks the past. Breaks the hurt. And the difference, now validated, made beautiful by his smile, sinks in, spreads across the atmosphere surrounded by the three of you. The sense of safety and comfort now sails over into Jungkook’s pores, slipping inside. And you could burst now. Burst with your joy.

The afternoon spent in the cabin dissolves.

You didn’t expect that to happen.

Yoongi feels it—and you feel him feel it by the trembling breaths he takes against your back. And even though you went into the rabbit hole with him with empty hands, now you hold healing in them. A warm round body of light, heavy and thick, ready for them both. Yoongi might have talked Jungkook’s head off and drank until his nerves eased and was able to escape them, but now he’s eligible to take the light. Jungkook is, too, now that he’s given you his consent for the dynamic to be different. A certain kind of glorious satisfaction envelops you in glow, ridding you of any intoxication and you’re bare. Vulnerable, horny and so tremendously bright. Filled with flowers, filled with love, filled with a delicious, selfish taste of control.

You want to kiss Jungkook, but you recognize right away that there’s a time and a place for that, one that is not appropriate now. You stifle your craving, wiggle your hips to let Yoongi know you want him to begin.

You brim with the need to forget now and just enjoy yourself, enjoy yourself at the hands of your long-awaited desire, now boundless, now right, now different. And you break the crumbles of the wall, the hurt and the past when you tell them. “I want us to forget about the last time and enjoy where we are right now. Can we do that?”

Although you don’t know the contents of the long conversation they had in private about this, you’re glad you’ve said it out loud. Glad it’s out of your chest. Glad for the kiss Yoongi plants on your temple. Glad for Jungkook’s hand encasing yours. Even if that’s the only way they communicate their agreement.

Out with the old, in with the new.

And Jungkook keeps holding your hand when Yoongi begins to rub your clit. He tightens his hold, in fact, at the first twist of your features, at the relief intermingling, despite the fact he knows nothing about how this is the first time Yoongi touched you like this since forever ago. His hand feels much more different than yours, much more nimble and much quicker. And the pleasure that floods your body is more about that than it is about the stimulation. A wish pricks at you, a wish to tell him, but you don’t let it get near you, not when you know the time for that is long, long gone, not when forgetting is supposed to take place now because the new is here.

You push those thoughts entirely away. The thoughts of there being a certain forever ago, a certain past along with it, too.

And then Yoongi hums and the sound sweeps it far, far away from you.

He pinches your nipple. Finds it’s not enough and forces your top open, undoing the bow, baring you to his and Jungkook’s eyes. Joins his other hand to knead both of your full breasts, but you whine, needing him elsewhere. Yoongi chuckles, listening to you—drifting his hand immediately back down to your clit, resuming his swift circles.

Jungkook salivates. Makes no indication of being in demand of participation. Merely wipes at the corners of his mouth while his other hand squeezes yours in a tight, clammy hold. Light protrudes from his eyes, akin to the one you still own, cooling the sweat layering upon your body. No darkness of arousal, none whatsoever, only the chocolate brown of his irises, vibrant, mesmerized and absolutely affectionate.

Newness, you breathe it in and exhale a moan. Yoongi changes direction. Moves from circles to side to side, angling your body so he can give it his all. You feel the incoming pressure of your orgasm and you ready yourself for it, squeezing your eyes shut. And when he decides to alternate, so quickly that you lose track of it, it is your ultimate undoing.

Mainly when Yoongi curtly slaps your clit, transferring you back to the very beginning of your story, rooting you there. You come so hard that you fall apart.

Tears fly out of you, but you laugh—and the sound is broken by a deep moan from your chest caused by pure, boundless euphoria. Yoongi prolongs your orgasm, keeps strumming your clit, purring onto your mouth and you open your eyes to witness his devotion to it, to your pleasure. Brows furrowed, eyes lidded, pouty mouth. Adamant on making you feel as good as—

It triggers another orgasm. A softer, mellow one. And the string of noises you let out are of the same dulcet nature. Yoongi swallows them, groaning, fondling your pussy, patting her gently, making you tremble, woozy, giddy and so incredibly girly.

“That was so good,” he whispers, caressing you everywhere and you nod, a million times. You’ve missed him, terribly.

You give him a nasty kiss full of tongue, aware of what’s happened and of what’s next just the same.

Yoongi perches on the floor, knees on either side of yours as you crawl towards Jungkook’s lap. He leans back, a surprised grin appearing on his flustered face. And it hits him like a ton of bricks when you pop his button open and drag down the zipper of his jeans. Your words that follow, too.

“Off. Everything.”

“You want to suck me off?” A calm bewilderment coats his voice, such a heavy oxymoron for him to bear when he was fine with just watching.

You smile at him briefly before you wet your lips, eager to make happen what he can’t believe you’re willing to do for him. “I knew it would get you talking.”

