#i know this won’t be the final loop but god it should be

[moons-among-distant-stars]

“but today.. today you’re happy”

[cayleeuhithinknott]

✿ — pete davidson . . . love drunk chris

in which . . . a late night baking session with chris turns into giggles, kisses, and quiet confessions about how much you mean to each other.

warnings . . . tooth rotting fluff , emotional intimacy , kissing , best friends turned lovers , soulmates 😊

𝑺𝑾𝑬𝑬𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑬𝑹 𝙒𝙍𝙄𝙏𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙈𝘼𝙍𝘼𝙏𝙃𝙊𝙉 𝙁𝙄𝘾 #13

it’s 1:04 am when chris finally gives in.

“okay, fine,” he groans dramatically, tossing his phone aside like he didn’t just spend the last ten minutes googling easy cookie recipes. “we’re making cookies. but if they turn out bad, i’m blaming you.”

you grin from the kitchen doorway, wearing one of his old t-shirts that hangs halfway down your thighs, plus sleep shorts and fuzzy socks that slide on the tile when you pad over. “they won’t,” you say, confident like always. “trust me.”

he squints at you, already rummaging through cabinets for whatever random ingredients he can scavenge. half a bag of chocolate chips, sugar that’s been shoved in the back for god knows how long, flour that’s…mostly not expired. close enough.

“this is like russian roulette,” he snorts.

“what’s life without a little risk?”

he glances back at you, catching the smile on your face, and for a second he just…pauses. takes you in. messy hair, sleepy eyes, no makeup, wearing his clothes. the late night lamp light making you look kinda glowy. like a scene from one of those indie movies he’d never admit to liking.

he shakes himself out of it. “alright, vibes over precision. let’s see how bad this gets.”

it gets messy quick.

within minutes, there’s flour on the counter, on the floor, dusted across your cheeks and caught in the hem of your shirt. you flick a little at him just to be annoying and he gasps like you’ve committed a crime.

“you’re done for,” he warns, eyes narrowing in mock offense.

“bring it.”

it ends with him smearing flour across your forehead with the side of his hand, laughing when you gasp. you lunge for him but he’s faster, catching your wrist, spinning you around until your back hits his chest.

“truce!” you giggle, breathless from laughing so hard.

“hmm…i don’t trust you,” he teases, but he’s already letting go, ruffling your hair instead.

you swat at him playfully and go back to stirring the dough, tongue poking out in concentration. but before you can add the chocolate chips, his arms loop around your waist from behind.

“chris—”

“just helping,” he says, voice low near your ear. you can feel the smile in his words.

he guides your hands over the spoon like you’ve never stirred before, all under the excuse of “making sure it’s mixed right,” but really? he just wants to be close. you can feel the steady beat of his heart against your back, can feel the way his fingers linger longer than necessary on your skin.

“you’re so annoying,” you laugh softly.

“yep. and you love it.”

you almost drop the spoon entirely when he dips down to press a kiss behind your ear, soft and warm and unexpected.

“chris!” you squeal, squirming but not pulling away at the tickly feeling.

“what?” he grins like he’s innocent. “you’re cute when you’re flustered.”

he keeps you there for a second, swaying you side to side like you’re dancing to music that isn’t playing.

“this was a good idea,” he says after a beat, quieter now.

you smile to yourself, cheeks flushed from the heat of the kitchen and him.

“yeah,” you whisper, leaning back into him a little. “it kinda was.”

by the time the tray’s in the oven, the kitchen’s a wreck. there’s flour on the floor, chocolate chips scattered across the counter, and a sticky glob of dough clinging to the side of the sink. you should probably feel bad about it.

but with chris standing this close, smiling like that, you couldn’t care less.

you hop up onto the counter, swinging your legs like a kid, tugging the sleeves of his tshirt down over your hands. chris taps at his phone, setting a timer, then tosses it onto the counter without looking.

he leans back against the opposite wall at first—arms crossed, grinning lazily at you like he’s debating something.

then he pushes off the wall and walks over.

you don’t even pretend not to notice the way your heart skips when he stops between your knees.

he rests his palms on your thighs, warm and heavy, thumbs sweeping slow back-and-forth like muscle memory. like his hands just belong there.

“knew you’d end up with me,” he says, like it’s a joke, but his voice is softer than usual.

you roll your eyes. “yeah? psychic now?”

