#fuck my final is in fifteen mins

[philsmeatylegss]

I know one of these days Turkey Tom is going to drop a slur and then follow it up with a disturbing confession. The way he talks just sounds like being one sentence away from doing so. I like his main channel vids because they’re well put together but when he’s off script, it’s just something about it. This is my prediction post incase anything comes out about him

[klickklackwack]

i feel like i’ve lost the plot for this january tbh

- been sick for over a ten days

- antibiotics for pneumonia scare and sinusitis

- urticaria and horrid muscle cramps because of the antibiotics

- four doctors in eleven days and more incoming because my back is also fucked now

- guilt for missing so much work

- 14 days until i’m flying to a vacation that i now feel like i do not deserve

yikes x 100

[rileyslibrary]

This or That

A/N: It’s been a while since I made Ghost flustered. Fluff. Self-indulgent. (Render by @gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot)

———————————————————————

“Movies or series?” You ask.

“Movies.” He replies instantly.

“Why?”

He shifts his gaze from the scope of his sniper rifle and looks at you.

“You said the game is called this or that,” he states with a low voice. “You didn’t mention anything about me having to justify my choices.”

“Just curious.” You reply, shrugging.

He turns his attention back to the scope and shuts one eye. “Because you finish them within two, maybe three hours max.” He explains.

“Efficient, even in your leisure time, eh Lt.?”

He clicks his tongue. You wait for him to ask you back, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s too focused to bother.

“Well, I prefer-”

“Series.” He interrupts you. “I know.”

“How?”

“I know you binge-watch them late at night.”

“How do you kn-”

“And then struggle to stay awake the next morning.”

You widen your eyes and inhale through gritted teeth. “That obvious, huh?”

He chuckles and murmurs a ‘mhm’ while looking at the distant building.

A message pops up on your laptop’s screen. Kate.

“Laswell says your target is on his way; she’ll let us know when he’s getting closer,” you inform him. “Vanilla or strawberry ice cream?”

“Neither.” He replies sternly. “Boring flavours.”

“Touché.” You agree, tilting your head to the side and shrugging one of your shoulders.

He lets out another chuckle, this time shorter and readjusts his grip on the trigger.

“Any other movement in the area?” He asks, making a subtle head nod towards your laptop.

“Negative, sir,” you reply. “Drone feed is clear.”

“Good; give me another,” he orders.

“Alright,” you say and clear your throat. “Soap or Price?”

He rapidly shakes his head and turns to look at you. “What in the world is that question?” he asks with narrowed eyes.

“If you had to spend a day with either of them, not on a mission,” you explain. “Would you prefer it to be with Soap or with Price?”

He rolls his eyes and exhales slowly. “Price,” he finally mutters.

“What about Gaz or Price?”

“Price.”

“Me or-”

“Price.”

“Why?”

“For the same fucking reason I said Price the first two times,” he replies, annoyed, and resumes his surveillance through the scope.

You both fall quiet. You absently fiddle with the straps of your tactical vest, monitoring the drone’s feed on the laptop in front of you.

“What about yourself?” He asks, breaking the silence. “Soap or Price?”

“You.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

“That is my answer.” You murmur, shrugging.

You catch him out of the corner of your eye as he slowly turns to look at you. You don’t dare to meet his gaze. You feel your cheeks burning; you must be as red as a beet now. You reach for a strand of your hair, untucking it from behind your ear and letting it fall to the side of your face, using it as a curtain to hide your embarrassment. You inch closer to the laptop, but he follows your every move.

“Target spotted four kilometres away,” you state, hoping to divert his attention. “We have approximately fifteen minutes.”

“Fuck,” he swears and punches the roof you are both perched on. He shuts both eyes, lowers his head, and takes a few deep breaths.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, urgently. “Everything alright?”

“Be quiet for a moment, will you?” He murmurs and checks his watch.

“Lt, target’s not supposed to be here for the next fifteen min-”

“You shouldn’t be doing that.” He states and taps the digital screen.

“Do what?” You ask puzzled.

“Playing games while we have a target to eliminate,” he snaps and shakes his wrist.

You peek at the watch; he’s measuring his heart rate.

“How much?” You ask.

“145 beats per minute,” he replies as he takes a few more deep breaths to refocus. “Now cut the games, and let’s finish the job.”

———————————————————————

[guksvault]

HOUSE OF BALLOONS | JJK

01 - The Party

warnings: party party party yea, jk is a dickhead oops, drug/alcohol use, reader just wants to leave (someone help her pls), shitty parents, min yoongi is a saint <3 nepo baby reader !

w/c: 2.9k

!minorsdni! // masterlist

✩ ₊ ˚. ⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊✧

Seven. That's exactly how many times you have passed the same shitty run down house at the end of a sketchy cul-de-sac.

The bass of the music blares, the thumping so loud you can feel it in your chest from a few streets away. The door opens and closes, people flowing in one after another, all too familiar with this place. Red lights bleed through the windows.

Dressed in a pale purple Hervé Léger, direct from the archive of their 1996 Spring Summer collection. White pumps and a small Chanel handbag to match, tucked under your shoulder.

You stand in the line down the driveway, each person before you dropping a $5 bill into a tin bucket being held by someone who looks like they could have been hired to bodyguard you at premieres. You reach to grab a note out of your handbag, offering a small awkward smile to the broad shouldered man beside the door.

“Nah, it’s a tenner for you,” he says, his eyes locked straight ahead, the smirk on his face shows he’s clearly amused.

Truth is, you only had a hundred-dollar bill to offer, struggling to recall the last time you carried anything less than that.

Your face tightens slightly. You don’t look like the others—those who stumbled in before you, or the ones who will after you.

You drop the bill into the bucket, the crisp note fluttering down to rest atop the crinkled fivers. The man guarding the door watches it fall, letting out a scoff and shaking his head ever so slightly, as if to silently remind you that you’re not quite one of them.

You step inside. The hallway is cramped, leading you into a living room bathed in the harsh glow of cheap LED lights, taped along the ceiling trim. The red tint paints everything—walls, partygoers, the air itself. Black and white balloons litter the floor. The stench of burning cigarettes and pot is so thick, you can taste it. You’re certain you’ve lost at least three years off your life just by stepping inside this shit hole.

Fifteen minutes and two shots of cheap vodka that burn your pride more than your throat is enough time to realise this was a mistake. You need to leave.

You squeeze through the packed crowd of sweaty bodies, the exit finally coming into view. You swear you can almost feel the air getting cleaner with each step.

That is, until someone grabs your wrist, yanking you back so hard it feels like your arm might just rip out of its socket

"The fuck?" you almost squeal.

"No fucking way, the fuck are you doing here?"

Min Yoongi. He rubs his eyes, double-checking as if you’re some sort of hallucination from a bad batch of laced coke.

You don’t look any less shocked than he does. You came to this ‘party’ because of Yoongi. You knew he’d be here. Wanted to see him. That was until you had the very smart, very wise realisation that you do not belong here.

"Fuck kid, what the fuck? Are you like… Lost?" He is almost laughing at you, before he stops. "Don't tell me they sent you here for me?"

It's been 2 years since you last laid eyes on Yoongi in person. 2 years since he realised what you are slowly beginning to realise for yourself about the reality of your life.

Yoongi upped and left his trust-funded, posh, shiny life two years ago. His parents didn’t approve of him pursuing music instead of taking over the family’s oil business. They told him if he even considered it, they’d cut him off. It wasn’t until his dick of a father took a baseball bat to his beloved sampler and sequencer that Yoongi realised it was time to get out.

"Actually came here on my own account" you almost gag out. "Not here to kidnap you back to your tower. Came to see you though, I guess?"

Yoongi's brows are pinched together so harshly in confusion that you think he might earn himself a permanent wrinkle.

"How the fuck did you find me here?"

Truth is, his big mouthed cousin after a bottle or two of red told you Yoongi was having a 'psychotic breakdown' and ran to the slums of Daegu after daddy said no to him for the first time.

Which was a surprise to you, because his parents had told everyone he was in the States taking care of one of their many overseas companies.

Only took you two more glasses for her to tell you exactly where he was and what he had been up to.

You shrug, "People talk. You know how it is."

You try to excuse yourself, but Yoongi isn't really in the departing mood. Can't believe you are here. Isn't going to let you go without getting you a little fucked up, wants to see you down something that he knows you would never look twice at due to the lack of zero's on the price tag.

Yoongi had you down 4 shots of vodka, you had been surprised to see a bottle of Grey Goose calling your name on the table that's filled with red solo cups and cheap alcoholic bottles. Until you downed it and realised it was in fact, not Grey Goose, just a bottle that was refilled with something that tasted like pure fucking burning ass.

Yoongi had almost pissed himself from laughing at you, the look of disgust on your face as you realised.

Two full red soda cups of vodka lemonades later, and Yoongi was leading you toward a corner of the house. Four beaten-up leather couches formed a makeshift VIP area—exclusive, but still near the chaos of the party. Three men were sprawled out on the couches, girls draped beside, behind, and even on top of them.

A small coffee table center of the couches. Covered in red solo cups, packets of cigarettes, rolled bills and tiny ziplock bags filled with coke.

You sit beside Yoongi, your cup resting against your lips as you take in the scene before you. How the fuck was Yoongi living like this? Did he do this every weekend? Every night? Did he even enjoy it?

“I want out, Yoongs.” You glance over your shoulder at him, avoiding the daggers the girls send your way, dancing mostly for the guys on the couch. You stand out like a pair of dog balls.

While you’re dressed in a pale purple, fitted designer dress with white heels to match, they’re in black mini skirts, bras as tops, and fishnet stockings that should’ve been thrown out five holes ago.

“Hm?” Yoongi almost has to force his eyes off one of the way-too-fucked girls to look at you. “Oh, shit, yeah, of course, I’ll walk you out.”

You shake your head, biting the words back like they’re stuck in your throat, harder to get out than Yoongi had to tear his eyes away from the girl shaking ass just an arm’s reach away.

“No. I mean, I’m done. With them. With the rules, the fucking fakeness—all of it. Want out. Need out.” It’s the first time you’ve said it out loud, and it feels stupid now. If Yoongi ended up here, what fucking hope do you have?

“Oh, fuck, Bee, you for real?” Yoongi barely believed you, though there was still a trace of surprise in his voice. He’d always known you to enjoy the lifestyle you both were raised in—boat parties, private jets to islands for weekend getaways, never having a limit on what you wanted.

Bee. The nickname echoed in your head, almost drowning out the DJ in the center of the living room, blasting ‘Baby By Me’ by 50 Cent, constantly yelling for people to “put their fucking hands up or get the fuck out.”

Bee. A nickname you scored when Yoongi gave you your first blunt. He’d found his father’s sneaky stash and dragged you to the river by his parents’ Lake House one summer when you were 16. It felt good—until you got so paranoid that bees were swarming you. That’s when the nickname stuck.

"They want me married, like, married-married." You felt your stomach flip and turn itself inside out at the memory of the conversation.

"Honey, this could be really good for us. For you, too. Taehyung is a lovely boy, and we all know he's been in love with you since you guys were kids." Your mother sat opposite to you in the media room, a martini in hand.

Your father had nodded in agreement, "Think about it, his family owns the most luxurious hotel chain across the globe, you would benefit from it. We all would."

They can't be fucking serious. Surely not. Marriage? Me? Taehyung? Abso-fucking-lutely not.

"Taehyung and I aren't even a thing. He's a friend. I'm not marrying someone just because it would bring motion to your businesses."

A scoff earned from your mother, an eye roll from your father.

"What would Taehyung think? Both our parents putting us in an arranged marriage?" Your eyes dart from your father to your mother.

"He's the one who suggested it. Why do you think he's been visiting so often?" Your father cocks his eyebrow, almost challenging you to question him.

You shake the thought from your head, feel dizzy, might vomit that cheap vodka that should definitely be taken off the shelves if you think about it any longer.

"Who's the newbie, Min?" A voice calls huskily. He's sat on the couch to your left, a girl under his arm fiddling with the buttons of his loose black fitted shirt, sly smirks on both their faces.

He's sports a buzzcut, two lines by his temple just a tad shorter than the rest. A blunt between his fingers and one tucked behind his ear, two dimples peeking out when he talks.

“Didn’t have to hire someone, Min. We got plenty of company around here,” Joon smirks, his voice low and lazy, too faded to bother raising it.

“Fuck off, Joon. Don’t be a cunt,” Yoongi almost warns, lighting a cigarette before exhaling, his voice cutting through the air. “This is Bee, a friend of mine.”

Joon leans back, passing the blunt to the girl beside him, who’s still sizing you up. “You ain’t from these parts, huh, Bee?”

“Nah, do most of my whoring in the city.” You shoot back, your voice dry. “Out of your budget though, sorry.

The words come out a little sharper than intended, defensive maybe—but it’s the first time anyone’s implied that you might be a prostitute.

Yoongi chuckles, as does the pouty blonde on the couch to your right.

“Joon couldn’t afford you even if you gave it up for free,” the blonde says, his eyes barely open from the amount of whatever his substance of choice is. “Can barely afford fuckin’ ramyeon,” he continues, only to have Joon peg a lighter at him.

“Fuck up, both of you. She ain’t a fuckin’ hooker. We grew up together,” Yoongi says, leaning back into the couch but not before nudging your shoulder slightly.

You spend the next hour or so sitting stiffly on the worn, cracked black leather sofa, mostly talking to Yoongi, but every now and then, you throw a few words toward Jimin—the pretty blonde you’ve learned goes by that name.

You watch Yoongi hit the bong, once, twice, thrice. Joon’s tongue is tangled with the girl glued to his side. The party roars on around you, balloons being slapped through the makeshift living room-turned-dancefloor. You finish three more cups of vodka lemonade, the alcohol providing a small buzz that helps ease some of your discomfort.

Yoongi excused himself about ten minutes ago, mentioning something about a runner waiting for him outside. Jimin, who’d taken it upon himself to keep Yoongi’s seat warm, had to clarify it was a dealer, not some jogging partner.

You’ve been meaning to take advantage of the Yoongi-free space to make your escape—head home, and really think about whether you want to leave behind the life so many people would kill for.

But of course, your luck had gone to shit ever since you stepped inside this house. Jimin won’t stop fucking talking, rambling about how you look like you belong in some high-end museum in Paris, not a rundown, seedy weekend hotspot in the slums of Daegu.

Charming, sure. A sight for sore eyes, but honestly, you’d rather he pop a Xanax and pass out than snort another line, just so you can slip out unnoticed.

Yoongi returns, dropping a black plastic bag onto the table, earning a few excited whistles and whispers. And then, just like that, he’s gone again—girl in tow, disappearing upstairs.

That’s your cue. The small group around you all focused the black bag, oblivious to the rest of the world now. You go to stand, ready to slip away before Jimin decides to continue to yap. But just as you move, the one person you’ve barely registered catches your eye.

He’s been there the whole time, opposite you, but always hidden behind the girl on his lap or his head low, in his own little world.

He’s sitting upright now, practically shoving the girl off his lap as soon as Yoongi dropped the black bag onto the table. His eyes lock onto it like it’s the juiciest fucking steak and he’s the lion, ready to devour it.

A slow, deliberate lick of his lips, then his arm—now visible with tattoos that wrap around his skin—extends toward the table. He dumps the bag, and the contents spill out like a treasure chest: dozens of tiny ziplocs filled with coke.

You can't help but fucking stare. Think your mother would have begged him to be a model for her clothing lines. Gorgeous. A shaggy mullet framing his face, which he's now tying up into a small sprout at the back of his head.

He eagerly lowers himself to the floor, grabs a rolled up bill and a card. Carves out equal lines of the coke, you don't know shit about coke other than half the people in the high society you're surrounded by daily need it to keep themselves sane.

As he focuses on the lines, it’s like watching someone in a trance—completely in control, the movement fluid and natural. He brings the rolled bill to his nostril, blocking the other side with his finger, then snorts down the line.

Then, repeats.

You can barely make out the details of his face from where you’re sitting, but the red lights catch the glint of a lip ring on his lower lip, catching your attention for a second. He rubs his face, then slides back into his seat.

This time though, his head isnt hanging low. It's pointed directly at you. Expressionless, zoned out as he stares you down.

Jungkook had noticed you long before you even stepped inside. He saw you lingering outside, pacing back and forth. At first, he thought you were some kind of undercover cop, but when he saw you talk to Yoongi after trying to slip out unnoticed, it all made sense. You were just another pampered, stuck-up rich bitch from Yoongi’s past.

He watched you, though, took note of everything. The way you eyed the cheap alcohol like it was beneath you. The way you stiffened when Joon made his comment, like you were trying to hold yourself together. Thinks if you were a hooker, maybe he’d pick up an extra shift at the restaurant. He noticed you turn down the blunts Jimin kept offering, like you were too good for that too.

You didn’t belong here. People like you never did. Jungkook doesn’t want you here, doesn’t want anyone who’s tied to the life Yoongi left behind. He fucking hates it. Hates the reminders, hates everything about it. Decides he hates you, too.

His stare doesn't falter, eyes locked on you, steady and unblinking. He wants you uncomfortable. Wants you out. Hates the way your dress is too colorful. Hates the gold jewelry, delicate and shiny around your neck and wrist-he prefers silver. Hates the way your legs have made him hard. Out. Get out.

"Want one?" He drawls lazily, that cocky grin tugging at his lips as he tilts his head toward the coke.

You glance at the last line on the table, then back at him. He holds out the rolled-up bill, smirking.

You shake your head, "All good, thanks."

"What? Too good to snort from a fiver?" He laughs, tossing the bill to Jimin without taking his eyes off you.

Jimin cuts his own stack of lines, less organised than Jungkook's were. Snorts one and stands up, fingers rubbing at the bridge of his nose.

Your eyes dart around for Yoongi, if the vibe of this shit box wasn't enough, the man sitting opposite sending you snarky remarks and eye daggers definitely was.

You know you don’t belong here. You didn’t need the overgrown, practically bald one to remind you that you look like an expensive fuck, or the band-tee-wearing asshole who’s probably three lines away from a collapsed septum to tell you the same.

As you lean back into the couch, counting the minutes until you can wish Yoongi a goodbye and a “good fucking luck,” another man stumbles into the closed-off section. He trips over your legs, collapsing down at the coffee table.

“Watch your fuckin’ step, Hobes. We can’t afford to scratch up the girl. Probably has leg insurance or some shit,” Joon snorts, puffing out a cloud of smoke.

He turns to face you, "Sorry darlin', don't sue me, I can only afford to pay in mixtapes" He chirps, giving your leg a once over.

Ah, the DJ. The one who was screaming for everyone to put their fucking hands in the air. Who now has his hands in the air feigning defence.

You roll your eyes, letting out a small laugh at his more positive nature, feeling slightly eased by his lightheartedness.

But what really bothers you now isn’t the trust fund, nepo baby jabs. It’s the pair of narrowed, dark eyes glaring at you from the couch opposite.

Unwavering. Harsh. Piercing.

✩ ₊ ˚. ⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊✧

[s-4pphics]

no title just horny

i love kissing!!! there i said it!!! kissing is so hot n sexy!!! my secrets out!!! 

This is not proofread i did this in 10 mins sowwie

based on this and this LOL THE DARKNESS TOOK OVER

wc;cw: 1.2k, weed so dubcon!!, threeway kissing, hints at voyeur!ellie, dina’s so hot, i’m in love w them, descriptions of fucking MDNI!!!!, based on a true story UHHHH OHHH

you stubbed your blunt out on the ashtray as you rolled your eyes at the two idiots sitting in front of you. 