An airy laugh. So endearing to your hearing sense. He cradles your chin for a mere beat of time. “You’re so smart.” He takes off his tank, revealing his enormous pecs adorned with a long but dainty silver chain that you crave to have swinging in your face, that steals your attention from the dose of validation he gave you.

But when Yoongi leaves, your heart sinks in panic.

Only to hoist it back up when you realize he went to fetch the gift he bought you, along with a bigger tube of lube from your bedroom. Your body tremors and it’s both of the males that try to alleviate it. Yoongi, who settles back behind you, fondling the skin of your bare bum. Jungkook, who turns you to look at him, nodding once to let you know everything’s okay.

You release a breath, but you can’t hide the shakes.

Jungkook strokes your brow. A tender touch that drives you to believe him. Yes, everything’s okay. The past is gone. Healing is contained in the conscious reminders. The light in your hands flutters, calling out to you, and you press it over that heft of your wandering heart.

It’s you who alleviates the tremors.

And when you take off your top, Jungkook follows suit, ridding himself of his jeans.

To distract your mind from hurling false thoughts at you, you finally allow yourself to look at his hard length—still, disappointingly clothed. Thick. You can almost feel the memory of him, the heaviness of him, when he had you pressed against him by the pond. The first time you touched him. You groan, softly. “Off.”

Jungkook coos, patting you on the cheek with his finger. “So eager.”

He paints a smile on your face with that brush of his digit. “Be a good boy and listen.”

Without taking his eyes off of you, he swears. Pulls his manhood out, tugs his boxers a few inches down and you bite back a gasp, a moan and something in between. Red, swollen tip, the petal of a sun-kissed rose, little thick veins enveloping the girth. He keeps his balls covered to tease you. “Like this, Mommy?”

You glare at him and it’s Yoongi’s second-hand embarrassment laughter that smooths out your features, contagious to such a great extent that when you look back at him to see him pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes squeezed and crinkly, you burst into the same laughter, lungs expanding, exhaling all that heft and momentary residue of panic until there’s nothing negative left.

It even radiates Jungkook. He laughs so much that his cock bounces, which deepens your giggles and you hide your face in your hands.

And when the conveyance of joy simmers, another tender tears rush out of your tear ducts. Good tears. You’re so content with life shared with the two males that you can’t help but be emotional. You shield those tears behind the premise of your laughter. They’re private—just yours. The final conclusion of the dark side.

Yoongi skims his fingers across your tiny hole. Back to business.

You tug Jungkook’s boxers all the way down and you lift his ankle to rid him completely of them. Mimic the way he did it to you. You even think about keeping them. Think about how this is exactly how it should be—recollecting only the good parts of the story, the light side while letting the dark one go. Jungkook sees it on your face and he lets you decide.

You don’t have to think twice.

You fling his underwear on the chair you sat on. Jungkook caresses your hair in response and you smile at him. Yoongi leans over you, fists your hair and pushes you toward Jungkook’s cock. At the sight, the puppy swears.

“Spit on it. Make it nice and wet for him,” Yoongi orders and there’s slyness to your ever persisting smile when you gather your saliva and do exactly as he says.

At the first contact of your liquid love, Jungkook swears again and there’s no stopping to that litany of vulgar words when you, just like him, swirl it around the top of his head with the tip of your tongue without taking your gaze off of him. It’s at this movement of yours that a flashback gleams across his still round, tender eyes for a split second. Now he remembers, now you’ve pulled him back to the place you didn’t even realize that you did.

Yoongi guides you to wrap your mouth around him and Jungkook loses it.

The suction of your cheeks, the eye contact, the warmth of your mouth and the wetness of your tongue, Jungkook rolls his eyes back before he whisks them back to you, not able to miss one moment of the pleasure you give him. Yoongi pushes your head back and forth and when it dawns upon you that there’s nothing else for you to do but to keep your mouth open while Yoongi does all the work, you moan. And like Jungkook, you can’t stop.

You feel Yoongi’s lips at your ear. “You think you can take him all the way?”

The mewl that comes out of you is the only agreement you can manage to give him. Yoongi groans, kissing your earlobe before he licks it, nibbles on it, taking his mouth to the skin beneath, causing your eyes to narrow. Your pussy drenches, throbs and your hand automatically flies to her. You rub yourself slowly to gain a hint of relief, bobbing your head up and down, tongue feeling up the thick veins along his girth and you whine so desperately—enough for Yoongi to check what was the cause of it.

He draws back. Finds you touching yourself. Clicks his tongue and chuckles in absolute appreciation. He likes what he sees. Pushes your head until your nose swipes past Jungkook’s minimal pubic hair and only when you gag does he let you breathe—does he let you play with his tip on your own. “Mommy is playing with her needy cunt.”

