#but then he goes and uses a frying pan and oil jumps all over and it would still get in the way lol??

[mazojo]

Okay I hear y’all telling me it’s so he doesn’t get food on it but like??? Take it off then ?? Logistically there’s so much of a higher chance that food still gets it dirty because only like, 10% of it is covered ??

ASKSJSJ Still menace behavior to me fellas sorry to be the bearer of bad news

Why does he wear his tie like that a menace

[oleander-nin]

Happy Anniversary(Yan!Rise! Leo x Reader)

A/N, not important: Any criticism is welcome, constructive or not. This is supposed to be a gender neutral reader, so if I screwed up somewhere, please tell me.

-Ollie

Tw: kidnapping mention, knives, forced isolation, hair pulling, dark themes

Words: 1356

Summary: Leo wants to celebrate your anniversary. You don't.

"What are you cooking?"

My soul jumps out of my body at the words, my hand shaking. I glance back, looking at Leo. I shoot him a strained smile, trying to hide my nervousness. "O-Oh, just uh, just some eggs and bacon. I just thought I would..."

My voice wavers before trailing off as Leo wraps his arms around my waist, my skin burning at his touch. He leans against me with his chin on my shoulder, watching me cook. I swallow my bile. My muscles tense and my breath goes still, trying my best to keep the urge to shake him off down. I keep my eyes trained on the pan of eggs, my hands trembling as I continue to fold them to let them cook evenly.

Leo hums softly, his chest vibrating against my back and his breathing ticking my neck. The frying bacon pops and hisses on the griddle, the oils shooting out onto my hands and leaving small burns. I don’t move my hands away, trying to keep my pounding heart steady. I know he could feel it. I know he could tell how afraid I was.

"Today's our anniversary." He says softly, still leaning his weight onto me. I inwardly gag as he nuzzles his face into my neck, repressing my instincts to run. My blood runs cold at his words, my mind blanking for a moment. I knew what he meant. As of today, It had been a full year since I had been kidnapped. To him, it marked the day we started ‘dating’. To me, it marked the day I lost my freedom.

I had to keep calm, to feign happiness. Anything else would make him mad. Today was the worst day I could make him mad. I continue making the eggs, my mind on fire. His leaned weight on me felt too heavy, suffocating. His arms were too tight, his face this close felt dangerous. 

“You’re burning the eggs, love.” 

My brain halts in confusion before a smoky smell reaches my nose as I look down. I quickly turn off the heat and move the pan away from the hot stove, desperately folding the eggs over in the pan to try and mitigate the damage. I shudder as Leo kisses my temple, chuckling. His voice was too smooth, too placate. He was planning something, he had to be. 

I suck in a breath as he slides off me, his hand lingering on my lower back for a moment before his touch fully leaves. “I’ll get the plates.”

I leave the pan with the slightly burnt eggs to the side, trying my best to focus my attention on the bacon. I let myself take a few deep breaths, my heart rate slowing to a more normal pace. It had been a year since Leo had taken me, a year since I had even gone outside. I wanted to go home.

My eyes drift to the knife block. It sat by the stove, unassuming. Each knife was sharp and sturdy, each built for a specific purpose in the kitchen. Was I desperate enough to use it for my own? I turn the heat of the griddle down, letting the bacon cool slightly. I didn’t have to actually hurt him, I just… I just needed him to believe I would. I slip the cooked bacon into the cooled pan with the eggs, contemplating what I was about to do. I square my shoulders slightly.

I couldn’t take this anymore. I wouldn’t take this anymore. I glance at the knives again, my face hardening. If needed, I would hurt him. It would make up for all the times he hurt me.

I shift on my feet, glancing back at Leo. His back was to me as he gathered various dishware while he hummed a familiar tune under his breath. He wasn’t paying attention to me. Now was my probably only chance. I shift closer to the knife block, my fingers wrapping around the handle of one of the steak knives before pulling it smoothly from its wooden sheath. I slip the knife in front of me, holding it to my thigh. I glance back at Leo. He was still setting the table, oblivious. Hope fills my chest and I celebrate my small victory in my head. My eyes look over the stove, pretending I was still messing with the food. I was going to get out.

My heart drops mid celebration when I feel Leo press against me once more, his lips pressing to my neck. I hold my breath, my adrenaline picking up again. I squeeze the handle of the knife, glancing over my shoulder to meet his gaze.

"I saw that∼" Leo coos, wrapping his arms around my waist once more. Bile crawls up my throat at his words, my muscles tensing. How did he know? He wasn’t paying attention, I could’ve sworn he… Leo’s hand squeezes just above my hip while his other hand trails down my arm. "How about you be a good little human and drop. The. Knife. We both know you don't know how to use it."

Leo’s hand wraps around my wrist holding the knife while still keeping me snug against his body with the other. Jutting his thumb into a point on my wrist, my hand goes slack. I try to keep my body still, but my mind is racing and my limbs are shaking. The knife falls to the ground with a loud clatter. I swallow back tears, both from frustration and fear. How does he see everything I do? I was a fool for thinking I could ever get something past him.

Leo grabs the handle of the knife with his foot before transferring it to his hand, leaning on me the whole time. The way his hand sat on my side, the way it would squeeze me every time I moved. I knew it was a threat. I take in another deep breath, trying to calm down. I messed up.

Leo lazily tosses the knife into the sink, wrapping his other arm just above my stomach. My lip and chin tremble as he presses his scaly cheek to mine, his eyes glancing at me. He sports a lazy grin despite the clear displeasure shining in his eyes. He presses a soft kiss to my temple before straightening slightly. His voice is cold, poison dripping from his tongue. "You just had to go and be stupid. And especially today? It's our anniversary!"

Leo shakes his head, tsking quietly. I flinch as he spins me around, pinning me to the counter. His grin was gone, replaced with the glare of a devil. I shrink back, panicking.

"I- I wasn't going to... I was uh, it wasn't-" My frantic begging falls on deaf ears as Leo's lip pulls up in a snarl, his knuckles flushing a light shade of green from his harsh grip on the countertop. 

"Shut up." 

I close my eyes, my hands desperately clinging to the counter to keep me from falling as my knees buckle. I yelp in pain when I feel his hand tangle into my hair, pulling me harshly away. I reach up my hands to claw at his wrist, tears pricking at my eyes from the sharp sudden pains. I stumble behind him as he roughly yanks me towards our shared room, whimpers and pleas falling from my mouth like rain from the sky. It was no use. I messed up.

“I thought you were over all this.” He hisses, using his leverage from my hair to toss me to the floor. I scramble backwards as he stalks towards me, fury sparking in his eyes. I hold back a scream as he towers over me. My back hits the wall and I look up, my eyes wide with terror. “But I guess you want to spend today alone, huh? Fine. I can do that.”

Leo’s markings glow bright in the dark room and the flickering blue of Leo’s portals forms beneath me. I fall in with a scream and my world turns a sickening shade of blue.

[hergrandplan]

Wille's Month Day 5 ( @youngroyals-events ): Cooking/baking

Hi everyone! I am back from New York and so so excited to post again. For this prompt, there's surprisingly little Wilmon... but that doesn't mean it's not sweet ;) Hope you'll enjoy!

Also disclaimer: I used Spanish in some places here, I am nowhere near a native speaker but have been learning it for the past few years, and did some extra research on Venezuelan Spanish. However, I haven't had anyone check it so any and all mistakes are mine.

It's the last night of their trip to visit Simon's family in Venezuela. They help Simon's abuelita prepare dinner.

Read below the cut or on ao3 (the ao3 version has a translation key)

The radio is blasting a canción, the strum of the guitar and the deep baritone of the singer joining the smell of roasting meat, of onions and garlic filling up the kitchen.

Simon and his abuelita are singing along to the music, her gravelly voice and his smooth one creating a beautiful, joyous homely symphony. It’s off-key, at times, like when Simon grabs his abuelita’s hand to spin her around, and they are both breathless for a minute, laughing. Simon is less focussed on how he sounds, more happy to just sing, using the ladle like a microphone.

Wille’s heart aches with fondness at the picture, and he’s grinning when Simon takes his hand, remembering at the last minute to put the knife he was using to cut the onions down as his boyfriend pulls him into a waltz that’s very much not fitting the song and yet perfect. They’re jumping around the kitchen, dancing, laughing and falling into each other’s arms as they try to match the up-tempo beat of the song. Simon’s abuelita looks at them fondly while stirring the meat for their dinner tonight – pabellón criollo, their family recipe.

It had taken Wille a full week to convince lita – because she insists he call her that too – to finally let him help cooking. This was, after all, her domain, and Wille was a guest. Every time he’d asked her, she just told him, with warm eyes, that los invitados no cocinan aquí, cariño, and Wille could say nothing against that.

But finally, on this final night of their trip to Venezuela, she caved after Wille told her how much he loves cooking. And though it’s true that the sound of the knife falling against the wooden cutting board and the sizzling of vegetables in hot oil, the doing rather than thinking and never stopping grounded him, it wasn’t the only reason he had wanted to help her cook.

Wille has been received with open arms from their first day in Venezuela, the whole family just accepting him and doing their best to include him even if he can’t always follow along and Simon has to translate. They joke with him the same way they joke with Simon, ask him for any embarrassing stories about their primo and even despite the language barrier, Wilhelm feels like he is home. Like he’s always been part of this big, loud and loving family.

And for that, he wants to say thank you. By cooking, by helping Lita in the kitchen as they prepare this last feast before they fly back to Sweden.

Lita asks Simon something in Spanish that Wille can’t understand. Though he learned a bit of Spanish when he was younger for diplomatic reasons, and though he tried to brush up on his knowledge before making the trip over, Lita speaks so rapidly and with such a heavy accent, dropping d’s and s’s, that Wille often has a hard time following her. Like he has now.

Simon nods at whatever Lita told him (asked him, maybe?) and leaves the kitchen.

Lita and Wille cook in silence for a moment or two, the radio still playing, but only Wille is humming along now. Though he can only catch part of the lyrics, he’s heard the song enough times now to at least know the melody.

Wille finally finishes dicing the onions and goes to put them in a separate pan to fry them up for the beans.

“You make him happy, you know.”

Wille is so focussed on what he’s doing that he doesn’t even realize that Lita started talking to him, the Spanish much slower than she spoke to Simon a moment ago.

Surprised, he turns to face her. Her eyes are trained on the food, but the corner of her mouth has lifted up into a small smile.

“He makes me happy too,” Wille says after a moment, in careful Spanish.

“I’m glad he’s found you,” she continues, again speaking slowly so Wille can catch every word. “You two remind me of me and my husband, dios lo tenga en su gloria, when we were your age.”

Wille doesn’t reply – doesn’t know how to reply, didn’t expect this at all. It’s not that Lita never talks to him, but he realizes now they haven’t had a moment alone before now, always surrounded by at least one other family member.

Lita fully turns to him now and places a warm, rough hand that shows years of labor and love on his cheek. She looks at him with chocolate eyes, a piercing gaze that Wille finds all too familiar – they’re Simon’s eyes as well.

“I can tell you love him very much, and that he loves you very much. I hope you’ll continue to make each other happy for many years to come.”

And where at first Wille was just surprised, now he’s stunned into absolute silence. This, this seems important somehow. This feels like a blessing.

“I’m happy you’re part of the family, mijo.”

Mijo. Wille falters at the word, barely able to wrap his mind around Lita calling him son, truly welcoming him into the family. He’s actually part of this, of them, of this part of Simon’s life now. And she, this woman who holds so much love in her heart, sees how much they mean to each other. That they are each other’s forever.

Wille thanks her, flustered and stumbling over his r’s that still feel unfamiliar in his mouth. But he thanks her nevertheless, saying he hopes for the same, that he will do everything in his power to make Simon happy, to show Simon how much he loves him every single day.

Lita just chuckles and resumes cooking, the moment gone as soon as it started. That’s when Simon stumbles back into the kitchen, holding a giant bag of rice. He launches into another tale in Spanish, occasionally glancing at Wille, who’s still standing next to Lita and isn’t really paying attention anyways, too caught up in what just happened. Wille knows he must have the dumbest smile on his face because Simon looks at him, questioningly. Wille shakes his head. Later, he mouths.

Wille looks on as the scene settles back to what it was before – Simon and Lita singing along to the radio, continuing their cooking. But it’s changed, somehow. Wille’s heart feels… Fuller. Fuller than it ever has as he too softly joins in the singing. This has Simon even more confused before he shrugs, shaking his head in bemusement at Wille’s very off-key singing.

They finish dinner. Wille helps Simon carry it all outside, putting it on the large table so they can have it under the stars, with the cicadas singing their cacophony in the background.

It’s their family tonight that they have this final dinner with. Their cousins that jostle around for the ladle, that laugh loudly into the night sky.

His and Simon’s, forever.

[snackhobi]

pairing: taehyung x reader / word count: 13.3k / genre: fluff, friends to lovers, smut (NSFW, 18+)

summary: you’re used to being in love with taehyung. you’ve had a lot of time to get good at it, after all—by this point you’re the world’s expert at keeping your less-than-platonic feelings hidden from him, what with the amount of practice you’ve had.

but then he signs up for a massage therapy course, because apparently you can never catch a break.

or: the one where taehyung gives you a full body massage and then some.

warnings: sexually explicit content, massage with a happy ending (literally 🤧), cursing, edible massage oil/lube, fingering (f), unprotected sex (be safe when you have sex please), multiple orgasms (f), oral sex (m), cum swallowing, pet names, body worship?, brief mention of shower sex

a/n: I swear this was meant to be pwp. this was literally meant to just be pwp with some massage shenanigans. and then I blinked and it had become a soft 13k fic which honestly… kicked my ass quite a bit. but I hope you enjoy it!! thank you as always to @hobi-gif​ for beta reading this and encouraging me and putting up with me changing this multiple times, what would I do without your support miss hope?

--

Taehyung goes through a lot of different phases.

He just finds so many things interesting. Photography, art, art history, music, fashion, thrift shopping; heck, there was even the time he got weirdly into making tea and became some sort of connoisseur, going through the whole rigmarole of buying the loose leaves and weighing them out, checking the temperature of the water, brewing for a precisely measured amount of time.

You still remember the look on his face when you said it all tasted like hot leaf water to you.

Because, of course, as one of Taehyung’s best friends and his roommate, you’re inevitably swept up in everything he does. You’re used to the weirdly acrid smell of photo development fluid and how cold dark rooms can get. You use phrases like chiaroscuro and sfumato to describe the simplest things after listening to Taehyung do the same for so long. You’ve lost count of the amount of times you’ve tripped over his saxophone case when he leaves it lying around the apartment. You regularly wear the baggy t-shirt with the face that Taehyung had painted on it—even if you still refer to it as the Squidward-House-Shirt despite the fact you know he was inspired by Basquiet and Schiele and not the Easter Island themed stone head that Squidward lives in.

You don’t mind getting dragged along with whatever he does, honestly; you don’t have time to attend every class, but go with him when you can. It’s always good to expand your horizons. You also love watching Tae’s face whenever he learns something new, the various expressions that flit across his features—from wide eyed excitement and eyebrow raising astonishment to the more solemn side that appears whenever he’s taking something in and thinking deeply about it, turning it over in his mind, mulling on it.

(You love watching Tae’s face all the time, actually, but that’s a whole other can of worms you’d rather keep shut.)

However, the latest course he’s signed up for is not one you’d been expecting.

���Massage therapy?” Your face twists in equal parts confusion and surprise.

Taehyung’s dropped this latest nugget of information while you’re cooking, trying to fry some rice while also peering at the phone screen that’s been thrust into your face. You’re not bad at multitasking, per se, but Taehyung’s iPhone is drifting so close that you’re almost cross-eyed and it’s blocking you from seeing what’s going on in the pan. 

“I had a coupon,” he says, as if that explains everything. (It doesn’t.)

“Scooch,” you say, and he immediately moves so you can turn the gas off.

“Jiminie and Jungkookie say that my massages help with dance, and that's just from Youtube tutorials.” Taehyung continues to talk as you bustle around the tiny kitchen. He’s already set the table so now he’s free to watch you finish doing the rest of the work. “And Joon-hyung says I have the perfect hands for it.”

You fumble with the pan as you’re scooping the steaming rice into a large bowl, only just managing to save food from scattering everywhere. You’ve thought about Taehyung’s hands a lot, about how large and long fingered and beautiful they are, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“Really? Huh. That’s nice.” You stare at the pan, fixated on getting every grain of rice so you can avoid looking at Taehyung’s face. And hands. Which are still cupped around his phone. Which looks so small in his big, pretty grip.

Jesus Christ.

“It means I can give you massages if you ever start to get tense.” Taehyung sounds pleased, lovely grin on his face at the prospect of being able to rub his hands over you. As if that isn’t going to make every single one of your muscles lock up and turn you into some sort of coiled rope of a human being, which is the complete opposite of what a massage is supposed to achieve. 

“Great.” Despite your inner turmoil, your voice is level and steady as you meticulously scrape the last grain of rice into the bowl, chasing the tiny fleck of white around the huge pan. Scrape, scrape, scrape. “Sounds fabulous. Can’t wait.”

Of course Taehyung would sign up to learn something that he could use to help his friends. He’s so big-hearted and loving. Big-hearted and loving and kind and funny and affectionate and beautiful and deep-voiced and so entirely overwhelming in every single way imaginable. 

You do what you always do when confronted yet again with your all-consuming crush—you bottle that shit the fuck up until he’s not in the room.

And then you have a miniature breakdown at Pickles.

“I am going to die,” you whisper-scream. “He’s going to offer to massage me and he’s going to get a bottle of massage oil out and he’s going drizzle it onto his massive hands and I am going to fucking die.”

The bearded dragon cocks his head as he stares at you. Taehyung had come home with the reptile one day, tank and all, saying that someone on Facebook had been giving him away because they were moving house and could they just look after him for a little while, please, pretty please? Until they found a good home for him? Please?

That was over a year ago. (You’ve always been bad at saying no to Taehyung.)

“I hate my life,” you lament to the lizard, but then you hear the noisy flush of the toilet and know that Taehyung is going to emerge from the bathroom soon, so you have to wrap this miniature meltdown up pronto. “I wish I was a bearded dragon too, you know. All you do is get fed and sit under the heat bulb. Your life is so easy. You don’t even know what capitalism is.”

The silence you get from Pickles is far more support than you get from your human friends once you tell them. Yoongi just raises his eyebrows while Seokjin and Hoseok laugh outright in your face, just like they always do when you cry to them about Taehyung.

You need new friends. These ones are defective. (If only you’d kept the receipt so you could return them.)

“We learned how to do neck and shoulder massages today!” Taehyung says brightly after the first session.

You hum in response. You’re rewatching Pacific Rim together, cuddled up against Taehyung’s side, and you don’t have to turn your head to know what expression is on his face. There’ll be that little upturn to his lips, happiness at learning something new. That warmth in his eyes at being able to share it with you, even if you couldn't be there with him. Those little freckles on his face, under his eye, his nose, his lip; the one you’ve imagined kissing more times than you can count.

“My teacher says I have a natural talent with my hands,” he adds, and you’re so grateful that you can blame your sudden intake of breath on the scene that’s playing on the screen, as high stakes as it is. 

“That’s nice,” you say, and mentally pat yourself on the back at keeping the strain out of your voice. You've had a lot of practice at this. “I’m not surprised, though. You’ve always been good at doing things with them.”

That’s not a euphemism. Taehyung’s always so careful when he makes things; you’d learned how to fold different origami patterns together, matching crane for crane, lotus for lotus, and he’d always been so delicate with his fingers. He’s always so careful and considerate with you, too, fingers splayed wide across your shoulder as he squeezes you closer to his side, leaving you breathless.

“I wish you could come too.” Taehyung sounds disappointed. “We always have so much fun together.”

For the first time in your life you’re grateful that your manager at Olive Chicken is such a hardass and won’t let you swap shifts, so you’d had to miss signing up for the massage course with Taehyung—because you know there’s no way you’d be able to keep it together if there was some sort of tandem practice in class or whatever. Your crush on him is filled with equal parts of tenderness and lust and you’re well aware of that. You’d rest your hands on the soft skin of Taehyung’s shoulders and back, the lust would overwhelm you, and you’d immediately burst into flames like some sort of demon stepping over the threshold of a church. 

Why oh why did God have to make Kim Taehyung so hot?

Why oh why did God have to make you so… not?

You know Taehyung doesn’t see you in a romantic light at all. You’re grateful for this deep, platonic relationship you have, and you love him to pieces, but holy hell is it hard to walk around with Kim Taehyung looking the way he does and wanting to jump his bones while simultaneously being aware that it’s never going to happen. Whenever he smiles at you, or touches you, or holds you, it’s in exactly the same way as he treats any of his friends—and as happy as you are to be one of those friends, it also kind of kills you inside. 

(Because you know you don’t have a chance, have never had a chance, and will never have a chance.)

The idea of offering to massage Taehyung is one that makes you want to melt into a puddle of horny goo. But when he offers to massage you, it’s because you’re a convenient practice partner who he’s comfortable with. It’s no big deal. You could strip naked and slather yourself up in oil and stand in front of him with your bosoms heaving and say ‘Have at me, big boy’ and Taehyung would say: ‘Sweet! A chance to practice deep tissue massage! Gee, thanks for being such a great pal!’

The kind of deep tissue you want Taehyung to massage is very different to whatever he’s talking about.

… Anyway.

You manage to avoid Taehyung using his apparently magic fingers on you for a surprising amount of time, though you’re kept up to date with his progress, because he shares everything with you and tells you about everything and you always, always listen. Because, more than being your crush, he’s one of your best friends and you love him.

Which is why you try your best to be gentle, graciously refusing his offer of a shoulder massage after he sees you wincing, even if with anyone else you’d just tell them to back off with zero hesitation.

“It’s fine,” you say, flapping a hand at him. “I just slept on it funny.”

“A massage would help! It won’t take long, I promise. Five minutes? Please?” 

Taehyung’s looking at you with those big puppy eyes of his, pleading. You waver. You’re torn between being steadfast and avoiding a situation you’ve literally had nightmares about (Taehyung had offered to massage you, and you’d said yes, but then you’d fallen over as you were walking to him and suddenly a lasagne had appeared in your hands and you’d spilled it all down your shirt and he’d pointed and laughed and laughed and you’d felt so embarrassed that you’d woken up, cheeks burning), but then he pouts and you give in like the spineless and lovesick fool that you are.

“Five minutes,” you say, and Taehyung nods emphatically, looking pleased.

(You have the backbone of a chocolate éclair.)

You send quiet thanks to whatever God is listening when he doesn’t ask you to take your top off and doesn’t break out a bottle of scented oil. Instead he just asks for you to straddle a chair, clutching a plushie against your chest to cushion where it leans against the backrest, and tells you to get comfy.

“Just relax,” he says, as you desperately try to remember how your body works and coax it to relax like Taehyung wants you to. You fail miserably. You feel like a ball of rubber bands, each muscle a layer of tighter and tighter elastic that’s circled around you. “Lean forwards a little?”

At least Taehyung can’t see your face from this angle. You have no idea what sort of expression is twisting your features; consternation and horrified anticipation, probably. You're basically throttling your plushie, taking out your tension and frustration on the poor thing, Rilakkuma's placid face morphing into a twisted expression of sympathy under your grasping fingers.

“Perfect,” Taehyung says. The sound of praise in his deep voice has your insides turning into overheated syrup, hot and thick, dripping down and pooling between your legs. You hate yourself. Getting turned on by the most innocuous words from your best friend, really? Get it together.

The second you feel Taehyung's warm hands touch the back of your neck, your shoulders hunch up faster than a whiplash, a turtle sucking its head into its shell. Your friend laughs.

“This is the opposite of relaxing,” he says, voice warm with amusement. 