“sometimes, kissing is better than sex, youre just annoying.” 

you didn’t think inviting your two closest friends over to hotbox in your small bathroom would result in a fifteen-minute debate on how ellie thought kissing wasn’t that great. 

you continued as you filled your grinder, crushing your bud in preparation to roll up again, “you just haven’t kissed people that actually know how to kiss, end of fucking sto— “

ellie, leant back against your counter cabinets, stared at you with annoyance on her face as she picked at her lip, her eyes bloodshot. she cut you off, “bitch, that’s not true! my ex was a great kisser, it just didn’t do much for me when we were dating! there’s nothing wrong with that!” 

“you guys are blowing my high, shut the fuck up already,” dina cut in, propped back against the wall with a bored look on her face, her elbows resting on her arched knees. 

ellie turned to the dark-haired girl, “dude, it’s her fault! she brought it up!” 

your brows furrowed at her, “no the fuck i didn— “

dina snatched the grinder from you and grabbed a new wrap, “just make out.” 

“what?”

you and ellie stared at dina with shock-ridden faces, your red eyes peeled open as far they could be. 

did the fog surrounding you just get heavier?

“i said make out,” dina packed her blunt, completely unmoved by her proposition. “you both have points you wanna make, make out and decide who’s right. plus, i need entertainment for when i smoke this.” 

the misty bathroom was completely silent, your eyes wandering nervously, purposely avoiding ellie’s. you looked down at the furry rug as your face burned. 

you heard dina huff before she shuffled next to you, moving the ashtray to the side, and scooting closer to both of you. 

you finally looked up at her, finding that she’d been staring at you already. you saw her eyes flicker down to your lips before coming back up to meet yours again. you did the same as your gut swirled, butterflies in your stomach. 

“wanna show her how good it can be?” she whispered to you, and you saw ellie stiffen out the corner of your eye. she said nothing, and you nodded. 

she smirked, her relaxed body leaning in closer, so your faces were inches apart. dina licked her lips, and you felt your walls tighten when her tongue barely brushed against your lips. she brushed her nose against yours, and you both laughed quietly. 

she moved in like she was finally going to kiss you and your eyes fluttered shut, but she only brushed her lips against yours, making your breath catch in your throat. you felt her grin. 

you leaned forward, but she moved away. you could hear ellie’s breathing get heavier. you almost forgot

she was here. dina moved closer to you as you squirmed. 

you could barely get your whisper out, “please kiss me, pleas— “

her soft lips cut you off, molding against yours almost too perfectly. you released a pleased sigh, and you heard ellie gasp as she watched. 

you and dina’s kiss swiftly went from soft, curious pecks to deep, eager rolls of tongue, sliding across one another as your mouths moved in harmony. 

you both were making small noises in satisfaction, and you heard a hand come up to hold your cheek gently, dina’s thumb caressing your jaw. 

her hands were so soft, and she smelt like a rose garden. you pushed closer to her, your hand moving on autopilot and coming up to grab the back of her neck. you felt her move closer. 

you heard shuffling that wasn’t from either of you, and you smirked knowingly into the kiss. you think you got ellie; you hoped you got her. 

you felt a hand on your clothed thigh, rubbing it up and down, and you squeezed them together. your nipples were rock hard in your longue bra, and you brought your other hand up to massage them. you heard ellie whine to herself next to you. you gripped your tit tighter for her. 

dina sucked your lip into her mouth, her hand coming up to wrap around your neck, her thumb digging into the side of it before reconnecting your lips. 

you suddenly felt gentle pecks on your neck, her hand squeezing up and down your thigh. dina pulled away and released your throat, grabbing ellie by her small bun, pulling her off you and connecting their lips in a hot kiss. 

you shuffled closer to watch intensely, grabbing the back of their necks and holding them still. 

their mouths moved with urgency, like they wanted to swallow each other whole, wet smacks filling the room. you could see ellie releasing drool on dina’s tongue whenever it slid over hers, your tummy was in knots. 

ellie was so into dina, moaning into her mouth, touching her tits through her shirt, and you looked down to see her toes curling in her black, fuzzy socks. dina allowed ellie to do whatever, touch her wherever, lead the kiss how she wanted, and somehow she was still in charge. 

she pulled away gently, placing a hand on ellie’s shoulder to stop her from chasing her mouth, “wanna kiss her, baby?” 

ellie suddenly looked shy, her cheeks fiery red. she blinked slow like a kitten, and you saw her throat move when she gulped hard. 

dina smirked. “yeah? you can if you want to, she wants it.” 

you nodded quickly in agreement, luring ellie to kiss you with puppy eyes. you want her to kiss you dumb, kiss you brainless. you’re getting so wet, and you need her to fix it!

ellie leaned towards you, and you pushed forward in desperation, connecting your lips. she whined just as eagerly in your mouth, her legs squeezing together as she sighed. 

“so fucking cute. like that, babies? like kissing each other like this?” you heard dina purr gently in your ear, and you moaned for her. ellie was louder than you, more needy.

“yeah? needed this, huh? just wanted to touch each other?” 

yesyesyesyes, fuck yes—

ellie sucked your tongue into her mouth, slurping your saliva like she was thirsty for it. you moaned loudly when you felt her lips wrap around your muscle, moving her mouth up and down on it slowly. you had to stop your hips from bucking off the floor. she pulled away and smiled like a fox before reconnecting your lips.

you did grind into the floor when you felt dina’s mouth press against yours and ellie’s, all your tongues moving around together in sloppy flicks. all your drool was connecting your mouths together in weak strings and you needed to fuck them so bad, drill them both deep—

“m’so wet,” you heard ellie whisper against you and dina’s mouths, and you both whined in unison. 

you couldn’t stop the raunchy thoughts from coming to the forefront of your brain, glimpses of potential fucks in the shower, in your bed, on the floor passing in your mind like a racecar. 

… you needed to cum for them! you were going to cum for them!

[chlobliviate]

Wolfstar Microfic Prompt 1 - Western

Words: 410

@wolfstarmicrofic

***

Sirius was practically vibrating in his seat. It had been weeks since Remus moved to Falmouth to take up a lecturing position at the university, but Sirius had needed to work his notice period in London before joining him. All three months of it. It had been torture.

‘The train approaching Platform One is the 15:15 Great Western Railway Service to Falmouth Docks. Calling at Perranwell, Penryn, Penmere, Falmouth Town, and Falmouth Docks.’

He stood up and placed his backpack on top of his suitcase. Logically, he knew that he wouldn’t get there any quicker by doing so, but he also sensed that he was annoying the person next to him on the bench with his leg bouncing.

As the train pulled away from Truro, he pulled out his phone.

Pads

just left truro, should be with you in about 20 mins.

Moony

Can’t wait to see you, sweetheart. I feel like a fucking teenager again.

Pads

im glad its not just me tbh. I missed you so much!

Moony

I missed you too. I’m never leaving your side again.

Pads

thats probably gonna make your lectures really awkward, but I accept your terms.

Sirius double-checked their new address before putting it into Google Maps. It was a four-minute walk from the station, though Remus had warned him about the steep hill. When he got off the train he was not expecting to be greeted by cheers and shouts of “Padfoot!” “Sirius, you made it!” “Fucking finally!”, and a long banner (made from sellotaped together pieces of A4 paper) which read “Welcome Home, Sirius!”.

Sirius flew into Remus’ arms, not caring that he was almost sobbing into his shoulder. “I thought you had to work!”

“I rearranged my schedule so I could come and meet you.”

“And bring a crowd?” Sirius looked over his shoulder. Lily, James, Pete, Marlene and Dorcas were still holding the banner, grinning at him. “I can’t believe we’re all back here.”

“The difference fifteen years makes.” James laughed, “It was inevitable we’d all come back. We missed you.”

“Oh fuck, Jamie.” Sirius sniffed, “I missed you too, all of you.”

“Hope you’re not too tired, love.” Remus said quietly, “Lily has already set up a very nostalgic party at home. She’s got Ring of Fire ready to go. Marlene made a playlist and Dori’s made three different cocktails.”

“I’m never too tired for that.” Sirius wrapped his arm around Remus’ waist. “Lead the way.”

[thetangibleghost]

absconded. some may say

made my mother fucking escape

[sardar106]

cut for long vent post

okay, so, we start our exams at 9 am everyday, busses reach school around 8. I got to my usual homeroom and seat, and kept talking to my friends then like 10 mins before the exam should start, one of the students in my bus came into the classroom and told us that they changed where each student should be. this is the last exam every time for end of term/year exams, they send each student an email of which building, homeroom, and seat they should be in ex: AF.016, the A is for which building, the F is for first floor (G is for ground (don’t ask why it’s called first if it’s not first, Idk)), then the homeroom is numbered. they did not send any emails about this change. she told us that we have to go to the main school hallway and look through the papers in a board to know which homeroom we should take our exams in. we went there and the hallway was filled with other students. it was so messy. we stayed there until 9:03 before the school principal came and basically did nothing before going off somewhere the supervisors had enough and told us to just go to our classes. which classes??? we don’t know them, that’s why we’re fucking here! because you guys decided to change them without sending any fucking emails! we had to go to each homeroom, check with the teacher if she has our names on her list, then go to a different homeroom to do the same thing luckily, the friends who were with me were in the same class and found it at like 9:08 by the time I’ve asked the other teachers in each homeroom of the one out of four hallways with classes, the supervisors told everyone that wasn’t in their homeroom to go to the school’s main hallway and ask one of them to look through the list they have. I was one of the first to get there and she told me that I had to go to the same part of the building I was in, but upstairs. I then finally started my exam fifteen whole minutes after I should have. and y’know, I did have enough time to finish, I had it all done in 25 mins out of the supposed 2 hours and didn’t care to revise. fuck that shit. the stress I went through just to get to my homeroom was more than enough.

[depressedhouseplant]

🔞 Just Fucking Write 2k24 - Day 6 🔞

Prompt: “Letting you go was the hardest thing I ever had to do,”

WC: 603

Jisung looked down into his glass.

“Letting you go was the hardest thing I ever had to do,” he admitted.

“So why’d you do it?” Minho asked, his voice betraying nothing.

“Because I had to. I knew I couldn’t be the man you needed, the man you deserved,” Jising finally turned his head to look at his former lover.

“You left me, Jisung. Letting go implies there was equal emotional investment,” Minho replied. “Then you show up at my house fifteen years after you left me without so much as a goodbye three days after my husband died. I don’t even know where to fucking start.”

“You didn’t have to open the door,” Jisung pointed out.

“No, I didn’t,” Minho agreed.

“You didn’t have to invite me in and treat me like a guest,” the other man continued.

“No, I didn’t,” Minho said.

“And you don’t have to let me kiss you three days after your husband died,” Jisung took his chance. Minho put down his glass and stood up. Minho stepped in front of him and Jisung braced himself for whatever Minho was about to say.

“I’m not going to,” he said, taking Jising’s glass out of his hand and placing it on the table. “I’m going to kiss you because I want to.”

He gracefully climbed in Jisung’s lap and pressed their lips together. Minho weaved his fingers in Jisung’s hair as he kissed him. A part of Jisung hoped this would happen. That it would be like no time had passed. Right now they were twenty three again in Jisung’s shitty apartment, not on a multimillion dollar rooftop terrace.

“Min-,” Jisung breathed.

“Shhh,” Minho hissed against Jisung’s mouth. He adjusted his hips so his ass was firmly on Jisung’s crotch. His cock was getting uncomfortably hard against his zipper. Minho began steadily rocking his hips as he draped his body over Jisung’s frame.

Fuck

“If you keep that up then I’m going to come in my pants,” he grunted.

“So take them off,” Minho pulled back to look at him. His lips were slick and swollen from kissing, his dark eyes blown out with lust, and his erection prominent in his sweatpants.

“Only if you do too,” Jisung replied. Minho smirked and got off Jisung, staring at him as he took off his pants and underwear, leaving his shirt on. Only then did he take off his own pants and crawl back into Jisung’s lap.

“You keep lube in a plant pot?” Jisung stared as Minho opened the bottle and began opening himself up.

“Sometimes I’d come up here to jack off. Just for the rush of thinking someone might see me,” he grinned.

“Still an exhibitionist then?” Jisung smiled back.

“Some things never change,” Minho seated himself on Jisung’s cock in one go. He was just as hot, tight, and wet as Jisung remembered. “Like how your fat cock fills me up.”

“Fuck me,” Jisung pulled Minho back down into a kiss.

“Gladly,” the other man replied. He braced his hands on the back of the chair and bounced on Jisung’s cock like they’d only done it yesterday. Their tongues explored each other’s mouths, their hands slid over sweaty skin, and words that had gone unspoken for fifteen years slipped out in between gasps of pleasure.

“I’ll never leave you again. I swear,” Jisung panted.

“Don’t make a promise you can’t keep,” Minho warned.

“This time I’m the man you need. Not then, but now,” Jisung said against Minho’s neck.

“This time,” Minho echoed as he came. Jising’s release followed a few moments later, filling Minho completely.

“This time,”

[shoutyourporpoise]

Watched Rocky Aur Rani while feverish yesterday and

1) given how much people talked about Alia Bhatt’s and Ranveer Singh’s chemistry, I was not expecting the first hour of the movie to be as *aggressively* mid as it was

2) given how mid that first hour was, I was not expecting the next 2 hours to be so soul-crushingly K3G. If I could edit the first hour and fifteen minutes into a 15-min summary I would just so you have context for the far superior second movie that kicks off after that

3) very few of the songs stuck with me like they did with K3G but Dhindora Baje Re is an allllll time. Love when someone bajes a dhol for sure. That goes for Dholi Taaro it goes for Dholida it goes for Nagada Sang Dhol and now it goes for Dhindora Baje

4) the entire movie from Dola Re/Dhindora Baje onwards is STELLAR. The last 45 minutes of the movie are top-tier acting from everyone

5) this is pure speculation and cannot possibly be true but I’m pretty sure all the crying I did in those last 45 minutes are why my fever finally broke as of this morning*

*that and the prednisolone lol

addendum) I am STUNNED no one seems to have created a gif for every frame of the Navratri scene bc Ranveer Singh in a flowy red anarkali doing kathak was to DIE FOR

addendum part 2) Anjali Anand’s arc in this movie was brief and tbh I would have gladly sacrificed a chunk of the first hour to get more of her. The fat daughter who keep getting rejected for marriage proposals and is secretly a financial whiz? I thought they would address that

a) she’s better poised to run the family business than her brother is and

b) she’s fucking GORGEOUS HELLO??? Like yes yes women should not be defined by how marriageable they are etc etc but they fail to acknowledge that she’s also just a straight-up hottie; like whenever she’s on screen they either have her in the biggest slouchiest T-shirts and sweatshirts they can find or when she’s trussed up the emphasis is always on how obvious her weight is but like

Ma’am??? I am on my KNEES I will marry you since everyone else is so fucking complicated

[outcast-thingz]

Chapter 2:

Tell Me It's Just A Dream ...Fuck

Despite being told you have a choice it didn't feel like it. The creature was right; no one would believe you. You have no idea what they'll do to you or where they'll take you. You figured you should let -someone- know you won't be back for a while. Pulling yourself to your feet proved quite painful, but nothing was broken as far as you could tell. After getting turned around once or twice and nearly tripping, you return to camp. You'd left your phone behind. Once you find it, you hold your breath as you press the power button hoping it'll turn on.

"Fifteen percent, thank god… just one call" The ringtone barely has time to buzz the other side of the line when he answers.

"Y/N! Are you okay!?" Hearing a friendly put you at ease. Much to Jason's dismay, you just sat there soaking in his sound. He rambles off a bunch of apologies for not being able to prevent you from ending up where you were. "Y/n? Please answer… anything. So I know it's you actually there."

"Hi," you sniffle, "I'm here, Jason."

"Thank you. Jerk, I thought you were dead." You could hear a faint chuckle. You smile and wipe a tear from your eye.

"Yeah," you return the half-hearted laugh, "I thought so too." You clear your throat, "Hey, um.. They already gave me a new place to go. Don't need a medic if the bodies almost never come back… but it's top secret, so I can't tell you where-"

"Do you know for how long?"

"Ummm.. n-no. I don't. I promise I'll try to send at least a letter, okay?" It took everything not to give in to the tears. Your throat hurt from straining to sound calm, "Jason?"

"Yes, Y/n?"

"Tell my family I love them."

"I will. I love you, Y/n."

"You're the bestest friend I could have ever asked for… I love you," you end the call. Shortly after, your phone dies. You spent the next hour or two crying yourself to sleep.

"Figured you didn't have that many places to run to, but here" the creature shrugs.

As promised, a gentle hand grabs your shoulder at midnight to wake you.

"How'd you find me?" Mumbles slip from your lips as you sit up.

"Mmm…" you hum, unamused

"So, made your decision?"

"Yeah… I guess I'll go with you. No point in causing more trouble than necessary," you sigh. To your surprise, the man approaches and scoops you up. "Wait, Wait, I can-" You feel yourself lifted higher but not further from the man. "I don't understand wha-" beneath you the man and beneath him… the creature? She seemed so small, yet here she was, lifting two people like they were paperweights.

"It's like you said, 'no point in causing more trouble than necessary.' I'm gonna carry y'all to the truck."

"How?!"

"Well, by putting one foot in front of the other, duh. Is there any other way?"

"But you're so sm-"

"I'd choose your next words very carefully, angel." She threatens as she starts to make her way through the woods. You cross your arms and protest,

"Fairly sure that's a reasonable question. You're like 5-foot? How the fuck are you carrying us both?" The entire time the man shook his head aggressively, a pleading look painting his face. A sly smile creeps onto the creature's face.

"You haven't figured it out yet?" She chuckles. The man sighs. You feel his arms wrap tight around you, so tight it almost hurts.

"Now, why'd you have to go do a thing like that?" He finally speaks. Although irritated, his voice seemed refined and soft, strangely soothing.

Before you can retort, the three of you zoom through the forest. A gasp escapes your lips, silenced by the wind blowing past your face. What would have been a 15 min walk for her turned into a 6-minute sprint.

"I think you're getting slower," the man teases once the two of you are on the ground again.

"I was carrying two people!!!" The creature hisses. The man rolls his eyes and shrugs. "Ugh, whatever. You could at least show some manners and thank me. I did you a favor."

"Im not saying anything. I didn't ask you to do that. Nor did y- they" He started to say your name but backed out.

"Hah! All these lives, and you're still so shy when you meet them." A smug smile plasters itself on her face. "So what's your answer? I mean, I just showed off. I think that deserves at least a guess," you assume she asked you, but her eyes never left the man's. His face was scrunched up into a scowl.

"Strength like something I've ever seen before, impossibly fast, pale as fuck.. and a seeming fondness for chaos, carnage, and blood. I know what you are.." As terrifying as everything has been, you couldn't help but make a joke; maybe if you make fun of this and treat it like a dream, it'll go away. "You're.. you're a vampire." You pause between most of your words not just because you want to put mocking, dramatic spaces of silence but also because that run put your body through higher speeds, and you're use to outside of a vehicle.

"Im gonna puke. You sound like that fucking book series" She covers her mouth and looks away. You can hear her fake gag, "Please never describe me like that again. Next thing we know, you'll be having to choose between me and some fucking w- huhp.." she pauses to try to avoid actually throwing up. Being dramatic had its drawback in this case. "Wolf boy."

"Am I right, though?" You tilt your head.

"Yeah. Just never do that again."

"What reference tw-"

"Finish its name, and I'll give you a complimentary nap with the power of knocking you the fuck out." She finally composes herself. Then looks around, "where did-"

"He got in the truck while I was guessing," You shrug. "Was that complimentary nap just a threat or a promise?" Despite hoping being knocked out would wake you from this, the vampire just chuckles and hops into the passenger seat of their truck. You sigh and get in the back. A thought occurs to you, "y'know, I don't know either of your names.. but you know mine."

"Oh! Right, I'm Mediya! And this big boy-" the creature pats the man's shoulder, "is Adrisil." He huffs at the remark. Mediya smiles at him and giggles her words, "You love me."