The curse word that wafts in the air is singular, coming out of your and Jungkook’s mouth simultaneously. There’s no laughter this time. Just thick arousal spreading across the room, dizzying all of your senses. Jungkook is breathless and the look you share is desperate, unspoken but so, so vivid. You take him in your free hand and jerk him off, reveling in the feeling of his veins. You give him all of your whiny moans, straightening up, your fingers sneaking to your hole. Eyes narrowing, mouth open, the sounds of your slick saliva in your tight grasp so obscene, so stimulating that when you begin to finger yourself and Yoongi latches his lips onto your neck, you know you’ll be coming in mere, pathetic minutes.

Jungkook leans forward a little bit to watch you stuffing yourself full. Bites his lip, closes his eyes when you tighten your grip around his head. And you do it again and again to coax his moans and he willingly supplies you with them. Opens his eyes and the look he gives you stops time. “So good. So fucking good.”

You yearn to kiss him and he does, too. You twist your wrist and he loses himself for a moment. That alone speeds up the coming of your orgasm. Your body flares with heat, your fingers picking up their speed instinctually and Jungkook angles his head to kiss you—

You push him back. To tease him, to make him more desperate because it pleases you and Jungkook smirks at you, gripping your panties in his fist. Hiding your own, you lick him all over and get to the undiscovered part you want the most.

You mouth his full balls. Whimper against them. Hot flashes fill your sight at the scent of him, even more so when Jungkook inhales your sounds and emits the same ones. “Fuck, sweetheart, oh fuck, yes, like that.” Takes your hand and busies it, wrapping it around his length. You spasm at the pet name, at the warmth that seeps into your skin from him.

It’s him who guides you now. Yoongi merely watches, in awe, wet fingers rubbing circles on your tiny hole, preparing you. “That’s it, honey, make him come.”

You’re so overwhelmed by your task that you withdraw your fingers from your heat, though Yoongi is quick to replace his. And the speed he establishes, you mimic it on Jungkook’s length and he grunts at the contact of your dewiness on him. You twists your wrists, fucking yourself back on Yoongi’s fingers. Bore your gaze into Jungkook’s. Hard, hard breaths, quickening lifts of his chest, he struggles to reciprocate your eye contact, the rhythm so beautiful so seamless, working so well.

And when you wrap your lips around him and suck him with fast bobs, he comes.

You open your mouth, yearning to feel him paint your face. Quick to grip his balls to feel them emptying out for you and you milk his cum out of him, jerking him off until his ropes smear on the corners of your lips, hot and thick. Yoongi pulls out his fingers, latches them onto your hip. “Stick out your tongue.”

You do as he says, in time to catch the last rope landing onto the muscle. You hum, swallowing, watching the tension screwing his features and the relief unweaving it as his orgasm reaches the end. Winded, dumbfounded, gruntled. A lovely sight to behold.

Jungkook’s grip loosens on your panties. And with his other hand, he feeds you his cum. Swipes his fingers from your cheek onto your mouth, plunging it inside. Yoongi kisses the side of your face, gripping your neck to hold your head steady for Jungkook, allowing him to finish the job.

You swallow everything, the taste of him suffused with mild earthiness, with tanginess and the tiniest hint of sweetness. Liquid candy, just for you. You allow him to see how much you enjoyed that, but it’s Yoongi first to whom you show that you’ve swallowed everything.

Your boyfriend beams at you. “Well done, honey.” He kisses you hard, licking into your mouth, and the thought of him tasting the residue of Jungkook numbs your senses entirely. “You did so well.”

You’re panting when he withdraws and when you look at Jungkook, there’s a moment of stillness when you take in the thundering turmoil rushing inside him. You don’t have to guess what’s behind it. Jungkook voices it. “Let me kiss her, please.”

Such a soft murmur, charged with so much desperation. You break at the sound of it, gripping his hand, furrowing your brows, ready to give him anything he wants, boundlessly. Your heart thuds and it only takes one look at Yoongi and he folds, too.

Nods.

You thought he’d kiss you from the position you’re in, but Jungkook stands to his feet, grabbing you along with him, picking you up like a child by sliding his hands under your armpits. And when he presses you against him and kisses you hungrily with fast pecks, breathing hard, you discern how illogical it was for him to call you Mommy.

Even though he can listen like a good boy, it’s merely a role, one he plays for you, for Yoongi, one that fragments with each kiss. Who he truly is the reversal of it.

He’s Daddy. Undeniably.

You’ve never been keen for titles. You and Yoongi never used them, never felt the need for it, hence why you both laughed when it came up. But the more you kiss him, the more you sense it. The awakening dominance, the tendril of fatherliness that spirals around you, the deserved respect he emanates. It turns you on to the point that you find yourself wondering what else is there beneath the shadows of your undiscovered sexuality.

The feeling of his warm skin against yours, his still hard manhood against your stomach, the provocation of the lip ring, the softness of his mouth slowing down and prolonging the kiss—fuck. How much more can you possibly get aroused? He empties out your brain, but you’re calm, not panicked by it at all. And to stay conscious, to stay in control, you wrap your hand around him again.

He hisses, breaking the kiss, grasping your hand. “Too sensitive. Sorry. I came so hard.”