“You surprised me.” You dig your nails into Rilakkuma's soft brown fur. Taehyung just thinks you're not used to being massaged, not that you're being weird because it's him that's touching you. Because he touches you a lot. He’s just never done it like this. “Sorry.”

“It's fine,” he replies, unruffled and oblivious. “Let me try again?”

You bite your lip, desperately trying to quell the mix of arousal and tension that’s churning in your stomach, begging your muscles to unwind. You’ve kept your crush a secret from him for this long, you can keep that energy up. (You have to keep that energy up.) “Um. Okay.”

You’re still tense when Taehyung puts his hands on you again. The touch is warm through your clothes, firm but careful, digging into the sharp line of tension laid across your shoulders; despite the way your heart is threatening to launch itself out of your chest, you start to loosen up, because holy shit that feels nice, actually.

You melt against Rilakkuma and smother the bear's face in your chest. “Your teacher wasn’t kidding when they said that you’re good with your hands,” you mumble. 

You’ve never gotten a proper massage before but it feels so damn good that you can’t help but unwind, turning to jelly at the confident presses of Taehyung’s fingers and palms into the soft skin between your neck and shoulder. A little sigh spills past your lips when Taehyung starts to work at the part that’s been twinging after you lay crookedly on it, limbs akimbo in your sleep after a long night at work. “Oh, right there, Tae.”

Taehyung goes still for just a second before continuing, trailing his fingers over your shirt. “Here?”

Your eyes have drifted shut so you can focus on the sensation of that tension being pulled out of your body. “Yeah, right there,” you repeat, massaged into a state of lazy euphoria. The breath you let out is long and deep, catching in the back of your throat at a particularly firm rub of Taehyung’s hands; if you weren’t so blissed out you might be embarrassed at how much the noise you make is like a moan, but as it is, you don’t even notice. You just let out a little sound of discontent when Taehyung’s fingers stutter in their motions, displeased that he’s stopped even for a second.

By the time the massage is over, you’re so relaxed that you feel like you could melt into the floor, a wobbly puddle of unwound muscles and loose limbs. It’s official. You’re a massage convert.

“Holy shit.” Your eyes flutter open as you lean away from Rilakkuma so you can turn around. They’re the first coherent words you’ve spoken for a while; small sighs and sounds have been dripping from your lips and it’s only now that you’re able to regain your breath. “Tae, that was amazin—”

You’re met with the sight of Taehyung’s back as he power walks away, steps rapid, a little shaky, awkward. Before you can ask what’s wrong, he’s stepping into the bathroom. 

“I need to wash my hands,” he says without looking at you, before the door slams shut.

You don’t remember Tae telling you about how quickly you have to wash your hands after finishing a massage. But, thinking about it, you suppose it makes sense—you know, with massaging multiple clients or whatever—even if it’s surprising exactly how fast he’d hoofed it away from you. It sounds like he’s switched both taps on full blast as well, noisy even through the wooden door, and judging from how long he’s in there, he’s being very thorough. Hand washing must be a lot more important than you’d realised. 

Once Taehyung emerges, his face is a little flushed, cheeks a soft red. You wonder if the hot water tap is playing up again and filling your dinky bathroom with hot steam, and make a mental note to look into it. You smile at Taehyung from your perch on the sofa, Rilakkuma plopped on your lap, smile spread across your features; one that Taehyung returns, as pink-faced as he is.

“How’s your shoulder feeling?”

“So much better, honestly,” you admit. It’s incredible. He hasn’t even finished the course yet and he's already this good. He really does have magic hands.

“I’ll have to give you massages more often,” Taehyung says, though the end of the sentence trembles a little. He must be light-headed after all the steam in the bathroom.

The thought of more massages doesn’t fill you with as much mind-numbing trepidation as it might have earlier, utterly languid as you flop across the sofa, muscles uncoiled after the lovely touch of Taehyung’s even lovelier hands. No wonder people rave about spa days if they leave you feeling like this. Maybe if you’d been staring at Taehyung in the eye when he’d been touching you, then you’d feel a lot more awkward—as it is, it’s no worse than usual. Your crush is still all-encompassing but you also got a massage out of it, so.

“Sounds great.” This time you don’t even have to fake your excitement. “Now come sit your butt down so we can order some takeout and decide what to watch.”

When you bend down to speak to Pickles later, the bearded dragon is lolling on his favourite branch. “There’s still a high chance that I’m going to die,” you say in a low voice, before you flick the lights off so the lizard can sleep. “But he hasn’t broken out the oils yet, so I think I’ll be okay for now.”

--

Your luck doesn’t last.

“Strawberry and champagne, lychee martini, mint mojito, white chocolate, or tropical coconut?”

You look up from where you’re painting your toenails. “Huh?”

Taehyung bundles into the room and throws himself onto your bed, flopping on his belly and ignoring the way the mattress is jostled. You, of course, are used to his antics, which is why you’d swept your open bottle of nail polish up before he could spill it everywhere.

“What do you think sounds best?”

“Well, that depends,” you say, squinting at your toes and carefully sweeping the polish over the freshly buffed nails. “For candles, I think they sound pretty nice. For sauces to pour over a steak, I’d say I’d give them all a hard pass. What’s it for?”

“Massage oils,” Taehyung says blithely, too busy staring at his phone to see you muffle a curse when your hand slips and you paint your entire little toe blue. “I was wondering which you think sounds best.”

“Oh. Uh.” You fumble to clean your toe and salvage the now-terrible pedicure you’re trying to give yourself. It was only a matter of time before massage oils were going to become part of your life. Taehyung never goes into things half-hearted, so of course he’s going to invest in oils, too. God’s sake. You can never catch a break, can you? “Why these ones in particular?”

Taehyung pauses for a suspiciously long time, but it gives you the chance to furiously rub at your toe while he’s distracted. “We get a free bottle from the course,” he says eventually.

Huh. Okay. “That’s pretty neat. What was the last one? Coconut? Stick with the basics, can’t go wrong with that, right?”

“Coconut is always tasty,” Taehyung comments absently, and you glance up from your Smurf toe.

“Agreed, but it’s not like you’re about to eat massage oil, are you?”

Taehyung pauses, and then buries his face into his phone screen—suddenly very intent on rereading the list of ingredients in each bottle, it seems. “No, of course not, you’re right,” he mumbles.

He’s almost finished the course. He’s not going to be an accredited masseuse or anything, but you definitely think he could be, if he wanted to—you’ve never had less tension in your shoulders and neck in your life. Taehyung always eases his way into your personal space anyway, casual and effortless after years of friendship, but now you’re used to his fingers sliding over the back of your neck, a gliding touch, sending tense little goosebumps over your skin while simultaneously making you melt. 

“It’s pretty cool that you get free stuff, though.” Your toe is clean, thankfully, no longer blue. “And not just, like, a generic bottle of oil or something. They all sound really fancy. I didn’t realise that you could get massage oils that were scented like that?”

Taehyung makes a non-committal noise, which is uncharacteristic of him, but you’re too focused on repainting your final nail to pay it too much mind, letting out a loud huff of triumph when you’re done.

“Get me a bag of shrimp crackers, please?” You have a sudden craving but you don’t want to penguin waddle to the kitchen and risk getting anything on your wet nails. “Ya girl is hungry.”

“Got it.” Taehyung rolls off the bed without protest. You’re used to his antics, and he’s used to yours, indulging you whenever you feel lazy or want him to do something for you. “You need me to feed you?”

“I wasn’t going to use my toes to feed myself,” you laugh, but Taehyung ends up feeding them to you anyway.

When you recount the list to Seokjin later, his face crumples in a way that’s equal parts offended and disgusted. “They all sound terrible,” he says. “White chocolate should stay in chocolate form and not be turned into an oil. Why does massage oil even have to smell like anything?”

You’re both holed up in the tiny smoking nook behind Olive Chicken; neither of you smoke, but it’s a good excuse to go outside and get fresh air during longer shifts. 

“Hey, don’t ask me, I’m not the one who’s taking the course. I think lychee martini sounds interesting, though.”

“Agree to disagree.” Seokjin unwraps one of the complimentary chocolates the restaurant gives to diners with their bill, swallowing it whole. “Besides, we all know Taehyung could approach you with dirty, used fryer oil and you’d let him dip you in it.”

You slap the next chocolate out of his hand before it reaches his mouth. He’s unmoved and simply plucks another from his pocket, which is apparently bulging with them.

“Yoongichi,” Jin says, calling to the delivery boy, who’s just appeared from the dark like some tired-eyed spectre of fried chicken. “Tell me this. If I were to ask you what smell of massage oil you’d prefer, what—”

“I would say that I really could not care less.” Yoongi flops down on one of the rickety fold-out chairs before silently accepting a chocolate from Seokjin’s stash. “And then I’d ask why you’re asking me in the first place, seeing as you’re the one using it, not me. If Taehyung’s asking what massage oil you’d prefer, Y/n, it’s because he wants to rub it all over you specifically.” Yoongi munches on the chocolate, already filling in the blanks without needing to be told the context. You really are that transparent, huh. “Please, we’ve been over this.”

Jin pouts. “You ruined my set up. I had a whole speech prepared.”

“Oh no.” Yoongi remains blank-faced. “How terrible.”

“I hate both of you,” you say. “I’m going to tell Pickles how mean you are.”

“I bet if that lizard could talk, he’d tell you how tired he was of you two dancing around each other, just like the rest of us,” Yoongi says.

There’s no dancing around, though, no matter what your friends say. Well. Not on Taehyung’s end anyway. You’re out here doing the fandango, castanets and all, while Taehyung just stands stock still, oblivious.

You let out an incredibly long sigh. Seokjin hands you a sympathetic chocolate.

The massage oil doesn’t make an appearance in your life for a little while, though. The end of the course comes and goes, Taehyung proudly flapping the laminated certificate at you, wobble-wobble-wobble, filling the apartment with the sound of rippling plastic. But no coconut oil.

The scent of ‘tropical coconut’ has started to haunt your dreams, in a way that’s both good and bad; when you wake up in a sweat, heart pounding, it’s not because you’re having nightmares, let’s just put it like that. It’s like there’s an invisible countdown that you can’t trace and it’s only a matter of time before it ticks over and the shoulder massages (that you’ve gotten very comfortable with) edge into something different. Taehyung’s going to innocently offer to give you a backrub and uncap that bottle of scented oil and you’re going to explode into a mess of putty under his hands.

Well… then again… you had been worried about that with all the shoulder rubs. Now look at you. You weather those like a champ. Sure, your skin tingles and you run hot and you think about the sensation of Taehyung’s hands gliding over you whenever you’re alone, but you’re basically fine. Your friend who just so happens to also be the great love of your life remains none the wiser.

You bet a full back rub would feel great after a long week.

Which is why when Taehyung steps into the apartment with a look on his face that you immediately recognise as tiredness, you sort of wish you knew how to massage people, too.

He falls into your arms with little fanfare. It’s been one of those days, one of those ones that everyone gets, even Taehyung��he’s usually so Switched On and Exuberant and Alive, and people don’t seem to realise that even he feels exhausted, sometimes.

“You alright, bubs?” You can’t massage him but you can rub his back soothingly, let him snuffle against your neck. Sometimes you think about that little space between your chin and collarbones as Taehyung’s, a hollow that’s perfect for him to press his face into, hair tickling your chin as he curls up into you. His and his alone. “Did something happen?”

He just shakes his head.

“Okay,” you say.

(Close proximity and skin on skin with Taehyung doesn’t always have your pulse rising and your heart racing. Sometimes it’s just this: quiet and soft, your heart bright with fierce affection for this boy, the only thought in your mind that you want him to be happy, forever.)

The long silence is broken by the sound of Taehyung heaving in a breath before letting out a long, exhausted sigh. 

“Thank you.” His voice is quiet and low, far less energetic than his usual self.

“Nothing to thank me for, Tae,” you reply. “Always here for you. You know that, right?”

He doesn’t respond straight away. He just burrows closer, draped over you, until he murmurs, barely audible. “Why?”

Your face twists. “Why, what? Why am I always here for you?”

“Yeah.” Taehyung squeezes himself impossibly closer, skin warm against yours, forehead pressed to the skin of your neck. You can’t see his expression from this angle.

“Because you’re one of my best friends and I love you,” you answer, immediately. You don’t even have to think about it. “Because you’re important to me and if there’s anything I can do for you, I will. I’ll celebrate the good things in your life with you, and I’ll be at your side during the bad times, just like you are with me. Please don’t ever forget how much I love you, okay?”

There’s a pause, and then it feels like all the tension leaves Taehyung’s body, slumping his whole body weight against you. “Okay,” he murmurs. “I love you too. Thank you,” he says again. You just reply by squeezing his shoulders.

He’s a little quieter for a few days after that. You’re not sure why, because he’d perked up after a lazy evening of lying around and eating too many snacks, flopped against you like an oversized, clinging starfish—but you’re gentle with him nonetheless. 

(Well. You’re always gentle with him. It just takes you half a second to fold in the face of his whims, rather than a whole, full second.)

So when the dreaded bottle of oil finally appears, you’re far less ready to fight off Taehyung’s insistence on a full body massage, caught off guard after days of indulging him. Fuck. 

“You’ve had a long week!” Taehyung insists as you scrabble your way over the sofa’s backrest so you can hide behind it, clutching a cushion to your chest. “You need to relax!”

Without looking you fling the cushion over the sofa. Judging from the fact that Taehyung doesn’t make a sound, you’ve missed. “I was feeling perfectly relaxed until you started yelling at me about it! Why are you so obsessed with the idea of me being relaxed?”

Taehyung doesn’t respond. Oh, crap. Maybe you did hit him with the cushion?

You pop up from behind the sofa. Nope. It's an embarrassing distance away from Taehyung, who’s got that surprisingly large bottle of oil held loosely in his hands. There’s an expression on his face that you can’t decipher; a little crestfallen, a little unsure, but there’s something else there, too, something you can’t put a name to.

“Taehyung?”

“I just… wanted to help,” he says. “You’re always there for me when I’m not feeling great, and you calm me down, and I wanted to do the same for you.”

You immediately feel like the worst human being alive. Take the feeling you get whenever you accidentally step on an animal’s tail, multiply it by infinity, and that’s only just a drop in the ocean of awful, awful guilt that you’re drowning in. 

“Oh, Tae,” you say. Your voice comes out so much softer and sweeter than you mean it to, but you can't help it. “I’m sorry. I was just joking. It’s really nice of you to be so concerned. You just surprised me. You do help me relax and your massages are great.” (You tell him that often enough that he should know it, but it never hurts to repeat a compliment.)

His face lifts. It’s like the sun bursting forth from the clouds after heavy rain, and you have to resist the urge to shield your eyes, blinded by the brightness and beauty. Kim Taehyung is so unfairly gorgeous (but what else is new?). “So I can give you a massage?”

Despite the fact the prospect makes you want to fling yourself into space, when you’re faced with Taehyung’s dark eyes and wide smile and large, warm hands, you cave, because of course you do. If, way back when you’d first been frying up that kimchi rice and letting Taehyung thrust his phone into your face, you’d been told you’d end up in this position, you would have laughed outright. Haha, yeah, sure, like you’d be stupid enough to let yourself be wrangled into such a vulnerable state in front of Taehyung, nowhere to run, helpless under his fingers. Not.

But here you are. Whipped for Kim Taehyung, forever and always.

The pastel blue towels under your stomach and chest are soft as they shield you from the cold, hard floor. You’re incredibly aware of how chilly the apartment feels, air prickling against your bare skin; you shift to try and get comfortable, glancing over your shoulder to fiddle with the towel that’s draped over your hips and ass, making sure it’s covering everything. Taehyung insists on authenticity (as if you’re not lying on the floor of your apartment rather than on a massage table) and he says that it’s normal to be completely naked for a full-body massage, even underneath any towels that are covering you up.

Authenticity is also why he’s in the other room, warming up the massage oil, because that’s apparently a thing?

(You’re going to die.)

It doesn’t matter that Taehyung will only be able to see the back of your head, your shoulder blades, the small of your back, a slip of your thighs, your calves. None of these things are especially scandalous; all the parts of your body that someone might find more interesting are out of sight, pressed against the floor or hidden under a layer of Egyptian cotton microfibres. 

And yet you can’t help but be hyperaware of how you’re entirely unclothed. Even if it doesn’t bother Taehyung—what with, you know, the fact he’s not interested in you like that and doesn’t find you attractive at all (sigh)—embarrassment creeps hot and uncomfortable under your skin.

It just feels so crazy intimate to be laid out like this, even if people do this all the time, happily strip down to let professionals rub the tension out of their body. 

(Then again, most people aren’t best friends with their masseuses and haven’t harboured long, one-sided crushes on them, either.)

Just breathe. You can do this. You love the shoulder massages that Taehyung’s been giving you; just think of this as a shoulder massage. 

… A shoulder massage that involves warm oil, near-nakedness, and Taehyung’s hands sliding all over you.

… You are going to have a very long venting session with Pickles after all this.

You’re so distracted by your own self pity and distress that you don’t register the sound of Taehyung entering the room; the little pause when he steps over the threshold, feet stuttering, just for a moment. It’s only when he’s kneeling down that you notice his presence, body jolting from surprise before you let out a slip of high laughter.

“Jesus, Tae,” you say. In any other circumstance, you’d be clutching your chest. “You scared me.”

“Sorry.” He sounds genuinely apologetic.

Your cheek is pillowed on your arms. When you turn to look at your best friend you immediately regret it; he’s settled back on his ankles, knees spread wide, and you come eye-to-eye with his crotch.

In an effort to look away from his clothed dick, your gaze flies up to his face, which might be even worse. He has this intense look in his eyes, and wow, alright, you’ve never been able to see Taehyung’s face as he’s been massaging you, but you never realised exactly how seriously he seems to take it, judging from his expression.

(Do all massage therapists look like that when they work?)

“That’s alright.” You’re a little breathless, but you’re going to blame that on how your boobs are smooshed into the floor, and not on anything else, nuh uh. Shoulder massage. It’s a shoulder massage. It’s just like a full bodied shoulder massage. (Maybe if you repeat it to yourself often enough then you’ll actually start to believe it.) “Uh. Do you need me to… do anything? Or do I just lie here?”

Taehyung’s expression lightens a little at the uncertainty in your tone, smile curling up the corners of his mouth. “You’re perfect right where you are,” he says, and then he reaches for the bottle of oil.

You turn your head away again, cheeks burning. There’s no way you’ll be able to handle the visual of him slicking his fingers and palms up. “Cool,” you say, voice only a little strained. “Coolcoolcoolcool.”

(It’s not cool.)

You don’t have a visual, but you do get the auditory experience thanks to the relative silence in the apartment. Goosebumps ripple down the back of your neck and trail down your spine at the sound of Tae’s hands sliding against each other, thoroughly coated in the warmed oil, and you’re so glad that you can blame it on the chill in the air.

At first, it’s okay. Taehyung starts at the parts of your body that are used to receiving his attention, though it’s different without the barrier of clothing in the way, not to mention how easily his palms glide over you, the air full of the light scent of coconut. It’s different, but manageable, and you think you just might be okay; as always, his touches are firm but careful, and your body is used to this by now, relaxing.

But. The second you feel Taehyung’s touch between your shoulder blades, you stiffen with a shiver. The oil is the perfect temperature against your skin, but you’ve always had a sensitive back; you can’t help but clench your fists, digging your fingers into your palms. Relax. Just breathe. 

“You’ve got a lot of tension here.” Taehyung’s voice is low as he digs the heel of his palm into the dip of your spine.

It’s because you’re touching me there, you think to yourself, but just let out a non-committal hum of agreement instead. 

You feel Taehyung's hands, a repeated sliding motion between your shoulder blades; the tension starts to leak out of you again, but your breath hitches in your throat at how you're pressed downwards and into the cotton towels beneath you, nipples hardening against them.

Thank God you're on your front so Tae can't see what effect he's having on you.

“Better?”

Taehyung's voice is always deep, but you'd swear it was even deeper in this moment, pitched low. Maybe that’s because the sound of blood pumping is filling your ears so it’s hard to discern. At this point, who even knows? Not you, that’s for sure.

“Yep.” Why are you so breathless? You haven’t moved at all, but you sound like you’ve just run the 100m sprint, winded and weak. “So much better.”

You regret agreeing to this. You are so out of your depth and there’s no way you’re going to be able to hide exactly how much this is affecting you and you want to collapse in on yourself and shrivel up like a sundried tomato, tiny and wrinkly and underwhelming. 

Taehyung shifts to reach more of you and you squeeze your eyes shut so you don’t come face first with his crotch again, shielding yourself from the view of his loose linen trousers stretched almost taut with how wide his knees are. It’s both a blessing and a curse—a blessing because you’re saved from aforementioned view, but a curse because your sensation of touch is heightened, and all you’re aware of is his hands sliding down your sides. You’d swear those fingers were so long he could circle your waist with ease.

(Massages are meant to relax you and yet you’ve never felt so tense in your life.)

Taehyung clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth. “I can’t get a good angle like this,” he mutters.

Before you can think anything or say anything, you become aware of the sound of moving and shifting and—

Your eyes fly open. Taehyung’s straddling your thighs, heavy and warm, and you suck in a breath so sharp and fast you can feel your chest expand, brain full of the screaming clang of warning bells. There’s no way this is a normal masseuse thing. There’s no way. It’s intimate and entirely too physical and there’s absolutely no way that this is something Taehyung learned in class. 

(What is he doing?)

But then any coherent thought in your brain slips when his hands settle on you again.

They so, so lightly brush the hem of the towel that preserves your modesty, and you can’t help the full-body shiver that wracks through you. You suck your lips into your mouth, swallowing down the noise that threatens to bubble up in your throat. There’s the sensation of fingers trailing up the line of your spine, feather light, smoothed by the slide of oil, and you feel like molten lava, burning hot and bright.

“Taehyung.” Your voice is high and faint.

His fingers splay down your ribcage and run down your sides, confident and smooth, warm with that coconut-scented oil, and you’re dying, you’re living; you want to disappear, you never want this to end. 

“Taehyung,” you repeat. Your voice shakes.

He hums, low and indulgent. “Yes?”

“M-my thighs,” you stammer, unable to articulate yourself. Why are you on my thighs, oh God, you’re so warm and heavy on top of me, oh God oh God oh God.

Taehyung completely misunderstands you. “Oh? Of course.” He sounds nonchalant. “I’ll massage those next.”

You can feel the drag of his linen trousers against your skin as he moves down to rest on your calves, and hear the bottle open as Taehyung drizzles more oil over his hands, far more than he could possibly need. His palms feel so broad and warm against the smoothness of your thighs, touches firm and confident as he digs his fingers into the muscle, and, oh, fuck, this is, this is too much—

Your legs jump when Taehyung hitches the towel up, just a little, baring more of your body.

“Fuck.” You can't keep quiet any longer. “Tae, I’m fine, I’m feeling way less tense now.”

He’s still, for a moment, before his hands slide up the back of your thighs. “Are you sure? You want me to stop?”

It’s only then that you realise how deeply Taehyung is breathing, fast and low, voice rough and gravelled. His fingers rest in wait, warm and slick with oil; you’re so close to losing any modicum of modesty, only one motion away from that towel being rucked high enough that there’s nothing protecting you from Taehyung’s touch and eyes.

“I haven’t finished yet, though,” he continues, digging his thumbs into your skin as he pulls his hands down your thighs, mindlessly following the motions he’s been taught. “There’s still more to go.”

You could twist around to look at him but you’re almost afraid to look at his face, afraid of what you’d find there. He sounds as affected as you are, but there’s absolutely no way. There’s no way.

“You don’t need to do the whole massage if I’m feeling relaxed, right?” 

(Because you’re feeling so relaxed right now, of course, and not like you’re about to go supernova and burst into heat and light. Absolutely.)

(But.)