"Doesn't mean I can't be mad at you," he glares

"OhKhAy," she rolls her eyes.

It was a long drive, but it wasn't like you'd notice since you were asleep for most of it. You sit up as the ~notorious~feeling of pulling into a driveway hits you.

"Oh, you're up." Mediya looks back. "I wonder if it's like thing where we just -know- when we're home, ya know?" You shrug, not being awake enough to really think about it, let alone know what 'we' she was talking about. "Are you... ya know, okay? You've been taking all of this like- really well. Well.. good for your circumstances this time."

"Mm now you ask.. mm'just gonna treat it like a dream till tomorrow. If I wake up 'nd m'still here I'll deal with it then. Future me problem."

"Oh- um alright I guess." She wasn't sure how to react to that. The three of you scramble out of the truck and into the house. You follow their directions to your room and proceed to pass out again.

The morning nearly passes you by as you dream about your family and Jason. Eventually, your eyes blink awake to stare at a brown wall painted with ivy and little Venus fly traps. You rub your eyes and pinch yourself to ensure it's all real. Yep.. it's real.

"Great.. so I guess that means vampires do exist. Wonder what else exists, hope they don't use the internet or fiction sites…" You say aloud to yourself, 'If there's a unicorn, I'm finding it and keeping it.' It's dark in the room, so you pull the sheets off and shuffle your way over to the window. "FUCK!" You yell after getting a face full of sun. You rub your eyes until you feel like you're ready to brave the light again. Through squinted eyes, you can see a green field with a few trees around it. Just beyond the side of the window, part of an animal pen can be seen.

A gentle knock came at the door, pulling your attention away from the window.

"You okay?" You recognized it as the man's voice.

'What was it.. adin, adele, adr- ADRISIL. Adrisil? What the fuck.. what kind of name is- you know what doesn't matter.' You give up and open the door. "Yeah.. sorry, I opened the curtains and didn't expect it to be so bright." You answer and then ask, "What time is it?"

"About twenty till noon. I have lunch made if you're ready for it." You certainly weren't going to deny food. Your eyes wander as the two of you make your way to the table. Most of the house had a rustic look, moss green walls, the occasional accent stone walls and staircases, wooden beams decorating the ceiling, and furniture you were sure had been around since your grandparents.

"Wasn't sure what you'd be allergic to, so I just went with bacon and egg burritos." He pulls you from your space out.

"Oh.. thank you." At the table were only two plates, "Where's umm."

"Mediya? Sleeping. You'll get a chance to talk to her again tonight."

"…mm"

It was an awkwardly quiet breakfast. Adrisil breaks the silence after leaving the table to grab something,

"We have something you can change into. We didn't know what size you were, so we just guessed. Mediya spent a while picking the outfit out. Let me know if anything doesn't fit right." He slides over a small stack of clothing. "There's a bathroom two doors down from your room. After you shower and change, we can head into town and get you something you actually want to wear." With that, he starts cleaning up the dishes he used to cook breakfast with. You pick up the clothing and head to the bathroom.

You stood with your head leaning against the wall and the water running down your back, letting everything sink in. Tears roll down your cheeks as you clench your fists against the wall. Years of war, not a life caught in the crossfire spared until you. Why? Why you? Will it all stop if you stay with them? Gods.. the friends you've lost, and all the people before your time serving. You're sure you'll never get to see your family again. This will probably be the last and only time they let you walk "freely."

Before you knew it, you were dried and changed. You catch your reflection in the mirror. It was creepy how to actuate the outfit to your preferred style. You'd think Mediya stole it from your closet if you didn't know any better. Your fingertips graze over the clothing; some of it was a tad big, but that was better than it squeezing the life out of you. Pretty damn good for just 'guessing' sizes. You shudder. After shaking your head and thoughts away, you leave the bathroom. Time to go out shopping with a man you've known your whole life as a nation-slaughtering monster. What else we're you going to do? Run?

Tagging: @yeet-man @bisexual-confusion (if you want to be added to the tag list send me message or an ask 🥰)

[sofyreneko]

finally getting my adhd treated by my therapist is really just life changing how much it improved my quality of life. her solution was so fucking simple.

me: i lose time and before i realized 6 hours have passed and i lost the whole day :/

her: so put alarms.

me: but what if im in class? so i cant have regularly schedule alarms

her: so put them when you know you dont have anything

me: but then id be making the choice of wasting my whole day, so id think i can “only” do a few more minutes and self sabotage

her: then put a time limit. lock your apps for fifteen minutes after you spend an hour on them. so you can realize it has been an hour and you have 15 min to make a sandwich or go to the bathroom and you are more aware of the time passing and how long it has actually been

it works really well. my whole phone is now just parent control limited. i feel like living

graph of what being hungry is like with adhd

[inkofyoonkoo]

Into my bones

🌸 Wordcount: 15k

🌸 Genre: Fluff/light angst/smut | From FWB to lovers!AU

🌸 Min Yoongi x Reader

🌸 Description: Small slice-of-life scenes in non-chronological order that describe the slow growth of your relationship, started as a friends-with-benefits affair. Aka, Yoongi is dumb and learns that love can’t be controlled.

🌸 A/N: To celebrate my return here, here’s one of my Yoongi’s stories I love the most.

Hope you’ll enjoy it!

Good read ♥

Day 2

When Yoongi kissed you at the Halloween party, it’s not like he wanted anything from you.

He was there only because Jimin had to introduce him to one of his classmates; soon after, Seokjin discovered it and decided to accompany him to give him some moral support (but Yoongi wasn’t born yesterday. It was crystal clear that his best friend followed him only to hit on Park Byeol, who, in turn, was there to hit on Kim Taehyung). And Jimin’s friend, in the end, turned out to be the most boring girl in the solar system, so much that he prayed that the alcohol could knock him out instantly.

It wasn’t in his plans to find himself on the balcony with his hands on your hips and his lips sealed on your own.

Frankly, he was very veeery drunk and very veeery pissed off for being stuck in that living nightmare; and you were very veeery sexy in that pretty banal, pretty tight latex suit of Catwoman.

You were a side-effect of three beers, two glasses of wine, and your heart-attack ass, that’s all.

But… ugh, well… ok, honestly, it’s almost a year that Yoongi doesn’t fuck, and once back in his dormitory he touched himself under the sheets after six months not doing it, thinking about your body against his own. And it happened again this morning, under the shower, still replaying you in his mind.

This has been a more than enough reason to reply to your message sat in his phone for a few hours –he didn’t even remember you exchanged numbers- and agree to meet up at the bar close to the KUN of Arts –he didn’t even remember you attended the same university- oblivious of what might happen now that you’re both sober.

And so there you are, barely fifteen steps away, some soft music playing in the background, and definitively different from the sexy kitten that he treasures in the back of his mind: your hair is worn in a tidy ponytail, a light touch of eyeliner sketches your eyes fixed on a book, and a turtleneck sweater accents the soft line of your breast.

You’re less glitzy, but still able to set his lower abdomen on fire.

His heart does an annoying flattering thing in his chest as he approaches you, the body shattered by a nervousness he hasn't felt since he stopped dating girls. He sees you take the mug to your mouth, a simple and not-so sensual gesture that throws him back to the instant before you kissed -when you drank straight for his bottle of beer and he thought that your lips would look amazingly on his own, or around his dick–!

“Holy shit!” The collision with the edge of the table snaps him back down to reality. He rubs his hip and lays his stare on you, who finally took notice of his presence. “Hi,” he mumbles, nose scrunched for the pain.

You divert your wide stare and badly squelch a laugh, risking to choke on your coffee -the tonality of your laughter is annoying, now that his brain isn’t soaking in the alcohol anymore.

He pokes the tongue on his cheek. “What?”

You moisten your lips. “Nothing, but your hair… I thought it was a wig.” You watch him  take a seat beside you, amused by his pout. “Purple… it’s pretty cool!” You reach out to touch his fringe.

He moves away. “Hands off! I don’t like to be touched by strangers.”

“You didn’t seem to mind, yesterday,” you tweet.

A line appears between his knitted brows. “Listen, ahm… you, I was blind drunk! I didn’t know what I was doing!”

“And do you know it, now?”

Of course he does! More or less? The fact is that he isn’t so sure about it anymore. Actually, he wasn’t really sure even when you sent him a smiley emoji at his “See ya at noon.” It must have been the booze, the atmosphere, but you seemed more meek and nicer at the party… but now, you look like one of those girls he avoids like the plague because he just doesn’t like them.

He feels it right into his bones that this bullshit won’t do him any good.

He scratches his hair. “Yeah, sure, otherwise I wouldn’t be here.” He twiddles with his ring. “What about you, instead?”

You pause, long enough to catch every detail of his face, the curve of his thick brows that give him an always-pissed-off look. Then, you smile amused. “Funny… not only you forgot my name, but also that you’ve been the one to ask me out, yesterday.”

… ok, it’s decided, he hates you!

“Let me refresh your memory: you had a little thing in mind. Something that has to do with us and the backseat of your car.“ You rest your chin on your palm, munching the corner of your mouth. "I’m curious to know if it’s true what you told me about your tongue technology.”

A flush spreads from the collar of his brownish sweater to the tip of his ears.

Oh, shit… he didn’t say that bullshit since high school! He can’t have said it! But he told you, apparently?! Holy. Fucking—!

“I’m (Y/N), anyway. You know, I’d like you to not scream someone else’s name. It’d be… embarrassing. My self-esteem could be badly affected.”

Despite himself, Yoongi squelches a rocky chuckle, lowering his head to hide the small smile that’s running from cheek to cheek. He goes back to scrutinizing you only when he doesn’t feel your stare boring through his skin anymore: you’re reading your book, peaceful, as if you were used to discuss with a complete stranger about where and when to fuck.

“I’m Yoongi, anyway.” He unconsciously spreads his legs, hand softly resting on his groin. “But you can call me ‘Your majesty’. Otherwise, my self-esteem could be badly affected.”

You rip your eyes off the pages, engulfing your stare into his own. A myriad of sparks are floating into them, the same ones he caught when you were on the balcony, basking in your silence, contemplating each other. 

“So, my class will start within two hours…” you shift your stare from his face to his legs. “Do you want to fuck me at my place or yours?”

Yoongi runs the tip of his tongue on his lower lip, then tights it between his teeth.

You tuck some hair behind your ear when you receive back only silence. “You… you wanna fuck me, don’t you?”

Holy shit, he wants to fuck you so badly.

He swallows. “Your house is ok.”

Yoongi rips his eyes off the Anthropology of Music book, his somber stare now fixed on Jin’s curious expression as he waits for the new Super Mario’s level to load. “Nothing.”

 11 months 20 days

“Oh, you’re running out of ideas? If you want, I can teach you a good recipe for a romantic dinner–”

“What are you going to organize for your anniversary?“

“No. I won’t do shit,“ he interrupts, going back to reading. "It isn’t serious between us, why should we celebrate something that doesn’t exist?”

Jin’s stare widens. “You… it’s a joke, isn’t it?” He snorts a laugh, and yet there’s a glint of annoyance in his calm voice that obliges Yoongi to pay his utmost attention. “You’re seeing each other every day for almost a year—”

“Only for fucking. More or less.“

"You go out for dinner, she spends her weekends here, you spend whole weeks at her place, you go shopping together, you’re exclusive. Oh, you also take her to your studio and you don’t allow anybody to go there, even me–”

“Only 'cause you’re annoying and you distract me.”

“And you’re telling me it isn’t serious?!” Seokjin gives him a sidelong glance. “You’d be less embarrassing if you’d admit you love her.”

Yoongi grimaces. “For goodness sake, what’s with this bullshit now?! I don’t love her! It’s just… what it is!” He scratches his blond hair. “Two people who often meet up and happily fuck, that’s all!”

Seokjin arches a brow. “You know it stopped being 'what it is’ when you left some room for her clothes in your wardrobe, mh?”

Before Yoongi could reply, or metabolize the bullshit his friend said -and smother him with a pillow- you peep out in the living room and say, “Yoongi-chi? I’m going out to buy some meat.” You’re calm, you don’t seem to have grasped their delirious conversation. Your stare flickers from him, curled up to the corner of the sofa, to his friend. “Jin, are you going to stay for dinner?”

Yoongi squeaks, “Hey, this is my home! I should–”

“I’d love to, (Y/N). Can I help you cook?”

“Yes please. May you cut the vegetables? I’d like to cook some Japchae.”

“You can’t cook it!”

“That’s not true. The other day, you told me it was delicious!” You tweet.

“You made me drink! I wasn’t lucid!” Yoongi stands up, following you to the front door, the sound of your airy laugh makes him smile. “Put this on, it’s pouring outside.” He takes his beanie and puts it on your head. “Treat it well, it’s my favorite.”

“I know. I bought it when you passed your exam.” You fix it, delivering him a beaming smile. When you notice he’s about to fish out the wallet from his pocket, you stop him. “You paid last time already. Today is up to me.” You give him a light kiss. “See you later, Yoongi-chi.”

He watches you go and closes the door only when you disappear from his sight. When he turns, a soft smile gracing his face, he notices that Jin is leaning against the wall with crossed arms.

He arches a brow. “What?”

He rolls his eyes before going to the kitchen. “I was right, you don’t deserve someone like her.”

You’re annoying.

You spent more than an hour in a music store -his favorite, actually, not just an ordinary music store- discussing on who is better between Depeche Mode (you) and The Clash (him); but despite his strong desire to take your head off whenever you breathed, he had lots of fun.

 2 months 24 days

Now that he thinks of it, he doesn’t often talks about music with one his fucks. He usually lets things die without deepening the acquaintance, but with you words fly out his mouth naturally, as if it was a habit to turn to you when he’s still shaken by the orgasm and tell you about the last concert he attended, or the last exam he’s preparing…

However, today, he regrets he didn’t go out of bed with his dick still wet and didn’t leave as he usually does. “Holy shit, why did I fuckin’ bring you here?!” He crosses his arms harder.

Really, Yoongi has never met a girl more annoying than you: you’ve always to have the last word, you’ve to retort to everything he says and, obviously, you’ve to have different music tastes.

“Because I asked you if you wanted to come with me and you told me: ’yes’.”

“It was an orgasm, not a yes.”

“Aw, I thought it was the same,“ you tweet, looking at a box of headphones. “And, anyway, you’re still in time to go. I don’t think I cuffed you at me.”

But Yoongi doesn’t go. He mumbles, curses under his breath, he huffs… but he stays, beside you, elbow to elbow. There’s something -something in the way your eyes crinkle in the corner, in that smirk tugging at your lips, in the peacefulness in your voice when you reply to him, or how you lightly hum the songs passing on the radio- that makes him stand still in his favorite music shop, waiting for you to do… whatever you have to do.

He jams his hands into his pockets, scrutinizing the various types of headphones tidily disposed of on the shelves. “What are you searching for, exactly?”

“Dunno… what would you buy for a friend who’s been accepted to the Universal Ballet?” You rest your hand on your cheek, lips curled. “I wanna buy him something nice.”

Many questions race through his mind right now: who’s this dude? Do you two regularly fuck just like you do with him? How many guys are you seeing other than him? What the fuck is the Universal Ballet?!

Yoongi gives you a sidelong glance. A soft smile brightens your face, a sublime sight that never graced it during your assiduous encounters. He feels his heart weirdly writhe in his chest, as if it got offended for this lack of consideration toward him after all the pleasure he made you feel for all this months.

“Do you fuck?” He averts your stare before you could notice the wrinkles on his forehead.

“Sometimes,” you merely say, “Someone’s jealous here, I’m flattered,” you add, giggling when a curse escapes from his pouty lips.

“In your dreams!” he tears the box away from your hands, putting it back in its place. “This brand sucks! If I were him, I’d thrust it into your ass if you’d ever gave it to me!” he grabs your wrist and starts dragging your amidst the customers, along the room that he knows like the back of his hand, mumbling how much of a disgrace you are for the music world –with your annoying, airy laugh in the background, ugh! “Here!” he stops in front of a shelf full of last-arrival headphones. “These are great!” He starts rattling off all his knowledge of this topic, from the finest ones to the most comfortable; from the brand he’d buy with closed eyes to the low-quality ones. His fingers meander upon every device lightly, as if they were made of crystal, and words fly out fast, animated by a passion that only the music can emanate.

“You sure know a lot,” you comment, taking advantage of his brief pause.

“It’s my sector. Well, not really…” he scratches his scarlet ear, twiddling with his earrings. “I study composition, I have to do with music every day.”

You tuck some hair behind your ear. “Jimin told me you have your own studio.”

“It’s not mine, I rented it with some friends. And it isn’t properly a studio, it’s more… a sardine can.” He chuckles. “I’d love to become a producer, some day.” He gives you a gummy smile, sinking in your wide, sparkling eyes. But it flips off his face when he actually realizes what he’s just told you: did he really disclose his biggest dream with so much ease? He goes back to watching the headphones, dazed by his own behavior. “I’d buy this, anyway.”

Your stare lingers upon his face, his teeth convulsively munching on the corner of his mouth. Then you lean forward, staring at the prices. “Too expensive.”

“Well, someone who probably gives you some orgasms deserves more than some shoddy earbuds.”

“Yeah, probably. I mean, if he’d give me multiple orgasms like you do, I’d buy it for sure.”

Yoongi turns to you, goggle-eyed and parted lips. He should be shocked by the pureness you use to reveal certain secrets; but he’s even more astonished by the fact that his heart throbs frantically in his ears, loud and hard, muffling every other sound.

“Suga?” a familiar voice breaks through his consciousness, snapping him back down to reality.

He gazes over his shoulder, taking notice of Jin’s tall figure at a few steps from the pair of you. His stare dances from you to him, and when it lands on his hand still holding your wrist, a hint of a malicious smile etches itself on his face.

Yoongi loses his grip as if you were going on fire, rubbing his palm on his baggy jeans. “What are you doing here?”

He laughs, that damn bastard! He’s having the time of his life, seeing him in difficulty! And, anyway… why does Yoongi have the urge to go on the defensive? C’mon, your ‘love-affair’isn’t a secret, all his friends know he fucks you regularly at least four times a week… and yet, he feels as if this thing between you two just cracked.

“I’ve to buy a new plectrum,” he replies, shifting his attention to you, who’s kept silent until now. “Ahm, hello, I’m Seokjin. His best friend.”

“I’m (Y/N), the one he fucks when he’s bored,” you genuinely say, bowing a little, eyes crinkled in the corner.

Despite himself, Yoongi finds himself reddening to the tip of his ears. Despite himself, he finds himself hardly trying to refrain a stupid smile to pull his cheeks up when Seokjin bursts out laughing.

“Listen, Yoongi-chi—“

Yoongi cracks his eyes open, clenches his jaw. “I told you a billion times to not call me like this, you gimme the chills! What a fuckin’ nickname—”

“I go searching for a shop assistant. So I can put an end to your torture.” You graze his arm, with the same delicacy you use to caress his hair when he collapses on you, spent, irregular breath and sparks in his liquid eyes. “It’s been nice to meet you, Seokjin. Have a nice day.” You wave at him before nearing the counter.

Jin observes you walk away, then he goes back to look at Yoongi goggle-eyed. “I can’t believe you fuck a wonder like her, you! You-you don’t deserve someone like her!” he slams his arms on his hips. “Geez, don’t be dumb and date her seriously!”

Yoongi rips his eyes off your amazing butt. “Forget it.”

“If you don’t do it, I swear I’ll ask her out!”

Yoongi chews on his bottom lip, squelching a smile. “Forget it.”