You coo, pecking him deeply, squeezing his broad shoulders. “It’s okay.”

When you turn around to give your attention to Yoongi, you find him deep in thought, fixed on Jungkook. “Remember how she came when you kissed her? At the cabin?”

Your heart speeds up. Not due to fear or anything of the sort, but due to excitement. You know where he’s heading with this.

“Hard to forget,” Jungkook murmurs and it thrums beneath your skin, spreading wide.

“She came multiple times when I made her think about that,” Yoongi starts and you can’t halt the smile growing on your lips. A tiny whirl of shyness mingles with the words coursing through your bloodstream. “It’s what we did. I made her imagine that you were kissing her, eating her out while she touched herself. And now I want you to give it to her. Give it to her good. Better than she was able to imagine.”

Sharp inhale of breath. You want to see his reaction to your secret—but then hands. Clammy hands on your hips, nose nuzzling in your hair. “Who’s gonna be in control when I do that?”

Your eyes widen, pulse quickening to the point that it troubles you.

And Yoongi looks at you when he answers his question, “You. It’s me who’s gonna watch now.”

BACK to masterlist / READ part one, READ part two

#jungkook x oc #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook smut #bts smut #bts imagine #jungkook imagine #jeon jungkook #bts scenarios #jungkook scenarios #jungkook fluff #btscreatorscorner #kpop smut #jungkook one shot #yoongi smut #yoongi x oc #yoongi x reader #yoongi imagine

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secret-sturniolo · 7 months ago

Text

i love you more - chris sturniolo

based on this request - hi! i saw that u we’re taking requests, so what about chris x reader smut. maybe reader has a bad day and just needs a little extra love, so she goes to chris for comfort and it’s a gentle sex type thing? possibly w a daddy kink, but only if you’re comfortable with that

warnings - smut, (don't like, don't read), slight daddy kink, soft sex, p in v, unprotected sex (be safe please)

a/n - reupload :)

I fought back the tears in my eyes as I got into my car after a long day at work. I had been berated not once, but twice by customers over something that not only wasn't my fault, but also out of my control. Normally, I could take a little negativity from people, but today I was overtired and emotional and all the patience I had flew out the window. The icing on the cake was that my boss also blamed me for making the customers upset, so I was yelled at for a third time that day. By the end of my shift, all I could think about was my boyfriend Chris waiting for me at home. I knew it wasn't good to drive when you are crying, so I held everything in until I got back to the triplets house. I just wanted to be wrapped in Chris's arms.

I pulled into the driveway and opened the front door, where Chris was waiting for me on the couch. He jumped up when he saw me, and I burst into tears.

"Oh baby, what's wrong?" he asked me, wrapping his arms around my shoulders.

Through tears, I had told him everything that had happened to me today.

"I just want you, Chris." I mumbled into his chest.

"Yeah?" he asked me, pulling back and tilting my head up towards him.

Without a word, I pressed my lips against his, our tongues immediately fighting for dominance. After a while, Chris pulls away.

"Matt and Nick won't be back for a while. You wanna take this to my room, let me show you how much I love you?" he says, looking into my eyes.

"Please."

He grabs my hand and pulls me with him as we walk down the stairs to his bedroom. He gently lays me back onto his soft comforter, kissing me once again.

"This is all about you, okay y/n? I want you to feel good." he says against my lips.

"I love you Chris."

"I love you more than anything, y/n."

As we continue kissing, he slides my shirt up over my head and unclips my bra with one swift motion.

"God, you're beautiful." he says, kissing down my chest, taking my nipples into his mouth.

Before going any further, he slides his shirt off and steps out of his sweatpants, leaving him only in his boxers. He hooks his fingers into my underwear, and I nod, giving him permission to go further. He swiftly pulls them down before diving into my folds.

"Fuck, Chris!" I whined, as he began licking at my clit.

He hummed against me, sending waves of pleasure to my body. He adds a finger as he continues eating me out, stretching me out in all the right ways. I felt a familiar feeling in my stomach, like a knot beginning to tighten.

"Chris, I'm gonna cum!" I announce.

He keeps going, indicating that he wanted me to cum. My vision gets spotty as I reach my climax, my hips thrusting up into his face. After I ride out my high, he pulls away and looks up at me with a smile.

"Oh my god, that was amazing." I tell him.

"Ready for some more?" he asks me.

"Don't you want me to suck you off?" I ask, confused.

"Oh, of course I want that but tonight is all about you, y/n. I want to make you feel good."

"I can't argue with that!" I giggle.

I watch him pull off his boxers, his dick springing up, finally free from the restricting fabric. He had a drop of precum on his pink tip, a sign of how much he was turned on. He teases me, running his tip through my folds and against my clit. It felt good, but I wanted more.

"More, Chris!"

He leans down to kiss me.

"You ready, princess?"

I nod at him, giving him doe eyes.