(But. Taehyung’s hands settle at the back of your knees, swiping the sensitive skin with his thumbs. You can’t see his face, but you can feel something in that touch, something more than skin deep, like it’s sinking into you, through skin and muscle and bone, in in in, settling inside you, a flicker of—of—)

“Want to do this perfectly for you,” he murmurs. You clench your hands at the husky note in his voice, nails digging so hard into your palms it hurts. “You deserve the best. I want you to feel good.”

He must be able to see your back rise and fall as you breathe in sharply.

“Taehyung.” Almost pleading. 

“Yes, love?”

You suck in another sharp breath. The pet name sounds so soft and sweet in his mouth, somehow, even with the heated edge to his voice. One that’s definitely there. You’re not imagining it. 

(You’re not.)

“Do you want me to make you feel good?” he continues.

Before you can think, you nod.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

You’re trembling. Taehyung’s still heavy and warm across the back of your calves, sliding one hand to the inside of a knee and up the soft skin of your inner thighs. You instinctively shift them apart, as far as you can with Taehyung trapping your legs, and, oh, his hand is going higher, oh—

His hand is so big, cupping your overheated sex. It’s hard to tell where the oil ends and your own arousal begins, flushed wet and hot; when he dips his middle finger between your lower lips, long and gentle and firm, you let out a noise you didn’t realise you were capable of. The angle is off, a little awkward, the motions of Taehyung’s fingers stifled by how you’re lying flush to the ground, but God, you’re so turned on it barely matters.

You’re hyperaware of everything. The soft touch of air on the cooling oil across your skin. The fall of the towel, bunched around your waist, slowly slipping to one side. Taehyung’s hand, his fingertips easing through the heat of you, sliding over your clit, over your entrance, slow and soft and amazing. 

“Again,” you plead. “Again, Tae, please.”

“Feels good?” He asks, and you squeeze your eyes shut as you nod, cheek still pillowed against your arm.

“So good,” you say. “But I want more, please, Tae.”

“Anything you want,” he murmurs.

Taehyung’s hand shifts between your legs again, so hot, so big, so reverent. The slide is smooth as his fingers press into your folds, practically gliding. You twist beneath him, letting out a noise of displeasure when he draws his hand away, but then he lifts off your calves. You let him thrust your legs apart before he resettles between them.

Just as you’re distracted with the towel being tugged away from your hips, baring you entirely, Taehyung slides a finger into your weeping cunt.

You whine. It's so long. Now that your calves aren’t trapped, there’s nothing to stop you from rutting back against his fingers. He splays his other hand over the soft flesh of your ass, encouraging the rolling motion of your hips, and you’re gasping, wanton in your noises of desire and pleasure. One finger becomes two, and then three, Taehyung’s voice a low undercurrent to your stuttered moans as he presses them as deep as he can.

“Just like that, angel,” he breathes. “Want you to feel good, keep making those pretty noises, let me know how good it is—”

“Taehyung,” you whine, dragging the syllables of his name out when he curls his fingers inside you, so amazing, hitting you in all the right places.

“Baby.” He sounds wrecked, words sliding together, and you haven’t even touched him yet. “You’re so hot n’ wet, fuck. So perfect. Just like that, keep moving like that.”

You can hear the slick sounds of his thrusts into you. He’s already learned what you like, twisting his fingers in a way that leaves you breathless; they’re so fucking long, sliding into your greedy cunt with ease, reaching so much deeper than your own can. His pretty lovely hands are on you, inside you, and you’re heady at the thought.

“There, Tae, don’t stop, please, p-please.” The coil twists tighter in between your legs, a taut thread that’s ready to snap. He listens, repeating the motion that’s pulling you closer to the edge, eyes wide, staring at the way you’re writhing underneath him; the way the oil on your back and legs shimmers in the light, the evidence of his touch all over you, shining. “Tae, oh, God, right there, yes, yes, yes—”

Your entire body goes tense and then you’re cumming around Taehyung’s fingers, clenching your thighs together, trapping him inside as you buck your hips. You grind back against his hand, a loud moan falling from your lips, drowning out the noise of awe that Taehyung makes when he feels your walls pulsate around him. You're warm and tight and wet, arousal flooding thick against his skin, and he lets out a stuttered groan, fingers buried knuckle deep inside you, feeling every wave of pleasure that rocks through your core.

You’re panting by the time you settle back down and barely make a sound when Taehyung drags his fingers out of you. When he leans down the oil on your skin feels tacky against his clothes, material sticking to you, chest to back, hips to ass. You can feel the hot curve of him through his trousers, his cock heavy, getting harder—and it feels sososo good.

Taehyung’s face is so close, now, chin hooked over your shoulder. Even though you can feel the hardness of his cock pressed against you, the smile on his face is so gentle. Your heart thrums in your chest.

“So cute n' pretty,” he says, and presses his nose to the soft curve of your cheek. Rather than coconut, all you can smell is his shampoo, familiar and homely and heady. “All over. God, I can’t believe you’d let me touch you like this. I’m so lucky. Was that good, baby?”

“Yes,” you say, and then, because you’re still floating in a light haze of disbelief: “I’m the lucky one.” 

Taehyung laughs, low and quiet. It’s a honeyed moment, dripping slow and sweet, even sweeter when he tilts his head forward. His lips are soft against your cheekbone, your jaw, and when you turn towards him, they’re even softer against your mouth. You can feel the shape of his smile, and it tastes so bright, small kisses that turn open mouthed, so perfect. Because you’re kissing Kim Taehyung, your Taehyung, something you’ve been dreaming about for so long, now—even if this entire situation is pretty unbelievable, honestly.

When you pull back, his eyes spark with unadulterated joy. He’s warm and heavy, pinning you down against the towels that are soft against your front; arching your spine, you lean back against the weight of Taehyung’s body, his cock fattening up through the layers of clothes that separate you. He lets out a breath of surprise before he grinds down, pressing that hard heat against you, and your cunt clenches.

“Can I finish the massage?” He asks, sounding almost eager, even with the rasp of lust in his voice. You can’t help but laugh, an affectionate giggle that has you knocking your foreheads together.

“Of course,” you say, and he catches your lips again, swallowing the last of your laughter, sweeping his tongue over your lips, inside your mouth, wet and hot and a little messy, but good. 

“You need to be on your back,” Taehyung continues, slow after the kiss is broken, and, oh, okay, that has you shivering. “If you want to?”

Of course you want to.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Let me move.”

He shifts to give you room, but not before pressing a kiss to the back of your neck, the bump of the top of your spine, lips sliding against the oil that he���d rubbed there earlier, goosebumps erupting over your skin.

“So good to me,” he whispers. You don’t think he even means for you to hear it. 

(It’s said without thought; not thoughtless, no, but a soft little thing that says so much. A thought that’s slipped across his mind and fallen from his lips, warm and tender. Like you’re always good to him, and he sees it, he knows it, he feels it, he thinks it, and he’s almost in disbelief about it, because you’re so good to him.)

You feel warm and languid after cumming, loose-limbed as you flop onto your back. There’s no going back now. There’s no going back from this moment, naked and vulnerable under Taehyung, nothing hidden away any more—the soft fall of your breasts, your stomach, the lines of your hips, your fingers tightening in the towels spread beneath you as Taehyung’s eyes drink you in, wide and overawed at the sight of your flushed cunt, ripe and slick and ready for him.

(There's no more hiding how much you want Taehyung to have you, body and heart alike.)

You can see the shape of your body silhouetted on his clothes, where the oil has seeped into the material from how close he’d been pressed against you. You can see just how affected he is, cock straining against the loose linen of his white trousers, and you bite your lip to try and stifle the sound you make.

“Look at you,” Taehyung breathes, kneeling between your legs. “You’re so perfect.”

Your cheeks burn. “Taehyung, please,” you say, embarrassed. You really aren’t, especially in comparison to model-gorgeous Kim Taehyung, eyes dark and full of heated lust, hair falling in his eyes, effortlessly beautiful, always.

“You are,” he insists. “You have no idea how perfect you are.”

Before he reaches for the massage oil, he sucks the taste of you off his fingers, sloppy and messy. Your pussy throbs at the sight. And—you were also right about the visual being too much to handle, breath catching in your throat as you watch it drip into his broad hands. His palms shine as he rubs them together, interlacing his fingers, so graceful in their motions. You’re so wet from your orgasm, only getting wetter as you stare back at Taehyung, whose gaze has been heavy on you the whole time.

He starts at your collarbones. It’s even slower than before, and you ease underneath him, revelling in the softness of his touch. He sweeps his hands over your shoulders, down your arms, circling his long fingers around your wrists before lifting one of your hands. Your eyelashes flutter as he presses a kiss to your palm, a motion so full of adoration and tenderness it steals your breath away, and you squirm, shy.

“Tae,” you whine. “You can’t just do that.”

Of course he doubles down, lifting your other hand and repeating the motion, letting his lips linger between your head line and your heart line. “I can,” he says, words warm in your cupped palm. 

“I hope you didn’t do this in class.” Your voice is too weak for it to come out as the joke you mean it to be. 

Taehyung just shakes his head, mouth brushing over the tips of your fingers. “Only for you,” he says. “Did the whole class for you. I wanted—wanted an excuse to touch you more,” he admits, and your heart feels like it’s going to launch itself out of your throat.

“Then touch me,” you say, trying to sound confident even if your cheeks burn.

And he does. He lets your hands drop, gliding his touch back up your arms, down your body, over your legs; he massages your thighs and calves, digs his thumbs into the arches of your feet, circling his fingers around your ankles, shackles you don’t want to escape from. You feel so relaxed and lax, somehow, even if every touch has you biting your lip, anticipation roiling  in your stomach for what’s to come, Taehyung laying your legs down softly before he shifts back up, hands held out towards you—

—then he cups your breasts in his big, big hands and your back arches, fingers sliding over your nipples, glistening with coconut oil, circling them with the pads of his thumbs. You let out an embarrassing whine.

“Oh, Tae,” you beg. “More, please.”

“Whatever you want, sweetheart.”

You smile at another soft, unexpected pet name, flustered, but then your eyes slide shut when Taehyung bends down to kiss your neck as he continues to run his hands over the swell of your breasts. He trails his lips over your oiled skin, shifts down, drawing a line from your neck to the valley of your chest, the hard line at the center of your ribcage.

“Tae,” you murmur, and then, feeling bold under the heat of Taehyung’s dark eyes— “Baby.”

He hums before laying another sloppy kiss against your sensitive skin. You can feel the curve of his smile in the kiss. “Yes, love?”

“Is it really okay for you to… you know… get that oil in your mouth? I don’t want you to get sick,” you say, concerned, even through the haze of your arousal. His lips shine with it, at how he’s been trailing his mouth over all the parts of your body that he’s touched.

There’s a short beat, and then Taehyung buries his head against your neck—in that little hollow that’s his, in a motion he’s done dozens of times. Except this time you’re naked and he still has fingers splayed across the soft skin of your chest, nipples dragging underneath his palms.

“You’re always so considerate.” His words are muffled against your skin. “It’s fine. It’s edible.”

“You got edible massage oil from your course?”

Taehyung hesitates. “No,” he admits. “I bought it. It’s edible and, uh. Safe for intimate use.”

You’re silent, just for a moment, and then you can’t help it. You start to laugh. 

“Kim Taehyung,” you say, body shaking with amusement. “Did you buy edible massage oil that you can also use as lube?”

Taehyung pulls his face away from your neck and glances up. You’re giggling at him, and he feels so full of love and affection; he can’t help but join in, both laughing at him, loud and carefree.

“It’s why I asked which one you liked,” he confesses, once he can catch his breath.

“I can’t believe you lied to me,” you say, but you don’t mind, really, and he knows it. You lift a hand to push hair out of his face, running your fingers down his scalp. He leans into your touch with a smile, bright and lovely, before he abruptly shifts one of his hands down so he can lick a hot, wet stripe across the skin of your breast.

That stops your laughter pretty fast, surprised hiccup shifting into a broken moan when he engulfs your nipple in the heat of his mouth. “O-oh,” you gasp. “Oh, Taehyung—”

“Been thinking about this for so long.” Taehyung’s eyes are lidded and dark as he leans back, watching the way you react to his touch, arching up towards him. “Wanted to touch you like this so much.”

“Wanted it too,” you breathe. “Wanted—oh, God, Tae, fuck—”

It’s overwhelming. Not just the way Taehyung is flicking his tongue over each of your nipples, pressing his lips against your skin, no—but the idea that he’s been hoping for this, too. Each wet motion of his tongue over your pebbled skin drags pulls out of you; Taehyung’s cock twitches at a loud keen that’s drawn from your lips, a wet patch of precum seeping through his boxers and trousers, darkening the fabric, even though you haven’t touched him yet.

When you reach out to grasp him through his clothes, his hips jolt forward and he bites off a surprised gasp, cutting through the sound with his teeth. He feels long and heavy as you stroke him, thumbing over the wet patch at his tip, hot, even through all those layers between your skin and his.

“I want to feel you, Tae,” you say, staring at him. “Inside me. Please.”

His breath hitches when you tighten your fingers around his shaft and drag your hand upwards, slow and intent. 

“The oil isn’t condom friendly,” he admits, abashed. 

“Then you can cum in my mouth,” you reply. No hesitation.

Taehyung’s eyes are so wide, but then he smiles, eyes squeezing into crescents, mouth turning up into that lovely, broad grin of his. He looks so sweet and sincere, and you feel like you could explode, stuffed overfull with love for him.

“You really are perfect,” he says.

“Only for you,” you reply, your smile just as bright.

He lays one final kiss to your chest, above your beating heart, before he starts to strip. The oil has obviously soaked through his shirt and onto his skin because it sticks when he peels it off and carelessly throws it aside. 

Just like his heart, Taehyung’s body is soft and lovely. You sit up so you can touch him properly, catching him off guard when you pull him in for a kiss—one he eagerly leans into, and without the shirt in the way you can feel the way your skin slides against his, softened with oil. 

There really is no one as beautiful as Kim Taehyung. You drag your hands over him, so warm and wonderful under your palms; his chest, his cute tummy, his waist, his hips, the soft skin above his red, neglected cock. He’s radiant in his nakedness, every easing line of his body so perfect as he kneels in front of you, the flush of his skin, the heavy weight of his arousal, head shining with precum, so wet it’s practically dripping.

You lean in to kiss his neck and nip at his Adam's apple as his hands slide over your shoulder blades and down your back, the parts that make you shudder.

“Want you, Tae.” You whisper into his mouth, a soft secret that isn’t really a secret at all, not any more. “All of you.”

“Going to give you everything you want.” The words flow out of him with ease. “Everything you want.”

His chest and stomach shine with the massage oil that’s rubbed off from your own skin. You run your hands across him, and when you finally grasp his cock without the barrier of cloth in the way, he’s almost burning under your grasp, thick, his entire body shuddering when you pump his length. So sensitive to your touch.

“I’m goin’ to make you cum again,” he promises, and you love it, the way he talks when he’s losing himself. “Bet you’ll feel so good around my cock, so perfect.”

A shiver skates through your body. Taehyung’s fingers dig into your skin when he feels you trembling under his hands, and all you can think about is how you want him in you.

“Please,” you say. “Please, wanna make you feel good too—”

“Hands and knees, angel,” he rasps, and, God, yes, those words cut straight through you, sharp and electric.

Maybe you should feel embarrassed at how quickly you obey. The towels underneath you, so carefully placed at the start, perfectly flat, become rumpled as you shift into position; you arch your back, wanting to look as good as possible, and glance over your shoulder to see if it works.

Judging from the look on Taehyung’s face, it does. He looks like he’s never seen anything more awe-inspiring, eyes wide and mouth a little slack, dumbstruck. But then his jaw snaps shut and he splays his hands over the soft skin of your hips, your waist, your ass, shuffling closer to you; you feel the curve of his cock slide against your skin and you bite back a noise of need.

“Fuck, so beautiful.” He ruts forward, and you can feel the wetness of his precum slicking against you, a beaded line drawn across the sheen of massage oil. “My beautiful, perfect girl.”

“Tae,” you plead, already overwhelmed with need, heart squeezing at his words.

“Just one more thing, angel, I promise.”

It’s a good thing that the bottle of massage oil is so big, considering how liberal Taehyung is with it. You gasp when he uses one hand to spread your ass and before you can react there’s a drizzle of oil falling onto your skin, down-down-down, over your cunt, dripping over your inner thighs; Taehyung catches the excess with his palms before he slicks himself up, spreading that sweet coconut over his throbbing cock.

(You wonder what it’ll taste like when you lick it off him.)

When you feel the blunt head of his cock nudging at your pussy, your entire body lights up in anticipation, nerve endings on fire, every inch of your body singing under Taehyung’s touch—and when he finally sinks in, it’s almost effortless. He’s thick and long but everything slides so easy; you gasp and he moans, both lost in how your body opens up for him, hot and wet. By the time he’s bottomed out you're a quivering mess, collapsed onto your elbows. You’re so full. You feel split open in all the best ways, wanting to draw him in impossibly deeper even so.

Taehyung is gripping your sides, hands unmoving even with the slick oil underneath them, fingers digging into your skin. He’s breathing so loud, and when you experimentally shift your hips, he bites back a noise that cuts through that breath.

“How’s it feel, love?” His words slur together in arousal, but the hand that strokes your back is slow, thoughtful. “Feel good?”

“Fuck me, Tae, baby, please,” you beg. It’s so, so so much, so good, amazing, hotter and bigger and harder than anything you’d let yourself imagine, your entire body taking Taehyung and holding him in, in, in. “Please, I need it, it feels good but I want more, please.”

When he pulls away it’s slow and torturous and he goes so far he almost slips out, cock nearly sliding out of your folds. You whine, a little shameless, mostly needy, but then—

The snap of his hips drives you forwards, towels shifting underneath as you scrabble for a hold on something. Each sharp motion of Taehyung’s body has you choking for air and letting out whimpers and gasps, drowned out by the slap of skin on skin; his hipbones meet the soft flesh of your ass, again and again, but all you can focus on is the thick heat of his cock inside you, in-out-in-out, the press of his balls against your clit, everything so wet and smooth and slick.

You can feel how you’re losing yourself to that heady place that’s golden bright with feeling, lust and sex, the rest of the world gone, unimportant. There’s nothing but this—Taehyung touching you, filling your body so well, so perfect, helping you chase that high that’s growing faster and faster, that precipice of pleasure that he’s going to throw you over again, intent on it.

One of his hands trails up your back, between that sensitive dip of your shoulder blades and into your hair, locks tangling with coconut oil before he urges you up. He doesn’t yank or pull but his hold is firm and you end up back on your hands, arms trembling as you try to keep your balance, back bowed, overwhelmed. 

“Baby,” he rasps. “Oh, you’re so tight n’ hot, so pretty, fuck. You feel so good, do you feel good?”

Your answer is almost a wail, so overcome with pleasure, sensation, the glide of his hands over your shining skin, the mix of oil and arousal that drips out of you, only getting wetter with each thrust of his hips into you. “So good, o-oh God, Tae, baby, fuck, oh, theretherethere—”

“Here?”

He punctuates this with a roll of his hips, using the hand still on your hip to pull you back onto his cock as he fills you up once more, throbbing heat. He bends over you, and this time, there’s nothing stopping the skin on skin contact, the slide of his chest against your back as he kisses the soft skin behind your ear, nipping at your lobe, and that’s it, you’re gone. Your eyes slide shut and your mouth falls open as another orgasm crashes through you, legs shaking as you cum around Taehyung’s cock, grinding back against him to drag out that pleasure; the only thing holding you up is the hand still in your hair, the lips trailing up the side of your bared neck, the hard cock inside you, keeping you against him, so many points of connection with Taehyung.

(His chest pressed against your back, heart beating so hard you can feel it, your own heart moving in tandem, matching him.)

He’s been whispering filth to you, heated praise and love, how good you feel, how beautiful you are, what it’s like to see you like this, touch you like this, have you like this. Lovely, pretty, perfect, gorgeous, hot n’ wet n’ tight, fuck, love, oh.

You’re still shivering, the final pulses of your orgasm curling through you with each unintentional shift of Taehyung’s hips, the drag of his length inside your inner walls. You can feel something dripping out of you; oil, cum, you don't know, but fuck, it feels so so good.

“Oh, God,” you say. Breathless. “Oh, Taehyung, oh.”

“Pretty darling,” he murmurs. He swivels his hips, grinding against you, and your entire body jolts with oversensitivity, clit swollen where his balls press against it. You tighten around him and groan at how hot and big he still feels inside, even as you still shiver from the come down of your second orgasm. “Gonna roll you over so I can see that perfect face.”

And when you’re on your back again, fucked out and mussed and wrecked, he just stares at you. You’ve watched his face for so long, seen so many expressions flit across his features, but never something like this—it’s a mix of amazement and awe and tenderness and lust and love, a lift to his brows and a spark in his eyes and a set to his lips.

And when he leans down to kiss you, that look doesn’t leave. It melts and softens around the edges as you catch each other's mouths, as you kiss and kiss, small tender things interspersed with longer, deeper touches, lips and teeth and tongue—his eyes darken and his mouth flushes darker pink, kiss swollen and so beautiful, but that expression stays. It stays for you. 

Kim Taehyung is beautiful and lovely and unique. Kim Taehyung is so far out of your reach it’s kind of stunning, actually. And yet, here you are, existence of his touch over every part of you, in every part of you, lust driven, love full; the carefully balanced weight of his body splayed over you, pinning you down, keeping you close.

“I wanna see you cum, Tae,” you say. “Please?”

And just like he always does, Taehyung indulges you, just like you indulge him. He presses back inside you, cunt opening up for him so easy, so smooth, like his touch has already been etched into the memory of your body, perfect for him. He stays pressed close, face so near as he rolls into each thrust, sweat and coconut oil painted across your skin as your bodies shift together.

He’s been covering you in his words, both heated and sweet, and now you return the favour. You tell him how good he feels, how beautiful he is, so good, so perfect, so considerate, how much you’ve wanted this. So good, so long and thick, oh, Tae, feels so good, ah-ah-ah, baby, you’re unreal, fuck.

You can see the exact moment he starts to reach his high, the way he sucks in air, the way he lifts his chin, starts to thrust a little harder, a little faster, chasing that thread of pleasure that’s spiralling through him, and you urge him on. You lift your hips and clench so tight it has him gasping, hips stuttering, and you press your nose against his jaw, saying give it to me give it to me give it to me, wanting him to feel the same pleasure he’s given you. 

When he pulls out, you’re too busy moving to pay attention to how empty you feel, settling between his legs and swallowing down his shining cock almost desperately. There’s no coconut. You can only taste yourself and when you lave your tongue across his slit it’s all Taehyung-Taehyung-Taehyung, hot and salt and bitter; he gasps and his hips jump and you take it all, lowering your head as far as you can, the head of his cock at the back of your throat before you pull up, dragging your tongue over the pulsing vein at the underside, messy and wet. You drink down the wetness of his cock, your own arousal, mixed with his, the precum that beads at his head, staring up at him, your hands sliding over the sheen of his stomach, his thighs, cupping his balls, everything slick with oil and sweat.

“Oh, God.” Taehyung’s eyes are blown and his hair is a mess and his mouth is wide open as he pants for air, watching. “Baby, baby, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum.”

You suck hard, dragging your lips up from the base of the cock to the rounded tip, swirling your tongue, bobbing your head faster—

“Oh, fuck—”

—and you swallow down each wave of cum, swallow down the way his cock twitches as he spills the evidence of pleasure into your mouth, swallow down the lovely noises that shudder out of him, watching him the whole time, never wanting to look away.

When you take your mouth off his softening cock, you draw a line of kisses with your mouth, up the soft skin of his body, stomach to chest to neck to mouth. He licks the taste of coconut oil off your lips, the taste of himself off your tongue; you curl up in his lap, settled against him, the apartment’s cool air even sharper against your skin, magnified by the oil that still lingers.