It’s a crappy day. Giant-crappy, actually. You know when everything goes down the pan since the very instant you put a foot out of the bed? Here, Yoongi is going through one of those days: his clock decided to stop working exactly on his exam-day, he stained his jeans with marmalade, he burnt his tongue with hot coffee, he arrived at the class in the nick of time and didn’t answer to half of the questions because his brain decided to go on holiday and he felt the weight of a month of sleepless nights cascade upon his shoulders. On top of that, he missed the bus and started to pelt down as he was on his way home by foot.

So here he is, in front of his door, drenched to bones, chilled… and with tears tugging at his eyelashes. He convulsively gnaws on his bottom lip as he fishes the keys out his pocket. Then, once inside, he bursts out crying, he doesn’t even know exactly why. 

 6 months

He’s nervous, and angry, and frustrated.

A light ‘clack’ coming from the entrance makes him stiffen. He gazes over his shoulder, a chill running down his spine as he sees the door slowly open… great, a thief, the cherry on the cake of his day! But a few seconds later, your figure takes shape beyond the glassy patina in his eyes and for a very infinitesimal instant, the pain gets sucked in a hole  in the pit of his stomach… until he remembers that today is a shitty day and he doesn’t want to see anyone.

Less alone you.

A smile blooms on your face when you notice him. “Oh, Yoongi! I thought you wouldn’t come back—“

With a terse gesture, he takes off his jacket and throws it on the floor, flinging at his feet also his beanie. It’s one of those nights where he feels completely useless and wants to lock himself inside his room, staring at the ceiling and crying himself to sleep—!

“The key is only for the emergencies!” he interrupts, curt.

“It is, in fact. I forgot my laptop with all my notes and—but…” you stop, head tilted to the side. “Are you… crying?”

“What?! I’m not!” He rubs his eyes with his sleeve. “Take what you have to and leave! I wanna stay alone!” He shuffles to his bedroom, and slams the door so powerfully that a pair of your books on his bedside table fall on the ground. He sits on the edge of the bed, shoulders shaking at every stutter breath.

The fuck are you doing here?! Showing up at his place as if it was your own, and without warning him! Ok, this isn’t the first time. It often happens that he comes back home and finds you already here, busy cooking, studying, watching the television… but today it’s another story! Today he isn’t himself—or better, he is someone you’ve never seen before: the one he doesn’t like at all, the fragile guy that let himself devour by his own worries, the one he rarely shows only to his friends… he doesn’t want you to get acquainted with that side of himself he hates with every fiber of his being.

He lowers his head, bites his lower lip to squelch hiccups. Abundant tears roll down his crimson cheeks, falling on his trembling hands. He stiffens when he hears the water running from the bathroom, and his muscles tense all at once when the door opens, revealing your figure; you’re tightening the clothes he threw in the living room a few minutes ago.

He sniffs. “Now you want to use my bathroom?! Fuck off, (Y/N)! This isn’t your home!”

You pause –he can already picture the curve of your lips, your scrunched nose, your brimmed with anger. But then, there’s your light sigh, and your soft steps becoming closer and closer. “It’s for you… a hot bath will do you good.” You put his belongings on the unmade bed, and crouch down before him to take off his shoes and socks. “C’mon, come with me.” You gently take him by the hand and guide him to the bathroom.

You start unbuttoning his shirt, helping him to slide it down his arms. You tuck his vest out his jeans, goosebumps arises on every inch of his skin as your fingertips climb up on his sides, and when you unzip his trousers and your fingers curl around his boxer, a piping hot warmth spreads from his tight chest to the tip of his ears. Yoongi lost counts of how many times you saw him naked, how many times you contemplated him intoxicated by pleasure as he improvised a striptease, your airy chuckle lingering in the air; and yet, there’s something different in the softness of your gestures, or in the way your stare meanders on every tensed line of his bare body.

You’re more delicate, as if you were taking care of a soaked kitten picked up from the street; and no matter how hard he bites, how hard he scratches… you don’t abandon him.

“What happened?” your hands find home on his hip.

He shakes from head to toe. “It’s been a bad day,” he barely whispers.

“This seems more than just a bad day.” You clean his tears with your thumb. “You can talk to me, if you want.”

But Yoongi doesn’t want to talk about it. Not with you. You don’t deal with important issues, you don’t show each other’s fragilities, you don’t cuddle each other’s fears to give you mutual solace. You aren’t a shoulder on which he can lean on to cry, he isn’t a warm embrace in which you can refuge when things seem to slip through your fingers. You aren’t this… intimate. 

He feels the anxiousness pouring from his pounding heart and tugging to his bones, so smothering that he’d like to shove you away. But your lips brush against his scarlet cheek, your thumbs draw circular patterns on his hips and he blesses the moment he gave you a copy of his keys..

He clasps his lips, tears keep rolling down, unstoppable. “You know I’ll have to kill you for seeing me like this.” He sniffs. 

“Uh, you made a joke in your sadness. It means you’re feeling better!”

Yoongi lets out a small chuckle. He feels his heart smashing in his ribcage, and his stomach is twisted.

"Relax now, ok? I’m gonna cook something warm.” You kiss the tip of his nose. “Take all your time.”

The icy-cold that paralyzed him all the while melts only when the door closes. In the silence settling in the small room, as he sinks in the hot water -not as hot as your stare, your hands, or your body- Yoongi feels the tears running down his cheeks once more, until everything placates.

Both pain and throbbing heart.

  He doesn’t know how long it is before he’s finally able to go back to the living room, wrapped in fresh and clean clothes, and welcomed by a good smell of  grilled meat -his favorite. The corners of his mouth quirk up when he glances at your figure, but the smile flips off his face when he takes notice of the table already prepared. Only for one person…

He arches a brow. “Where’s your plate?”

“I’m not eating here. I gotta study, and I think you prefer staying alone.” Your eyes become two sweet half-moons before you recollect your trench-coat and fix your bag around your shoulder. You approach him, tucking some hair behind your ear. “I’m sorry you had a bad day, I’d like to be more helpful.”

“You’ve already done a lot.” Words escape sweetly from his mouth. He runs a hand through his reddish hair, still damp. “I didn’t want you to see me like this. I mean, you’re always so… perfect. It seems like everything is going well for you.”

You look at him goggle-eyed, then you squelch a laugh. “Hey, I have my shitty days too! Ask to Jimin how many times I cried. Like, today I fell two times and my professor turned berserk. He also threatened to replace me with another dancer.” You shrug. “I just try to not let you see it, that’s all. I don’t want to bother you. And about bothering…” you avert his gaze, cheeks red for the embarrassment. “I’m sorry for earlier. You’re right, this is your home, I should’ve called before showing up here.” You pause, staring at his red, puffy eyes. “Well, eat and rest. You’ll see tomorrow will be better.” You give him a light kiss. “Night, Yoongi-chi.”

Yoongi reaches out and grabs your sweater, impeding you to move. He doesn’t know why he does so, if it’s because of the sweetness of that silly nickname or the sense of guilt creeping out his heart, but he isn’t ready to see this bubble of sheer joy explode.

“Have dinner with me,” he whispers.

“I cooked for one,” you reply after a brief moment of astonishment.

“We can share it. And there are lots of things in the fridge, we’ll find a solution.” His stare engulfs into your own. “Stay.”

“No, I–” you lower your stare. “I don’t want to have sex, tonight. It’s been a hell of a day for me too. And tomorrow I gotta go early to the rehearsal.”

“No sex. It’s ok like this… and I can give you a ride, so you can sleep a bit more.” He wraps your hips and pulls you closer, sinking his face into your hair. He inhales sharply through his nose. “I want you to stay.” Voice is muffled as he presses his mouth on the top of your head.

There’s silence, the frantic beat of his heart. Then, your hands, resting on his back, fingers curling around the fabric of his hoodie as your lips softly rest on his neck.

“Ok,” you say with a low voice.

None of the two will ever speak about that tight hug.

Yoongi presses his toes on the carpet of your bedroom, stretching. His heart still races at a noticeably race inside his chest as he searches for his boxer, dazed by the post-orgasm sensation.

“Can I make myself a coffee?” He picks up his boxer from under your dress.

 26 days

“Sure, make yourself at home. You already know where everything is, anyway.” You stretch out to collect your slip.

He puts on his boxer, then he goes back to searching for his clothes; his stare lays on your figure, still half naked, as you wear your hair into a messy bun. 

Yoongi contemplates every line of your body, lower lip clamped between his teeth, as the images of that good, satisfying sex you just had flash before his eyes like movie scenes: the way his mouth slid down your neck to find home on your breast, the slow movements of his tongue around your turgid nipple, his fingers grazing your wet folds as you begged him to stop with these annoying preliminaries. He took you from behind, today. Like, he didn’t plan for it to happen. He just grabbed harder at your buttock and you instantly turned, as if you caught something in the way he touched you.

He shakes his head to swipe away those thoughts, refraining himself from taking you once more on your unmade bed. He takes a quick glimpse at your bedroom, staring at the trophies disposed on a shelf, photographs of you dancing some classical ballet music, working out to the bar, you standing on your toes, a small child with makeup on and a beaming smile…

You seem to belong to a different planet. It’s enough to look at his worn out jeans and at your bandaged toes to think that those like you, usually, don’t look at the guys like him.

“Why me? At the party, I mean…” that question, running through his head for quite some time now, escapes from his mouth before he could stop it.

Yoongi never felt so in control like tonight. He held on firmly to your hips as he pulled himself inside of you, looking at the graceful curve of your back as he thrusted slower and deeper, setting the pace, your light moans like a melody shattering the silence. It didn’t take him much to come, but it must admit it’s been a while since he’s reached his climax with so much intensity, to the point he could feel his legs shaking as your warm, slick walls squirmed around him–!

“You were the only Batman around. A perfect match for Catwoman.”

He knits a brow. “So you chose me for my ridiculous suit.”

“That. And the fact that you kept staring at me.” You turn. “I bet my beauty spellbound you!”

“No, just your ass. And you’re pretty bitchy, anyway. This is the last time I fucked you.”

“You said it also two days ago. And last week too.” You pick up his shirt. “I start thinking you don’t really mean that.” You near him, an amused smile dances across your features as you hand out his garment. “Why were you there, instead? Jimin told me you hate parties.”

He takes the shirt, wearing it. “He had to introduce me to one of his classmates. Chanri-something, a bore.”

"Chanri is one of the best dancers I know. And she’s beautiful.”

He pokes his tongue on the cheek, scrutinizing the expression of expectation dawning on your face. “If you think I’ll tell you that I chose you because you were beautiful, you’re dead wrong.”

You chuckle. “Then, why?”

He shrugs before disappearing in the kitchen. “Because you kept staring at me and you were available, what else?”

Yoongi never gave a damn about ballet.

He doesn’t understand shit, it seems like watching a bunch of idiots wearing tights flutter around on their toes -as much as it seems to you to see a bunch of idiots running behind a ball when Yoongi watches basketball. But as matter of fact, he likes classical music, he likes that Jimin was chosen as main dancer for the 'Swan Lake’, and he likes that his friend keeps inviting him to his shows despite his complaints, aware that he’ll probably fall asleep after five minutes.

 7 months 9 days

What he likes less, though, it’s discovering that you are here too. No, not amidst the ocean of heads in the audience… but on that stage, dancing as 'Odette’.

Unable to take his eyes off your figure moving with gracefulness as if you were a leaf carried by the wind, Yoongi felt something akin to rage brewing in his stomach.

Why the hell didn’t you tell him anything about it?

C'mon, you had so many occasions! When you woke up with your face on his chest, when you escaped from his tight embrace and took off his shirt you use as pajama before taking a shower; when he gave you a kiss on the top of your damp head before shuffling to the kitchen and make you breakfast; when you spent the whole morning talking about Namjoon, how he lost the ring he bought to Hyerin, as you were cuddling up on his sofa; or when he gave you a ride to the university and gave you a long kiss before meeting up with Jungkook, to help him to finish a project.

Days, weeks, months in which you could’ve said: “Would you like to come to my show?”

He waits in a corner, hands clenched into fists inside his pockets, feeling like a fish out of water surrounded by people dressed to the nines -while he showed up with a sweater, ugh.

But you suddenly turn, take notice of him among many, and you approach him as if nobody else was in that room.

Sheer surprise dances across your features, and it melts in the beaming smile you’re delivering him, closing the gap between the pair of you. Despite the rage, he can’t help but think that you’re pretty divine with your makeup on, hair still worn in a chignon, and eyes full of galaxies.

The disappointment pouring out his heart spreads to his eyes, now fixed on your figure tightened in the arms of a pair of dancers busy complimenting you. You pay attention to not smash against your chest the huge bouquet of flowers you received once finished, under a cascade of thundering applause, while you make your way through the people crowding offstage.

You always look at him like this, as if you were staring at the Earth from space…

“Hi… I didn’t think you would’ve come,” you start.

”Jimin invited me.“ He runs his tongue on his front teeth, delivering you a caustic glance.

You seem to catch the delusion swimming in his eyes, because you immediately lower your head. "Sorry, I wanted to tell you but… you hate ballet. You hate it so much I wanted to spare you this torture.” You lightly chuckle. 

In a heartbeat, all the rage simmered until now vanishes. There’s only you, your genuine smile, your shining eyes, your scarlet cheeks, and Yoongi doesn’t feel like ruining the bliss of this very moment.

He doesn’t have the heart to shatter your happiness.

“I do. But I’ll probably come the next time, because I had fun. And because you, well–” he moistens his lips, scratching the back of his crimson ear. “You were amazing, up there. A work of art. Seeing you dance, I don’t know… I can’t miss it for anything in this world.”

Your hands curl more around the bouquet. Your lips are parted, your eyes are big, you seem genuinely surprised by his compliment. The very first one in months. Because he isn’t the type to say sappy things, even when he can feel them jump on the tip of his tongue. And he’s almost certain that he’ll write a song, once back home; about you and how you were air on that stage, how beautiful your face is even when a few tears roll down your cheekbones.

You instantly clean them. "Sorry, sorry, I’m so emotional tonight. I’m embarrassing.” You squelch a laugh, taking your hand on your mouth. “But thank you, Yoongi-chi. It feels like a dream, told by you.”

There’s something, resting at the bottom of his heart.

Something akin to joy. Something vague, with no shape, that touches his soul and makes him smile as you wrap your arms around his neck and he pulls you closer, caressing your back. It’s something that pinches him, makes him laugh, and makes him want to spend all the night on your lips, now pressed against his own.

Something that Yoongi never felt before, not even with one of the girls who previously grazed his existence, and that’s probably the reason why he can’t give it a name.

But he likes it. And he likes that he’s feeling it with you.

You always lift your left leg, when you’re about to come. You curl it around his waist, and curl your toes so tight that your muscles tense. Your hands grip at his shoulders, or his damp hair, you pull it so hard he can feel his skin tingling.

You always cling to him, running out of breath, begging him to go faster, to go deeper.

 4 months 15 days

Yoongi finds all of this pretty exciting.

He sets the pace, you follow the rhythm of his pelvis colliding against yours as if you were dancing on your favorite song. He moves inside of you without taking his sparkling eyes off your scarlet face, feeling the pleasure climbing up to his brain, fogging it. He tries hard to hold at that grain of lucidity that’s left, as his cock gets squirmed between your contracting walls, but it’s not really that easy if he keeps sinking in your dilated pupils.

He bites his bottom lip, plumper for the kisses, increasing the pace of his thrusts. He stands on his elbows and leans forward. “I’m about to come–ah, (Y/N)–!” The tip of his cock grazes your deepest part and he can tell by the way you moan, mouth to mouth, that he’s finally reached that sensitive part that will make you lose yourself into his arms.

Your walls squirm around him harder, convulsively, as you arch your back more and curl your legs around his waist. Your orgasm is intense, so much that you can barely contain your voice. You tilt your head back, and Yoongi’s mouth finds home on your neck as he finally comes, legs trembling as he releases himself inside of you with a rocky groan.

He slows down the pace of his thrusts, your feet grazing on his legs as you finally unwrap him from your tight, warm embrace. He stays there, trying hard to not weigh on you.

There are his own pants, your stuttered breath. The frantic beating of his heart that’s dazzling him, throbbing against your chest that rises up and down fast. There’s one of his numerous songs playing on his pc, music he loves and that accompanied every second of that long, lazy sex you had on his studio sofa.

He cracks his eyes open, realizing where you actually are. You’re the first one he takes to his workplace. This is his small world he’s building little by little with the few money he saved, his sanctuary on Earth… This place is too important to let a fleeting soul in.

“So you work here,” you suddenly say with a sleepy voice, caressing his hair. “It’s nice, I like it. It’s way more comfortable than your car.” You smirk. “I’m almost honored, you told me you never bring any girl here.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he replies, a smile etches itself on his face. He closes his eyes, moves to find the right position as he still stays above you, still inside of you. His legs entwine with your own. “Five minutes and I’ll take you home.”

“I can take a taxi. Or the metro.” You kiss his shoulder.

But this was an emergency: Seokjin asked him if he could use his place to have a nice dinner with a cute classmate, your roomie is half-died on the bed for the fever, and he’s fucking sick of doing it on the backseat of his car. 

He frowns. “Are you joking? I won’t let you go alone at this hour.”

“Aw, now I’m flattering myself!” Your lips brush against his damp hair. “Are you receiving many requests, anyway? Like… Do you already have some clients?”

He shakes his head. “Just some friends. Or some classmates, nothing serious.” He presses his ear more on your breast. “Dunno if this thing will take off, but I like it. I… don’t know what I’d do without music, I’m not really good at anything,” he confesses, staring at his desk full of music equipment.

“Never thought about a porn-star career? I’d recommend you.”

Yoongi lets out a rocky laugh. Then, when a new song starts playing, he lifts his head up like an animal that sensed danger. “Oh shit!” He jumps down the sofa and nears the pc, pushing the stop button. He can feel his heart throbbing in his throat, while a flush spreads all over his face.

He can’t let you hear it. This isn’t a normal song… this is his song. Something he wrote when he couldn’t sleep, a bunch of notes in which you can clearly see a piece of himself.

“Why did you turn it off? It seemed nice.” You huff. “C'mon, put it back!”

“No! I wrote it, it’s embarrassing… I don’t want you to hear it,“ he admits, his muscles tens all at once as your stare bores through his skin. He gazes over his shoulder, notices the curiosity dancing across your features, until something else catches his attention. You. Just you. You’re naked, curled up on his leather sofa with your crossed arms as a pillow, an encouraging smile pulling up your red cheeks, and for a brief moment he finds you breathtaking like a sculpture. He always paid little attention to how beautiful you’re indeed, but his brain seems now unable to let this thought go, as he sizes you up, munching the corner of his mouth.

"It was for a noona’s project, she wanted me to arrange everything. I… never let anyone hear it. It’s personal.”

“Uh, I see… I swear I won’t flatter myself. Not too much, at least,” you say, after a brief pause. “Hey, you once told me you wanted to be a great producer, hearing your songs on the radio while you’re on the subway, in a bar… you can start from here. I’ll be your audience.” you add, softly.

Yoongi snorts a laugh, shaking his head lightly. He stares at the screen and after a few seconds of hesitation, he pushes play.

“What’s the name?”

“Suran. You should listen to her, her voice’s outstanding! I didn’t sleep at all when she asked me to compose a song for one of her projects and—“ he interrupts, hit by your airy laugh lingering in the air.

“I meant the song.”

“Ah… Wine.” He scratches his nape, catches a deep breath, and finally turns. The awkwardness for hearing his own song playing for an 'audience’ gets replaced by another kind of embarrassment. Something that has to do with him, standing naked in the middle of the studio, with his dick still wet; and you, looking at him with half-closed eyes. It's… satisfying, and beautiful, it makes him feel tremendously sexy in a body he doesn’t like much.

Namjoon once told him that eyes speak louder than words, sometimes. He never believed him, until today… it feels like you’re screaming that he’s the most handsome man who’s ever walked in your life.