He slowly pushes into me, giving me a chance to warm up to his size. He lets out a groan as he bottoms out. He gives me a moment, then begins slowly thrusting in and out, almost pulling out before bottoming out again. This was different than our usual sex, but in this moment I didn't care. I felt so loved and safe.

"Can you go a little faster?" I ask him.

"Yeah? You want it faster?"

"Yes, please daddy."

He groans at the name, picking up the pace a little, still wanting to keep it soft and slow. He attaches his lips to my neck, sucking hickies into it while still thrusting in and out of me. We continued, with him whispering I love you in my ear over and over again. I felt myself getting close again.

"Chris, I'm close."

"Me too baby, come with me." he says, his thrusts getting sloppier.

We were both a moaning mess as we came together. I felt Chris's hips sputter and his dick twitched as he came inside me. His movements came to a stop before he pulled out, laying beside me.

"Chris, I love you so much."

"I know baby, I love you more." he replies, catching his breath.

We didn't even bother putting our clothes back on, we were both too tired. He pulled me into his side, and I laid my head against his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing. He pulled the blankets over us, and I sighed with content at the warm, cozy feeling. The events of my day had long been forgotten as I laid with the man I loved, and I knew that as long as I had him by my side, everything was going to be okay.

#sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #chris sturniolo #nick sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #chris sturniolo x y/n #chris sturniolo x reader #sturniolo triplets imagine #chris sturniolo imagine #chris sturniolo smut #sturniolo smut #sturniolo x reader #chris sturniolo fluff #secret sturniolo

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pierregazly · 1 year ago

Text

all of you ꨄ george russell

george russell x fem!reader

warnings: smut (18+ only), unprotected sex, slight dom!george, ass slapping, typical smut warnings. mentions of anxiety, hateful comments, self-conscious thoughts [4.2k wc]

in which george has to prove to his girlfriend she's the most precious person to him and the only one for him (aka pure filth)

The comments didn’t happen often, as least not as often as they used to.

He had told you from the start what may happen, the things people would likely say, the looks people would give; you could never deny that he forewarned you as much as he possibly could about the inevitable. The inescapable unkindness and negativity that came from people who didn’t even know you, people who had never met you, and would likely never meet either of you.

They were ruthless.

At times, the comments were laughable, the extent that strangers would go to attempt to put you down. The humour in them could only be seen for so long when they continued to come, what seemed like a never-ending stream of notifications clogging up your phone as you tried to ignore the comment after comment, message after message.

It was easy to try and convince yourself that it happened to everyone. You saw the damage it did to certain relationships, the way girls would question if they were enough for their famous partners, the way accounts would go private days after their boyfriend’s introduced them to the world.

Even with that in mind, it was hard not to feel as if every rude comment, every ignorant message, every untrue word was coming from an unspeakable truth that George himself actually thought.

That’s how you found yourself here. Wrapped up in the blankets of your shared bed, your phone thrown lazily on the side table next to your head. The rabbit hole of scrolling had been too enticing, yet again. One comment led to ten, that led to thirty and then eventually you found yourself so deep in a Twitter thread about your relationship that you couldn’t pull yourself out of until it was over.

George had only been gone for half-an-hour when you found yourself scrolling through everything. It was impossible to do it when he was home, your physical and emotional reactions to everything you read a clear indicator of what you were doing.

He was a good boyfriend, a great one, even. Kind, loving, attentive to all your wants and needs, he tried to do everything in his power to protect you from the messages and words he regularly heard about from other drivers on the grid.

But he couldn’t be there every second of every day. You definitely didn’t want him to be, either. You didn’t want him to see the sadness in your eyes when your phone was carelessly thrown onto the table, the subconscious scratching of your forearm as you tried to calm yourself down, the way your eyes would search down your skin for any imperfections, anything that would convince George that you weren’t enough for him, that you weren’t perfect enough to be the girlfriend of a Formula 1 driver.

Your thoughts were rudely interrupted when you heard the front door of your apartment open and then close shut. Looking at the clock, the numbers looked back at you as a soft groan fell from your lips.

You had spent the last 3 hours going through an array of emotions, not even realizing how much time was surging past. George had told you three times what time he would be home, even going out of his way to text it to you just to make sure you remember.

The bedroom door opened, the soft light from the hallway flowing into the darkened room prompting you to curl tighter into the blankets held in your fists.

“You’re still in bed, my love? It’s going on two in the afternoon, darling,” George murmured into your ear as he pressed a gentle kiss to the side of your forehead, his lips peppering down your cheek as you swatted at him jokily.

The concern emitting from him was evident when he pulled back from your skin, lightly pushing on your shoulder so that he could look you in the eyes. You held back the sigh as you looked up at him, your lower lip finding its way between your teeth as his thumb moved to glide down your jawline.

“What’s wrong? Why do you look so sad? Have you been crying?”

The questions shot out of George’s mouth instantaneously, his hand cupping your face as he sat down on the bed next to your curled up body. He was always so bloody attentive. You hated it. But you loved him.