(Even without the oil painted across him, Taehyung would still shine, even under the weak light from the cheap lightbulb that hangs above you.)

You feel soft and warm and small in the circle of Taehyung’s arms, pulled close, and you can hear the words in his chest as he speaks, a resonance that touches against your skin.

“‘M sorry,” he murmurs. 

You pause.

“Baby, love, darling.” The endearments are sugar sweet in your mouth, soft against his skin before you pull back to look at him, confused, concerned. “Sorry for what?”

“I really—I really was just planning to do a massage, but you’re so…” 

You let out a slip of laughter. The room smells of coconut and sex, but when you lay your head against Taehyung’s collarbone all you can smell is the light tinge of his sweat. You breathe in, deep, like you can hold onto that ephemeral part of him. “Oh, Tae. I’m so what?”

“You’re so good,” he says. “So good and kind and lovely and—and so beautiful. I was going to do the massage to make you happy and then… tell you. About how happy you make me.”

You burrow your head into the hollow of his neck, the way he does to you, shy. “I’m not as beautiful as you,” you reply. “Tae, you are literally the most beautiful person alive, and—God, I’ve. I’ve been. So head over heels for you.”

There’s a pause. “Really?”

When you pull back to fix Taehyung with all the surprise in your gaze, you can see that he’s surprised, too. His hair hangs into his eyes, and he looks a little unsure, like he believes you, but finds it impossible to fathom.

You leave massage oil on his cheeks when you cup his face in your hands, staring at him with wide eyes. “Kim Taehyung, I have had daily breakdowns about the intensity of my love for you to Pickles ever since we got him. You’re the first person I think about each morning—usually because we wake each other up—and the last thing I think about at night—well, usually because you end up climbing into my bed more often than not, but, it still counts,” you say. You’re both tangled together in so many ways already. “You’ve had my heart for a long time, you know. I just never thought I had a chance?”

When Taehyung kisses you, it’s brief, a hard press of his lips before he rests his forehead against yours. “You really, really have no idea how perfect you are,” he murmurs. “I’ve wanted—I want to do everything for you to show you how grateful I am for everything you do for me.”

“You don’t have to,” you protest, but he just smiles.

“I don’t have to, but I want to,” he says. “Like you don’t have to look after me, but you do.”

“That’s because I love you,” you say. “Like, capital L love you.”

You’ve been so afraid of confessing, so convinced that it was an unattainable dream; that Kim Taehyung would never, could never, has never seen you as more than a friend. But the way he’s looking at you now, the way he’s touched you, the way your body still echoes with the feeling of him inside you: you’re not scared, any more. You don’t need to be.

Taehyung’s eyes are so dark and warm when he replies, easy and effortless. “I love you, too.”

Your relationship has always been a give and take, is the thing. When you climb in the shower together, he washes the oil from your back while you massage shampoo into his scalp, laughing when he makes devil horns in his hair. He catches you by surprise when he presses you against the tiles, swallowing your moans when he coaxes one final orgasm from your tired body, rubbing tight circles over your clit as you buck against his hand and water cascades over you both. His cock hardens in your hands, sliding between your legs when you press them together, tight-tight-tight, his length rubbing against your cunt as he fucks your thighs until he’s moaning and shaking and cumming again.

(The water’s cold by the time you finally climb out, but that’s okay. You giggle and kiss as you dry yourselves, each other, excuses to keep touching and feeling, driven by affection, not lust.)

When you’re both clean, and dry, Taehyung’s leg thrown over your hip as he tugs you in, flush with his body under the covers, you press your lips against the line of his jaw.

“Taehyung?”

“Yes, angel?”

You smile and hunch up even closer to him, scrunching yourself up as small as you can to plaster yourself against his side. “Thank you for the wonderful massage. Definitely the best massage I’ve ever been given, ten out of ten, would do again.”

Taehyung laughs, pressing his rectangular smile into the kiss he lays against your lips, and you think that nothing tastes better than the happiness curling his mouth.

“Love you,” he murmurs. Always romantic. “I love you love you love you.”

“Tae-honey-hyung.” And it feels so nice to not have to filter your words, to bite back that second layer of meaning, to try and keep things platonic and chaste when you speak. “I love you.”

And it feels so nice to have your Taehyung beside you, your body still aching with the press of him inside you, a good ache, a nice ache. A physical ache from good love, rather than a heartache from a love you didn’t think was reciprocated. But it is, somehow, each of you so bowled over by each other.

--

(“Hey, Pickles.”

The bearded dragon looks up at you, placid as he lounges in his tank.

“Well, you’ll be happy to hear that you won’t have to put up with me ranting at you any more,” you say. “Taehyung did break out the massage oil but it’s all good. I didn’t spontaneously combust or anything, like I thought I would.”

Pickles’ tongue flicks out as he shifts, and you smile.

“Okay, that’s it, I’m done,” you finish. “Thanks, Pickles. You’re a real pal.”

Taehyung nuzzles into your neck. His arms are a tight circle around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder as he looks down at the reptile, too. He’s warm and solid against your back, and you lean into him, happiness tingling through you.

“I wonder how much longer we would have taken if you didn’t get that coupon for a massage therapy course,” you muse, and Taehyung chuckles, warm and lovely.

“We would have gotten there eventually. And we would have had each other until we did, anyway. Right, angel?”

Pickles stays quiet as you both kiss, but you can tell he approves.)

--

taglist: @beyoncesdragon​

[tearsofsyrup]

peckish

— It’s Seungkwan’s birthday and you want to surprise him with breakfast in bed. But when he wakes up, there’s a different kind of hunger rumbling in his stomach.

pairing. boo seungkwan / female reader

genre. established relationship au; non-idol au; fluff; smut

word count. 2k

warnings. brief sexually explicit content; domestic af; blonde kwan-ah, now with glasses; poorly proof-read

notes. (belated) happy birthday, uri boo. i wasn’t sure whether to post this or not but here we are and here you go! feedback is ardently appreciated!

-

It isn’t often that you find yourself awake before Seungkwan. But your subconscious must have known that today is special. Not that it makes awakening any easier.

Eyes barely open and limbs stirring sluggishly beneath the duvet, you glance towards your boyfriend. His hair is nothing short of messy against the pillow, recently dyed a warm blonde that you won’t admit exactly how much you enjoy on him. A natural pout puckers his lips, emphasized by how his one cheek is squished beneath him. His skin shines with a golden tan under the shy rays of this morning’s sun. Slow, relaxed breaths leave his nose and you can faintly feel them graze your face. It makes you smile.

But you need to get up before those eyelids of his creak open.

You've always wondered why your body feels ten times heavier when getting out of bed, as if an invisible force is begging you to stay put. And it’s a tempting notion to give in to, despite it only being forged by your own mind. However, the unfortunate nature of breakfast is that it doesn’t cook itself. Not even on birthdays.

So, you rise, the heel of your hand rubbing one eye while the other tries to stay open, balance off as you stand. You don’t bother looking for a pair of pants, aware that you only have so much time before the peace of an asleep Seungkwan will run out, and wander around the bed on wobbly legs and only half your vision with nothing but a pajama shirt and panties on.

You make sure not to stumble into the closed door of Vernon’s room as you pass it, rounding the corner into the kitchen with a long yawn. Eyes blinking tightly and frequently, they scan the poverty of your fridge, not containing much other than an almost empty carton of milk, leftover pizza from a week ago and two bottles of ketchup because Vernon accidentally bought an extra one. And the eggs and bacon you sneaked in yesterday.

As you begin preparing Seungkwan’s meal, you try not to make too much of a racket, in an effort to keep your boyfriend unknowing, even when you accidentally hit your head against the cupboard door that you have a bad habit of leaving open. But it seems to be either that or the fact that you might have jumped with a vocal yelp when the frying pan unexpectedly spit hot oil on your hand, that coaxes consciousness into Seungkwan before breakfast is ready. Because you think you can hear faint footsteps through the hissing heat that your poking with a spatula.

Your lips are already pursed when Seungkwan clears his throat of some post-slumber grogginess.

“Shit, go back to sleep!” You haven’t even turned to look his way before you speak, tone chalky from lack of use and eyes focused on positioning the bacon in a needlessly neat order.

Seungkwan snorts. “That didn’t sound like ‘good morning, honey’ to me.” His voice is even more gritty than yours, something he also seems to notice as he begins clearing his throat again.

You scoff, throwing him a scornful look past your shoulder, secretly delighted by the sight of glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. “Like you violently shaking me out of bed while trying to shove vitamins down my throat every day is a form of ‘good morning, honey’.”

Coincidentally though not surprisingly, he is reaching for his bottle of vitamins as you finish speaking. “It’s not my fault you can’t wake up on your own,” he protests, filling a cup with water. “And vitamins are important.”

You try not to roll your eyes too far back into your head when you resume monitoring the bacon. “Anyway, I was gonna make you breakfast in bed, so go back to sleep.”

Seungkwan gulping down his vitamins sounds from behind you and when you turn your head, there is curiosity in the look he gives you. Your focus shifts back ahead as he comes closer. He sniffs from beside you, eyeing the pink strips of meat.

“You’re not burning down my kitchen, are you?” That earns him a side-eyed glare.

“Hey, three people own this kitchen, actually.”

“Ha! When have you ever seen Vernon make anything except cup noodles?”

The lower of your lips juts outward in a pout, unable to argue with that point. But you struggle to maintain the expression wholeheartedly when Seungkwan smiles, brown eyes dripping with amusement before you. You look away, the corners of your mouth itching.

“Breakfast in bed?” he recalls.

“Mhm.”

“What for?”

You huff a laugh. “Shut up. Go sleep.”

Seungkwan giggles, moving away toward the electric kettle. “Eggs and bacon in bed? Could get grease stains on the sheets.”

“Then stop eating like a child or put a bib on.”

Seungkwan makes a sound of offence and his eyes are wide and accusatory behind the large lenses of his glasses when you twist your neck to shoot him a victorious grin. He scoffs, shaking his head before filling the kettle with water.

“No need to roast me. I’m not a piece of that bacon, you know...”

“Pfft.” Your eyes roll again, the bacon in question slowly turning crisp.

Seungkwan meets you with a low-lidded glance. “You shouldn’t be so mean. Especially on my-”

“No, shhh! Not yet, go back to sleep!”

Seungkwan’s laugh is hearty then, while you keep yourself from being infected by it. He turns the kettle on, placing two mugs on the counter next to it before turning and leaning back with loosely crossed arms.

You squint at the pursed smirk he gives you. “You’re not making coffee, are you?”

His eyebrows jump upward. “I am... Like every other morning.”

You exaggerate the deflation of your posture, pout thrice as dramatic as earlier. “But, you can’t go back to sleep if you’re all caffeinated...”

“Well, I’m not gonna fall back asleep either way, baby,” he says with a grin, the curve of his cheekbones rising higher and accentuating the charming arch of his smiling eyes.

With a heavy drop of your head, you huff. Your plan has officially failed. Staring at the darkening bacon feels demeaning, one hand landing on your forehead where it banged against the cupboard door.

A sudden weight settles atop your right shoulder, making you jump a little before realizing it’s Seungkwan’s chin. The warmth of his chest engulfs your back through the fabric of both of your shirts and makes you realize that you are cold with your bare legs out. He peers over you, watching the sizzling bacon below.

“Sorry, baby. For ruining your plan.”

Your free shoulder shrugs. “It’s fine. Isn’t it the thought that counts?”

He chuckles softly, warm in your ear. “Right.”

Seungkwan’s heat leaves you as he goes to handle the water that’s boiled and you try not to shiver, beginning to lift the now crisp strips of bacon onto a paper towel. While Seungkwan prepares coffee, you reach for the eggs, needing both hands to crack them safely into the frying pan.

You watch Seungkwan with a secret glance, quietly admiring the sharp corner of his jawline and the soft slope of his nose. When he catches you, you admire the smile that grows across his lips too.

No more words are exchanged in the comfortable silence between you, until Seungkwan has placed two cups of coffee on the counter next to the stove and his chin is back in your shoulder. Instinctively, you lean into his warm body and decide not to comment on what you can feel is left of his morning wood against your backside. Seungkwan’s palms run softly over your bare hips and you shudder at the contrasting temperature.

“Why aren’t you wearing any pants, babe? It’s cold,” he murmurs, voice gentler next to your ear.

“I was too tired to care.” You poke slightly at the sunny-side-ups.

“Want me to go get you some clean ones?”

A small smile creeps its way up the corners of your mouth. “What, you don’t like me half-naked?”

Seungkwan laughs. “I like it a little too much, I think.”

With a quirked brow, you wonder if it isn’t a case of morning wood after all.

“I see,” you start. “In that case, I think I’m happy just like this.”

Seungkwan snickers quietly, arms lifting to curve around your waist and hold you tighter against him. Bulge poking at your lower back, he hums a soft melody you cannot place as he watches you move the cooked eggs onto a clean plate and push the pan away from the stove. In an attempt to escape Seungkwan’s embrace, you wiggle a bit and receive a long sigh that brushes across the skin of your neck in return. But he doesn’t relent, simple moving the both of you over with a steadfast grip around you, making you laugh.

“Hey, breakfast in kitchen is ready,” you giggle.

“So, feed me,” he says, grin apparent through his tone.

For a third time, your eyes roll upward, yet you oblige and cut a piece of bacon and eggs for your boyfriend before lifting it into his mouth. He chews it next to your ear, humming with content.

“Wow,” you smirk, arms resting over Seungkwan’s where they hug your stomach. “It’s like live ASMR.”

Seungkwan chuckles. “Thank you, baby. It tastes great.” A sweet kiss is puckered against your cheek.

You twist your neck to meet his face, snuggling into him like he’s a blanket covering you. His eyes meet yours through his glasses and he smiles, wide and pretty, thumbs rubbing against the soft fabric of your shirt. You lean forward, placing your mouth over his and moving it slowly. He reciprocates easily, adding more pressure and quickly turning the kiss more fervent. You feel him hardening behind you, causing a familiar heat to begin aching within the confines of your underwear.

It is first when his fingers sneak up to begin unbuttoning your pajama shirt that you detach your lips from his, lids heavy over your eyes as you watch him. He dives downward and starts pecking and licking at your neck instead.

“Kwannie,” you say with a hushed tone, hand gripping Seungkwan’s wrist weakly. “What if Vernon wakes up?”

Seungkwan huffs into your skin, breath warm. “He won’t,” comes his mumble. “Unless you bang about, like earlier.”

You unsuccessfully suppress a disdainful grunt. “Fuck, I did wake you up when I walked into that damn cupboard door again...”

Your boyfriend grins against you before lifting his head, too amused with the pout you sport. “I’m just teasing, baby. I was already awake by then.”

His giggles are met with disappointed glare. “Bully...”

A quick peck tickles your nose. “Is your head okay, though?”

You shrug. “I’ll live.”

And that is when you notice that your shirt is completely unbuttoned, Seungkwan’s gentle touch pulling it open before placing warm palms over your breasts. You sigh, thighs subconsciously tightening to try and relieve the increasing heat between them.

“Since your first plan didn’t work,” Seungkwan whispers against the shell of your ear and you lean into his erection behind you, “how about we do something else for my-...” Your eyebrows jump at his pause. “Wait, can I say it yet?”

A happy guffaw escapes you, meeting his round eyes with a delighted grin. Gripping his wrist, you guide his slender fingers beneath the cotton of your panties and watch his pupils dilate in real time, his eyelashes dancing with the ends of fluffy, blonde hair. Your hips tense when his skin meets your heat, sensitive with a need for attention.

“Yes, Kwannie,” you finally reply, biting your lip through your wide smile. “Happy birthday.”

...

Later, when the taste of Seungkwan’s release is coating your throat and your knees are aching, he asks if you want to take your vitamins yet. Your incredulous laugh is so loud that you are sure it makes even Vernon wake up.

[artistocrazy]

Austria and a spouse (any/all/up to you) for the ship meme

DID SOMEBODY SAY SPAUS? (Technically I know this is open but my brain jumped right into SpAus, and considering I have a long fic dedicated to an Austria/Nyo!Spain Spaus AU, I want to get some content out there)

Domestic Ship Ask Meme

Who reaches out to new neighbors: Carmen usually gives the neighbors a good gague on what to expect because the woman is EXHAUSTINGLY sociable (in a good way - not like she sucks out your energy, it’s just that she’s such an extravert it can be intense and overwhelming). Roderich may bake the welcome cupcakes, but he’ll hear from her how the neighbors are (they’re also both gossips, though they keep it in house. Carmen likes to be informed and it’s a love language for her. Roderich relishes the scandal of it all and likes having someone to spill hot tea with).

Who remembers to buy healthy food: Carmen, typically, though neither of them will commit to eating any veggies raw. They’ve got to be cooked in something with flavor.

Who remembers to buy junk food: Again, Roderich bakes. He’ll buy ingredients for sweets and go on baking sprees. The cookie jar is never empty.

Who fixes the oven when it breaks: if they can’t hire someone to do it, they’ll try to do it together, because either one will snap if they try to figure it out on their own. So they’re a good gague on each other’s temper, and also should either of them get really bothered at the other covered in grease they can take a break upstairs (shower or otherwise).

Who waters the plants/feeds their pets: Rod’s definitely on the plants - quietly they’re his babies and he even names them. If Carmen gets a pet, it’s probably a turtle she dotes on.

Who wakes up earlier: Depends who has the earliest commitment. They both like to sleep in and are admittedly antisocial freshly woken up, though I think Carmen has a harder time getting herself out of bed. She’ll make groggy threats to pull Roderich back in bed, and he’ll respond with a sassy “you have to catch me first” type banter. So he’ll either coax her out of bed or she’ll nab him and he’ll be regrettably stuck.

Who makes the bed: Carmen, once she’s out of it.

Who makes the coffee: Roderich. They’re both coffee nuts, but Roderich’s withdrawal is worse and he’s already a grump freshly woken up, so he’s more inclined to press the coffee and have that smell release the tension in his neck. He also likes seeing the relief on Carmen’s face at pouring a fresh cup.

Who burns breakfast: Carmen’s more likely to do it, though neither one has burned breakfast in a long time. She is the kind of cook to have several burners going and keep the fan on and windows open. Girl uses more olive oil to pan fry things.

How do they let each other know they’re leaving the house: Definitely a couple to kiss goodbye. Calls around the house to find the other, a brief sum-up on where they’re going, an exchange on if they need anything while they’re out, a kiss, and an “I love you” before they’re out the door.

How do they greet each other when one of them gets home: lip kiss and check in. Carmen strikes me as more of a businesswoman, so I figure she comes home later from work than her music prof husband. Though if either of them are traveling for performance engagements and they have to be separated, they mark the day on the calendar to pick them up from the airport. Roderich would come pick her up with sweets or flowers. Carmen would come ready to hug him first thing in the airport and ask about the gig. Rod would be the kind of pickup to hide out in the rental lot drop off and wait for her to text him when she arrives while he listens to his tunes (prior to that he’d brave the arrival lanes to take her home, since he’s sure she’ll be tired and want to get home immediately). Carmen would park the car in the rental lot or Uber herself to the airport, so while she waits she can make a fuss about her husband being an important musician while chitchatting with other people in the arrival lobbies, and she can focus all her attention on him once they reunite.

Who brings home little gifts like flowers/chocolates more often: Roderich is a flowers and chocolate man, for sure. But Carmen knows Roderich likes it when she picks up a treat for him. She brings him a little bag of chocolates at the university? He scares his students walking around with the sweetest smile on his face.

Who picks the movie for movie night: they alternate, and they both like to stretch their palette and try something new. Carmen likes surprising Roderich with certain comedies or bad films to see him laugh or generally react (if there’s a Hasselhoff cameo, the film’s on her list, just so she hears the gloriously enraged and beleaguered “David Michael Not-Worth-The-Goddam Hasselhoff!” at his poor film choices), though she also enjoys historical dramas. Roderich likes watching horror movies with Carmen because she huddles up close to him and he gets to be brave in front of her explaining how ridiculously fake it all is (he doesn’t get many chances to be the brave one of the pair and quietly likes it when she clings to him for safety)

Their favorite kind of movie to watch: For the both of them? Movie musicals - Rod gets to appreciate the music, while Carmen focuses on the choreography.

Who first suggests a pillow fort: At first I was going to say Carmen, but the more I think about it the more it seems likely Roderich would suggest a cuddle nest to relax in. Carmen can get bogged down by a lot of stress and Roderich helps her unwind and let her hair down with little things. A pillow fort would be something he could see her love doing but not tell him because she doesn’t want him to think she’s silly.

Who builds the pillow fort: Carmen can be a bit of a pillow princess (I know what I said), so I think she’d boss Rod around about how it should be built and where it should go and he’d mainly be the one to set it up. Lazy as he can be, Roderich likes being outbossed by his wife (it’s a bit of a Buttercup/Wesley dynamic, except in this case Wesley would be sassier about how gratuitous the directions can get while still doing them and maintaining eye contact)

Who tries to distract the other during the movie: They both do it, though Carmen more as a goof or a snuggler (she readjusts positions to be more noticed sometimes since she likes attention and isn’t afraid to ask for it). Roderich might suggest/initiate making out during a scary movie, and it usually works unless Carmen’s too far gone and says “Like that couple in the car that got hacked to bits? I don’t think so!” And at that point it’s just close cuddling until the film is over... and Roderich will bring up the suggestion again when he thinks she feels safer. Pet names are a good indication - the shorter his name, the more interested she is in anything steamy.

Who falls asleep first: Carmen. She sleeps longer than Roderich, but her dozing off is more gradual and noticeable with how her eyes droop. Roderich will help guide her up to bed after a long day, carrying her in some instances where he feels very generous and thinks she might like it. If Roderich’s asleep first, he might be sick and Carmen goes into full-on nurturing mode.

Who’s the big spoon/little spoon: Roderich/Carmen. Though on occasion Carmen helps him relax by being the big spoon. Carmen likes it when he hugs her from behind or runs his hands through her hair or kisses her shoulders or neck. Carmen gives good , warm hugs and traces patterns on his skin with her nails, and if that leads to a massage she’s the one with magical fingers of the pair.

[yallreddieforthis]

Impossible Things

Fandom: It Chapter Two, It (2017)

Pairing: Richie Tozier/Eddie Kaspbrak

Rating: Explicit (in later chapters)

Words: 1.9k

Also on AO3

“What the fuck,” he mutters, trying his key one more time. His therapist always says he’s too quick to jump right to the doom and gloom. Maybe he didn’t get evicted all of a sudden. Maybe he just put the key in upside down or… Nope. His key straight up does not work.

And then suddenly the door swings open and Richie whacks him in the shoulder with a frying pan.

August 7, 2013 was the worst day of Eddie Kaspbrak’s life. He got dumped on a breakfast date by this guy he was kind of very into at the time, he totaled his brand-new Dodge Dart...by hitting a cop car, spilling iced coffee all over himself in the process. And that was just before work.

When he got to work, he was informed by fucking Claudia of all people that his favorite patient who was supposed to make a full fucking recovery had died during the overnight shift. He spent the rest of the day completing paperwork for his now-deceased buddy over in 44G, and playing a super fun game ferreting information back and forth between one of the endocrinologists--who was on a cruise with almost no reception--and her crazy bitch of a patient who insisted that Dr. Google told her she could cure her diabetes with a combination of like six essential oils and lemon juice. And also fighting over the phone with Marcus from Geico. Fuck Marcus from Geico and his manager Suzanne.

Anyway, yeah, that day was fucking nothing compared to this Saturday, when he went back to his shitty ass hometown, watched the first guy he ever loved die in his arms and then wiggled out the back door of a collapsing house containing all his childhood friends.