Yoongi swallows hard and finally approaches you, as you make him some room on the sofa. He lays down and you hover over him, crossing your arms on his chest and resting your cheek on them, enraptured by the melody. Yoongi stiffens, at first, but the more the seconds elapse, the more his muscles relax. He places a hand under his head and the other on your shoulder, drawing lazy doodles on your skin.

“Did you fuck her?” you ask with a low voice, genuine, as if you’ve just asked him to buy some milk.

“I don’t fuck those I respect too much.“

You turn, wide eyes and hardened features. There’s no trace of rage, or disappointment dancing across them… but he can read in your irises that something cracked in the moment he said those few words. 

He shouldn’t care. He’s so used to saying whatever whirls in his mind to not care about the consequences; and yet, with you, he feels guilty for saying something like this.

For even thinking about it…

You stare back at him, hard and long, before resting once again your cheek on his chest.

He racks his brain frantically to find a good topic that could swipe away this thick air between the pair of you. “You… what do you do, exactly?” he manages to ask, the anxiousness grips at his heart as the silence grows bigger. “I mean… Why did you decide to become a ballerina? Like, Jimin says that it’s like breathing to him so—“

You lightly chuckle, interrupting him. “I've been studying ballet since I was very little, it’s the reason that makes me wake up in the morning. I’d love to become a teacher, some day.” You curl more in his one-arm embrace. “Actually… My dream is to be accepted at the Universal Ballet, but the auditions are hard. Every time I’m about to try, I give up. They would never choose me…”

Yoongi stares at the ceiling, recognizing a bit of himself in your words. “How could you know? It's bullshit, you didn’t even try yet.” His fingertips slide up your nape, run through your hair. “Jimin says you’re talented.”

“Chimchim is my friend, he’s obliged to say it. It’s in the unwritten-friendship-code.”

Something pinches his stomach, when his brain assimilates that nickname. He curls his lips and nose. Imperceptibly, but he does. “You give dumb nicknames to everybody, don’t you?”

“Only to the ones I respect the most.” You turn, the left corner of your mouth pulled up. Then, your eyes get softer, the curve of your lips turns sweeter. "Yoongi-chi? You’ll see this thing, the studio and all… it’ll work amazingly. Your songs are beautiful, don’t be ashamed of them.”

  After sex, Yoongi is one of those guys who lights a cigarette and smokes in bed, staring at the ceiling. This, if he was a smoker, obviously. But he hates smoking so he usually turns on the on other side, spent, hearing the water running as his last fuck takes a shower before going away while he’s asleep. On other occasions, instead, he collects his clothes and disappears before that delicious silence could be broken by uncomfortable questions, leaving the girl wrapped in crumbled sheets.

Whatever it is, he leaves or lets them leave.

But that Friday night, Yoongi doesn’t let you go.

Just like he didn’t the last Wednesday night, or that Thursday of two weeks ago, or many, many other times before…

He always found it pretty pathetic and embarrassing the way Namjoon still observes Hyerin as if flowers bloomed at every step she takes.

But after the third beer, Yoongi can’t help but watch him and feel an abyss open in the pit of his stomach. He stares at the sparks in his eyes, the dimples appearing on his cheeks as he sweetly smiles, the way his hand tucks some of her hair behind her ear, the vivid interest that crawls in his brown irises when she talks.

 1 year 3 months

It’s a loving-look too intense for someone who stays with the same person for three years now…

“How can you still look at her like this, after all this time?” Yoongi looks at Hyerin’s retracting figure, approaching the bar to take another cocktail. 

Namjoon furrows. “What are you talking about? You have the same look when you stare at (Y/N),” he analyses, confused.

Yoongi scrunches his nose. “I don’t.”

His friend holds his stare, then he shrugs. “Sure, you don’t…” he doesn’t go further, changing topic instead. “So, (Y/N) won’t come?”

He shakes his head. “She’s still having dinner.” He pokes his tongue on his cheek. “She’s with the dancer dude, Hose-something. He came back from his tour or whatever bullshit.” He throws a glance at his phone. On the screen, there’s your Instagram page open: more than three hours ago, you posted a selfie picturing you and your friend wrapped into a tight hug, both smiling, both too much happy. 

And his already-shitty mood ended up six feet under.

“Hey, it’s normal for you to be jealous. I would be too if someone would ask my girlfriend out for dinner—“

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Yoongi retorts with a low voice, like a script that repeats itself over and over.

Yoongi should yell “Absolutely not!” as he usually does, flip the table over, toss his glass of beer at him and run away. He should react as he used to do during these heart-to-heart chats. However, this time he stays silent.

He thinks a lot about it, seriously, and then says, “No, don’t think so…” he scratches his head, sighing. “I mean… how do you understand it?”

Joonie shrugs. “I think it’s different for anyone. The way I love Hyerin will never be the same way you love (Y/N).“ His friend casts a glance upon his girlfriend. “I can’t see myself without her. I don’t know if we’ll ever live together, if we’ll get married… but I’m sure I want her to be a part of my life.” He rests his chin on his hand, smiling. “The future seems so dull and boring without her.”

“But… you love her, don’t you?”

Yoongi rarely thinks about the future. It makes him anxious, that sense of uncertainty that could not match with the expectations he built throughout all these years. 

But at the question: “How do you see yourself in ten years?”, he always imagined himself on his own; a billionaire living in a giant loft, a successful producer whose songs climb the world rankings, whose fame flies from mouth to mouth at the same rate as his heart beats in his chest when you are there, into his arms, while you’re taking a bath and talk about your day; when you hug him from behind as he sits at his desk, working on some songs; when you are having sex and he thinks he wants to make it only with you.

Will you still be here, in ten years?

Ten years is a very long time, and he gets bored easily, or feels smothered. He never lived with anyone, he never was so viscerally in love with someone to tell them: “Take my keys, use them whenever you want”—but he gave you his keys, actually. It’s been natural, just like picking you up from your rehearsals or inviting you to eat something at his studio. Yeah, he can actually see you into his home: your clothes piled up on his, your dancing-shoes next his Nike; you reading a book on his bed as he works on his laptop, or you showing up at his studio with some hot coffee, fresh clothes, and shampoo to make sure he’s doing fine; or him buying you some flowers after your show and you hugging him as if he’s just taking you on the moon.

Ten years as good as the one you’re already living…

The vibration of his phone distracts him from his thoughts. You sent him a message, asking him if you could spend the night at his place, and Yoongi answers back with a simple ”Sure“, without even thinking.

In that moment, he gets hit by the realization that the small smile blooming on his face when it comes to you, isn’t so different from the one that Joonie is now delivering to Hyeri.

Yoongi doesn’t love you. For sure, that explosion of affection he feels only by thinking of you can’t be called love. But it’s there, and it’s different from all the other emotions.

And he’s aware that it was good even when he was alone, with his music, his dreams… and an empty home. C'mon, it’s not so bad to go back home and be welcomed by silence. Even if the one that settles upon you when you’re there, and you hug him tight, it’s of another kind.

Silence is good, silence does him good… but he wouldn’t mind if you’d still fill it with your presence, within ten years.

Yoongi is sure about three things in this world:

1) Namjoon will lose the rings on his wedding day;

 1 year 10 days

2) the music world will die when Epik High will disband;

3) you’re standing on his doorstep at 3:00 AM. Clearly drunk.

He immediately notices when you are: a stupid smile runs from cheek to cheek, you swing from a foot to another, and you can’t control your voice tone.

"Do you know what time it is?”

“Late. Or early.” You giggle. “Did I wake you up?” You ask–well, shout…

“Lower your voice, geez.” He grabs your wrist and drags you inside, closing the door behind his shoulder. He leans against the wooden surface, crossed arms and knitted brows. “And who would ever sleep at three am on a Thursday morning? I don’t have to wake up early for an exam, not really,” he says, surly. And yet, you laugh as if he’s told you a joke. He sighs. “What are you doing here?”

You tap your fingers on your temples, as if your brain was recollecting all the thoughts. “Today we had the auditions for The Nutcracker and we went to celebrate. Actually, I didn’t even pass them, but Byeol did, so I went and pretended I was happy for her.” You giggle. “I was having fun, but then I couldn’t take it anymore… so I went away.” Your smile shakes, as much as your eyes do.

Yoongi feels a strange vibration brewing in his mind: rage, he distinguishes it clearly… but he can’t tell why he’s feeling it now, with you. Maybe because you showed up here without warning, waking him up. Or, maybe, because he didn’t even know you had an audition.

“You could’ve come home.”

“But you’re here,” you merely say, “I didn’t want to stay alone, I… wanted to see you.”

He pokes his tongue on his cheek. “Really? You didn’t even tell me about this Nutcracker bullshit.”

“Hey, slow down…” he rests his hands on your hips and closes the gap between the pair of you, placing a long kiss on your forehead. “You aren’t a failure. Did you hear me? You aren’t.” He brushes some hair away from your face. “You’ll have many other occasions, they’ll notice you someday 'cause you’re a wonderful dancer. It’s all right, (Y/N). Shh, don’t cry… it’s all right.” Another kiss on your forehead, on the tip of your nose… soft touches, light like butterflies, that sketch every inch of your scarlet face.

“I-I trained so hard, I always do. But it wasn’t enough.” You sniff, your breath stutters as you hug him back. “I’m tired, and I’m hungry. And I’m sleepy and my feet hurt. And I wanted to see you, I… I want to stay with you, Yoongi-chi. Always, a lot, and long.”

Yoongi sinks in that sadness made of hiccups and tears and hands curling around his shirt.

You lower your stare. “I didn’t tell anybody. Nor to Jimin, nor to my parents… I feel under pressure, if people know about my auditions. They get excited, and they put so much expectation on me. ”How are you feeling? You’ll do amazingly! You’re so talented!“ But I’m not and if I don’t pass it they’ll be disappointed—“ your words, slurred and brimmed with sadness, hit him like a sudden wave. "I-I trained hard every day for four months for the Sugarplum fairy part, and I wasn’t even chosen to be a Snowflake. T-they told me my technique may be perfect but it’s useless if I can’t convey anything. Nothing at all.” You huff, cleaning your tears. “F-forgive me, I should’ve told you. But then you’d see me as a failure and you’d pity me and I hate when you do—“

He cups your face and seals your lips with his own. Once. Twice, thrice… he kisses you softly, slowly, as if in this way he could swipe away your sorrow. 

Your words whirl into his mind; a confession that dazes him because this is the first time that you seem to really need him.

As if he was the only one who could make you feel better…

“It’s ok, (Y/N). Stay…” his fingers meander through your hair, his mouth lays on your ear. “I… can make you a hot bath. And something to eat. Ok?” He inches away, cleans your cheeks with his thumbs and delivers you a small, sweet smile. Then he takes you by the hand. “Come with me.”

  Yoongi has an exam. He should fly out the door and run to the university, review his notes… and yet, he can’t move a single muscle. He stands beside the bed, watching you curled up under his sheets. He’d like to stay here with you all day long, make sure you’re feeling well, take care of you; but the last alarm clock is ringing, warning him that he must go if he wants to arrive on time.

He snaps back down to reality when you stretch your legs, fixing your bleary, puffy eyes on his face. He huffs, fixes his beanie on his mint hair -you told him you love this color, it suits him divinely. He’s thinking of keeping it a bit more- and rests a knee on the edge of the bed to bend over you. He sinks his face in the crook of your neck and you put your arms around his shoulders, whispering, “Good morning.”

“Morning…” his lips slide up on your jawline, finding home on your ear. “As soon as I finish the exam, I come back home. You… can stay here, if you want.” Reluctantly, he pulls away, sinks into your sparkling eyes and stumbles on your tender smile. He gives you a light kiss, then he walks away from that warm embrace.

Yoongi thinks about that night a lot. At your hiccups, at your tears, at your shame. How he held you tight while lying in the bath, your ear pressed against his chest and his lips brushing against your hair; how you seemed so small as he dried your hair with a towel, cleaned your makeup and helped you to wear one of his hoodies. How he couldn’t refrain from a small smile brimmed with tenderness to bloom while watching you devour the ramen he cooked for you. How he spooned you once in his bed, and you thanked him, and you told him you were feeling a bit better.

He never saw you like this, you made him feel impotent.

But then he thinks about your smile, your words, that “I want to stay with you” that scratched the back of his mind during the exam. And when he comes back home and finds you there, sprawled on his sofa, hearing the songs he wrote, and you question him about his exam with a beaming smile, Yoongi thinks he wants to stay with you too.

Always, a lot, and long.

    1 months 16 days

Small moments.

There are small moments that make him hope that this thing between you two doesn’t end soon: furtive kisses on the balcony during a boring party, the ringing in the middle of the night after he called you; the way his name escapes from your mouth when he thrusts hard inside of you, the slow sex on your carpet, a quickie on his desk, the scratches on the skin, the bites, fucking as you weren’t seeing each other for ages and then leave with no promises; or the lazy and superb blowjobs you give him without him asking for them…

Tonight, it’s one of those moments.

He sits in the backseat of his car, some rap music in the background, his legs spread and your head between them. You’re going slow, take your time, a present as good as any for accompanying you to the cinema. Your fingers are curled gently around his hard length, your warm mouth is wrapping the head, and your tongue is swirling over it, making him lose track of where he is and who he is.

A few, soft touches and the pre-cum is already glistening at the top of his cock. 

A few, soft touches and his back is already arching, eyes rolling in pleasure, his moans already filling the air.

He rests his hand on your hair, grips at it harder when your tongue gives light darts just under his head, while your hand starts moving up and down, quickening the pace gradually. Your other hand finds his balls and pulls gently on them, as your tongue continues its movements.

Geez, this is a blowjob that makes him see the Milky way…

Yoongi opens his eyes, stare fixed on the roof. He’d like to lower it but the last time he did -it was your third encounter, at your place, in your shower- he came immediately. No, really, he couldn’t hold himself back. You were there, staring back at him with no sense of shame as your pretty lips gently wrapped him, and he lost every grain of lucidity on your dilated pupils. He released himself inside your throat, groaning loud, relishing the sight of you swallowing to the last drop without ripping your eyes off his face.

You left him so satisfied that he didn’t feel any desire to empty his balls for three days -he wonders who might have been your teacher, because you’re pretty talented.

He thinks there’s nothing better. As his chest rises up and down fast, as his breath gets heavy and frantic, as he feels his dick brushing against your palm as he wobbles his pelvis, Yoongi thinks he’d love for his love life to be made only of glorious blowjobs and dreamlike fucks: no frills, no compliments, no sweet nothings, no cuddles before or after sex.

Just two people enjoying each other’s body heat.

He wonders if it’s the same also for you, as you inch away to take some breath, because it’s more than a month that you meet assiduously but you never made things clear. You don’t seem to want anything from him, but things usually tend to escalate quickly and he finds himself caught in a relationship he wasn’t searching for in the first place.

“W-what’s this?” He asks, casting a glance upon you.

You lick some precum away from the tip. “A blowjob…?”

He lightly chuckles. “No, I meant… this thing between us.” He pulls his hair back, swallowing hard. “I don’t want things to change. Grow. Whatever. This isn’t serious, is it?”

You arch your brows. “No… unless a blowjob wasn’t a marriage proposal.”

Yoongi laughs again, moistens his lips plump for the bites. “I… don’t want it to be serious. It’s ok as it is.” His stare engulfs into yours, there’s a strange glint crawling into them.

You lower your head, your hand gently moves to not let it become limp. “Would it be so terrible if it became serious?”

“No, not terrible… but it’s not what I want.” He runs his fingers through your hair. “Relationships are a mess. And they hurt. I-I’m not cut for them. I’d make you suffer, I get bored easily. I… want to focus on my music, my projects. There’s no room for anyone else.”

“Same here. I want to focus on my career too.”

“No, because girls always agree with me, but then they want more and—“

“It’s ok, no strings attached. It’s ok by me… now, can I make you come? It’s late, I’m tired, I have an exam tomorrow and my mouth hurts.”

Yoongi tilts his head back and lets out a throaty laugh. He closes his eyes, sighs when you wrap him again with your warm mouth and start sucking, quickening the pace.

He prays that things will stay simple like this forever.

It’s strange how relationships slowly built in months, years, could crumble with so much ease in a bunch of minutes, in a bunch of words.

Few, infinitesimal instants, and everything that has been between two people becomes one of those memories that scratch the back of your mind when you’re a bit drunk, when the nostalgia catches you off guard; when, simply, you realize that  an important piece of your life just detached.

 1 year 6 months

Few, infinitesimal instants, and the heart shatters in pieces so minuscule you wonder if it can be patched up. And, in a sense, you can do it but it’s not the same anymore.

It’s been days Yoongi is trying, but it’s useless. A patch here, a patch there; a stitch here, a stitch there… but every time your image suddenly emerges –while writing a song, while eating, while sleeping- his heart beats noticeably harder than usual and it immediately bleeds, screwing everything up.

How could he arrive at this point? To lay on the leather couch of his studio, staring at the ceiling, eyes swollen with tears and the heart bursting with sorrow, facing one the most excruciating break-ups of his love life. Because you two broke up, didn’t you?

When the fuck did you become something?

You two were supposed to have fun, put an end to this thing as soon as you’d grow bored of each other…

Why did he let everything take this sudden turn?

Yoongi doesn’t know. He only knows you fought like animals. He shouted so loud that a vein appeared on his scarlet neck, you yelled so loud that your temple started pulsing. You hurled every possible, mean word at each other, walking around the room like two wild beasts that scan each other’s movements, keeping themselves at a distance.

He isn’t the type to put up a fight, he tends to avoid discussions, waiting for things to calm down naturally. The fact is that you yelled something like: “You should be happy for me!” and it made his blood boil.

He vibrated from head to toes, as the rage sucked in every ounce of lucidity. How could he be happy for you? What about his happiness?

Everything started normally, peacefully.

He woke up beside you, curled up in a routine that smoothly proceeds for more than a year now; you kissed him on his doorstep, promising him you’d cooked because Jin taught you a new recipe you couldn’t wait to try; he texted you he’d be a bit late, because Jungkook asked him some help on a video he was editing, but that he wouldn’t have missed your dinner for anything in this world; on the way back home, Jimin told him you were admitted to the Universal Ballet and Yoongi saw his whole world crush down.

Jimin already knew it for two weeks… but he didn’t, you didn’t tell him shit.

He should’ve done just like he always does on these occasions: shrug and move on. He would come back home, he’d fuck you one last time on his sofa and you’d both go your separate ways. But when he opened the door and saw you there, making dinner, beautiful and happy as you always are, he couldn’t turn a blind eye.

Are you still at his place? Who knows how you feel. He treated you so badly… 

Geez, a week has already passed and still he feels awful. In the back of his eyelids, he can’t still see the exact moment in which he broke your heart, the expression of sadness and astonishment when he started spitting words, the way you hardly tried to keep tears at bay as you retorted to every single insult.

He rubs his puffy red eyes with his index finger and thumb when a light knock of the door breaks through his consciousness. Reluctantly, he puts himself into a stretched position and presses his bare feet on the floor, feeling dizzy. He runs a hand through his rough bluish hair and rests his other hand on his stomach, kicking the clothes and empty takeaway boxes he meets along his short way to the door.

Yoongi can’t clearly remember what he told you. He attacked you, without caring about the consequences. He probably told you: “It was better when you were just a fuck! Fuck off you and your fuckin’ ballet!”, and probably added: “I bet that Hoseok-dude is waiting for you with spread legs! Why don’t you go to him? You’re good for nothing but to empty someone’s balls” and finally said: “I regret the day I met you. Fuck off Jimin and his fuckin’ parties! And fuck off you! Bring your things, I don’t wanna find you here when I’ll be back.”

Tightening the handle, he expects to see Joonie’s dimples, on the other side; or Jin’s somber gaze, or Jimin’s sweet smile, or Kookie’s big eyes… for sure, he wasn’t expecting to actually find you.