“more like…” he shrugs, eyes dropping to your lips for a beat too long. “just know how you are.”

the air shifts.

he leans in and kisses you. slow, warm, and lingering way too long for it to just be playful. your hands lift instinctively, curling in the front of his t-shirt like they always do, bunching the fabric up between your fingers.

he deepens it just slightly.

nothing desperate. no rush. just soft, sleepy lips against yours, coaxing little sighs out of you every time he tilts his head and drags it out.

his hands slip a little higher, palms smoothing up your sides over the oversized t-shirt you’re wearing.

you gasp softly against his mouth when he shifts even closer, slotting himself tighter between your legs, and the sound makes him smile—just a little, like he loves knowing what you sound like when you’re caught off guard.

“you’re ridiculous,” you whisper when you pull back for air.

“you like it,” he murmurs, eyes still half-lidded, pupils blown wide in the low kitchen light.

his thumbs trace lazy circles at the hem of your shorts, dipping just barely under the fabric, teasing but not moving higher.

he kisses you again, slower this time.

then he pulls back just enough to push your hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ears like you’re something delicate. his fingers trail along your jaw, then your cheek, just holding you there, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

“don’t know what i’d do without you,” he says it quieter this time. more real.

your breath catches.

“stop,” you mumble instantly, ducking your head, hiding in the crook of his neck like a reflex.

he just laughs, all soft and knowing, resting his chin on your shoulder. “what? it’s true.”

you shake your head. “you’re such a sap.”

he grins into your skin, presses a kiss there just below your ear, and it sends a little shiver down your spine.

you pull back, cheeks warm, eyes dancing with something you won’t name.

“okay…when did you even start liking me then?” you tease, poking at his chest, trying to play it off casual even though your heart’s going a hundred miles an hour.

“first day i met you,” he says immediately. no hesitation. like it’s the easiest answer in the world.

you blink.

your mouth opens, then closes.

and for a second, you’re speechless.

he smiles at your stunned expression, brushing his thumb across your bottom lip like he’s proud of himself for rendering you quiet.

“don’t look so shocked,” he teases.

you hide your face again, burying it in his t-shirt this time, laughing softly and trying not to let him see the way your hands are shaking just slightly against his chest.

he just holds you tighter.

the oven timer keeps ticking down, but neither of you move.

chris noses at your temple, trailing soft kisses up and down the side of your head like he can’t get enough.

“you’re it for me, y’know?” he whispers at one point.

you freeze.

but before you can overthink it, he kisses you again—quick and distracting, making you giggle into his mouth until you both forget how serious the air just got.

when the timer finally goes off, neither of you are in any rush to get the cookies. you stay there on the kitchen counter, tangled up in each other’s arms, the warm glow from the oven light casting soft shadows across your skin.

chris nuzzles your neck, breath warm and easy, and you rest your head against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your ear. the world shrinks down to just the two of you—the quiet hum of the city outside, the faint scent of vanilla and chocolate hanging in the air, and the steady warmth of his arms wrapped around your waist.

“you know,” he murmurs, voice low and gentle, “i could stay like this forever.”

you smile against his skin, fingers tracing lazy circles on his back. “me too.”

after a while, you finally peel apart just enough to reach for the cookies, but instead of taking one, chris grabs you by the waist and pulls you closer again. “nah, let’s save ‘em for later,” he says with a playful grin. “i’m not letting you go just yet.”

you roll your eyes but don’t protest. instead, you loop your arms around his neck, your fingers tangling in the soft hair at the nape.

he leans down, brushing a kiss along your jawline, his lips lingering there like a silent promise. “you’re my favorite person, you know that?” he whispers.

you laugh softly, your breath warm against his skin. “yeah? well, you’re mine.”

he pulls you flush against him, hips pressing into yours as you settle into the comfortable weight of each other. the world feels still, suspended in this perfect moment.

eventually, chris scoops you up, cradling you bridal style like you’re the most precious thing in the world. “bedtime,” he says, voice thick with affection.

you giggle, wrapping your arms tighter around his neck. “i’m not complaining.”

he carries you to the bedroom, soft carpet muffling your footsteps. when he sets you down on the bed, he doesn’t let go—his hands rest on your waist, steady and sure.

you curl up beside him, limbs entwined, your head resting on his chest as his fingers brush gently through your hair.