He’s pretty sure he hasn’t completely processed the awfulness of the whole thing yet. He’s done a decent amount of crying, but like… God, where to even begin? There’s literally no one alive who he can talk to about what he went through. The idea of keeping all this shit to himself for the rest of his life makes him want to consider pulling a Stan. Not that he ever would, actually. Because he’s a stubborn bitch, and when life tells him to go fuck himself, he usually just yells it right back.

Also he got stabbed in the fucking face by Henry Goddamn Bowers. And like, Ben did a decent job patching it up with gauze and superglue, but Eddie hauled ass to Urgent Care and got some actual stitches once he realized there was nothing else he could do at Neibolt. He’d been a fucking mess...like, crying and shit, but even in that state he could tell that the standard of care at Derry Clinic was subpar at best and he kept having to correct the NP who was sewing him up until she finally snapped and asked if he’d rather just do it himself. Actually, he normally would have preferred to, but his hands had been shaking too badly. He definitely plans to have it looked at by Dr. Lim, who will for sure know the best way to keep scarring to a minimum, as soon as he’s back at work.

Also, he was hoping that all the weird shit that had been going down with Pennywise and stuff would have fucking stopped after they killed It, but when he got back to the Derry Townhouse and went to get his shit from his room, there were three goddamn suitcases in there and he couldn’t figure out why. The first one had enough crap in it for like a three week trip, although the clothes weren’t all his. Also, the second one was filled with a bunch of pill bottles with his name on them for prescriptions Eddie has never needed, and his actual medication, amitriptyline, was not among them. But to be totally honest, by that point, he was so fucking tired and upset that he just kind of went fuck it and hauled everything into the back of a cab and got the fuck out of there.

And now he’s standing on the curb at LAX waiting for an Uber to take him back to his apartment in West Hollywood, where he can cry in private and maybe eat a pint of frozen yogurt from Whole Foods. Greek yogurt, of course, for the probiotics.

The first thing that strikes him as amiss back in LA is when he gets up to his apartment and there is a mat that says WELCOME TO THE SHITSHOW on it that he definitely did not buy in front of his apartment and his list of instructions for delivery men has been taken off his door.

Then he tries to open the door and his key doesn’t fit, which makes no fucking sense at all, unless Ms. Slavkin changed the locks while he was gone, which would be super illegal and also mean. Like, they’re on good terms, he thinks, especially since she barely speaks English and he knows exactly no Russian. They’ve never had a problem, though. His rent is always paid up on time. She brought him vatrushka two weeks ago and he referred her grandson for a volunteer position at Cedars Sinai over the summer. They’re good.

“What the fuck,” he mutters, trying his key one more time. His therapist always says he’s too quick to jump right to the doom and gloom. Maybe he didn’t get evicted all of a sudden. Maybe he just put the key in upside down or… Nope. His key straight up does not work.

And then suddenly the door swings open and Richie whacks him in the shoulder with a frying pan.

“Ow! What the hell?”

Literally everything about what just happened is impossible though, because Richie is:

Dead. He died in Eddie’s arms under the Neibolt house less than 48 hours ago after telling him he fucked his mom one last time for good measure. Like...even while he was bleeding out he couldn’t… God. Anyway…

A resident of Illinois, last time Eddie checked. He even said some shit the other day about security at O'Hare. That’s… that’s the one in Chicago, right? It’s not LAX, Eddie knows that for sure.

Richie looks about as dumbfounded as Eddie feels. He does not apologize for hitting Eddie with a frying pan, although it’s not exactly cast iron. At best, it’s aluminum.

Which is another weird thing. Eddie uses exclusively cast iron or enamel cookware in his apartment because he’s not some kind of idiot sauteing his veggies in perfluorinated chemicals. The frying pan Richie is holding right now is undoubtedly riddled with BPA that would seep into his food and cause thyroid problems.

And honestly the only reason he’s probably getting hung up on that is that he expects Richie to disappear as soon as he blinks, because what the fuck would he actually be doing here. It’s going to hurt a lot more than that frying pan did when he evaporates, and Eddie’s going to feel like he lost him a second time.

Any second now.

Nothing else happens though, except that Richie manages to squeak out, “Eddie?”

And it’s corny to think, but it’s his voice that leaves no doubt in Eddie’s mind that it’s really him. Because Richie Tozier can sound like almost anybody in the world, but there’s no one that can sound like Richie. Even Pennywise never tried to imitate him. Because no one can. That, Eddie is sure of.

Dead is… Eddie is a nurse, and he’s no stranger to death. Richie was dead. No one could survive that kind of blood loss. But that also doesn’t change the fact that Richie is standing in front of him, in his apartment somehow, alive and breathing and miraculously free of giant holes in his chest. Also, this past weekend has had Eddie really rethinking his personal beliefs on what is and isn’t possible.

“Oh god, Richie—” Eddie reaches out and places a hand on Richie’s chest. Richie doesn’t stop him, but he also doesn’t react other than staring at Eddie’s hand, like he’s still unconvinced that Eddie is really Eddie.

Also he’s apparently speechless for the first time in his life.

“What the fuck,” he breathes out. His heartbeat is pounding beneath Eddie’s fingers. “I… we had to leave you. God, I tried to—”

“What?” Eddie interrupts him. “You died. Right in my arms, like, right in front of my fucking face and then you all got sucked into that pit and I—”

“What? No. Wh--wait. Wait wait wait. How did you find my apartment?” Richie demands.

“Uh, excuse me, this is my—”

But Eddie doesn’t finish that sentence because at that moment he looks past Richie into the living room and his point dies on the tip of his tongue. This is not his apartment. The doormat wasn’t lying. This is some kind of bachelor pad nightmare. One sofa, no art on the walls, a TV that’s too big for the room. Eddie glances up at the number on the door. Seven. It’s the right number, the outside of the place looks right… 

“What did you do to my house?!” Eddie cries, because of course he’s happy Richie is alive—too happy to even process it properly—but he’s not going to pretend he won’t be pissed if Richie donated all of his good Pottery Barn furniture.

“Your— I live here, dipshit,” says Richie, apparently kind of snapping out of it. “I’ve lived here for like ten years.”

“You told me you lived in Chicago and—”

“Yeah,” says Richie. “Well, like kind of. I have an apartment there, usually sublet it. Didn’t think I needed to get into my whole real estate history, cause it’s not like we had bigger things to worry about.”

“Just—”

“You know what?” says Richie. “Just fucking come in. Let’s...can you call Mike?”

“Mike isn’t dead either?!” Eddie cries. What--How--

“Of course not,” says Richie. “I mean he better not be, I’ve been texting him all day.”

Eddie takes his phone out of his pocket and goes to his recent call history. He taps on the Derry number that called him the other day, back in another fucking lifetime, while rolling his suitcase into this like sham of an apartment that apparently Richie lives in. 

We’re sorry, your call cannot be completed as dialed…

“You try Mike,” Eddie says, shaking his head. “My phone says his number is disconnected.”

Richie is texting furiously. He sinks down into the couch.

“Does that thing have like bed bugs?” Eddie asks, because the couch looks kind of suspect if he’s being honest. Like the kind of thing Richie might have dragged in off the sidewalk.

Richie makes a face. “No, what the fuck, of course not.”

Eddie sits down next to him on the edge of his seat, still not entirely convinced about the bed bug situation.

“I’m gonna FaceTime Mike, cause…” Richie shakes his head. “Fuck, I don’t know. Mike’s the crazy bitch with all the answers, right?”

Richie then does something kind of un-Richie-ish. He turns to the side and drops his head on Eddie’s shoulder, inhaling shakily and deeply. It’s then that Eddie notices his coffee table is littered with tissues.

“What?” Eddie asks him. He gets the distinct impression that Richie is about to cry, maybe, which is terrifying. And that’s stupid because Eddie works in a goddamn hospital. He deals with crying people every day. But there’s something about being around Richie that just… He feels like they’ve fallen back into the dynamic they had when they were kids. And teenage Eddie wouldn’t have known how to deal with Richie crying and so adult Eddie is kind of panicking over the thought of trying to figure that shit out on the fly.

If Richie starts crying, Eddie probably will too. This situation is… Honestly, it’s super overwhelming. He doesn’t feel equipped to deal with this fuckery.

Just then though, Mike picks up. Like a flash, Richie lifts his head up off Eddie’s shoulder and shoots Mike a shit-eating grin.

“Explain this shit, Mikey,” he says, and turns the screen to face Eddie.

Mike immediately drops his phone.

[nonbinary-octopus]

[Masterpost]

Part four of what I’ve decided to call the College Crush AU. (all parts and all related posts are now tagged ‘college crush au’) @hiddendreamer67 got the ball rolling on this story by posting a writing prompt that inspired me to write a short (383 words) snippet. I thought that was that, but @hiddendreamer67 commented on her favorite aspect, and got that ball rolling again. So I wrote more. And thought I was done. But no.

I’ve accepted by this point that @hiddendreamer67 and I are basically playing fetch with said ball. She keeps throwing it, and I keep bringing it back and dropping it on her lap again. Though it’s possible that she threw a yellow softball and I brought back a green one.

This takes place about a week after part 1

A Date (Sort Of)

It’s two a.m., and Roman and Virgil are in the commons kitchen, because reasonable sleep schedules are for people who don’t have anxiety or insomnia. Virgil is, of course, sitting on top of the counter just to the left of the stove even though there are chairs and beanbags scattered around the commons. Roman’s making pancakes.

They'd just made a midnight grocery run, glad that there was a store within walking distance that stayed open all night, and now Roman's mixing the ingredients in a slightly beat up metal bowl they’d found in one of the cupboards. With a fork, because they couldn’t find a whisk. The proportions might be a bit off, because Roman didn’t use any sort of measuring device, instead adding flour and water by turns until it was about the right consistency, but pancakes are pretty simple, so he figures they’ll turn out alright. They couldn’t find a griddle either, but they have a frying pan that only looks a little sketchy. (Roman washed it before using it, just in case. At least the kitchen is kept well stocked on dish soap.)

Virgil watches as Roman finishes mixing the batter and sets the bowl on the counter, fork propped up against the edge. The instant he turns away, the fork slides down into the batter and vanishes. Roman puts the frying pan on the stove and pours some oil into it. Soon, it’s sizzling, and Roman turns back to the mixing bowl. He stares at it thoughtfully, and Virgil thinks that he’s realised that the fork sank, until Roman starts opening drawers and cabinets again.

Virgil sends him a text. whatcha lookin for?

Roman leans over to see his phone where it sits on the counter, and then grins over his shoulder at Virgil. “Something to scoop with,” he said.

mug? Virgil suggests.

“I haven’t seen any,” Roman counters, but Virgil points with his phone to the cabinet by the fridge. Roman opens it, and lo and behold, there are in fact several mugs inside. Most of them look like they were stolen from the mess hall. Roman grabs one of these and, leaving all the cabinet doors wide, goes back to the pancake batter. Using the mug as a makeshift scoop, he pours three pancakes in the pan. It sizzles louder, and Virgil’s stomach makes a noise as well. Roman glances back at him. “You can have the first one,” he says sweetly. Virgil grins and ducks his head.

A minute later, Roman hands him a pancake. Not a pancake on a plate, just a pancake. It’s hot, and crispy on the edges, and it smells wonderful. Virgil bites into it. Roman had insisted on chopping a banana into the batter, and now Virgil’s glad he did. It’s delicious, even without any toppings. It’s gone in moments, and Roman hands him another. Roman eats the third himself, pouring three more at the same time.

Virgil’s done with his pancake before the next batch is done, so he just sits there for several moments, watching Roman watch them cook. When they’re done, Roman offers him the first one again, and Virgil takes it with a shy smile. Roman lets the other two sit on the spatula, resting on the small bit of counter between Virgil and the stove, as he pours another batch and fetches the fork out. Then Roman takes a pancake and leans on the other counter, grinning up at Virgil as he eats it. Does he have any idea how cute he is? Virgil wonders. Then, with a mental shrug, he thinks, Probably. He’s got eyes.

Before Virgil can start thinking too hard about those eyes, and how pretty they are, Roman looks back at the stove and moves to flip the pancakes. They both realize at the same time that the spatula is occupied, and Virgil lifts the pancake off it. Roman grabs the spatula, flipping the pancakes, and Virgil nibbles on the one he’d just grabbed, watching him.

“Should probably look for a plate,” Roman murmurs, opening cabinets again. Virgil watches over his shoulder, but he doesn’t see any plates. Then Roman’s standing right in front of him, and Virgil’s breath catches as Roman reaches past him to open the upper cabinets right behind him. “Watch your head,” Roman says, and Virgil leans forward to avoid getting hit in the back of the head by the door. Roman’s face is right there! Virgil ducks his head to hide his blush.

And to resist the temptation to kiss him.

Roman doesn’t find any plates in that cabinet either, so he moves on. Virgil wishes, more than just a bit, that he’d stay, but instead of saying so, he stuffs pancake into his mouth.

Roman pauses his search to take the pancakes off and pour a new set. He grabs the top one off the stack, munching on it as he starts opening lower cabinets. When he gets to where Virgil’s sitting, Roman softly says, “Excuse me,” putting his hand gently on Virgil’s calf. The touch feels like an electric shock, but in a good way. It takes a few seconds for Virgil to realize what Roman wants, and he pulls his legs up so Roman can open the cabinet.

“Found some!” Roman exclaims, triumphantly grabbing a stack of paper plates out of the cupboard. He peels one off the top and tosses the rest back in, closing the door with a triumphant slam.

Virgil lets his legs drop over the edge of the counter again, and Roman transfers the pancakes from the spatula to the paper plate, and flips the pancakes still in the pan.

When Roman looks up at him again, Virgil gives him a smile and pats the counter space beside himself. Roman grins like Virgil had just handed him a boxed set of all the classic Disney Princess movies, complete with hours of behind the scenes materials. He comes over and, turning his back to the counter, tries to jump up onto it. However, Roman doesn’t have nearly as much experience as Virgil in sitting on top of things that aren’t meant to be sat upon, so he doesn’t manage to get up. Virgil can’t see his face, but he thinks Roman is pouting.

Virgil leans forward, grasping Roman’s sleeve to lift his arm. Roman looks up at him in surprise, and Virgil falters. But no, it’s not an annoyed expression. Virgil sets Roman’s hand on the edge of the counter, and gestures for Roman do do the same with the other. Roman obeys, but doesn’t seem to understand why Virgil’s having him do this. Virgil picks up his phone, but realizes that Roman’s is sitting on the opposite counter. If Virgil texts him, he’ll move away. Virgil doesn’t want Roman to move away. He'll just have to make his voice come out, even though it was being shy.

“You… have to have leverage,” he says softly. “To jump high enough. Push down with your hands.”

Roman, following instructions, is able to awkwardly clamber on top of the counter. He sits very close to Virgil, so that there’s barely an inch between their legs. Virgil looks away, pretending to check on the pancakes. Finally, Roman stops shifting around on the counter, and Virgil looks back at him. Oh gosh, he’s close. Roman grins at him, and Virgil can’t help grinning back. Is his heart supposed to beat so hard that he can feel it?

They sit like that for several moments, before Roman starts. “The pancakes!” he says. “I gotta take them off!”

Virgil looks back at the pancakes. They do look about done. He wonders if he can reach them without getting down, so he tries. It’s a little awkward, but he manages to get them onto the paper plate. He can not, however, reach the bowl of batter, resting on the other side of the stove, so Virgil hops down.

“Should probably add some more oil now,” Roman says, so Virgil pours some into the pan. Was that too much? He’s not sure. Roman doesn’t comment on it, though, so Virgil decides it’s probably not going to ruin everything. He pours the pancakes. It’s messier than when Roman did it, and they’re sizzling in all the oil, but it’s fine. Probably.

Virgil goes back to the counter, hopping up next to Roman. Their legs are actually touching now, though Virgil hadn’t meant to do that. He wonders if he should move away, but before he’s decided, Roman puts his head on Virgil’s shoulder.

Oh. This is… nice, Virgil realizes. He pats Roman’s head with a soft smile.

They sit there for several minutes, just eating pancakes. When Virgil has to lean over to flip the batch, Roman grumbles a little at having to lift his head, so Virgil does the task as quickly as he can and returns to his previous position. Roman doesn’t put his head on Virgil’s shoulder again, however. Instead, he’s watching him, eating a pancake without seeming to pay much attention to it. Virgil wonders what’s on his mind.

“Can I…” Roman says slowly, after a while. “Can I… kiss you?”

Virgil wonders if his face is as red as it feels. He doesn’t trust his voice to come out, so he just nods. Roman leans forward, and Virgil does too. They bump noses, and realize they have to turn their heads to the sides. At first they both turn the same way, and then overcorrect in the other direction. Roman’s giggling. Virgil’s not sure what’s happening inside his stomach, but it sure doesn’t feel like what it usually does.

Virgil lifts one hand and puts it on Roman’s cheek, like he’d seen in Roman’s disney films, and Roman stops giggling and looks at him with wide eyes. Wide, beautiful, brown eyes. Virgil takes a breath, hoping it'll steady him. It doesn’t, really. But here goes. Virgil leans forward, squishing his lips against Roman’s. He feels that sort of electric shock again, but stronger, and better.

The moment is broken by the wailing of an alarm. The boys flinch apart, and Virgil looks wildly around for the source. The pan is smoking, and the pancakes look rather darker around the edges than they ought.

Roman falls off the counter, scrambles to his feet, and grabs the hand towel off the stove door, waving it in the air. Virgil can only stare with wide eyes for a moment, but then he moves to turn off the stove and shove the pan off the hot burner.

The smoke fades, but the alarm is still blaring, and Virgil winces. Everyone else in the building is going to hate them for this.

“Good thing that was the last batch anyway,” Roman shouts above the alarm. Virgil nods. At least they won’t be wasting batter.

Students, grumpy with being forced out of bed, start coming down the stairs and trailing out the front doors. Roman and Virgil join the group, and are soon standing just outside the dormitory hall. The alarm still blares, but it’s muffled somewhat.

Virgil sees Logan in the crowd, with a powder blue blanket draped around him, and nudges Roman to point him out.

Roman looks confused. “I thought Lo lived in Barri,” he mumbles.

Virgil shrugs.

Patton’s there too, which makes more sense. Patton’s one of the RAs on the floor above Virgil and Roman. He’s not looking their way, but Virgil sends him a text. I see you :p After he sends it, though, he realizes that Patton might not even have his phone on him. He’s in his pajamas, after all, a fluffy gray robe over what looks like a flannel print of puppies and kittens. But apparently Patton had grabbed his phone before leaving his room, because he pulls it out of his pocket and looks at it. Then he looks around, and Virgil gives him a very small wave. Patton lights up, and the happy look on his face is enough to make Virgil smile too.

Patton comes over to them, and Logan, seeing him, follows. “Hi!” Patton greets them excitedly.

Logan looks far less enthusiastic about being awake. “What idiot set off the smoke alarm?” he says in the voice of one who has been dragged from a deep slumber and resents it.

Beside Virgil, Roman sputters, and Logan looks at him.

“Oh,” Logan says, in a marginally fonder voice. “Our idiot.”

Patton swats him in the shoulder.

With a yawn, Logan asks, “What did you set on fire?”

“Pancakes,” Roman admits. “And they didn’t so much go up in flames as… start smoking.”

Logan looks intrigued, now, though his expression is still primarily ‘let me go to sleep.’ “How did you manage that?” he asks.

“Well, we didn’t have an actual griddle,” Roman starts, and Virgil resists the urge to take his hand. Then Roman glances at Virgil, a hint of pink creeping up his cheeks, and adds, “and… we got… distracted.” Virgil feels his face heating up again, and he looks away, hoping that his friends can’t see him blushing. It’s probably a lost cause, though.

Patton squeals, but thankfully it’s subdued appropriately for this time of night. “Aww!”

If Virgil wasn’t visibly blushing before, he was sure he was now. At least Patton doesn’t seem upset with them, even though Logan looks somewhat annoyed still. Virgil knows his voice won’t be steady if he tries to speak right now, so he pulls his phone out again, sending a text in their group chat. sorry we woke you up

Logan doesn’t seem to have his phone, and Roman just leans over Virgil’s shoulder to see what he typed — and Virgil angled his phone in his direction, to indicate that that was okay — but Patton gets his phone out again and shows it to Logan, who nods.

“I’m not mad, just sleepy,” Logan says. “When we get the all clear to get back inside, I want to go straight back to bed.”

Roman seems to remember his confusion from earlier. “Don’t you live in Barrimore Hall, Lo?” he asks.

“Yes,” Logan says, and seems content to leave it at that. Patton giggles.

Roman looks between the two of them, then opens his eyes comically wide and claps his hand to his chest, gasping dramatically. “Don’t tell me the two of you are sleeping together!?”

“Not at this instant,” Logan replies calmly, and Roman freezes. He'd clearly been joking around, not expecting any answer resembling a yes. Logan rolls his eyes a bit. “I am aware of the euphemism, and no, we’re not ‘sleeping together’ in that way. But in the literal sense, yes, we were, until you set the smoke alarm off.”

“He’s a really good cuddler!” Patton adds happily. Logan smiles fondly down at him, taking Patton’s hand.

Virgil grins a little, giving them a thumbs-up.

Eventually, the firefighters show up, check out the building, and give them the all-clear. And a warning to be more careful while cooking. Everyone goes back inside. Patton and Logan head straight for the stairs, Logan yawning and Patton leading him by the hand. Most of the other residents go the same way. Virgil and Roman, however, go back to the kitchen.

They don't talk much as they clean up, Virgil washing the dishes and Roman packing up all their ingredients again. When the last dish is dripping in the dishdrainer, the two roommates head back to their room. Roman caries the grocery bag of pancake ingredients.

Back in their room, Roman puts the bag down by the door and flops backwards across Virgil's bed. Virgil walks around it to sit down next to him. Roman looks up at him, his brown eyes adorably wide. "Hey," Roman says softly. Virgil smiles and, deciding to listen to his impulses the once, runs his hand through Roman's hair. Roman immediately looks flustered, so Virgil counts it as a win.

There's something Virgil wants to ask him, but when he opens his mouth to try, he finds that his voice has gotten stuck at the back of his throat. So instead he pulls his phone from his pocket and starts to type. A moment later, he can feel Roman's phone buzz against his hip.

Roman glances toward it, then up at Virgil again. Virgil smiles down at him, and Roman, nodding, mumbles, "Jus' a sec," and pulls his phone from his pocket to read his text.

Virgil, of course, knows what it says. do you want to try that kiss again?

It takes Roman longer than he'd expected to read the text, and Virgil finds himself staring down at his own phone.

Suddenly, Roman is pushing himself up on his elbows, and Virgil looks over at him. "Yes!" Roman says excitedly.

So, for the second time, Virgil Storm kisses Roman Prince.