Shrugging your shoulders, your teeth continued to gnaw on your bottom lip as you attempted to keep the quivering at bay. You didn’t want to tell him what you were doing before he got home, you couldn’t tell him. He’d be upset at you for doing it again, inevitably frustrated that you continued to go back and hurt yourself this way.

“Talk to me, sweet girl. Something’s wrong, I can see it. I can’t read your mind, though. Not yet at least,” he ended his sentence with a wink, trying to prompt at least a giggle from your quivering lips.

Closing your eyes as you felt his thumb continue to glide across your cheekbone, “I just… I saw some things, online. Like, not nice things, and it just kind of bothered me, I guess. I don’t know. It’s not a big deal, don’t worry.”

George’s reaction time was too quick for your attempt to turn your body to face away from him, his arm instantly encircling you and trapping you from moving. What seemed like annoyance was present on his face, his lips pursued, his nose scrunched, and a slight red hue sliding down his cheeks.

“What kind of things did you see online? Comments again? Messages?”

He was annoyed, it was obvious now. His voice had taken on that tone he gets after every bad race, angry with a bit of slight frustration at the circumstances.

“Just comments about me again, on one of those wives and girlfriends Instagram and Twitter accounts. You know how it is… It’s not a big deal, I shouldn’t have even been scrolling down them, I know,” you couldn’t look him in the eye as you mumbled through your sentence, the quiver in your lip becoming more obvious as you continued through your words.

Something that sounded like a groan and a growl mixed came from George’s throat, his hand that was cupping your cheek forcing you to look up at him. The tears glistening in your eyes instantly made any reprimand he was about to give dissipate, his concern for you taking over.

“What kind of stuff, sweet girl?”

Shrugging again, your words came out soft and sad, “About how I’m not good enough for you, how it would make more sense if you were still with Nick’s sister. Stuff about how obvious it is the other girlfriends don’t like me, how I’m probably such a stressor for you and that’s why you haven’t been doing well lately.”

Your voice choked off at the end. Your hand reached down to scratch at your forearm, the subconscious coping mechanism to keep the tears at bay being prevented when George intercepted your hand with his unoccupied one, interlacing your fingers.

It was hard to decipher the emotion that was floating in the Brit’s eyes as they looked down into your own. He didn’t give you much time to examine them before he was pushing his head into the column of skin where your neck and shoulders met, his hand that was previously cupping your cheek moving so that it was gently playing with the accessible strands of your hair.

The light peppering of open-mouthed kisses on the exposed skin of your neck had you sighing again, George’s body moving so that it moulded around your own. His head moved up so that it was pressed beside yours, his lips pressing gentle kisses across your cheeks and nose.

“I wish you wouldn’t read those things; I don’t like you submitting yourself to that kind of emotional torture. It’s not fair to you, and it’s surely not fair to me.”

You couldn’t stop the sad sound that bumbled out of your throat at his words, but before you could get an actual word out, he continued.

“It’s not fair that I can’t stop you from feeling like this, or from seeing the comments or getting the messages. I know you didn’t sign up for this, when we started dating, you didn’t ask to be treated the way you are by strangers and see things that are so unfathomably untrue about yourself.”

Humming at his words, all you did was nod your head sadly as you looked at him, “I guess, yeah. I did it to myself, I don’t even know how I ended up on one of those accounts again.”

“Let me prove that everything they’re saying is wrong.”

It wasn’t a question, but a statement, that fell from his lips as he pulled back to look down at you. A fire was ignited in his eyes, his hand that was in your hair moving to caress lightly down your side.

“You don’t need to prove anything, Georgie. It’s okay, I’ll get over it.”

Shaking his head adamantly, his hand moved back up to cup your cheek as his eyes bore into your own, “Please let me prove that they’re wrong, that you’re the most perfect person for me, let me prove how I feel about you every single time I look at you; or think about you.”

His head moved down, his lips hovering over yours as soft breaths fell from your open mouth. All it took was a soft agreement from you before his lips descended, all the passion and love he could give pouring into the kiss. His tongue gently prodded at your bottom lip, asking for permission to enter as you opened your lips slightly, allowing for your tongues to battle against each other for dominance.

George nipped at your bottom lip, his teeth pulling it back slightly as his head moved up to look down at you, the hunger and adoration present in his eyes. You couldn’t help the small whimper that fell from your lips at the way he was looking at you.

The noise prompted him to push his head back into your neck, sucking, kissing, biting, licking, whatever he could do to prompt little noises out of you, he was doing. His hands, previously placed lovingly on different parts of your face were pressing into your hips, gliding up and down the skin under your shirt.

As his hands pushed up the shirt, the ministrations from his lips and mouth continued their path down, his teeth gently nipping at the skin of your bare stomach. The grin was evident on the lips that were currently pressed to skin above your ribs as his hands finally reached their destination.

He gently plucked and pinched the rosy bud of your nipple, his unoccupied hand pushing the hem of your shirt all the way up to your neck so his eyes could get a look at what was hidden below.