His heart skips a beat, as soon as his brain takes notice of your figure, and it lurches into his ribcage before starting to throb at a frenetic rate. You’re as tired and sad as him. You’ve bags under your eyes, teary and swollen, your fingers curl around your bag, and your teeth bite convulsively your bottom lip.

He pokes his tongue on his cheek, scrutinizing the expression of embarrassment dancing across your features. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you. Talk to you.” You catch a breath, staring at your toes. “It’s been days since I came here, but I always end up going away. I-I lack courage to face you… but Jin told me you aren’t eating properly, you aren’t sleeping, you’re always angry and I—“ you interrupt, shifting your stare to his face. "It’s been almost a week since you came home and I’m so worried I can’t sleep…” you keep biting your bottom lip to keep tears at bay. “How are you feeling, Yoongi-chi?” Your voice cracks, but still that nickname is brimmed with sheer tenderness and sweetness, as if you forgot that once you were mad at him.

As if you forgot he practically told you you were good only to open your legs…

Guilt creeps out his heart, making him avert your gaze. “Disappointed, pissed. Disappointed, mostly.” He clenches his fists. “Why didn’t you tell me anything?” he knits his brows. "You’re about to live your biggest dream, and I had to find out from Jimin.” It’s a barely whispered hush, but it hits you as if he’s just yelled at the top of his lungs. “I felt cut out of your life.”

You pause, tucking some hair behind your ear. “I was about to tell you. Every day. Like, that night we couldn’t sleep so we took a walk on the Han River. Or that day I cried on the phone because my teacher yelled at me and you came back early from work to cook me dinner. O-or when we made it in your shower and then you told me if I wanted to come to your studio because you wanted me to listen to some new songs you composed, or after my shows… I wanted to tell you, whenever I was happy but… I panicked, because I knew I was about to lose all of this. You.” The first tears tugged at your eyelashes roll down but you immediately clean them with your hand. “Being accepted into the Universal Ballet has always been my dream and when they asked me if I wanted to join them, I was about to say no.” Your hands curl so hard that your knuckles become white. “I was about to give up my dream for a guy. For you. And I couldn’t do this to myself, I worked hard for this, I have my own projects… so I accepted. But believe me, it kills me to not see you for a year because I love you, Yoongi-chi.” You cover your mouth with your hands, wide stare and shaky shoulders. “Oh damn, I love you so much. But I love ballet too. And I want to go to the Universal Ballet, but I also want to stay with you—” words falter and die in the back of your throat, when you get caught in his warm embrace.

The majority of the girls who graced his existence confessed their love for him, at a certain point. But this the first time he actually feels something. Something akin to happiness, a Supernova explosion that produces a burning warmth, a shock wave that swipes away all the rage that kept him away from you for all this time.

He never hugged you so tight, but he’s damn scared you might vanish in thin air if he’d only loosen the grip. 

Your voice is muffled against his shoulder, but he can clearly hear you say “I love you” over, and over, and over…

He’d like to tell you back, that he loves you, but those three little words don’t want to fly out. This isn’t the right moment, probably.

Your fingers curl around his sweater. “There hasn’t been anyone after you.” You pull away, staring at him. “As if. I don’t want anyone else but you.”

“I know…” he sighs. “Forgive me. For all the things I said. I’m a dickhead and I was mad and–“ he cups your face, leaning his forehead on yours. "Jin was right: I don’t deserve you,” he whispers, sinking in your liquid eyes. “But I’ll try to make things work, even if you aren’t here… I’ll wait. I promise, (Y/N). You’ll find me here when you're back.” He brushes some hair away from your face.

You munch the corner of your mouth before placing a long kiss on his lips. Yoongi inhales sharply through his nose, runs a hand through your hair while the other searches for yours, fingers intertwined. He doesn’t know how long it is before he’s finally able to inch away from, breathing on your parted lips, lost in your eyes full of stars.

“It didn’t have to go this way. It had to be a game…” he whispers.

You kiss him lightly. Once, twice, thrice. “Would you like to turn back time?”

Yoongi’s stare engulfs into yours. He thinks that a year away from you will pass in a heartbeat, if compared to a whole life with you. “No.” He dimly smiles. “It’s more than ok like this.”

Small moments.

There are small moments that make him hope that this thing between you two could last forever: coming back home and finding you asleep on his sofa, hug you tight and sink his head in the crook of your neck; your fingers running through his hair, your stare brimmed with love while he’s writing or explaining you one of the new equipment he bought; preparing a warm bath and lay there, hugged and naked; helping you to bandage your toes and cuddle you when you’re upset. You, taking him by the hand and obliging him to dance while you’re cooking, his laughter filling the air, his huge smile running from cheek to cheek.

 2 years 2 months

Five months have passed since you greeted him at the airport, and Yoongi cherishes only some memories, replaying them in his mind when your absence smothers him.

Tonight, it’s one of those nights.

Yoongi rarely gets drunk, only on very special occasions. And being chosen to produce the new XXX’s album, a group he saw grow with his own eyes when he still was a college student full of dreams, it’s definitive a good reason to go out celebrating together with his best friends and guzzle down an entire bottle of wine.

He stumbled on his feet a couple of times before reaching his bedroom. He plops down on the bed, pressing his face on the mattress and curls his fingers around the crumbles sheets on your side. It’s empty, cold, still made. He lifts his head up a bit, enough to catch a glimpse of it with his bleary liquid eyes.

He tightens the grips around the fabric, the knuckles already white.

When the fuck are you coming back?

He misses everything about you.

Fumbling around, he fishes his phone out the back pocket of his jeans. He dials the first numbers of your phone, stopping before he could digit the last one. His mind is vacant as if a typhoon passed and swiped away every tiny thought, but he’s pretty sure that words will fly out naturally the moment he’ll finally hear your voice. He thinks. He hopes. He sighs, finally pushing the last number. His heart flip-flops at every ring, and it placates only when he hear your voicemail asking to wait for the *beep* before talking.

He coughs when the sound announces his turn to speak.

“(Y/N)? It’s me, Yoongi-chi, ya know, your… boyfriend, I think? C'mon, the one who fucked you on his table before you departed. Mh, I should throw it away, it reminds me of you. Ugh, everything reminds me of you here.“ His voice is slurry. "And I’m drunk, because your voicemail is talking with the new producer of XXX and I wanted you to know that I’m happy. And that I miss you. I miss you more than I love you, right now.” His eyes get swollen with tears, his lips tremble. “I love you, I think, I know… I feel it right into my bones. And if I’d ever be able to turn back time, I’d go back to that balcony a billion times again, only to meet you.” He rubs a sleeve on his eyes. “Come back home soon, (Y/N).”

  10 days

[Y/N]: I was wondering if you’d like to redo that thing you did with your tongue the other day

[Yoongi]: I thought you didn’t like me so much

[Y/N]: Indeed. I like your tongue better

[Yoongi]: you ain’t that great too

[Y/N]: you’re so touchy o(TヘTo)

If it can make ya feel better, I really like your dick.

It’s meek, it does what I want, and never complains

[Yoongi]: you’re worse than a kick in the balls

And it’s pretty cute too!

Yoongi laughs, despite himself. You’re weird, and annoying… and incredibly charming.

[Y/N]: wanna try?

I have a ballbusting diploma!

Some guys seem to enjoy it!

So he finds himself giving you his home address, because he actually enjoys the way you grip at his hair as his head finds home between your legs, or the way his name escapes in a broken moan as you reach your climax; or the way the tip of your tongue caresses the tip of his dick, licking away to the last drop as his fingers curl around the sheets.

He does it only for your orgasms and his own.

But after today, he puts an end to this thing, and that’s that.

It’s another shitty day. 

And the fact that today is his birthday, makes everything even more terrible. He never likes to celebrate it, it’s a way as good as any to remind him that another year has passed and still he hasn’t done shit with his existence. Cherry on top, his laptop decided to die while he was working, screwing up sleepless weeks of work.

 2 years 4 months

Yoongi huffs, fishes the keys out his back pocket as he pays attention to not spill his coffee, tightening the bag with his notes under his arm.

Frankly, he can’t wait for this day to end in a heartbeat. He wants to come back home, hide under his sheets and maybe cry a bit in the darkness of his silent bedroom. 

He wants to come back home and hear once more the last message you left on his voicemail, and maybe call you, tell you he’s doing fine even when he doesn’t, because he hates to make you worry. He wants to question you about your tour, tell you that Jimin sent him a video of your last show and you were breathtaking on that stage.

He wants to ask you when you’ll be back, because even his love for music can fill the emptiness you left behind. 

He puts the key in the keyhole and opens, hearing a light music that swipes his thoughts away. 

He catches a breath. “(Y/N)…?” he whispers, as if saying it out loud could make you vanish in thin air. But you stay there, with your beautiful shining smile, your eyes full of stars, and the beanie he gave you before your departure. He takes his sunglasses off, blinks a couple of times… but you don’t disappear.

This must be a joke of his imagination. A very bad joke on a horrible, shitty day—!

“Hello, Yoongi-chi…” but then, your voice lingers in the air. Sweet, a bit trembling, brimmed with that love you show him with no shame. You stand up, nearing him slowly. "You dyed your hair again.” You caress his fringe. “Blond… I like it.”

Yoongi would like to graze you, hug you, but he’s paralyzed. Muscles tense all at once when your fingertips meander on his face. They slide delicately on every line, on his closed eyelids, the thin eyelashes, his parted lips… he’s crossed by a piping hot warmth that makes his heart throb harder. 

He frowns. “Joonie?” he lets out a sigh. “There was no need to come. I sent you a message just to warn you but—“ words falter and die in the back of his throat when the chair turns, revealing the figure that’s occupying his 'throne’ -as Jungkook likes to call it to mock him.

“Joonie,” you interrupt, caressing his red cheek with your thumb. “I told him I wanted to surprise you. I arrived yesterday night and he hosted me.” Your warm breath tingles his chin. “Today’s your birthday. I would have never lost it for anything in this world.“ 

He cracks his eyes open, beyond the layer of sparks he sees your sweet smile. Geez, he missed it so much…

“How are you feeling, Yoongi-chi?”

“W-what are you doing here? How—!”

“Better,” he manages to say. "I… I had a shitty day.” He tilts his head to the side, enjoying your soft touch on his skin. “W-what about you?! How’s the tour going?! And—“

You gently touch his lips with your own. "Shh, calm down. We have two days to talk about everything.” You laugh when he pouts. “I know you’ve to work, I won’t bother you. I’ll take some rest on the sofa and—“ your words vanish on his mouth, now pressed against your own. 

Yoongi inhales sharply through his nose, so much that a line appears between his knitted brows. He enjoys the consistency of your lips, the way they mold against his own. He enjoys the slowness of that kiss as if it was the last one, the way the tip of his tongue gently caresses yours, feeling the electricity cross his whole body at every light touch. 

He’d like to tell you that he loves you, like he always does before concluding one of your phone-calls, but those three little words stay there, curled up in the corners of his mouth.

"I know. And I love you too.” Your eyes become two sweet half-moons when he tries to cover a gummy smile with his hands. Then, you inch away, resting your hands on your hips. There’s a strange glint crawling in your eyes as you size him up, munching the corner of your mouth. “So… do you want to fuck me at your place, or mine?”

He bites his bottom lip, squelching a laugh. The left corner of his mouth quirks up as he stays still, silent, scrutinizing the expression of uncertainty now dawning on your scarlet face.

“It’s ok. I-I need a small break,” he says with a low voice, inching away from you. “I’m so glad you’re here, (Y/N).” He rubs his nose against your own, letting out a small chuckle. “I missed you so much. More than I, well, you know—“ he swallows, feeling a weird anxiousness creep out his heart. 

“Because you… you still want to fuck me, don’t you?“

Holy shit, he wants to fuck you so badly. Just like he wanted that faraway day of December, when you were just a girl he kissed on a balcony and he was just a guy with weird purple hair.

Yoongi laughs, delivering you one of those gummy smiles that didn’t bloom in a while. He breaks the ocean between the pair of you and bends over, melting in your warm embrace.

"Our home is better.”

Your lips taste of tequila and orange juice.

Yoongi never liked Tequila, it’s too bitter, it sets his throat on fire, and leaves a bad taste in his mouth that lasts for hours. And yet, he’s unable to pull away from you. He squeezes your hips, presses your body against the wall, and follows the slow rhythm of this kiss he gave you a long time ago, unplanned.

 Day 1

Your tongue moves languidly and delicately against his own, with no rush -although your friends already showed up on the balcony twice and threatened you to abandon you here if you don’t move. He rests his fingertips on your jawline and tilts your head to the side, deepening the kiss.

“What are you doing here all alone, Dark Knight? Are you also watching over the city on Halloween?" 

It started like this.

A terrible joke that made him laugh lightheartedly. A silly question that mixed with the loud music coming from the living room, followed by your giggle as you almost tripped on the little step, spilling some of your orange cocktail. You swayed while approaching him, in a kind of I’m-trying-to-be-sexy move that made him chuckle once more; and when you situated yourself beside of him, he swore on his precious –and expensive- Genelec 8040A Studio Monitor Speaker that you were the most marvelous creature who’s ever spoken to him.

You inch away to take some breath. You’ve got shiny eyes that remind him of the lights sketching the city skyline when the night falls down, and warm hands that make goosebumps rise on his arms at every light touch. You tug at his bottom lip delicately with your teeth before going back to kissing him softly.

You tilt your head to the side when Yoongi starts leaving butterfly kisses on your jaw, sliding up. With the tip of his tongue, he traces the line of your ear, gently tugging at the earlobe. You instinctively spread your legs a bit more and he pulls his thigh between them, brushing it against you.

"I-I really gotta go now,” you whisper, gripping at his shirt as he keeps doing his ministrations.

“Why don’t we continue this tomorrow? I have a little thing in mind. Something that has to do with us and the backseat of my car,” he blows against your ear, your small chuckle makes him shake inside. “You know? I can make you see the Milky Way with my tongue technology… wanna try?”

There’s a glint of curiosity in your eyes brimmed with sparks. The same you had when he recounted you about his classes at the Music Department, the same you had when you told him: ”You’re the guy who always dyes his hair, I often see you at lunch with Chimchim!“; the same you had when his face kept gravitating toward yours as you were talking, closer and closer, bottom lip tightened between his teeth, until his mouth finally found home on yours.

The same you had when you noticed him staring at you, intensely, from the other side of the room, a few hours ago.

"Sounds fun.” You poke the tip of his nose with your finger. “But you should gimme your number first." 

"Sure. Later…”

You cling at his neck and seal his mouth with your own, running your hand up to his nape and through his hair, pulling it gently in your fist. A light moan escapes from the back of his throat when you press your breast against his chest, so close he can’t tell his heartbeat from yours anymore.

“I’m Yoongi, by the way,” it’s a barely whispered hush on your lips, followed by a deep long breath as you curl some purplish locks around your fingers.

You let out an airy laugh. “I’m (Y/N), by the way. But I highly doubt you’ll remember it.”

No, he probably won’t. Perhaps, you’ll be a fogged memory between a billion of fogged memories. A blurry face between a billion of blurry faces. A voice between a billion voices that will whirl in his mind once he’ll be on his bed, feeling dizzy, wondering if this night has been just a figment of his drunk imagination.

You’ll only be a girl he kissed on Jimin’s balcony.

But something -something in the way you look at him, in the way your tongue languidly follows his own, in your fingers still gripping at his hair, in your airy laugh when he whispers in your ear, in the way his heart spikes up and flip-flops when you make him smile- tells him that this won’t be your last time together.

He thinks. Or he’s sure. 

Yoongi feels it right into his bones.

[sortasirius]

What the Fuck Happened to the SPN Finale?

Okay so here it is, my Charlie Kelly style manifesto.

Before I get into it, I recognize that I will look like this to many of you, and that’s okay, I understand:

Secondly, your personal Takes about the writers don’t interest me, I don’t need to hear them. This, as I’ll explain, is going to remain a writer positive blog, and that’s the end of it.

Third, and most importantly: some of what I’m going to talk about is fact, and some is highly educated speculation. I will notate what is speculation, just so there’s no confusion or hot takes in my inbox that I’m a conspiracy theorist or stirring shit up for no reason.

A list of what I’ll be discussing

The episode in regards to the rest of the season

The episode issues: length, editing

Scene placement and speculation of scenes cut

The scrubbing of Jack, Cas, Eileen

Network involvement and general timeline of when things were cut

Misha: theories on where he was, official company line, why we can’t expect to hear anything directly

The silence of the cast post episode (in Misha’s case, mid episode) and what this might mean

Jensen speaking with Kripke about the ending: why it doesn’t mean what you might think (also why kripke remained positive on the ending)

Walker, and why this episode had a major shift

Why the network would do this or get involved

Why the writers of the show simply aren’t the bad guys here, and what I “want” out of this post, since I know it’ll get asked

This is very long and under a cut, but I hope you’ll give it a read.

The Episode In Regards to the Rest of the Season

So, I’ve discussed this already here, but it’s the most obvious thing to me, and that’s the way this episode simply doesn’t fit with the rest of the season.

These people in this room have, truly, been nothing but consistent when it comes to their arcs, especially this season, and the marked dropoff in quality for the finale episode is just too sus to discount to me.  Dabb’s whole focus has been character-based.  In his seasons, we’ve moved far away from MOTW and bro-codependency, the found family taking it’s place.�� Does it really sit right to anyone that that was all thrown away in literally the last episode of the entire show?

This is speculation on my part, but as a writer myself, there is no way I would be happy or willing to stamp my name on something that I didn’t think would, at the very least, wrap up the season+ character arcs that I and my team had been crafting.

And before anyone comes in here saying, “well GOT did that!”  Bruh.  The writing was on the wall for GOT long before the final episode.  You could tell that the showrunners just wanted to be done (not only from the plot, but from the fact that they lobbied for a shorter season).  Miss me with that, it doesn’t apply here.  Andrew has, besides Singer and J2, been with the show longer than anyone.  He cares, he is meticulous and detailed, and this ending feels worse than anything Bucklemming has ever written, let alone Dabb.

Additionally, I’ve seen a lot of people say that Dabb was never behind Destiel, that it was all Bobo and Meredith and no one else.  That is reductive to the point of insult of the work Dabb has done to get this greenlit.  This man did not write the s13 Dean grief arc to be slandered like this.  That being said, YES, Bobo and Meredith were the leads on the DeanCas arc this season, but ANDREW IS THE SHOWRUNNER, TO GET EVEN THE CONFESSION APPROVED BY THE NETWORK HE WOULD HAVE TO HAVE THEIR BACKS.  AND HE DID.

Finale Issues

So, now that we’ve gotten the fact that this episode doesn’t hit on any of the major themes the show was barrelling towards all season, let’s discuss the fact that the episode is just...weird.

Not only is it shorter than any other episode (I think with the intro and the credits/crew thing at the end, it was around 38 mins), but it was also...idk, 90% filler?

One of the lovely humans in the POLOL server did the legwork here, and broke it down:

This is weird, y’all.  Most series finales are LONGER than normal (Lost, SOA, Longmire are the ones I can think of off the top of my head), and for the final episode to be this?  I saw more than one person point out that we only really needed 19 episodes, what was the point of 20?  AND THAT’S EXACTLY IT?  WHAT WAS THE POINT OF THIS FINAL EPISODE IF THIS WAS ALL WE WERE SUPPOSED TO GET?

It simply doesn’t make any sense, the first half of the episode was rushed, a final monster hunt gone wrong, but in the second half?  Nothing really happened?  Sam lived his entire life and Dean just drove around.  It doesn’t make sense to have all the emotional arcs left unaddressed in an episode that definitely needed some kind of spark.