This time is even better.

~~~~~

Written Next: Tidbits

Chronologically Next: The B-Word

[ruinousrealms]

A Quick and Easy Guide to Dining at Home

It was Tuesday night when Robin finally decided to eat his girlfriend. He should've been at work an hour ago, but instead, he found himself leaning over the stove, using a wooden spoon to stir a frying pan full of vegetables. Cabbage and onion were his go-to combo. He put them in rice, served them atop a steak or added them to stew. He loved garlic too, big fresh cloves from the farmer's market on the outskirts of town. It was a good hour's walk there, walking along the dirt shoulder of the highway to fill his backpack with all the fresh herbs and vegetables he could carry – And it was a hiking backpack, 50l according to the website, so he could carry a whole lot of em.

Sarah lay on the table, her arms at her sides and her face covered in a checkerboard tea towel. The table was covered in newspapers, and they were covered in blood, black, white, and red all over, as the joke goes. She was a real gusher, both in the bedroom and out, and when Robin drove that fancy Japanese knife into her esophagus, she sprayed like a stuck pig. Thankfully, he was already wearing his apron, but he'd still need to get his shirt drycleaned, and scrubbing the stains out of the carpet wouldn't be much fun.

A long incision ran along the length of her torso, from the base of her neck to just above the waistband of her panties. Her stomach was rounded with the results of a dozen failed diets, but Robin didn't mind. Big girls tasted best. There were few things better than a big flank steak with a nice strip of fat along the side, and little white lines running through the meat, except for maybe the whiskey he was looking forward to pairing with it, a very nice quarter cask Laphroaig.

The steak sat in a bowl that wasn't quite big enough for it, leaving the tip poking up like a red iceberg in a sea of brown, brackish water. It was a simple but effective marinade, just some thyme and Worcester sauce, along with a few drops of olive oil. Setting down his spoon, Robin left the veggies to sizzle in their coconut oil and fumbled around in a drawer till he found a pair of tongs. The bottom portion of the steak looked almost fully cooked, with the brown sauce so deeply inundating the meat, but the upper quarter was still completely raw, and so he simply flipped it over and left it to soak.

After a while, the veggies were almost done, so he flipped the dial to low heat and added a little splash of amontillado to hold them over. He placed the steak in a pan and stuck it in the oven to start with – Just to start, of course, he wasn't one of those savages who cooked their steaks all the way through. Then, grabbing a swig from the half-empty wine bottle, he returned to his girlfriend and picked up where he'd left off.

A human body has many prime cuts – A nice belly steak, like the one he was making, was perfect for an evening at home, whereas the thighs and buttocks were nice and juicy. This was where he began his work, making long, careful cuts with a practiced hand, wrapping fist-sized chunks of flesh in brown paper and tying it up with twine. By the time the steak was ready, he'd already filled a container with the brown packages, and carried it over to the deep freeze, which sat in the back of the pantry, humming faintly. One by one, he placed the steaks in their designated basket, and as he did so, he felt a cat rubbing against his ankles.

“Hey, little Lizzie,” He cooed, crouching down and stroking the tabby's soft fur as she let out a long, low purr, “Little Lizzie Borden, you want a treat? Just wait a moment, daddy's got a treat for you.”

Reaching into his pocket, Robin pulled out one of Sarah's earlobes, the scar still fresh from where he'd gotten frustrated and ripped out her earring, and Little Lizzie let out an eager meow. “Catch!” He tossed it to her, and she leapt up and caught it in midair, sinking her long fangs into the tough flesh. Then, as she always did, the feline purred and slunk off into the shadows to enjoy her prize.

Sarah looked a lot less pretty without her ears, he found, so he went ahead and covered her face up with the towel. As he returned to his cooking, however, he felt the urge to lift it up and take a peek. Yep, she was a real looker – It was a shame he'd be slicing up her face and smoking the juicy bits in the big kiln he'd built on the roof. It took a bit of convincing for the building superintendent to let him install that big brick oven, but after a couple of nice dinners, he was given the go-ahead. That man... Robin couldn't help but snort. He wouldn't know good food if it bit him on the dick. The fat old Turk ate a soup made from a homeless man's ass and acted like it was some sort of culinary revelation. When he asked for another bowl, Robin had to cough to keep from laughing.

The steak was a bit overdone, but still red on the inside, and that's what mattered. Transferring it to the pan, he added another splash of wine, then turned the heat up and let it boil away, searing the exterior and leaving the inside of the steak as pink as if she had just climbed out of bed. That reminded him, he'd have to change the bedsheets. Every woman's last living act was to void her bowels. Honestly, no manners.

As he scooped the steak and veggies onto a plate, he noticed Lizzie returning from her snack, licking her chops as she trotted up to the table and hopped onto a chair; Then, after a moment's hesitation, she leapt atop the table and curled up between Sarah's outspread legs, only to be shooed away a moment later. Robin wouldn't have minded if not for the bloody newspaper she was laying on; She was a good girl, but she always hated bathtime, and scrubbing congealed blood out of fur was a bitch and a half in itself.

Leaning back on the sofa, he sipped his scotch and flipped through a few channels. The news – Bad, as always. Some fucking religious thing, another nameless preacher shouting “Haw-Lay-Lew-Yuh!” and showing off the scars from his latest round of botched plastic surgery. After a few more flips, he paused, and moved back one channel – Jodie Foster gasped and staggered through a darkened basement, looking like a ghost in the green night vision filter. She looked good back then – He'd have taken her to dinner in a second, given the chance.

An erection began to form in his pants, and he poured another glass of scotch. The full moon shone through the window, half-obscured by the shadowy buildings across the street. Buffalo Bill cocked his gun, and Clarise spun around and fired all her rounds.

“One of these days,” He mumbled through a mouthful of steak, “That might be me.”

The thought made his cock jump. What a lovely night to have a curse.

[theranskahovs]

A Proposition *Part 3*

Request: “I need more of “A Proposition” I loved it so much” + inspired once again by my favorite anon V’s asks (1) (2)

Warnings: smut mentioned (not nearly as bad as last time), swearing

Word Count: 3k

A/N: *softly, as an afterthought* dream symbolism and premonitions, bitch. (this is most likely the last part, unless V or someone else sends me an ask that completely flips my world around)

Part One

Part Two

“Hello.” Hearing his voice surprises me, but in a way I expected it. I can’t help but feel a twinge of annoyance at him- this is already the second time he’s shown up at my house unannounced, technically an intruder. He’s lucky he forgot to give back my knife. 

The visits are beginning to happen like clockwork. It’s been almost a month since the last time I saw him, except strangely, this time he’s alone. I don’t even question why that is. 

He smiles- a lopsided grin that could light up half of New York if only he did it more often- and all traces of anger I feel toward him are fading. I smile back, and Piotr kisses the remnants of a scowl from my lips.

You wake up feeling more than a little disappointed. The dream is foggy already, and by the time you make breakfast you can’t recall what happened in it.

You’d caught yourself thinking back on the Russians’ second visit more often than you’d like to admit. More specifically, about Piotr. As his footsteps faded from your room and then you heard your front door shut, you suddenly felt weird about the whole situation. 

It was almost as if you wanted him to stay, and that in itself was strange for you. You were used to these types of nights, reveled in them, actually. Yet you wished you knew why you wanted him to spend the night, or how to ask him to, or even if you should in the first place. You’d wasted enough time pondering those questions even though the answers weren’t hidden.

You knew Piotr wasn’t the kind of guy to hold you close and whisper his deepest secrets to you after sex- he’d already made that clear. Even if he was, you didn’t have to be a psychic to predict it wouldn’t have ended well. 

He had even more blood on his hands than you, there’s no way that would mix better than oil and water. People like you two- who only did things that benefited them, and who didn’t care how detrimental those things were- didn’t get love affairs. 

That didn’t stop you from imagining it, though. Somehow, the hope made the longing worse. But you managed to put him out of your mind, instead spending your waking hours completing new jobs. 

You weren’t ready to admit it to yourself yet, but secretly you knew you weren’t going to do business with Vladimir anymore. Your web was already woven too deep, and you had to get out before you got stuck. 

When you returned home from your latest business venture, you found a threat. It was from your former employer, and if you had a name for him, you’d use it. But sadly, you didn’t. He was a ghost, and you seemed all too easy to track down. 

In plain handwriting, indistinguishable, on a small piece of paper taped to your mirror, read;

The rendezvous need to stop. I was promised Ranskahov’s head. I haven’t received what I’m owed. We’re always watching.

A shiver goes down your spine, and you angrily rip the note from the mirror and toss it in the trash. You didn’t fear him. You weren’t giving him any kind of satisfaction.

There’s a loud knock on your door, and you jump. You hurriedly search for your gun, then remember it’s still in your bag from earlier in the day. The familiar weapon melds into your palm, and you make your way to the door. Cautiously, you look through the peephole.

You’re almost as shocked as you would be if you saw someone with a machine gun; Piotr’s standing there, looking uncertain, almost ready to turn around and leave.

You open the door and let him in, locking it quickly behind him. “Why haven’t you left?” He asks, wringing his hands together.

“What are you talking about?” You ask.

“Did he not tell you?” Piotr questions, searching your eyes. He’s met with only confusion, and he sighs in frustration.

“Of course he fucking didn’t,” Piotr spits out, scowling.

You shrug, shaking your head. You have no idea what he’s talking about. “Vladimir didn’t tell you about the guys watching this building. The ones I killed.”

“The job I was hired to do,” you mention. “To kill Vladimir. They’re watching me.”

He nods. You’re about to yell at him for not telling you sooner, for risking himself to kill them when it’s your problem to deal with. But you don’t. Instead, you pull him into a hug, wrapping your arms around his neck. 

You can feel the tenseness of his form slowly fade, until his hands come up to rest on your back. “Thanks you,” you whisper. It’s been so long since someone cared.

“It’s not safe here,” he states, abruptly moving out of your embrace, words sharp. 

The long-awaited words pop out of your mouth, “Stay, then.” 

He shakes his head with a chuckle. You feel ashamed you’d asked, of course this was a mistake. “That won’t help. Come to my place,” he offers instead. So you do.

I leave the home I’d formed no attachments to with only a few small bags. My plants would have to be left behind, and the simple furniture and useless decorations. On the kitchen counter, I left a note for the Ghost- that’s what I’ve taken to calling him now- full of challenge and contempt. “Fuck you. You’ll never find me.” Where I would’ve signed my name, I sealed the message with a kiss, my dark lipstick staining the paper. It reminded me of blood. What an omen.

Piotr opens the door for you, letting you walk in first. “Chivalry isn’t dead,” you joke, turning back to raise your eyebrows at him. 

You take in the minimal apartment. It wasn’t as messy as you expected, and it wasn’t furnished beyond the necessities. A reminder of the similarities of your lifestyles. 

As he helps you set your bags down, you turn to him, putting a hand on his arm. “Please don’t get your hands dirty for me,” you tell him softly. You don’t expect anything from him, you don’t need anything from him.

He smiles slightly, shaking his head. “It doesn’t make a difference anymore.” You know the feeling. 

Your hand moves to his neck, thumb rubbing his cheek. “Thank you,” you repeat, not knowing how else to express the sentiment.

“Of course,” he breathes out gruffly. 

His head dips down, kissing you as you step closer to him. It feels better than last time. There’s no trace of roughness or anger, and Vladimir isn’t here to fight with him or challenge him.

His hands push up your shirt, then tug at your hips, pulling you impossibly close to him. The thought of money doesn’t even cross your mind as you let him pull your shirt off, then you watch his go next. 

The only thing on your mind is him as he leads you to his bedroom. You unclip your bra without a second thought to compensation. You get his belt unbuckled, waiting for him to kick his pants and underwear to the side. 

When he sits at the edge of the bed and pulls you to straddle him, you’re glad he came to your apartment. Later, when you’re crying out his name in muffled pants and ragged breaths, you’re not thinking about Vladimir, or his money. Even later still, as Piotr brushes your hair off your face, you realize you’re glad you didn’t.

For a few weeks you stay in Piotr’s apartment, having no other choice. You expect the Ghost’s accomplices are searching high and low for you, you have to assume that. 

It was a wonderful few weeks, filled with more orgasms than you could count, and late night talks with Piotr about anything you could think of. Who would’ve thought?

Not leaving the apartment was driving you crazy, though. So to repay Piotr for letting you stay (and also to have something to take your mind off the incessant worry that’s been creeping up on you lately) you’d taken to tidying up and cooking. 

This particular night you had a stir fry going, and the food sizzling away in the pan was enough to make your stomach growl. In addition to the wonderful smell drifting through the rooms, Piotr was impatiently waiting for it to be ready.

You’d tried to distract him by showing him the games on your phone, and he was absorbed in Jelly Splash when you heard a knock on the door. Your eyes meet, both confused at who it could be and neither wanting to think the worst.

He gets off the bed where you’d been lounging, and holds his palm out to you, telling you to stay in his room. After waiting for what felt like hours in dreadful silence, you hear heavy footsteps come in.

“Can you fucking believe-” The person starts, and you immediately recognize the voice as Vladimir’s.

Your chest tightens. You didn’t plan on explaining this situation to him, and it was obvious that he wouldn’t be happy with it. 

Piotr’s voice is uncertain when he replies, “What’s wrong? Why did you come?”

That’s when Vladimir realizes something isn’t right. He notices the dust that usually covers everything is gone, objects and clothes aren’t scattered on the floor, and something is cooking. And it doesn’t smell terrible.

Vladimir tilts his head, scrutinizing Piotr with a mocking smile, “Do you have someone over?”

Piotr anxiously rubs the back of his neck, “Uh-”

Vladimir gets his answer when you pop your head around the corner of the doorjamb, clad in only Piotr’s big flannel. You figure now’s a good a time as any, right? 

Vladimir sees you, and instantly gets angry. Piotr’s face falls as he turns around and spots you. Vladimir shoves at Piotr’s shoulder, “How much are you paying her?” Piotr stays silent. “Hm?”

“He’s not paying me anything,” you admit. Vladimir’s eyes flick to yours and he narrows them. 

“So you’re just playing house?” He asks, tone biting. You can sense the hurt beneath the anger. 

“Not exactly-” You start to explain the Ghost and the threats to him, but he shakes his head. 

“Was I asking you?” He spits out, gaze staying on Piotr. You bite your lip, glaring at him. 

Piotr just crosses his arms, not knowing what to say. Vladimir looks back at you, shaking his head ever so slightly. He turns to leave, and thinking better of it, swings his arm out and knocks a lamp over. 

You both flinch at the smashing sound. “Fucking whore,” is all Vladimir says before he slams the door. 

“YOU WERE THE ONE PAYING ME, ASSHOLE!” You shout after him, hoping it’s loud enough for him to hear. 

You huff out a breath, tears of anger prickling at the corners of your eyes. You sink to yours knees and start picking up the bigger pieces of the broken lamp quickly. A small shard of the lightbulb grazes your palm, and you let out a frustrated sob. You’re messing up even cleaning up.

Piotr puts his hands under your arms, pulling you up. You hug him tightly, making sure not to let blood drip onto his shirt. This all feels like one big mistake, and there’s way to make it right. It’s like an endless loop of making mistakes to fix the ones before. 

“Hey, it’s alright,” Piotr comforts, but all you feel is wrath and now you’re crying and it’s embarrassing and-

“Stop,” Piotr tells you. “It will be alright.” You nod into the crook of his neck, feeling your hair muss up under his chin as you do.

He convinces you to have some of the stirfry you made, and it helps calm you down, but you’re still radiating anger and nerves all night. You fall asleep that night with the words on your tongue, this is all a mistake. 

Out of an indescribable cloud of white, Piotr’s world comes into focus. He’s confused at first, but then he sees you. You’re sitting in the beat up leather armchair that’s by his bedroom window. He remembers when he bought it for $25. 

You’ve got your legs curled up under you, watching the dusk approach with an intensity he can’t measure. When he focuses behind you, he notices the sun doesn’t look normal. It’s a dark, apocalyptic, burning red, but you’re watching it like it’s the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen.

Your hair is pinned up in a way he’s never seen before, and on your head is a crown of plain sticks. Suddenly, you sense his presence and turn to him, a smile on your face.

“C’mere,” you beckon him, patting to the space on the armchair next to you. “Come watch.”

He heeds your command, perching on the arm. “Watch what?”

You ignore his question. “It’ll be better than it looks, I promise.” There’s a giddy excitement apparent in your voice.

“What do you mean?” he asks, confused and not feeling right. 

He reaches out, about to place his hand on your shoulder. His fingers meet the exposed skin, and you vanish into thin air in the same instance that his vision goes dark. 

The sensation of falling is suddenly all too real, and his stomach flips as fear surges through his veins. Panic is all he feels, all he knows, and all he’ll remember.

Piotr jumps awake, heart pounding. His eyes struggle to adapt to the darkness of the room, but through his curtain he sees the faint orange of the sun’s feeble attempt to rise.

He angrily shoves at his pillow, willing the adrenaline to leave his system. He tries to go back to sleep, but instead of fatigue he’s left with a creeping feeling of dread that won’t leave.

The next morning, you wake up unusually early. You don’t feel like going back to sleep, so you get up to start a cup of tea and maybe read a book. You open the cupboard to grab a mug and a piece of paper falls out.

Your heart immediately starts beating fast. You wonder if Piotr’s the kind of guy to leave love notes, oh, you really hope he is. You turn it over. In the now-familiar scrawl it reads;

We’re always watching.

You put your head in your hands, the thought of tea long gone. What could you possibly do? The Ghost is going to kill you. Maybe if you had the help of the Russians... but Vladimir would never agree to help you. 

They could be coming for you right now. The Ghost never gave a time frame for you killing Vladimir, but you’re sure the sand in the hourglass has got to be close to gone by now. 

Your thoughts go back to Piotr, sleeping peacefully at the early hour. He didn’t deserve to be caught up in your mess. Now you’ve put him on the hit list by staying here and somehow getting caught.

The thought hits you like an epiphany- I’ve got to leave. As soon as you think it, you’ve already made up your mind. You go back to Piotr’s bedroom, not bothering to be quiet- he can sleep through anything.

You find your bags and start putting clothes back into them. It took some time, they’d slowly started becoming integrated with his. You’d gotten comfortable living with Piotr. 

As you’re packing, you wonder where you can go. East Coast is out of the question. I’ve always wanted to see LA. Or maybe Oregon, live a quiet life in a cottage in a coastal forest with a dog, practice being normal again.

Piotr shifts in his sleep, and you freeze. You only relax when he turns over and starts snoring again. You wonder what you’re going to tell Piotr when he wakes up. He’d try to get Vladimir involved again. 

You make your way back to the kitchen. You set the Ghost’s note out, and search for a pen. Underneath the Ghost’s writing you scribble; 

I’m so sorry.

There’s so much else you want to say, but you don’t know how. If you say it, your heart would break. So you don’t. Leave him to wonder what’s in between the lines, you couldn’t put it in words even if you tried.

I left at 5:17, as the kitchen clock told me, but it’s never right. There was no dramatic I-love-you, no solemn kiss to his cheek. I just spared him a final glance, and left. I almost didn’t think about him as I locked the door on my way out. Sometimes that’s just the way it is; I prefer it. I left the second home I’d known with a bittersweet smile. 

Piotr wakes up to the cold bed, the dread still curling around him like wisps of smoke. He calls your name softly, still groggy. He makes his way through the house, panic growing when he can’t find you. 

His eyes fall on the note, and he picks it up, reading it quickly. He knows you’ve left, but he still clings to the hope that you’ll come back in a few minutes, or you’ll be laying next to him in bed, waking him up from this terrible dream. 

His mind sets about to bringing up all the memories of the last months, even though he doesn’t want to relive them just yet. There’s times where your passion matched the red of the sky in his dream, and nights clouded in a haze of alcohol- all he remembers is your smile and not being able to catch his breath from laughing so hard. 

Then there’s 3 a.m.’s blurred by pain, and so much blood as he no longer has to patch himself up. He can’t forget early mornings with his gift of a bouquet of flowers and pancakes made by you. 

You were the real ghost. In and out of his life before he could really appreciate it, disappearing on a morning where the fog made it look like you were walking right into the clouds. But it wasn’t a love affair. 

[ukhandoit-blog]

Depressed Diary Day 1

I’m starting this online diary because I can’t remember my days. Also I always wanted to be a writer so this is a good place to start.

So I woke up this morning feeling motivated. I’ve been feeling more motivated to go to work and try to have good days lately, it’s probably a manic state but that’s okay. I got up jerked off took a shower jerked off in the shower too. The worst part about my masturbation is I have a girlfriend. She gives me pretty regular sex too so I really have no reason to but I just can’t bring myself to stop. The morning shower is the hardest place not to. I finished getting ready after my shower. Brushed my teeth with some charcoal toothpaste from lush. I noticed it was expired since last July, wonder if that means it won’t work anymore? Only time will tell.(cause I ain’t looking that shit up.) I went to my room and my GF was just waking up, I didn’t even have to tell her to cover her eyes when I was about to turn on the light. I told her I loved her and placed a hand on her leg. I really wanted to just go back to sleep but I kept at it today. I ironed a purple dress shirt and put on my blue jeans, belt, leather jacket, and some unmatched blue socks from a pack my mom had bought for me. I told my girl I loved her again and headed out for the day. On my way out I grabbed my vape, wallet, phone, and, keys. I headed to my beat up RAV4. Couldn’t remember where I parked so I looked in the front and back. It was in the back parked in a safe spot in our complex’s private lot. It was raining today, water poured over the car as I approached. I was glad cause I haven’t washed her in months, maybe even a year. I jumped in the front seat and started her up. It was easy, the car is pretty new but I have tons of dents and scratches. A coworker backed up into the side and knocked down a plastic panel that now hangs on the passenger door until either I get it fixed or something rips it from the car. My license plate hangs from one screw due to a time where my girl and I fought all the way to her dropping me off at my car. I was so mad I hit her bumper and broke the other screw that holds it in a way it can’t be replaced without drilling out the hole. My drive to work was in eventful. I played AM radio and listened to the traffic. “Even though we didn’t get enough rain to leave standing water on the freeways, the 880 is backed up due to several inches of water.” said the traffic host. It hadn’t rained much this winter but it was still better than the drought years that passed. I Arrived at the office after texting and driving the whole way there. Not the safest way to drive but the mornings are just so depressing I often can’t resist. I’ve found that it cures my loneliness temporarily. The office had posting on the door about carpets being cleaned, and not to walk on them too much. I laughed to myself as I knew it wouldn’t change the amount I walked. Not like I could levitate or climb on the walls to avoid the carpet. I entered the office ready to make coffee, had to walk thru the complex as our office is located inside on a corporate condo complex. I said hi to the few people in, David, Jeanessa, Colleen, Leslie(Lacey?), Heather, and Jennifer. I’m so bad with names and we have a Leslie and a Lacey in the office but I’ll be damned if I know the difference. The walls are stark white and the ceiling is tiled with those plaster or insulation tiles they use in schools and office buildings, also white. Rows of two laptop computers on desks of the glass walled cubicles sat humming waiting for the rest of the office to come in. I always make the coffee in our office if I can help it. No one had started it which was kinda surprising as last time Jennifer beat me to the office she had done it before me. Apparently she even had done a better job than me as the filter had over flowed the grounds and some were burned to the bottom of the pot. I grabbed the pot and threw away the used grounds, took the filter, it’s parts, and the pot with me to be cleaned. I rinsed and scrubbed them without soap in the communal sink near the vending machines. After I was done I marched back to the break room to make the coffee. I felt my stomach rumble as I poured the ice cold water into the back of the coffee maker. I hadn’t had breakfast. I was looking forward to making some ramen when I headed home for lunch, I knew I needed to make soup aswel because my fiancé was sick. I texted her to let her know I was excited to see her that night. We’ve been going thru hard times lately. Her grandparents were moving out of state and she spent the last few days seeing them off. She didn’t like that they were leaving and often made it personal, as if she were the reason they were moving away. I let her know I would be home for lunch at 12:30. I wasted my morning, did about 20 mins worth of work between 9 and noon when I was to leave for work, spent the rest of the time posting and looking for memes on my anon Facebook. I even managed to fit an argument about Moana and Disney in my drive back home for lunch. Lunch didn’t go at all as I had pictured. When I walked in my girl was standing I font of an empty wok at the stove, I thought it was strange as she never cooks with my wok. She immediately began to apologize for not have finished lunch. Since I had not expected my sick girlfriend to be cooking at all I quietly accepted and told her it was okay and I had enough time. I was very wrong. She asked me to help cut up some chicken, and I thought I saw about a cup of oil in the wok. “Oh baby that’s too much oil for this wok you only need to coat the pan when you stir-fry.” I told her sternly. “It’s not oil it’s water.” She replied Confused I asked. LOh really what are you making?“ I don’t remember exactly how it goes from here but she was not happy I questioned her and I was not happy either. I hadn’t eaten yet that day and my temper was short. I got pissed off when she couldn’t find a spice she needed. I wonder why the hell she was doing all this in the first place. I needed to be at work in half an hour and she was planning to make sauce from scratch. We fought for an hour, it made me late for work, plus I didn’t get to eat lunch at all. I’m so hungry, it all my fault. Idk what to do but now I’m supposed to cook to make it up to her. I feel like I want to die. I don’t even want to eat anymore. I want to just stop eating all together. I’m considering make this blog a kind of suicide note tracking what happens to an adult male when he stops eating all together. I’m 170 lbs 5'11 and heaviest weight I’ve been in my entire life.