“You know, sometimes after a bad race I think about these pretty things. I think about how beautiful they look when you’re fresh out of the shower, glistening, so hard and perky, basically begging me to wrap my lips around one of them and suck.”

George emphasized his final word by doing exactly what he had said, wrapping his lips around the rosy bud of your nipple, his teeth lightly scrapping against the skin as a small moan erupted from your lips. His hand gently kneaded the other, plucking and pulling on it. You couldn’t contain the lower half of your body as you pushed up into his thigh that had found itself between your legs, an easy object to press your core into for a sense of relief.

He alternated between both, now very hard, nipples, always emphasizing that he couldn’t leave one for too long as it just wasn’t fair.

“I think about how they’re going to look in my face, as you bounce up and down my cock, making the most pretty of sounds. It makes me have to pull up the photos of you sometimes when I’m in my driver’s room, makes me wish you were there with me, so I could bend you over the couch and make you feel as good as you always make me feel.”

Another whimper fell from your lips at his words, the room spinning around you as you tried to process everything he was saying. You could feel the sweat starting to bead on your forehead, the heat of your body’s pressed against each other causing you to push at the sweater that was still covering his chest. He took the hint, pulling back to shove it and the shirts underneath off, as you did the same with your own top.

Your hands immediately went to his abdomen, running across the hard muscle that was present there. He was just so beautiful; how did you deserve someone as amazing as this?

It was like he could sense your thoughts, his hands reaching down to pull your own off his body, moving them so they were trapped above your head.

“None of that, sweet girl. This isn’t about me, this is about me proving how you are the one for me, how the only stress you could ever cause me is if I made you cum hard enough, or if I made you cum enough times.”

Your hands remained trapped by one of his larger ones, his lips moving back to gently kiss and suck at the now-fully exposed skin of your stomach. He was inching closer and closer to where your body was craving him most, the heat of your core obvious to him when his unoccupied hand moved down to rub your most sensitive part through the panties that still covered your core.

The small moans continued to fall from your lips, practically begging for him to do more, to pull your panties to the side and touch you exactly where you were craving him, where you needed him. Except, he refused. George continued to pepper kisses across your stomach, occasionally far enough down that his chin was touching the fabric of your panties, but never close enough to where you were practically begging for his mouth.

Finally, his hand pulled your panties to the side, his reaction to your soaking core a mystery as an individual finger gently glided through the wetness. Bucking your hips up towards his hand, begging for any release was useless, the hand that was previously trapping your own above your head had moved to hold your hips down, a small smirk prominent on his face.

“Sometimes, more often than not, I think about coming home to this pretty pussy. I think about how you’re going to taste on my tongue, the pretty sounds that are going to fall from your lips as I glide my tongue through all of this waiting here for me. I think about you sitting on my face, your hands gripping our headboard as you ride my tongue, moaning my name as you take your own pleasure for yourself. I think about the sounds it makes when I finger you at the same time, how you gush all over my fingers and tongue. It drives me wild, baby.”

He was driving you wild. George was not usually one for dirty talk, was not usually one to articulate what he was doing or wanted to do. This… this was new.

The finger that was previously gliding through the wetness of your core gently prodded at the entrance, his eyes meeting yours as he pushed the single digit inside of you. Your eyes rolled back at the feeling, your lips opening in a silent moan.

George didn’t give you time to process before he was ducking his head, press an open-mouthed kiss to your inner-right thigh, then your inner-left, then the smooth skin beside your entrance. His finger was joined by another, the digits pumping into you, hitting the spots inside you that always made you cry out for him.

His tongue finally pressed lightly against the hood of your clit, the tip dragging against the bundle of nerves as your hips attempted to push up closer to his face. You hadn’t even realized his hand was still holding your hips down, a small groan of frustration leaving your lips at the realization.

He continued to lightly drag the tip against the bundle of nerves as his fingers stimulated the spots inside of you that you could never reach with your own fingers, it was so much and so little all at once. George knew your body like it was his own, knew what would drive you insane, how much teasing you could take, how much pressure and stimulation you could and couldn’t take, he knew exactly what would have you begging for him.

“George… baby please, please I need more.”

The humming that erupted from his throat against your clit launched a load moan to fall from your lips, the stimulation almost too much as you cried out. You could practically feel the grin on his lips as he finally flattened his tongue against your core, lapping up the wetness that was falling from your entrance every time his fingers pressed into you.

The sounds, the feeling, the groans, and grunts that fell from George’s lips as he pressed his own pelvis into the bed, his hips trying to find a little reprieve for the tent you were sure was present in his trousers; it was all too much.

Your core was seizing up, your previously empty hands had found themselves gripping the locks of George’s hair, pushing, and pulling his head in whatever direction they thought he was needed in. The feeling in your stomach was starting to grow as George’s tongue continued to lap at your clit, occasionally exchanging his tongue for his fingers to gather up more of your juices before they pushed back inside of you, loud moans falling from your lips each time.