Here’s the speculation I have: the episode seemingly went through a lot of changes between the initial inception of the final season and when we actually got it, but I think it would have been passable (as in, we wouldn’t be sitting here asking each other why each arc feels incomplete) until the editing room got ahold of it.  The only think that makes this episode make sense is network fuckery.  Truly, that is the only thing.  It explains the weird, cuts, the rushed pacing of the first half followed by nothing in the second half, the double montages of “Wayward Son” back to back, and Dean just...driving around for the last half of the episode.

Scene Placement and Speculation of Scenes Cut

Before I get into this section, the info of the shots in the episode I have come from a source that @occamshipper​ got a week or so before the finale.  She’s talked about this here.

So here’s what Min was given:

1-5: 1 INT MEN OF LETTERS – DEAN’S ROOM Dean is greeted by Miracle

6-10: 6 INT MEN OF LETTERS – HALLWAY/SAM’S ROOM Sam has his routine

D1 1 11-15: 15 EXT FARM HOUSE Establishing

N1 1/8 16-20: 19 Dad’s journal, marker, drawing of masked man in journal.

21-25: 23 INT IMPALA – PMP Driver picks the music

N2 1 3/8 1,2 26-30: 28pt2 INT BARN: A face from the past

28pt3 Sam and Dean say goodbye

28pt4 Shot early for technical reasons, presumably the overhead shot

N2 31-45: 41 INT MEN OF LETTERS – SAM’S ROOM Sam’s alarm goes off D4 1/8 1 46-60: 56 INT N7glasses for Sam, laptop.

So...it all fits right?  It all tracks with the actual episode, where it lands, etc.  The issue is between shots 29-40 which were apparently “too big to spoil.”  Uh.  Where are they?  And where’s 28 pt4?

After Dean dies, the next scene is Sam burning him, then shot 31, the shot of his alarm going off.

So.  Where are those 11ish shots?

PLUS we have the boards, which are scenes we KNOW were actually shot:

As well as scenes for 20 that were shot in 19.

It’s just...weird, it’s weird and again hits on the fact that the episode is so short and like 80% montage.

The Scrubbing of Jack, Cas, and Eileen

So now we have to reckon with the fact that Eileen was last mentioned by Sam after she got snapped by Chuck, Jack’s last mention is that he’s off being God somewhere, and Cas’ last mention is a ~knowing look~ between Dean and Bobby.

I’m sorry, make it make sense:

????????  That’s the end if it?  They don’t need to be discussed after this???  It’s just simply not something a writer would do, they would not introduce these characters, these arcs, without thinking there’s going to be some kind of follow through here.

So not only were three major characters (including two leads and both of the original characters’ love interests) completely wiped from the finale episode, it was as though Sam and Dean never even needed them, which just...ain’t it.

So why Eileen and Jack too?  Why not just take Cas out of it if they were afraid of the gay?  Because, ultimately, the episode went back to Kripke’s original story: just the bros, they only need each other and no one else.  They don’t want anyone else, they don’t need anyone else.  Easier to go back to something they knew was successful than trust the writers and their audience and take a big leap.

Alex even said he shot for 20 with “some of the guys” here.  What happened to that footage?

The complete 180 of it all still shocks me, I still cannot believe that we were essentially at the finish line, and the network just stopped short, and decided to go run another race, at the expense of the arc of this fifteen year legacy show.

Network Involvement and When Things Were Cut

Okay, now into the juicy stuff.

So I’ve pretty well established that network fuckery is clear, but how much did they get involved, what was the original intent?

Well again, we may never actually know what Andrew’s original script was, but I think, at the least, it would involve Dean speaking his truth to Cas and Sam living a life with Eileen.

Now, it seems today, that Misha said that Jimmy Novak was supposed to be in the finale in one iteration of the script, and while initially my brain was like “that truly makes no sense and he’s either straight up lying or telling a half truth,” I think what may be happening is Misha talking about as much as he can right now.

So Jimmy right.  Weird as fuck.  Why would he been in the Roadhouse and not Cas?  My current thought (this is about as reachy as I’ll get) is that Jimmy had no lines, could he have been in the Roadhouse as a red herring, like it said “Jimmy” in the script but it was just Cas in human clothes, a way to get around the network saying Cas couldn’t be in the final scene.  Also, you’ll notice that Misha didn’t say that Cas wasn’t supposed to be in the ep at all, just Jimmy in the last scene.

All this to say, there have clearly been multiple versions of the script, getting lighter and lighter with Cas and Eileen as the network pulled further and further back.  Remember, Dabb has to get things approved before they get shot, and if the network kept asking and asking and asking to cut Cas and Eileen, he had to find a way to work around it.  Granted, I still think that if we had been able to get a Dabb script that wasn’t torn to shreds in editing, it wouldn’t be so bad.  It may not be what a lot of us wanted (Dean speaking his truth to Cas and a reciprocation), but doing everything he could to give it to us in subtext or visual clues.

Plus, in all honesty, my man can’t keep his story straight anyway.  He said twice in his panel that the Empty and offscreen Heaven ending weren’t his original ending either.

In addition, remember that Jensen did ADR post episode 18, AND said in a meet and greet last weekend that Dean’s reaction to Cas’ confession was “cut down.” (Source here).  Many of us clowns got excited when we first heard about ADR, because we thought it would be upping the ante on Dean’s reaction, but I remember being a little sus when it was just crying.  My speculation on that is that they cut out Dean actually SAYING something, @winchestersingerautorepair​ spoke about that here.

The biggest sins were, in my opinion, committed during editing, where the network got too gun shy and sliced the episode until it was nothing but a heartless bro-fest of a finale, not mentioning anything about the other major characters that we all love, and letting the boys just suffer in separation until Sam died and finally joined Dean in Heaven.  The editing came by cutting all the major emotional beats between anyone other than Dean and Sam, leaving the skeleton of the story intact, just shorter and less...poignant than it was ever supposed to be.

Misha

We know Misha was in Vancouver, we know he quarantined, but we also know he wasn’t in the final scene, when he spoke about being in the last moment of the show months ago.  We were not crazy, he was there, he quarantined, and, in all likelihood (speculation but fitting with the timeline), he actually may have shot something (not much, but something).

I have sources here, here, here, and here showing where Misha was at that time.

Remember, the man was completely open about coming back until they finished shooting (look at this thread).  The switch happened, just like everything else, halfway through them shooting.

Please also remember Jake Abel posting his “Where’s Misha” video here.  Jake isn’t malicious, he isn’t being nasty here.  Misha was there, and everyone that’s trying to convince people he’s wasn’t just...isn’t telling the truth about it.

This is one of the things that makes me really mad, because they’re literally attempting to gaslight people into thinking, “oh we were totally wrong he was never supposed to be there” WHEN HE WAS THERE, WE KNOW HE WAS THERE.

So we’ve already heard from several people (Meghan Fitzmartin, Jay, a PA on the set of 19 (WHO WAS NOT WORKING FOR 20), Misha himself) that this was all down to Covid restrictions.  Ultimately, as this post says, we’ve heard FIVE versions of where Misha was.  None of it makes sense, but the Covid protocol seems to be the company line that others are repeating.

You may ask: why?  Why lie to all of us when we have questions?  Why, in Jay’s case, say that we’re all spreading false lies to stir up trouble, when we just have questions and things that do not make sense.  Simply?  Warner Brothers is absolutely massive.  These people have their careers to protect and are likely all under NDAs.  They want to work for WB again and don’t want to burn bridges, including Misha.  It sucks, but that’s why it’s unlikely that we’ll hear someone come out and say, “yeah we’re lying to you.”

Silence of the Cast Post Episode

So this is...probably the worst part of all this, at least in my opinion.

The guys had all been pretty excited about the end of the show (especially Jared, but Jensen’s panel last week was Jensen as happy and jokey and positive as I’ve ever seen him.  He was so excited about episode 18, about what it meant for Dean and for Cas, and I just cannot buy that he would have been that excited unless he thought there was something more in the episode.

Misha live-tweeted the episode, and was watching it with his kids.  It’s well known that Misha and the kids don’t watch the show because it’s too scary, and let’s ask ourselves, why would he have them watch an episode that he’s barely even mentioned in?

He also stopped live-tweeting at a very specific point in the episode (Dean’s death) and has not mentioned Supernatural since then. 

None of them, not Jared, Jensen, Misha, or even Alex, said anything about the episode for nearly 36 hours, when Jensen posted a salty photo on instagram.  It’s just...not what you’d expect for the end of a 15 year show, when the cast and crew are so close to the fans, so close to each other. 

My theory?  They didn’t know.  They thought Misha was, at least, going to be in the episode in some way, and when he wasn’t, they decided not to say anything.

You really think that Jensen “Heller” Ackles would have been so excited about the end of the show last week if he thought Cas wasn’t going to be in it at all?  Nah son, doesn’t make any sense.

Even today, in Jared and Misha’s panels, they seemed sad and...more than a little careful, both saying that there were things they couldn’t say, both talking around things that we all have questions on.

Jensen Speaking with Kripke

So this is where a lot of people are getting fodder to take shots at the writers, saying that Jensen hated it from the beginning, but I don’t think so.  I actually think I know what Jensen went to him about, and it wasn’t the lack of Cas or the weird pacing or the montages (which I don’t think were there when Jensen got the script); I think it was the manner of Dean’s death.

I know a lot of people were upset about that, upset with how...normal it was, coming off an episode where they literally beat God.  I actually didn’t mind it, I thought it was an interesting thematic take to be like: you can be a hero all your life, but sometimes shit happens, and you just die.

But imagine how hard that was for Jensen to read.  He would run to Kripke for that, because for him, Dean dying by being impaled by a piece of rebar had to be tough to swallow.

So, why didn’t Kripke say that?  Why didn’t he say, “oh well he had a problem with Dean’s death, none of that other stuff was in the script.”

Guys.  Why would he get involved?  He’s not going to burn bridges any more than anyone else is.  He said the ending was good because it’s the easy thing to do, it’s simple, will cause him no problems in his career, and he can just ignore the people trying to engage with him on it.

Walker

Something else to talk about is the major shift this episode had from the rest of the season: the shift from Dean to Sam.  I am NOT saying that Sam isn’t important, he definitely, absolutely is, but it was DEAN who really needed to wrap up his arc, Sam just needed to move on, get married to Eileen, become the leader he was always meant to.  So what changed?  What was with the shirtless scene, the Austin number and random case there, most of the episode being heavily Sam focused, going through his entire life in a montage?

Anyone else notice the 375 Walker promos, or Jared’s little spiel about Walker and how he hoped SPN fans would “come along for the ride.”

It’s...kinda obvious?  CW wanted to appeal to who they think the key demographic of SPN and Walker is: rural areas in the South.  It would explain a lot, why so much editing, why so Sam focused, the Austin number, the number of Walker promos, all of it.

I’m not saying this is fact, I don’t know that it is, but it is a little suspicious that even in Jared’s panel today, he talked A LOT about Walker and how he hopes SPN fans will watch it.

Why Would the Network Get Involved?

Simply put: $$$

If they think Walker can be the new SPN, and that those crazy SPN fans liked it originally, it’s a lot safer to go with the “original intent” of the show than do something risky (like making one of your two original leads queer).

And?  They don’t care.  They don’t care that the episode didn’t make sense, they don’t care that all the emotional arcs were left hanging, they don’t care by (potentially) smashing together two of Dean’s monologues (one to Sam, one to Cas) that it came of as...gross. ( @curioussubjects​ wrote a beautiful post showing how part of that death speech was likely meant for Dean here).  They don’t care, they never have, they just want to make their money and move on from the too-loud fandom that fought for representation too hard for too long.

It can’t help but feel insidious, which, honestly, it might be, but it really all comes down to the next cash cow, which, they think, is Walker, even at the cost of the fifteen year legacy show.

The Writers and What I Want

So here it is, all this weird, sus shit laid out on the line.  And you know what?  To me, there is no way to blame the writers, because they didn’t want this.

I don’t think Dabb and Bobo would have gone ahead with the confession in 18 without thinking that there would be some closure to that arc, they wouldn’t have done that not only to the fans, but for the sake of their own story as well: no writer wants to start something that they can’t finish. (And this applies to both Cas and Eileen).

Here’s a basic rundown of what I think happened: they had a clear arc from 18-20, ending in reciprocation at some level from Dean, Sam marrying Eileen, Hunter Sam as the new Bobby, Dean in heaven with Cas and big roadhouse reunion at the end. Covid prevented a good amount of that. Network had to stare at big gay 18 for six months, got cold feet. Thought about Walker, target audience and alienation of the rural areas if it went full gay. Misha quarantined and likely shot something (not much), he was then cut by execs and went home. They likely added in lines referencing Eileen and Cas to make it clear but more subtextual. They wrap, editing gets it and hacks it to pieces, so we get a shorter episode that’s mostly montages and jarringly bro-centric with nothing else. Arcs are left hanging. Dabb gets episode but it’s too late, there’s nothing he can do. Actors aren’t told so they can continue to do positive PR for the ending, they all found out at the same time we did: hence almost complete silence about the finale.

And you know what?  They warned us.  I talked about it here, but they’ve been telling us all season that Chuck wasn’t the writer, he’s the network.  I don’t think, still, that they thought it would be cut up like this, into something so unsalvageable that it’s been panned by almost everyone, even people who didn’t care much about Dean and Cas.

Finally, a masterpiece can be ruined by editing, and while I’m not sure even the script they ended up shooting on was a masterpiece (due to the network meddling already), but to me it’s blatantly obvious that it’s no one but the network that caused this, that took away closure for Dean, Cas, and even Sam.

So what do I want?  Nothing really, there’s nothing we can do, but I wrote this mostly to show people that the writers are not your enemy.   In fact, to the people trashing them?  You’re doing exactly what the CW wants you to: blame the obvious targets, blame Misha, blame Jensen and Jared, blame Dabb.  Scream and yell at them on Twitter and about how the show is ruined because of them.  The network keeps their engagement levels high, they don’t get as targeted for their behavior, and just keep moving along.

Just, please, think about who did this,  Mourn the show, be angry, but not at the people who fought tooth and nail for this for literal years, not the people who wanted it more than we did, not the people who cannot say anything because of their careers and the NDAs they’re bound by.

Someone is going to spill eventually, but until then, we just have to wait, and continue to be loud.

[minsinclair]

We've Been Here Before

ᐊ Chapter Two: Present (if you squint) ᐅ

Poppy glances over her shoulder and immediately wishes she hadn't, wishes she could disappear, wishes she were starting at any other crappy minimum wage job in any other dingy quick-stop convenience store in any other place in the world. Because standing in the door of the Garment District 7-Eleven is Bea fucking Hughes.

based on this incredible idea by @uhh-the-green-thing and this gorgeous art by @titfairy

535 8th Avenue, New York, NY One day after graduation

Even in this life, Poppy has Bea.

Well, not really. It's kind of complicated. If she's being honest, Poppy herself doesn't fully understand what's going on.

She's had Bea before. A couple times, actually. Had Bea pinned down against plush mattresses and molded against her skin in the searing water of the Clubhouse hot tub. But that was all temporary; that kind of having never lasts.

She'd thought, for a while, that maybe they could last. Against her better judgement, she'd found herself indulging in fantasies of keeping up their verbal sparring long past graduation. In what way, she was never sure, but the details hardly mattered as long as they were both there.

And then, for an earth-shatteringly vulnerable moment in the middle of their graduation ceremony of all places, Poppy had allowed herself to hope.

It's always been you, Bea had lied.

And Poppy had almost been lonely enough to believe her.

Leave it to Bea Hughes to get under her skin one last time.

It's always been you is what's playing on repeat in her mind as she steps into the convenience store, doing her best to ignore the stickiness of the door handle and the flickering of the already dim overhead fluorescents.

"Welcome in!" says an overly enthusiastic woman in the ugliest baseball cap Poppy has ever seen.

"Hi," Poppy says, failing to keep the distaste from her voice. "I'm Poppy Min-Sinclair. I'm starting here today."

"Oh, of course!" The woman beams. "You're right on time!" The electronic doorbell beeps as someone else enters, and the cheerful employee's eyes focus on something just over Poppy's shoulder. "And here's our other newest employee!"

Poppy glances over her shoulder and immediately wishes she hadn't, wishes she could disappear, wishes she were starting at any other crappy minimum wage job in any other dingy quick-stop convenience store in any other place in the world.

Because standing in the door of the Garment District 7-Eleven is Bea fucking Hughes.

------------------

"Bored, Pops?" Bea asks from her place behind the ever-turning hot dog station, and Poppy makes a face.

A week has passed since they started, and Poppy has smiled and nodded her way through about fifteen of their cheerful manager's training sessions. She'd thought that Bea had been doing the same, but if the way Bea feels comfortable treating the store like a second home is any indication, she'd been wrong. Today, it seems like cheerful manager (Poppy decides to call her Cheery) has finally started to give up on Poppy's ability to retain anything regarding the store's cleaning or maintenance, and as such, Poppy has been regulated to the register. Bea, meanwhile, is in charge of everything else.

"I miss the days," Poppy muses, squinting at her fingernails through the dreary ambient light (half of which is blocked out by brim of the atrocious 7-Eleven hat Cheery insists they wear), "when the most boring part of my day was having to interact with you. Now I have to do that in the most mind numbing place on earth."

"Don't lie," Bea says teasingly. "Interacting with me was the best part of your day back at Belvoire. And I'm probably the only reason you haven't gouged your eyes out on a spork in the middle a shift here."

"Yet," Poppy corrects sulkily, eyeing the box of individually wrapped sporks that sits below the counter. "Haven't gouged my eyes out yet."

The doorbell chimes, cutting off whatever witty response Bea had no doubt prepared, and both she and Poppy snap to attention. The night shift always crawled by at a snail's pace, and while Cheery had insisted it wasn't the case, Poppy was pretty sure that the 7-Eleven seniors had managed to convince her to pencil both of her new employees in for five night shifts a week. Poppy's eyes move to the register clock: 11:34, a whole hour and ten minutes since their last customer had hauled himself into the store, spent some time poking around the aisles, and had promptly left, pockets filled with unpaid merchandise. She and Bea had watched in ambivalent silence as he'd gone, neither girl willing to put in the effort to report the theft.

"You guys have Camels?" The man rasps at Poppy. "Blue?"

Poppy grabs the cigarettes down from the wall without a word. "Thirteen ten."

The man drops a couple wadded up bills on the counter. "Hey, how old are you?"

"No." Poppy shoves the cash in the register and hands over the cigarettes and change.

"I'm just saying," the man continues, smiling in a way that makes Poppy's skin crawl. "You're too pretty to be-"

"Dude." Bea's hand closes around Poppy's shoulder, plastic gloves crinkling. "Back off."

The man frowns. "Fine," he spits, annoyed. "Bitches."

Poppy watches silently as he leaves. At her side, Bea does the same.

When the door swings closed, Bea removes her hand. "Well he was pleasant."

Poppy just sighs. "You got hot dog juice on my sweater."

"Oh." Bea frowns and wipes her gloves on her puke green 7-Eleven apron. "Whoops."

------------------

Two weeks pass since the day of their graduation, and Poppy finds herself wondering if it would have been better to just murder Bea that first day they met in the courtyard. Sure, she'd be in prison right now, but what's a little jail time compared to a seemingly endless eternity of insanity and knock-knock jokes?

"Okay, I've got one," Bea says. She's straddling one end of the counter, resting one foot on a shelf half stocked with metal mint tins and leaning back against the hot dog case in a way that Cheery would definitely not approve of. Poppy is perched at the other end of the counter, chin resting atop one knee while her other leg dangles against the shelves of gum housed adjacent to Bea's mint tins.

"Knock knock," Bea says, rapping her knuckles against the counter to give Poppy the full effect.

Poppy closes her eyes, letting her head roll back and hit the plaster wall with a hollow thunk. "Who's there?" she asks dryly.