See you tomorrow if I can remember. Khandoit

[unleashthemidnight]

SPN goes NSP: Guess Who’s Back (Just In Time For The Christmas)

Christmas Calendar: Masterlist SPN goes NSP: GWB part 1, part 2, part 3 Chapter name: Let's get this terrible party started Pairing + others: Reader x Gabriel, Winchesters, Danny Sexbang Synopsis: You were doing preparations for the Christmas celebration with Sam and Dean in the bunker when the party invitation threw you in the loop. Word count: 1500+ Warnings: Crack, sexual references, language, song lyrics usage, The Frying Pan™ Notes: This is part of the Christmas Calendar and will be updated towards the Christmas. NSP is amazing band called NinjaSexParty, whose songs, covers and music videos I have used. Songs are listed at the end. Whooo boy, this is something else that I would normally write *cough* Hope you all enjoy this ride we are starting! This is also the shit that no one asked for. Reblogs and comments are loved Do not repost

The white lilies and the golden white light; something so beautiful yet so painful. The memories of the two of you and the painful end danced around each other in your head. You missed Gabriel. You missed his tricks and often stupid but brilliant ideas that made you laugh, as much as you sometimes hated to admit it. You just wished that he would be there with you. You would see again how his eyes would fill with childish joy when he was up to something. You wanted to see them full of hope when you ended up talking about things you wanted to do, when you talked about future, no matter how much it sometimes scared both of you. And oh, how those eyes would darken with lust when… Sigh. It had been long road to get this far from your deepest end but you had Winchesters, your brothers, helping you from the beginning. They had given you the time to grief and made sure that your basic needs were met when you didn't leave from your room until needed to. Little later they had kept you busy with hunts, research and other little tasks so you would think something else for a change. You needed to get moving even if you didn't move on.

”We're gonna need more coffee,” Dean's voice snapped you back to the reality. You were cooking breakfast and the boys were doing inventory as the preparations for the holidays. That meant that Sam was doing inventory while Dean sat at the table sipping his coffee. Sam went through the shelves throwing away all the stuff that should have been thrown away ages ago judging by the smell, and you all listed things that you still needed for the holidays. ”We would be at the store much quicker if you wouldn't just sit there and were actually helping me with this,” Sam complained. ”But I'm too hungry,” Dean mockingly whined back. The truth still was that he really was hungry, it had been awhile since you all had a proper meal. ”The food will be ready as soon as I can fry these eggs, just help Sam. For me? Then we can go to the store and we can pick up all the things we need and if you are on Santa's good list, I will get the ingredients for the pies,” you chimed in while picking up the frying pan. ”You used plural...” Dean pointed out the obvious, doubting your words. ”Yes.” You saw how quickly he moved around the counter to help his little brother. That was easy, you thought smile on your face. ”Hey guys, there's a letter in here…?” Sam picked an envelope from one of the old boxes of cereal. The envelope was decorated with various arts-and-crafts' gems and with fancy letters in the middle of it read ”You're Invited, Dickbags!” ”Let me see that.” Dean took the envelope, ripped it open and started reading it without caring how it ended up in the cereal box or from whom it could be. You had bad feeling about this. ”Oh shit! Congrats, your ass just got invited to the party of your life! Once every hundred thousand years the most epic party in this universe is hold as it was foretold in the scrolls. 'What scrolls?' I hear you asking. Who cares! It's NinjaSexParty -party so you know it's the shit. So take that pudding, pour it on your chest and let your pants hit the floor because your life was totally bullshit until right now. I hope you like fun 'cause we're having it! IT'S GO TIME!” As Dean read the end of the letter with no sender, the world shifted around you making the bunker and the letter disappear. Your head couldn't take the shifting, it made you nauseous. You found yourself lying on the cold floor with distant smell of the fumes and oil. This definitely wasn't the start of the party that one would be excepting after that kind of letter. What even is NinjaSexParty? You coughed and took couple of deep breaths. The hit on the floor was hard but nothing in your body was broken. As you rolled over so you could sit, you noticed your frying pan from the bunker close to you. Weird. ”Oh c'mon! What the hell...” you heard Dean's confusion with slight desperation on the side. ”You alright?” Sam asked as he helped you up. ”Yeah, little bit dizzy but nothing that I can't manage,” you answered and looked around bit more. You were in pale, almost empty two car garage. With you there was four people sitting around cheap knock-off table. The people were dressed up like your typical Hollywood style nerds that were too focused on the game to notice you. ”Um… Hey guys. You playing Dungeons and Dragons or…?” Dean asked from the group catiously, prepared for possible fight. You all needed to find out what happened and how to get back home, now. But before any of the guys could even answer to you, the door to the house flung open making three of you jump. ”ALL RIGHT! This party is off to a bit of a slow start but soon it's gonna melt your brain and fishslap your heart. Check out this leaf-collecting album or two that I made back in autumn,” a tall, slim man with darker curly hair in red silky robe announced and throwed 5 different albums of leafs at Sam, who couldn't hold them all. ”And don't get me started on the balloons! Want 'em? I got 'em!” The man pointed at two different sizes balloons hanging sadly on the wall. Next he slapped Dean on the shoulder. ”Just wait when the music starts to drop, the vibe's gonna change. We've got the country-themed metal garage band,” he continued while walking past of Dean in the middle of the room doing a little spin, ”oh, and the hot girls are showing up, I'm so sorry you had to wait but now they're finally inflated. This shit right here would make the hobbit say 'to the hell with the Shire'! SO GET THIS FREAKING PARTY STARTED!” As he ended his speech, the music started to play and more people walked through the door in different costumes that you could get from thrift store. There was '70s disco, brightly colored suits and velor jumpsuits. Leopard minks, moccasins, gold chains, the list went on. Someone was wearing your grandpa's clothes. You were stunned, not only about you ending up in someone's garage but you could recognize those curry and coffee stains on your grandpa's clothes anywhere. What the hell was going on? ”Did he just...” Dean looked at you and Sam and saw the same look on your faces as he had on his. ”The girls are inflated. As...” you pointed questioning even though you could actully see them as they were, standing in the corner. Just waiting there. Patiently. ”It seems so,” Sam answered. One of the other quests asked one of the dolls to dance with them. It seemed that they said yes and now they both were slow dancing across the floor and past you. ”Alright then… We have to do something about all this, soon,” Dean sighed while pinching the bridge of his nose. You all decided that everyone would talk to different groups of people and see what information you could get. You didn't know what to except when you started to mingle with other quests but this wasn't it. You met a guy who played football and told you that he once won the whole super bowl by himself. Weightlifter said that they could bench an entire continental shelf. One told you they were a scientist who cured all diseases last week. There were also the dragon slayer who found the Dragon's cave at ninety million hundred fifty thousand hundred feet in the air and fought his army of awesome karate bears. That one guy was naked for no reason at all. You also met Manticore who shouldn't even been in this party. You didn't want to ask. ”Why hello there beautiful,” the man from earlier, the one with the silky robe who seemed to be the host, slided next to you, ”I'm Danny Sexbang and I'd like to ask you out on the hottest of dates. Let's ditch these losers and go somewhere else more... appropiate?” he suggested and gave you a rose. Why didn't you pick up the frying pan when you had the chance? ”Hold one hot minute there Casanova,” Dean interrupted, ”Y/N here isn't going anywhere with you and we have couple questions that need answers right now.” ”What's wrong guys? I thought this would be your kind of party! I made this just for you. Not enough of girls?” Danny pretended to be schoked. ”Who the hell are you and why are we here?” Dean demanded to know as Sam found his way to you. ”Oooh, I'm Danny Sexbang, the toughest fucking ninja that you've ever seen but that's all in the past. Let's talk about that other thing some other time,” Danny answered with finger guns and took couple steps backwards from you as other quests slowly formed a ominous circle around you. All of this seemed like a bad dream. Yeah, you must be dreaming. You would probably wake up soon enough. ”Okay, so, this party sucks. Let's explode this building!” You heard Danny yelling. ”WAIT WHAT - -” The world around you shifted again.

Fun fact: People in the party were totally dancing the dances you can see in I just wanna dance -video and the Dragon dance in Dragon Slayer -video.

Christmas Calendar tag: @sumara62, @authoressskr, @serendiptious-esparza, @be-fantastic, @pizzamanteachings Gabriel tag: @nobodys-baby-now @dlb1999

Hit me with ask or message if you would like to join either one of these lists!

NinjaSexParty's songs used in this fic:

Let's get this terrible party started! x

I just wanna dance x

Dragon Slayer x

Ninja Brian was so Ninja that you couldn't see him under the table..

[letterstocillianmurphy]

Letter 18 -tire swings and summer sunsets

Hello,

how are You? How is life?

Long time no see, no write.

I was so busy the last couple of weeks. Got up really early, went to work, got home, ate something and then by 9:30 i was fast asleep...

But i manage to write a little, here and there. So here is my rambling from July and August:

The weather got really hot again here. High summer for sure. We have these oil painting like sunsets. Dramatic clouds on a burning canvas. Lately my Instagram feed gets one every night. I am noticing the shortening of the days. Do you? I am kind of driving my loved ones crazy with this topic... Speaking of crazy, once in a while I got these really vivid, lifelike, lucid dreams. Like a full on Hollywood made big budget movie kind. They are colorful, with a logical plot. And I can remember them for a long time. And I am telling you, I don't feel rested after I wake at all, haha. This one, a few nights ago makes me laugh, when it comes to my mind. The story goes like this: there is this tiny town, close to my village. On the right side of the road that goes through it, there is an old castle. Really pretty, it's walls are white as snow, surrounded by magnificent trees and a pond. Beethoven visited it's owners back in the day a few times, it is rumored that he fell in love there too. (so I am listening to his Sonata that he finished there, on full volume https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=efA1S8hyBms ) And on the left side of the road, just opposite of the castle, they built a brewery with a restaurant and on the top floor a hotel with it. These are facts, they really do exist. But in my dream, I worked there. We had this massive festival like happening, and for that you came with your friend Martin Freeman. (I don't have any clue if you know each other at all) I helped you settle in, showed you around, even fetched something for you that you needed. And then introduced you to the party. It wasn't like you were the main guests, you just came to enjoy the festival. We offered all the best ales and beers, and delicious food and of course music. Mainly Hungarian folk. +You should know, where there is Hungarian music, there's dancing  and singing as well.  It was a warm summer night, with a big crowd. I remember, I stood there, watching all the happy people, eat, drink, sing, dance. Freely, without the concerns of the virus.  It filled me up, I felt content.  From a distance I saw you, you loved it. Martin too. Although he did some naughty thing, and on top of that he got utterly uselessly drunk. I think I was some kind of a night manager, and you asked for my help. I assume because of Martin's naughtiness we got into a car chase situation, with a cabriolet.  Crazy, but it was fun. Like i know how i love safety, and in that car it wasn't safe at all, but i enjoyed it. With you by my side. Do you know that feeling, when you travel, with the windows down, and the air is still warm and filled with beautiful, deep and sweet scents, the Sun is already down, and you feel like you are flying almost? I remember it was like that in that cabrio.Seriously it makes me laugh, like whaaaat?! I am so happy when I cook something delicious. I don’t lie if I say, I use the word  gourmet a lot around here. I wonder, am I boring or too simple? Because these small things bring me such joy in life. I feel like I am a billionaire, when I go out to the garden and pick some sour cherries and raspberries. And I bring them inside, and make a delicious sauce out of it that perfectly complements the meatballs I am frying up...or music,or experiencing my body's circle. It brings me joy, because I feel like I am connected to nature. So many things are pulling me away from that grounding force. Today, all I have is pain, and i am so thankful that i have a life, where I can choose to stay home and just feel all that i need to feel. I would say, I am fortunate that I can handle period pains. It's like my body has the strength to deal with it. This time it is really intense, I even feel pain in my ankles up to my ears at the same time. Like if I were a pretty planet, and nature was my sun. I would fly around it, on my orbit, and every month I would reach my furthest point, and then suddenly I would feel this enormous pull. Yup, that is how i feel right now. It reminds me of a rope swing I had the chance to swing on. It was a huge tractor tire tied onto a long rope, up on a tall tree, in the middle of a tiny island. I would run, while pushing the tire full speed, and then jump up, holding onto it with all my strength, and then i would reach that tipping point, and all my muscles would hurt and a tiny squeak would leave my mouth, and then laughter with tears...

Sometimes I wonder what is pain anyway?

Lately I’ve been thinking about love, the psychical, the sexual kind of love.

And the beauty in men. Like in Saint Sister’s song: ‘You on the blue carpet We swapped bodies for a while’ (i really love that song, all the deep feelings, how poetical but in the same time, how accurate and precise it is describing the whole situation?! so honest and pure, love it)

Also i am thinking about energy. Like if you have a sizzling hot pan, and you put it under cold water, it will cool it down, but really, where does that heat energy disappear?

And sounds. On my mixtape/list i have three songs from Caoimhín Ó Raghallaigh, with his special instrument, where he makes sounds that create a third one in our brain. I wonder do we all hear that exact same sound?

What are you thinking about these days?

Today i wish you find a new favourite song, so good, you have to listen to it over and over again!

Bye,

with love

[airoasis]

What You Should Absolutely Never Order From Dairy Queen

New Post has been published on https://hititem.kr/what-you-should-absolutely-never-order-from-dairy-queen/

What You Should Absolutely Never Order From Dairy Queen

Should you find yourself headed to a Dairy Queen for a quick meal … or even a seemingly innocent ice cream cone … watch out for the following menu items, sure to displease even the least picky palate. You’d think a basic burger would be pretty hard to screw up, right? Ground beef, grill, bun, and done. Usually a safe bet off any fast food menu but not so at DQ, at least some of the time. Restaurant reviewers have remarked on their burgers’ peculiar texture, charred taste, and soggy buns, while former employees speak of burgers spending too long in the warming pan. What’s really upsetting, however, is complaints from customers claiming that their DQ burgers caused them to experience serious food poisoning symptoms. Im fine, Im good. If you start to feel sick, then Ill start to AHHHHH! One man even sued a Fort Worth Dairy Queen over a moldy burger that sent him to the ER and cost him over $20,000 in medical bills. According to Ralph Bryan’s attorney, the barber was busy at work when his wife brought him a double patty burger.He took several bites of the burger while it was still partly covered in its wrapper, but declined to finish the rest … it wasn’t until later that he saw the bun was covered in mold. When Bryan later complained to the restaurant where the burger had been ordered, the manager offered him a coupon in compensation. Instead, he chose to file a lawsuit seeking $200,000 to $1 million in damages for his pain and suffering, and perhaps to cover the likely cost of his choosing pricier restaurants for his future dining needs. Raw or undercooked chicken is one of the leading causes of foodborne illness, according to the Center for Disease Control. But for years, unhappy customers have been taking to social media to report raw or undercooked chicken strips from Dairy Queen, some of them even posting photos to prove they’re not exaggerating. One Indianapolis man took his complaints further than posting an online rant, however. I got a couple bites and I was like, this does not taste right, looked at it, ripped it out and realized it was completely raw. Zach Cruse decided to report the incident to DQ corporate, and the company didnt waste any time springing into action.An employee is now fired after serving THIS raw chicken to a customer. The local health department also launched an investigation of the restaurant’s food preparation procedures. If there’s one thing DQ is justly famed for, it’s the soft-serve ice cream they’ve been dishing up since 1940. The thing about soft-serve ice cream, however, is that what makes it so soft is the extra air that’s added into it. This is done with the aid of a pretty complicated machine which can harbor all kinds of nasty bacteria. It turns out that the machines are actually very difficult to get completely clean. The owner of a Dairy Queen in Iowa had her workers clean the soft-serve machines twice a day, and even replaced all of the hoses and fittings on one machine, and yet the machine still failed to meet state sanitation standards and was shut down by local health authorities. One worker who repairs the machines used to make soft serve ice cream commented that he would never allow his family to eat the product, due to the difficulty of disinfecting the machine sufficiently to kill off most of the bacteria.The most unsanitary part of these machines, he stated, was the nozzles, as these become clogged with foul-smelling green gunk, just what you want as the base of your ice cream cone. A food reviewer with Business Insider magazine, who has tasted some of the worst items that fast food restaurants have dished up over the years, still states that the hands-down worst thing she’s ever tried is Dairy Queen’s chili cheese dog. She was unimpressed by the meager amount of chili and the barely-melted, crusty cheese, but what really threw her was the alleged meat inside the bun. She didn’t think it tasted like a hot dog at all, even a bad one. Another taste tester described the hot dog as tasting like it was three weeks old. There’s a good chance that your hot dog won’t be exactly fresh off the grill.One former DQ employee admitted that the hot dogs were used, quote, “over, and over, and over” and even reheated to serve the next day if they weren’t all gone by closing time. Dairy Queen, like just about every other fast food chain out there, does offer a few salads on its menu for the health conscious diner … or perhaps the one who’s saving all their calories for dessert.The problem with ordering a salad at DQ, though, is that you definitely won’t get what you’re paying for. One DQ employee, commenting anonymously on Reddit, described all the ingredients as old, including the lettuce, cabbage, carrots, and, quote, even older grilled chicken,” which sounds like a way for them to get rid of a bunch of unwanted leftovers. What’s more, this same employee revealed a menu change circa 2016, a sneaky downsizing maneuver in which the salad amounts were reduced but the bowls were redesigned to hide this.Oh yeah, and their salads arent exactly healthy options, either. All of the main course salads range from 270 to 400 calories and 11 to 21 grams of fat, and that’s without any dressing. Ok, so nobody goes to Dairy Queen and orders a Blizzard thinking it’s going to be part of a nutritious, well-balanced diet. These are nothing but delicious calorie bombs and we all know it. Every once in a while, you just gotta indulge, though, right? Well, there’s indulging and then there’s just plan insanity, and at DQ there’s one menu item that totally crosses over the line: the Royal Reese Brownie Blizzard filled with peanut butter, in the large size, comes in at a whopping 1,500 calories! That’s 75 percent of the 2,000 recommended daily calories endorsed by the federal Food and Drug Administration. Of course, if you want to feast on a Blizzard from time to time but you have a little self control, you can always order this Blizzard in a mini size. At just 6 ounces, it comes in at a mere 520 calories. If moderation is not your thing, at least you can always console yourself that the large size does supply a respectable 37 grams of protein thanks to its gooey peanut butter-filled core.I thoroughly enjoy this peanut butter. In 2018, a panel of taste testers from foodie website The Takeout set out to rank 19 different Blizzards, and the one that came in dead last, scoring only 1 out of 20 possible taste points, was the infamous Banana Split Blizzard. Why? Because of its watery consistency and its sour taste from overripe bananas. The strawberry and chocolate flavorings were said to be faint, and the taste of pineapple wasnt even noticeable at all.How can one butcher a banana split so terribly? Were unsure, but the conclusion was that this particular Blizzard was pretty much one big fail. When it comes to fast food fry reviews, Dairy Queen fries are usually damned with faint praise. The Daily Hive called them just, quote, “okay,” but rated them #9 on a list of 10 Canadian chains. The LA Times ranked DQ’s fries in the middle of the pack, 7 out of 19, but remarked that, quote, “the flavor isn’t particularly noticeable” and seemingly gave the chain a bump just because Dairy Queen also serves ice cream. A blogger for Odyssey, however, pulled no punches, calling the fries soggy, lifeless, and unseasoned. These reviews, ranging from meh to bleh, are still referring to Dairy Queen fries that are prepared as they should be, and served up relatively fresh.Numerous consumer complaints, however, attest to the fact that the fries may well be cold, stale, or even gritty, and that you may receive far fewer of these than you expect. Although when it comes to DQ fries, perhaps fewer isn’t such a bad thing, after all. Business Insider has reviewed Dairy Queens fish sandwiches several times. A 2016 review called them subpar, with a weak bun, soggy lettuce, bland tartar sauce and fish that could easily be mistaken for chicken. A more recent Business Insider review of Dairy Queen’s Alaskan Pacific Cod sandwich was ambivalent as to whether it was or was not an improvement on DQ’s previous fishwiches. The oil-coated lettuce and excessive tartar sauce were judged to be even worse than before, but the fish itself had seemingly improved from unidentifiable to merely not so great. Yet another review, this one posted on Reddit, characterized the Alaskan Cod sandwich as both gross and, quote, “smushed.” The reviewer backed these claims up with some vomit-inducing photos that not only do look both gross and smushed, but do not in any way resemble the deliciousness shown in the companys advertising photo.One commenter offered the opinion that it was the Redditors fault for ordering fish from a fast food restaurant in the first place, while others remarked upon how Dairy Queen itself so often fails to fulfill expectations. You know a food trend is on its way out by the time it trickles down to fast food chains. Do you remember when, suddenly, every foodie was going gaga over artisanal this, that, and the other thing? Marketers soon found out that this buzzword was an easy way to justify jacking up the price on an item that really didn’t have to fit any specific guidelines to qualify as artisanal. With everyone else having jumped aboard the artisanal bandwagon in 2015, Dairy Queen decided it might as well roll out its own artisan sandwich line, with results that were well, predictable.Business Insider found the chicken bacon ranch sandwich to be soggy, while a Tripadvisor reviewer couldn’t decide whether the chicken mozzarella or the Philly artisan sandwich was worse, reporting them to be microwave-cooked and skimpy on fillings. At least when and if that whole food trend goes away, we won’t have to blame it on millennials. Instead, we can blame DQ and their soggy sandwiches for driving the final nail in the artisanal coffin. Breakfast, the most important meal of the day. What better way to jump start your day than with a tasty, healthy meal sure to fill you with energy or you could just clog up every single artery and scarf down half of your day’s recommended calories and fat right from the get-go. Good luck feeling energized to do anything but head straight back to bed after that. If you’re down with the latter plan, then you’ll definitely want to stop by Dairy Queen and load up on their breakfast, where their country platter fits the definition of heart attack on a plate. The country platter with sausage has been called the absolute worst breakfast item on DQ’s menu, it turns out the platter with bacon is even worse.The sausage platter has 1,060 calories and 38 grams of fat, while the bacon version comes in at 1,150 calories and 39 fat grams. Actually, when it comes to fat alone, there’s yet another contender: the ultimate hash browns platter with bacon. This dish, which could be described as a health crisis waiting to happen, has just 1,030 calories but an incredible, and possibly fatal, 43 grams of fat. So, eat at your own risk. Check out one of our newest videos right here! Plus, even more Mashed videos about your favorite stuff are coming soon. Subscribe to our YouTube channel and hit the bell so you don’t miss a single one. .

[batterymonster2021]

What You Should Absolutely Never Order From Dairy Queen