Barely getting the chance to warn him as your legs started to tremble, your hips attempting to arch up, trying to push yourself closer to his face, his tongue, whatever you could. The euphoric feeling washed over you as you cried out, the orgasm ripping through your body. Your mind wandered as George’s fingers and tongue slowed down, gently licking you through your first orgasm of the night. You finally had to push his head away, your body slick with sweat as you looked down at him hazily.

“Was that good, baby?”

Nodding your head at him, you internally moaned as you watched him push the fingers that were previously inside of you into his own mouth, licking the essence of your body from them as he moved back up your body. You could feel how hard he was, the tent in his pants pressed up against your core as he gently pressed his lips to yours.

“I think about the face you make when you cum, all the time. Especially on the planes when we’re flying back from a long week away, I think about how I can’t wait to watch your eyes roll back, to watch your hips push up and your body quiver. How you have to push me away because you get so sensitive, how your pretty body can’t handle everything I’m trying to do to it.”

Whimpering at his words, you gently bit at his bottom lip, your hand snaking down in-between the both of you to pop the button on his trousers. He took the initiative to shimmy his pants down his legs, letting them fall to the floor before he instantly ground his core into your own; simultaneous moans falling from both of your lips.

“Gonna let me fuck you now, pretty girl? Let me make love to you, show you how you’re the only one I wanna do this with? How you’re the only one for me, period?”

Nodding your head eagerly at his words, he pressed his lips against yours again, continuing to press his core into your own as he ground down again. The only thing covering the both of you was his briefs and your soaked panties, your nails scratched down his back as his cloth-covered cock pressed against a particularly sensitive spot.

The Brit rolled off you to tug his briefs down, pulling your panties down your legs immediately afterwards. A frown marked your lips as you waited for him to get back on the bed, a smirk from him the only response.

“I want you on top, sweet girl. I wanna see every part of this beautiful body as I fuck up into you,” flopping down on the bed, he grabbed at your hips, his strength easily rolling your body over.

Situating yourself on top of him, you gently began to grind yourself against his member, the juices from your core making him slide through your folds easily. You groaned as the tip of his cock pressed against your clit every time you moved your body, George’s hands falling to your hips as he helped your body move.

It didn’t take long before your entrance was sliding down on his cock, the stretch as blissful as always. Your nails scrapped down his chest, your body getting used to his size, your eyelids half closed as you looked down into his eyes.

The only thing you could see was pure adoration, and lust. A smirk notched itself on his cheeks, one hand moving to your back to pull your chest down, so it was touching his, his lips attaching to your own as he began to push his hips up into you.

You tried to meet every thrust, the feeling of his member sliding in and out of you as he pushed up into you causing you to moan into his mouth. He took advantage of your mouth being open, his tongue finding its way inside to press against yours.

A squeal dropped from your lips, pulling you away from the kiss when his large hand connected with the cheek of your ass, an inevitable handprint likely forming as he grinned up at you. He did it again, lightly rubbing against the spot he hit as he continued to fuck up into you.

You pressed your chest back against his, your lips finding their way to his neck as your bodies moved in sync. His hands were now gripping your hips as he used his lower-body strength to thrust up into you, the speed and roughness of it all prompting sounds of pleasure to fall from both of your lips.

With the angle, your clit was pressed directly against him, the stimulation of his hips moving causing you to cry out. You could feel the euphoria coming back, the feeling of him drilling his hips into yours, his member sliding in and out of your soaking core, the press of his pelvis against your clit, it was all becoming too much.

George’s hips started to stutter, a good indication that he was about to cum as well. He pressed up into you, hard, a loud groan falling from his lips as he pulsated inside of you, emptying himself in your core as you leaked out around his cock.

He was breathing heavy as his hips fell, one hand lightly running down your spine as you tried to catch your breath against his shoulder. You could barely process how you were feeling right now, the words he had spoken during it all coming back to you as you tried to wrap your head around everything he had said.

Pulling back to look down at him, he smiled up at you, his hand going to cup the side of your cheek prompting you to subconsciously lean into it. “Did you mean what you said?”

“Which part, darling?”

“All of it, all the things you said like… during all that.”

A smug grin spread across his face at your words, prompting you to roll your eyes at whatever remark was about to fall from your boyfriend’s lips.

“You mean all the things I said while I was trying to make you soak my face?”

Groaning at his words, you slapped his chest at the vulgarity of them, the feeling from before not clouding your judgement any longer.

“I meant everything I said, my love. You mean the world to me, I don’t care what strangers on social media have to say about you, or about who I should be dating or what ‘make’s sense’. You’re all I want, you and this cute tush,” patting your ass in conjunction with his words, you smiled softly at him.

A quick peck to his lips was your only response, the smile remaining on your face as you took in his words.

this was pretty much just me having no self control lol, i havent written smut in ages so i apologize if it's a little rough. i hope everyone enjoyed!!

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