"USA."

"USA who?"

"U-say my last joke wasn't funny, but I heard you laughing."

"Oh my god." Poppy smacks her head against the wall again. "I wasn't laughing at your joke, I was laughing at you almost cracking your head open on the Slurpee machine."

Bea shrugs, looking not even a little bit abashed. "A laugh's a laugh," she decides. "Okay, how about-"

"Stop." Poppy drops her head into her hands. "I told you, these jokes will never be funny. You can't revive the fucking knock-knock joke."

"Not with that attitude," Bea retorts, but the moments afterwards are blissfully free from any knock knocks. Poppy checks her phone for what must be the millionth time that day; the only new notification is a message from Chloe with an update on her tropical summer vacation.

"Chloe made it to Fiji," Poppy reports, for lack of anything better to say.

"Yeah." Bea glances out at the aisles of snacks and sodas that surround them, as if contemplating just how much their gloomy little convenience store isn't Fiji. "I saw."

They fall back into silence, Poppy staring numbly at a rack of salt and vinegar chips.

"Oh," Bea says after a while. "I've got another one. Knock knock."

Poppy tips her head back and groans.

------------------

After three weeks on the night shift, Poppy is basically nocturnal. Every day when the clock finally heaves itself over the cliff that is six in the morning, she and Bea take turns clocking out on a computer that looks like it came straight from the early 2000s before parting ways and making the trek home. For Poppy, that means a twenty five block walk in the freezing cold, and by the time she gets to her mom's apartment, she's already nearly half unconscious. Sleep is the priority; she showers after she wakes, usually a few hours past noon, and then tries to scrape together a meal with some semblance of flavor using the plethora of healthy vegan ingredients her mom keeps loaded in the fridge. By the time she's starting to feel like a normal person again, it's already nine PM, and she's forced to decide whether it'll be less painful to get ready for work like normal or to crawl back into her perversely tempting bed and live out the rest of her days as a hermit in poverty.

The one upside to this schedule is that she rarely has to see either her mom or Piers. They're usually gone by the time she gets home, and she leaves just a few hours after they return for the night. One of the many downsides, however, is nights like these.

"Hm," Bea muses, staring out the filthy glass door into the thundering rain. "Maybe I was wrong when I said it would be over by now."

"Hm," Poppy echoes mockingly. "You think?"

"We've still got twenty minutes. Maybe it'll stop by then."

"Or maybe we'll get robbed and someone will knock you unconscious and I can use your hideous clothes as an umbrella."

Bea nods sagely. "Yes. Maybe that will happen."

Poppy sighs deeply, wishing (not for the first time that night) that she'd worn something a little more rain proof than the thick knit cardigan she'd chosen. While she's wishing, she wishes that Piers wasn't such a shitty investor. And that Bea wasn't so fucking annoying.

"Where are you staying, anyway?" Bea asks annoyingly.

"Plaza Tower," Poppy answers. Bea snorts. "What?"

"I thought you were supposed to be poor now."

Poppy sniffs haughtily. "Poor is a relative term."

"You're working the night shift at a 7-Eleven," Bea says pointedly. "Like, full time."

Poppy glares. "Look who's talking," she spits. Then, tiredly, "Mom and Piers were the ones who decided which assets to keep and which to get rid of. I told them we should downsize, and they made me get this job instead."

"That's dumb." Bea pulls out a bottle of disinfectant and some paper towels and begins to wipe down the counters. "Can't you call your chauffer to come pick you up? Or did that asset not make the cut?"

Poppy glares harder. Bea laughs.

"Calm down, rich girl," she says. "You can crash with me."

That draws a sharp laugh from Poppy's throat. "Why would I want to do that?"

"Cause you love my company," Bea says, dead serious. "Duh. Plus I'm only two blocks away."

Poppy stares lifelessly out into the rain and adds Bea spontaneously combusts to her list of wishes. "Fine," she agrees finally. And then, because she's not a heathen and Bea is actually being helpful for once, "Thanks."

"Don't sound too excited," Bea laughs. "And don't thank me yet. We're still gonna have to run for it."

------------------

Twenty five minutes and two rain-soaked blocks later, Poppy's sitting on the edge of Bea's bathtub, wringing out her hair with a small towel. Bea had lent her some spare pajamas, the legs of which she'd had to cuff thrice to keep them from dragging on the ground.

"Thanks," she says when she emerges from the bathroom to find Bea sprawled across the couch, browsing shows on her giant TV, and she means it a little more now that she's somewhere warm and dry rather than somewhere cold and faced with the prospect of quickly becoming soaking wet.

Bea nods. "They're Zoey's," she says, gesturing to the pajamas. "Figured you'd have a meltdown if I made you touch my plebian cotton blend clothes."

Poppy ignores the dig. "Where is she?"

"Zoey?" Bea whips out her phone, opening a folder of photos and handing it over. "Big beach trip. She goes every year."

Poppy thumbs through a few pictures of a sunny sand bank, landing on one of Zoey under an umbrella surrounded by an assortment of musical celebrities. "You didn't go with her?"

Bea shrugs. "She took me last year. It was pretty awesome," she continues. "Super sunny, tons of cute girls. You would've loved it."

Poppy squints, suppressing a slight smile. "Are you calling me gay?"

"Yes, Poppy," Bea says in a straight deadpan. "I'm calling you a massive lesbian. The point is, Zoey's living it up with music production royalty. Almost makes me wish I'd actually made a plan for my future instead of fighting with you and Selene all the time."

She shifts over as Poppy settles onto the couch. "Almost?"

"Come on," Bea chides. "It was pretty fun."

It was pretty fun, Poppy admits to herself. But no amount of night shifts could drive Poppy crazy enough to say it out loud.

"So why didn't you go this year?" she asks instead.

"And pass up the opportunity to sell overcooked hotdogs with you every day?" Bea shakes her head, grinning. "Please."

Poppy can't even tell if she's joking.

------------------

What the hell are you doing here? Poppy had hissed on their first day of work. Cheery had retreated to the office to print off their paperwork, her fingers slamming down on the ancient computer keys so hard that Poppy had to wonder if she was more used to typewriters than keyboards.

I'm working, Bea had responded simply. What are you doing here?

You're such a liar. Poppy jabbed a finger accusingly in Bea's direction. How did you find out about this?

Fine, Bea had relented. I stole your phone when you walked at graduation. You really should've given it to anyone but Chloe.

So what, you saw my application email and decided it'd be fun to follow me here? Bea had shrugged, and Poppy grit her teeth. Get out!

You don't own 7-Eleven, Pops, Bea had said. You can't control who they hire. If I want to spend my summer selling badly made food to badly dressed people, I can.

I hate you, was all Poppy had said in response.

Please, Bea had laughed. You wouldn't know what to do without me.

And all thoughts of it's always been you had flown right out the swinging glass door.

------------------

"I think this is the slowest day we've ever had," Bea says halfway into week five.

It's unusually hot, even for a summer night in New York, and Poppy's skin is damp from the humidity. She'd stripped off her sweater in the first hour of her shift, and soon after had been forced to trade her simple longsleeve for a 7-Eleven polo, which hangs big on her shoulders and has slowly grown more and more unbuttoned as the heat creeps on. Bea isn't fairing much better, having abandoned her hot dog station apron just minutes after putting it on. Their hats hang forlornly in the back office, untouched since the thermometer hit 85.

It had been Bea's idea to stand in front of an open drink refrigerator. At first, they'd used it as a temporary reprieve - five minutes of engulfment in the sharp, cool air in exchange for an hour at the register - but they've reached the point where neither of them has the will to care about keeping up the pretense of doing any actual work. Bea had fashioned them little seats out of overturned milk cartons and they'd each claimed a refrigerator to sit by, well out of view of Cheery's sole security camera or anyone who might walk by.

"It's slow because anyone with a brain knows it's hot enough outside to boil it," Poppy responds. "Too bad it's already too late for yours."

"I'm wounded," Bea drawls. "And bored. Come up with some scheme to ruin my life or something."

"You come up with a scheme to ruin mine," Poppy retorts.

Bea laughs. "I thought I already did that when I showed up here."

"Well, that one kind of backfired, wouldn't you say?"

It's silent for a few minutes. Poppy lets her head roll to the side, looking at Bea, who was already looking at her.

"Wanna make out?" asks Bea.

------------------

"Why don't we do this every day?" Bea gasps, breath warm on Poppy's lips.

"I think we'd-" Poppy's next words are lost in Bea's mouth. "-fired," she finishes when they break apart. "You'd have to get your masochistic kicks in somewhere else."

"I'd just follow you to your next job," Bea laughs against Poppy's throat.

It's always been you.

------------------

If week five was heat, week six is rain.

The first day of the downpour, Bea offers to let Poppy crash again.

By the second, it's an unspoken agreement.

"You should bring some stuff by," Bea says once the rain has finally begun to let up. "You know, for next time."

Poppy keeps her tone casual, makes a show of checking something on her phone.

"Okay," she says. Bea smiles.

------------------

"You know," Bea says sometime in week eight (or is it nine? It's hard to keep track), "some people would say we're dating."

She's got Poppy backed into a rack of cold sandwiches so that Poppy's practically sitting on the refrigerator ledge, Bea almost straddling her legs. Poppy has one hand fisted in her hair, the other clutching her shoulder to keep her balance.

"Some people are idiots," Poppy breathes, and pulls Bea in for another kiss. "What can you do?"

Bea's tongue sweeps across Poppy's jawline, teeth grazing the skin of her earlobe. "Would it be so bad?"

Poppy bites hard at Bea's neck just under her jaw, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. Bea makes a high keening noise, and Poppy runs her own tongue over the rapidly forming bruise. "Can you think of anything worse?"

Bea sighs, pushing Poppy away with a gentle hand to her chest. "It's four," she says without looking at the clock. "We're off."

They clock out in silence.

------------------

Bea's glaring at this customer so hard that Poppy wonders if she's changed her stance on people who steal from what the fuck do I care to I care so much I'm about to commit a murder. But the girl hasn't even stolen - not that Poppy's seen, anyway. She just keeps sending smiles over at the checkout counter, which is off-putting in its own way, but nothing to glare about more than usual.

"Just these," the girl says after a while, handing over a sandwich and bottle of tea.

Poppy scans them quickly. "Six eighteen."

The girl swipes her card. "Hey, are you busy after this? I know it's late, but I could buy you a drink."

"Oh." Oh. Beside her, Bea throws a new hotdog on the roller with more force than necessary.

"Sorry," Poppy says, giving the girl what she hopes is a polite smile. "I'm taken."

"No worries." The girl takes her items, leaving with a wave over her shoulder. "Have a good one."

The door swings closed behind her.

Bea raises an eyebrow. "Taken, huh?"

"Well," Poppy hedges. "Some people would say we're dating."

------------------

Bea finally cracks her in week eleven.

It's on one of six shifts they've had where not a single customer comes through for their entire eight hours. I thought this was the city that never sleeps, Bea had groaned during the fourth. Where the fuck is everyone?

I think anyone not sleeping at three in the morning has better things to do than trolling 7-Elevens all night, Poppy had responded. Bea's head had hit the counter with a thud.

"I think I'm going crazy," Bea says now. "I think if nothing exciting happens in the next five minutes I'm going to admit myself to a psychiatric ward."

"We're literally in the middle of making out," Poppy says, only half affronted. "I don't know how else I'm supposed to keep you entertained."

"It's not just today," Bea admits. "This place sucks. I mean, it's great that you're here and all, but it sucks. Why haven't we quit yet?"

"Because I need money and you're obsessed with me," Poppy says.

"Right. That's it." Bea's mouth returns to Poppy's neck, her fingers tangling in the buttons of her stupid 7-Eleven polo. "Seriously, though. If you don't fall in love with me soon I'm gonna have to quit."

Poppy's mind blanks out. "What?"

"It's been like three months," Bea continues, trailing kisses back to Poppy's face. "I mean, I knew it would be slow, but god. Three months on the 7-Eleven night shift for you? You'd better make this worth it."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Poppy spits, shoving Bea back. Bea's eyebrows knit in confusion.

"I told you at graduation," she says, utterly bewildered. "The speech? Remember?"

It's always been you.

"I thought..." Poppy trails off, shakes her head. "You were lying. You're lying now."

"No?" Bea's expression grows more confused. "What did you think I was doing here?"

"I don't know!" Poppy cries. "I thought you were just- being stupid! Trying to annoy me, like always!"

"Well, yeah," Bea says, like it's obvious. "I love annoying you. Cause I love you."

"You-" Poppy struggles, but the words don't come. She presses her head into her hands. "This is a lot to take in."

Bea nods in mock seriousness. "Would a knock knock joke make you feel better?"

"It would not."

"Knock knock," Bea says anyway. Poppy shakes her head, so she continues, undeterred. "Olive."

"Please stop."

"Olive yo-"

"Jesus christ," Poppy snaps. "Fine. I'll go out with you."

------------------

"We quit," Bea tells Cheery at the end of week fifteen. "Sorry."

"No problem, dears!" Cheery chirps brightly. "Let me go get your departure paperwork. Oh, and you can keep the hats as souvenirs!"

------------------

this was so much longer than i thought it would be 😭 also i know NOTHING about new york so take everything with a grain of salt and i apologize to any new yorkians reading.

tags / @camren-jenlisa-is-real @noone6252

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[thealleycat]

i have been tagged twice (thank u for ur interested in the allied cat)

Name? Allie

Pronouns and gender? they/she, some kind of girl-shaped genderblob

Sexuality? gay asf (i like women and femme leaning ppl)

Country? USA

Top 5 fandoms? I would really consider myself part of any fandoms tbh. top 5 things i am a fan of - speedsouls (bloodborne/sekiro in particular), jerma, destiny(2), FFXIV, ultrakill

What is your Most forbidden snack? red-hot metal looks rly appetizing.

Would you pet a bug? I had some rly bad experiences with bugs at my old living situation/job and I no longer like to be around bugs, but I used to have a tarantula i would pet.

Share a weird fact/story about yourself with the class. I donno i think everything about me is weird. It’s hard for me to think of stuff off the top of my head and everyone i asked didn’t have any suggestions, lol.

What does the color blue taste like? blue gatorade

What is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen? Californian ancient redwood forest. Or Lake Tahoe in wintertime. Seeing trees so big and wide it’s like staring up at a skyscraper was overwhelming. Lake tahoe is just a beautiful area. Skiing there was one of the best places I’ve ever been. On the last day we were there it snowed over a foot of dry, soft snow. It’s hard to comprehend just how stiflingly silent it is during snowfall like that. It’s really beautiful.

What is the stupidest thing you’ve ever done? When I was in my senior year in High School I went to my first and only house party. Which was full of drunk, underrage kids in a house with 0 adults. ( and it was the 4th of july. ) The cops showed up and me and my friend I was there with were in the back of the house, so we bolted and didn’t get caught. When we looped around the house, we noticed another cop car with one cop up like fifteen feet away up the street. They hadn’t noticed us so, me and my drunk friend lit some of the fireworks we had and tossed em into the cop car right through the window. You can guess what happened after tho the cop didn’t catch me or my friend (we were both in high school track/long distance running team). Also, ACAB.

Stupidest thing you’ve seen/heard someone else do/say? My sister used to think Palm Trees were fake. Also she married a MAGA head. Both of those are pretty stupid.

Hyperfixation song? kamikaze and Truncheon by The Royal They

Is there any meaning behind your profile picture and/or username? I really like Izutsumi from Dungeon Meshi. her design gives me gender envy and I relate deeply to working through the trauma of having a shitty situation growing up. and I think Alley Cat is a fun way to disguise my name while also having my name on full display

Dream career as a child? Something involving the physical sciences. Not kidding when I say I was doing science experiments for fun when I was 6.

Dream career as an adult? Something with computers. Or gaming critique. We’ll see how it goes.

Thoughts on cilantro? Spicy Lettuce

Have you ever been banned from a location and if so, why? Yeah, when I was a senior I used to work at fast casual local place in my hometown. It was basically half a step nicer than mcd’s or any other fast food place but also only had 3 locations in this one town I lived. Anyway, we close at 9:30 on weeknights, and it’s finals weeks. Everyone who works there is a high school student (Because it was legal to pay us below min wage and the owner was a cheap fucking loser). General manager wants to stay open past closing to get a ‘big day of sales’. Currently, I was the only one there who knew how to work the kitchen so im making all the orders. When another order rolls in at 9:50 I tell him im not going to make anymore. Ppl have finals the next day and need to be in class at 7:30 am. He tells me to leave and never come back, even to buy food. Fuck that guy tho.

What is your cursed food combination? Pineapple pizza, apparently.

Trans rights? I support trans rights and trans wrongs fellow 196 refugees are welcome to jump in but im not tagging anyone

“I just came from r/196” ask game

Saw another post. I think I should invite y'all to one of our longstanding traditions. Answer the questions then tag 10 (or more) people. I'll go first.

Name? Frankie

Pronouns and gender? he/they/it, transmasc

Sexuality? Lesbian

Country? USA

Top 5 fandoms? Bungou Stray Dogs, Cosmere, All for the Game, Fundiesnark (not a series but I'm too deep in it to not consider it a fandom), .....the tornado fandom? (they're my special interest)

What is your Most forbidden snack? The preserved bones at the Atlanta Bodies Exhibition. They looked so crunchy...

Would you pet a bug? If it's big enough, it is pettable.

Share a weird fact/story about yourself with the class. I like to drive around rural areas and photograph old, sometimes abandoned locations in the dead of night. I have been literally chased out of towns by foot and by car on two separate occasions. The second time this happened, "See You Again" by Miley Cyrus came up on shuffle and that's the soundtrack my friend and I tore out of town to. Also every "guy" I've dated except for my most recent ex (who has big egg energy) is a lesbian now.

What does the color blue taste like? Creme brulee

What is the most beautiful thing you've ever seen? The appalachian mountains of Tennessee in the middle of summer. There's kudzu everywhere. On the backroads, there were several old, dilapidated Baptist churches barely hanging to the side of the mountain. I wonder how many of them were still in use.

What is the stupidest thing you've ever done? Short version: my friend's house almost got broken into by this dude who'd been stalking us for months while we were home alone. Instead of calling the cops, we decided to confront him with a bow and arrow (me), a hatchet, and a baseball bat (him). The plan was that if it went badly, we would simply throw his corpse into one of the many lakes in the neighborhood and let the alligators eat his remains (this was Florida). Why? Because we were afraid of having our home-alone privileges revoked. Luckily for us all, the guy fucked off and we never saw him again.

Stupidest thing you've seen/heard someone else do/say? My ex thought that Jackalopes were real. Also, a nurse I was doing rotations with apparently thought that "Witness Protection" was for Jehovah's Witnesses.

Hyperfixation song? Young Enough + Bleach by Charly Bliss

Is there any meaning behind your profile picture and/or username? Profile pic; I'm transmasc and I'm currently obsessed with TriStamp. Username; It was my fake internet name when I was like 13. I won't change it because I want my mutuals to recognize me, and because I do have a viral post associated with this name.

Dream career as a child? Doctor (funnily enough I'm now in nursing school)

Dream career as an adult? Professional Jester. Not a comedian. I just want to be some weird little guy who dresses silly and you can hire me to roast your boss at work parties.

Thoughts on cilantro? Delicious

Have you ever been banned from a location and if so, why? I honestly can't remember? Probably... but in recent memory I've mainly banned people from places.

What is your cursed food combination? Pineapple on a hotdog with grilled onions. It Slaps.

Trans rights? TRANS RIGHTS

Tagging: @rocket-mankoi @mostlymarco @atleast8courics @jazzlike39 @gemsweater72 @limbobilbo @ameliaaltare @redcrane112 @theoneofwhomisblue @twinkenjoyer @theultimatecarp and anyone else who wants to jump on