New Post has been published on https://hititem.kr/what-you-should-absolutely-never-order-from-dairy-queen/

What You Should Absolutely Never Order From Dairy Queen

Should you find yourself headed to a Dairy Queen for a quick meal … or even a seemingly innocent ice cream cone … watch out for the following menu items, sure to displease even the least picky palate. You’d think a basic burger would be pretty hard to screw up, right? Ground beef, grill, bun, and done. Usually a safe bet off any fast food menu but not so at DQ, at least some of the time. Restaurant reviewers have remarked on their burgers’ peculiar texture, charred taste, and soggy buns, while former employees speak of burgers spending too long in the warming pan. What’s really upsetting, however, is complaints from customers claiming that their DQ burgers caused them to experience serious food poisoning symptoms. Im fine, Im good. If you start to feel sick, then Ill start to AHHHHH! One man even sued a Fort Worth Dairy Queen over a moldy burger that sent him to the ER and cost him over $20,000 in medical bills. According to Ralph Bryan’s attorney, the barber was busy at work when his wife brought him a double patty burger.He took several bites of the burger while it was still partly covered in its wrapper, but declined to finish the rest … it wasn’t until later that he saw the bun was covered in mold. When Bryan later complained to the restaurant where the burger had been ordered, the manager offered him a coupon in compensation. Instead, he chose to file a lawsuit seeking $200,000 to $1 million in damages for his pain and suffering, and perhaps to cover the likely cost of his choosing pricier restaurants for his future dining needs. Raw or undercooked chicken is one of the leading causes of foodborne illness, according to the Center for Disease Control. But for years, unhappy customers have been taking to social media to report raw or undercooked chicken strips from Dairy Queen, some of them even posting photos to prove they’re not exaggerating. One Indianapolis man took his complaints further than posting an online rant, however. I got a couple bites and I was like, this does not taste right, looked at it, ripped it out and realized it was completely raw. Zach Cruse decided to report the incident to DQ corporate, and the company didnt waste any time springing into action.An employee is now fired after serving THIS raw chicken to a customer. The local health department also launched an investigation of the restaurant’s food preparation procedures. If there’s one thing DQ is justly famed for, it’s the soft-serve ice cream they’ve been dishing up since 1940. The thing about soft-serve ice cream, however, is that what makes it so soft is the extra air that’s added into it. This is done with the aid of a pretty complicated machine which can harbor all kinds of nasty bacteria. It turns out that the machines are actually very difficult to get completely clean. The owner of a Dairy Queen in Iowa had her workers clean the soft-serve machines twice a day, and even replaced all of the hoses and fittings on one machine, and yet the machine still failed to meet state sanitation standards and was shut down by local health authorities. One worker who repairs the machines used to make soft serve ice cream commented that he would never allow his family to eat the product, due to the difficulty of disinfecting the machine sufficiently to kill off most of the bacteria.The most unsanitary part of these machines, he stated, was the nozzles, as these become clogged with foul-smelling green gunk, just what you want as the base of your ice cream cone. A food reviewer with Business Insider magazine, who has tasted some of the worst items that fast food restaurants have dished up over the years, still states that the hands-down worst thing she’s ever tried is Dairy Queen’s chili cheese dog. She was unimpressed by the meager amount of chili and the barely-melted, crusty cheese, but what really threw her was the alleged meat inside the bun. She didn’t think it tasted like a hot dog at all, even a bad one. Another taste tester described the hot dog as tasting like it was three weeks old. There’s a good chance that your hot dog won’t be exactly fresh off the grill.One former DQ employee admitted that the hot dogs were used, quote, “over, and over, and over” and even reheated to serve the next day if they weren’t all gone by closing time. Dairy Queen, like just about every other fast food chain out there, does offer a few salads on its menu for the health conscious diner … or perhaps the one who’s saving all their calories for dessert.The problem with ordering a salad at DQ, though, is that you definitely won’t get what you’re paying for. One DQ employee, commenting anonymously on Reddit, described all the ingredients as old, including the lettuce, cabbage, carrots, and, quote, even older grilled chicken,” which sounds like a way for them to get rid of a bunch of unwanted leftovers. What’s more, this same employee revealed a menu change circa 2016, a sneaky downsizing maneuver in which the salad amounts were reduced but the bowls were redesigned to hide this.Oh yeah, and their salads arent exactly healthy options, either. All of the main course salads range from 270 to 400 calories and 11 to 21 grams of fat, and that’s without any dressing. Ok, so nobody goes to Dairy Queen and orders a Blizzard thinking it’s going to be part of a nutritious, well-balanced diet. These are nothing but delicious calorie bombs and we all know it. Every once in a while, you just gotta indulge, though, right? Well, there’s indulging and then there’s just plan insanity, and at DQ there’s one menu item that totally crosses over the line: the Royal Reese Brownie Blizzard filled with peanut butter, in the large size, comes in at a whopping 1,500 calories! That’s 75 percent of the 2,000 recommended daily calories endorsed by the federal Food and Drug Administration. Of course, if you want to feast on a Blizzard from time to time but you have a little self control, you can always order this Blizzard in a mini size. At just 6 ounces, it comes in at a mere 520 calories. If moderation is not your thing, at least you can always console yourself that the large size does supply a respectable 37 grams of protein thanks to its gooey peanut butter-filled core.I thoroughly enjoy this peanut butter. In 2018, a panel of taste testers from foodie website The Takeout set out to rank 19 different Blizzards, and the one that came in dead last, scoring only 1 out of 20 possible taste points, was the infamous Banana Split Blizzard. Why? Because of its watery consistency and its sour taste from overripe bananas. The strawberry and chocolate flavorings were said to be faint, and the taste of pineapple wasnt even noticeable at all.How can one butcher a banana split so terribly? Were unsure, but the conclusion was that this particular Blizzard was pretty much one big fail. When it comes to fast food fry reviews, Dairy Queen fries are usually damned with faint praise. The Daily Hive called them just, quote, “okay,” but rated them #9 on a list of 10 Canadian chains. The LA Times ranked DQ’s fries in the middle of the pack, 7 out of 19, but remarked that, quote, “the flavor isn’t particularly noticeable” and seemingly gave the chain a bump just because Dairy Queen also serves ice cream. A blogger for Odyssey, however, pulled no punches, calling the fries soggy, lifeless, and unseasoned. These reviews, ranging from meh to bleh, are still referring to Dairy Queen fries that are prepared as they should be, and served up relatively fresh.Numerous consumer complaints, however, attest to the fact that the fries may well be cold, stale, or even gritty, and that you may receive far fewer of these than you expect. Although when it comes to DQ fries, perhaps fewer isn’t such a bad thing, after all. Business Insider has reviewed Dairy Queens fish sandwiches several times. A 2016 review called them subpar, with a weak bun, soggy lettuce, bland tartar sauce and fish that could easily be mistaken for chicken. A more recent Business Insider review of Dairy Queen’s Alaskan Pacific Cod sandwich was ambivalent as to whether it was or was not an improvement on DQ’s previous fishwiches. The oil-coated lettuce and excessive tartar sauce were judged to be even worse than before, but the fish itself had seemingly improved from unidentifiable to merely not so great. Yet another review, this one posted on Reddit, characterized the Alaskan Cod sandwich as both gross and, quote, “smushed.” The reviewer backed these claims up with some vomit-inducing photos that not only do look both gross and smushed, but do not in any way resemble the deliciousness shown in the companys advertising photo.One commenter offered the opinion that it was the Redditors fault for ordering fish from a fast food restaurant in the first place, while others remarked upon how Dairy Queen itself so often fails to fulfill expectations. You know a food trend is on its way out by the time it trickles down to fast food chains. Do you remember when, suddenly, every foodie was going gaga over artisanal this, that, and the other thing? Marketers soon found out that this buzzword was an easy way to justify jacking up the price on an item that really didn’t have to fit any specific guidelines to qualify as artisanal. With everyone else having jumped aboard the artisanal bandwagon in 2015, Dairy Queen decided it might as well roll out its own artisan sandwich line, with results that were well, predictable.Business Insider found the chicken bacon ranch sandwich to be soggy, while a Tripadvisor reviewer couldn’t decide whether the chicken mozzarella or the Philly artisan sandwich was worse, reporting them to be microwave-cooked and skimpy on fillings. At least when and if that whole food trend goes away, we won’t have to blame it on millennials. Instead, we can blame DQ and their soggy sandwiches for driving the final nail in the artisanal coffin. Breakfast, the most important meal of the day. What better way to jump start your day than with a tasty, healthy meal sure to fill you with energy or you could just clog up every single artery and scarf down half of your day’s recommended calories and fat right from the get-go. Good luck feeling energized to do anything but head straight back to bed after that. If you’re down with the latter plan, then you’ll definitely want to stop by Dairy Queen and load up on their breakfast, where their country platter fits the definition of heart attack on a plate. The country platter with sausage has been called the absolute worst breakfast item on DQ’s menu, it turns out the platter with bacon is even worse.The sausage platter has 1,060 calories and 38 grams of fat, while the bacon version comes in at 1,150 calories and 39 fat grams. Actually, when it comes to fat alone, there’s yet another contender: the ultimate hash browns platter with bacon. This dish, which could be described as a health crisis waiting to happen, has just 1,030 calories but an incredible, and possibly fatal, 43 grams of fat. So, eat at your own risk. Check out one of our newest videos right here! Plus, even more Mashed videos about your favorite stuff are coming soon. Subscribe to our YouTube channel and hit the bell so you don’t miss a single one. .

[avecorviidae]

Fic: Aubade - Chapter Eight

Fandom: Mob Psycho 100 Rating: M Relationship(s): Kageyama Ritsu/Suzuki Shou Word Count: 3089

Ao3 Link

The funny thing is, Ritsu definitely knows Shou, and he’s not trying to brag when he says he’d put money on knowing him a whole lot better than anyone has in quite a while, maybe ever.

Ritsu knows what Shou looks like when he’s choking back tears, knows the hysteria that edges into his laugh when he’s running on no sleep, knows about his favourite movies, about the pet hamster he’d had when he was ten, knows that his mother used to tell him stories to make him sit still in the bath. He’s faced up against psychic apocalypses with him, written essays for him, has probably been dragged across every street in Seasoning five times over just talking to him.

He’s sat beside him on a pile of debris, far enough away from the city center that they wouldn’t be bothered by the news crews puttering about, filming pieces about a nationwide tragedy and talks of a memorial site, reciting lines about rising death tolls and search crews. He remembers the tremor in Shou’s hands, in his voice, when he’d said, I don’t think I’m ever gonna see my dad again, and above all, remembers the unguarded relief in his laugh when Ritsu had immediately said, Good fucking riddance.

So yeah, he knows Shou.

Therefore it’s naturally surprising when the first few weeks of living with him turn into an exercise in the ways that he apparently doesn’t.

-

Shou drifts into the living room one afternoon and grabs his wallet off of the coffee table, says, “Hey, I’m going out, wanna come?” And Ritsu would, except that he keeps getting these really worrying emails from the school about some paperwork that he’s definitely already filled out and turned in, except some fucking genius has apparently gone and lost it, and he tells Shou so. He winces in sympathy and gives him a hissed “Good luck, dude,” before leaving.

Between the paperwork and getting caught up grovelling with this one professor to make space in her psych class that Ritsu’s been dying to take, he’s been a little distracted the past few days, but he’s pretty sure he’s not imagining the fact that things keep appearing in their kitchen. Like, he’d convinced himself that maybe he’d just forgotten one of them buying the flour, the olive oil, even the garlic cloves he finds in the pantry, but he can’t quite resolve memory blanks with the fucking blender and toaster oven that seem to will themselves into existence on the countertop.

And he’d ask Shou about it, right, except that once the jetlag had worn off, Shou’s naturally nocturnal sleep schedule had reasserted itself, so more and more Ritsu’s mostly catching him in the afternoon and the evening, by which point just talking to Shou about whatever’s going on that day takes precedent over bringing up the little spontaneous appliance phenomenon in their kitchen. Honestly, he’s seen weirder.

-

It’s about four in the afternoon and he’s curled up on the sofa with a book when he finally hears Shou’s bedroom door open and close, and then footsteps in the hallway.

“Morning,” he calls out. “Should I order pizza for dinner?” Which is… kind of a chronological contradiction, but it’s one Ritsu’s chosen to embrace.

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” Shou answers, appearing in the doorway, and Ritsu blinks in surprise when he realizes that he’s already fully clothed. He’d become intimately acquainted with the sight of Shou wandering around the apartment in boxers and old shirts, moaning about how hard it was to shower and get dressed, and god, Ritsu, we can’t all be functioning adults, jeez.

A wide grin and then Shou’s gone again, and about ten minutes later, Ritsu starts hearing odd noises from the kitchen. There’s a distinctly metallic clutter, and at first he figures Shou’s probably dropped something, but then there’s the sounds of the fridge opening and closing a couple of times, cabinets clattering shut, and then beeping, of all things.

Ritsu glances down at his book, considering. It’s poetry, and not of the sort that he’d usually pick up on his own, but someone had warned him it was assigned reading for next year, and he’s intimately acquainted with professors’ tendencies to assign more and more reading during the busiest parts of the year. Better, he’s thinking, to have read it over summer and have a distant memory of it, than to have not read it at all and be four chapters behind with an essay due in three other classes.

The rustling in the kitchen abruptly switches to the sound of a very persistent SWAT team who forgot their battering ram at home and decided to use a hammer.

Ritsu looks down at the poetry book again.

It’s, well, it’s bad.

He’s more than willing to let himself be distracted.

In the kitchen, Shou is–

Ritsu raises his voice over the din. “What the hell are you doing, Suzuki?”

Shou looks up at him, unidentified hammer-like object still raised in mid-swing. There’s a hanging moment of dead, charged silence where Ritsu watches Shou’s eyes dart to the thing in his hands, down to the pink wrapped package on the counter, and back to Ritsu.

“I’m beating my me–”

“I will murder you if you finish that sentence. ”

Shou makes a face, tongue out, but corrects haughtily, “I am tenderizing my chicken.” He whacks the chicken on the counter lightly for emphasis. Ritsu elects to take the high road and not point out that it still somehow sounds alarmingly sexual when he puts it like that.

Shou’s “This is gonna be loud” is Ritsu’s only warning before he goes back to pounding.

Their kitchen isn’t massive, but it’s a decent size for an apartment, large enough that there’s a small island countertop up against the wall, and space for a couple of barstools. Ritsu hops up on one, surveying Shou’s work.

It looks like a disorganized disaster to his eyes. Every countertop is covered with a detritus of spilled flour and egg shells, bowls and utensils strewn about everywhere. Shou’s only been in the kitchen for about fifteen minutes, but Ritsu can’t tell how much of this stuff is already dirty and how much is yet to be used.

They’ve been pretty good about splitting the dishes evenly so far, but Ritsu’s already decided that this is Shou’s mess to clean up, entirely.

After what feels like an eternity of Shou going at his chicken with what, upon closer inspection, is a large spiked mallet that may be the most intimidating thing Ritsu has ever seen, Shou finally holds up his newly flattened chicken, grinning at Ritsu in satisfaction.

“Lovely,” Ritsu says, raising an eyebrow. “Should I tell the neighbours they can call off the noise complaints?” For once, Shou doesn’t rise to the bait and give him a response. He’s glancing over his shoulder distractedly, and Ritsu watches his eyebrows furrow, then tastes metal on his tongue as Shou absently gestures with one hand. For a split second, the air in the room hangs on a precipice, sharp and sweet and making Ritsu’s skin dance in anticipation. The kitchen jumps to life in a haze of glowing orange.

Ritsu blinks, and it takes him a few moments to grasp the movements of the intricate dance Shou’s choreographed. The chicken is now nudging itself to the side, fighting for counter space with a couple of bowls floating over from by the sink, one of which sends up a small puff of flour when it lands. He watches Shou weave his way towards the microwave, leaning easily to dodge the high-speed projectiles that come flying out of the fridge. He gets a little lost in it, watching dumbly as eggs crack themselves into the empty bowl, while on the other side of the kitchen Shou’s doing something with a cheese grater and a tray of toasted breadcrumbs. A knob on the stove clicks, a frying pan goes shooting over Shou’s head and settles on one of the burners, all the while a fork is doing its best to beat the eggs into oblivion, sending little flecks flying out of the bowl from sheer aggression. Shou appears back in front of Ritsu with his breadcrumbs in hand, as a small plastic-wrapped sphere makes its way from the freezer to the counter, settling itself politely just in front of Ritsu.

Just like a fucking Disney movie, he thinks, somewhat horrified, staring at the little bundle of… butter? He’s half expecting it to burst into song.

He feels it the second Shou drops his control, hadn’t quite noticed how thoroughly his aura had been spreading through the room until the warmth started to recede, seeping from his skin like he’s just stepped out of broad daylight into the shade. And yeah, they’re at the point in summer where even with the air conditioning blasting they’re both feeling worn out and hazy in the heat, but Ritsu still finds himself flipping his wrist on the countertop, watching as the last of Shou’s aura lingers on his fingertips, and still finds himself missing it a little once it’s gone.

The pinprick tingling that’s left on his palms is both foreign and familiar, echoes of being fourteen and trying to figure out why it felt weird and different when Shou grabbed his wrist or threw an arm around his shoulders, trying to get used to the feeling of an unfamiliar aura in his space. There’s this odd sort of pang in his chest when he realizes he’s barely touched Shou since they moved in, despite the constant proximity. It honestly hadn’t even occurred to him, and he’s so used to Shou being the one who comes to him… Well, maybe being around him so much meant that it wasn’t occurring to Shou either.

He shakes himself, looks up to see Shou, nose scrunched in concentration and the corners of his mouth twitching downwards as scoops spoonfuls of the butter ball into the center of each piece of chicken and wraps it around, then carefully rolling each bundle in the flour bowl, the egg bowl, and the breadcrumbs. Ritsu has to squint, tilt his head to see his aura clinging to him, distorting the air like heat off of a stove.  

Ritsu’s distracted, off in his own thoughts, but he still finds himself leaning forward on his forearms, asking, “What are you making?” Shou glances up briefly to make eye contact, smiles at him, looks back down. “Chicken kiev,” he replies, a little distantly. “It’s tenderized chicken breast filled with garlic butter, breaded, fried, then baked.” A pause, then he adds, “Or at least, that’s how I’ve always made it. I dunno, it’s not exactly a family recipe passed down to me from an old babushka or anything, this could totally be a cultural disaster if I ever made this for a Russian.”

“I’ll tell Sergei to stay home then,” Ritsu quips, and holy shit is he grateful for his reflexive sarcasm because he really needs to be able to stall while his brain comes back online. Or at least, to tell himself not to be an idiot, because watching his best friend breading chicken should not be a severely existential crisis-inducing event.

Even so, it’s not until Shou’s floated everything over to the oven and started dropping chicken in the pan that Ritsu finally manages to ask, “So you cook?”

Shou nudges him with his elbow – Ritsu had wandered further into the kitchen, found himself squeezed between Shou and the corner of the room, leaning against the counter beside the stove – and laughs. “I mean, yeah, dude. I’ve been living alone for like, a while, and like, don’t get me wrong, I’d probably die for a bowl of ramen if it asked me to, but the takeout stuff gets gross after a while.”

So, don’t get Ritsu wrong here, it’s not like he thought Shou was functionally useless at being independent or anything. It’s more that, well, he just hadn’t thought, and his past year of living off of shitty college student food and six years of just kind of assuming he and Shou were on the same level until proven otherwise had chosen to fill in the blanks. Again, he tries to tell himself, this shouldn’t really be such a stunning revelation, or even as weirdly charming as it is.

And the heat of the kitchen is hazy and overbearing, full of cooking smells and fading sunlight and frankly, Ritsu thinks he can be excused his moment of overly emotional stupidity when he just smiles at Shou languidly, says, “There’s so much to you,” in this kind of indecipherable voice that has so many layers even he’s not sure what he means by it.

Shou huffs this little laugh but he’s not quite smiling, just staring at Ritsu with wide eyes like he’s waiting for the joke or something, and Ritsu watches as a flush rises high in his cheeks, spreading until his whole face is ruddy pink; when Shou blushes, he blushes hard. There’s this split second where everything is charged, Ritsu feels like he’s feeling everything at once, like he’s on the edge of something with the way Shou’s swaying further into his space–

–And then it breaks, when hot oil pops loud as a gunshot, coming flying out of the pan with enough force to make Shou jolt backwards, looking dazed. Ritsu yelps, practically leaps backwards from the stove, then throws up his barrier about half a minute too late to actually be effective against anything. This, of course, sends Shou into hysterics, bracing himself against the counter and clutching his stomach as he doubles over cackling. Ritsu rolls his eyes and huffs, puts on a good show of annoyance, but can’t keep the smile off of his face, not with Shou’s infectious amusement in such close proximity. Shou returns to his station, starts nudging the chicken with a spatula, but not before shaking his head at Ritsu gravely and teasing, “I see your instincts have slowed in your old age.”

-

Okay, so Shou can cook. Like, he’d kind of figured he could from the expert, practiced way he’d moved around the kitchen, but it hadn’t quite sunk in for Ritsu until he’d stuck a piece of chicken in his mouth experimentally and found himself moaning around his fork.

“Holy shit,” he says once he’s swallowed, lightly kicking at Shou’s thighs where he’s sat next to him on the sofa. “Yeah, I’m going to need you to make this all the time? Please?”

Shou just laughs and makes to run his hand through his hair, but aborts the motion as soon as he hits the gelled spikes. “I dunno, there’s other stuff, and kiev’s kind of an ordeal,” and Ritsu can’t quite stop himself from grinning because Shou’s rambling only sounds this aimless and shaky when he’s flustered, and he leans back as Shou continues, “I just needed to start myself making stuff at some point or we were gonna live off of pizza forever, and we had all the stuff for kiev, so.” Shou shrugs halfheartedly, then starts cutting up his chicken, just a little too aggressively to be casual.

Ritsu does the dishes. It’s a fair price to pay, if he’s gonna keep getting dinners like that.

-

jesus, it’s hot, and he can barely fucking sleep with the sweat running up his back, soaking him to the bed and the sheets are tangled around his feet and there’s  

weight on his hips, and it’s burning and there are thighs on either side of his stomach, shaking with the strain and

he’s tracing imaginary patterns of freckles with his eyes and his fingernails and his teeth and then there are hands heavy on his shoulders, pressing him down and he’s

panting, hot breath joining the already sweltering room because there’s friction, grinding down hard and it’s almost too much and he’s dragging fingernails across sweat-slick thighs and an arching back and anything and everything he can reach and he’s

staring into eyes it’s too dark in the bedroom to see the blue of and it feels like he can’t hear for how heavy the heat is but he watches lips moving and knows he’s begging and

-

He wakes up with his hand down his boxers and the word please ringing in his ears.

Ritsu stares at the ceiling, waiting for his sight to adjust so that he can almost make out shapes in the pitch black of his room, and breathes, silently willing his heart to stop pounding, his chest to stop aching. Weird, he thinks, absently palming his dick; he’s lucid enough to know that it’s probably a bad idea to get himself off after that, but still hazy and hyped up enough from the dream that he’s going to do it anyways.

As it is, he’s just doing his damndest to ignore the distant sounds of Shou puttering about in the living room.

And, god, that was the strangest part of it. See, it wasn’t that Ritsu didn’t have a sex drive, but he didn’t… he didn’t get this sort of thing, the weird sex dreams and absent fantasizing about people, and hell, he’s figured he could probably go the rest of his life without getting off and not be all that bothered by it. Even when he’d been fourteen and viciously hormonal, the dreams had always been vague, or arousing while he was having them and then weird when he woke up.

But this was – well, it was vivid, to say the least, and it was sticking with him, Shou straddling his hips and grinding–

He bucks up into his hand, comes with a choked sound in the back of his throat.

And god, does he regret that decision immediately, when suddenly everything is sticky and disgusting and there is no way in fucking shit he’s risking the walk from his room to the bathroom while Shou is awake, so he settles with shucking out of his boxers, doing his best to clean up his mess with them, putting on a new pair, lying down on the other side of the bed, and resolving to deal with his brand new problems in the morning. Even despite the lingering unease climbing in anxious tendrils up his throat, it’s still easy enough to let himself drift back off.

If he dreams again after that, he doesn’t remember it in the morning.