“goodnight, baby,” he whispers, lips pressing soft kisses to your shoulder.

you close your eyes, heart full and mind quiet—for now.

and as you drift toward sleep, you know without a doubt: you were his favorite person. his soulmate.

and you’ve always felt the same.

author’s note . . . #goals

🏷️ : @sturniolo04 @admeliora94 @alexturnersgooch @snuffbut @strnilolover @frattboychris @marrykisskilled @mqttittude @purpledragon222 @aubsloveschris @paisleyy22 @emely9274 @oliviasthatgirl @conspiracy-ash @matthewsroses @pasteldreams @matts-wife @courta13 @sugarraez @adorechris @elenayzxsturn @mattybsgroupie @oopsiedaisydeer @bluestriips @grace-sturnz @sturnboos @owenstar @ribbonlovergirl @tweetybaird @tezzzzzzzz @vanteguccir @bernardmatthews @weirdothatwrites @thighs4evan @lm-a-mirrorball @iluvchr1s @sturnslux3 @cutseylady @iconiccolo @beardedbernard @kenah-sturniolo @edwardscoldhands

© cayleeuhithinknott

[lucy-literates]

I know in GTWC races there is no media pen but let’s just pretend there is.

There is a new reporter in the media pen and the first time Arthur sees her he loses his mind. He makes a beeline for her intending to be confident, suave and sexy to impress her but as soon as she asks him her first question, his mind goes blank and he ends up stuttering out an answer. Over the next few races, he keeps going to her first, even practicing some flirty lines in advance but every time he is in front of her he either goes off rambling about some aspect of racing she didn’t even ask about or ends up just saying that the car is good, the race was good and then repeating himself until he can escape.

She just assumes that he doesn’t like her, that he goes to her first to get it out the way and then never actually answers her questions properly. But then one day Lorenzo and Charles come to see Arthur race. She is walking behind them and overhears them talking about this reporter than their brother won’t shut up about. So she decides to throw in a couple of flirty lines in her next interview with Arthur and winks at him and he blushes bright red, stumbles over his words even more and then runs away.

Later, she is getting ready to leave the race track and Arthur and his brothers appear. They push him towards her telling her that he has something to say to her. When he eventually stumbles over his words enough to ask her out, she asks him what took him so long and grabs his hoodie to pull him in for a kiss with his brothers whooping and hollering in the background.

A/N: This is so cute!!! Enjoy!

Good Race, Good Car, Good God You're Pretty

The first time you see Arthur Leclerc in the media pen, he walks straight toward you like he’s been waiting all his life for this one moment.

He’s got the walk—confident, calm, like he knows what he’s doing.

Then you ask, “Arthur, how did the tyre strategy affect your mid-stint pace?”

And he… dies.

On the inside.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Then somehow blurts, “Yes. The tyres. They were… good. The car… also good. And the strategy. Was… good.”

There’s a long pause. You blink.

“…Right,” you say slowly, smiling to hide the confusion.

Arthur practically sprints away.

The next few races? Exactly the same.

Every time he shows up, it’s you he walks up to first. He even tries rehearsing lines under his breath, trying to sound effortlessly cool. But once he’s in front of you, everything short-circuits again.

Your questions are normal—about racecraft, setups, pace, how he feels post-race. His answers? Rambling nonsense or the same “yeah car was good, race was good” loop on repeat.

You start to assume the worst.

He must hate talking to you. Probably just gets it out of the way so he can move on to real questions.

You try not to take it personally.

Until Monza.

You’re walking behind a trio of familiar voices near the paddock. Two men, deep in conversation—French accents, unmistakable grins.

Lorenzo: “It’s embarrassing, honestly. He runs to her and then turns to jelly.”

Charles: “She thinks he’s not into her. He thinks he’s blowing it. I’m tempted to mic him up for the next one just for entertainment.”

You slow your steps, blinking. Wait—you?

They’re talking about you?

You duck out of sight before they can see you grinning like an idiot.

So at the next race, you decide to have a little fun.

He approaches you again—eyes flicking nervously between your face and your mic.

You smile sweetly. “Arthur, good to see you. Have you finally learned how to talk to me, or should I just ask you how good everything was again?”

His brain fries.

He lets out a laugh—nervous, shaky—and then you wink.

Wink.

He stares at you like you just set his car on fire. And then—mid-question—he stammers something unintelligible, blushes crimson, and bolts.

You try not to laugh. The cameraman definitely does.

Later that afternoon, you’re slinging your bag over your shoulder, about to leave the track, when you hear footsteps—and arguing.

“No, Arthur, go now.”

“I can’t, this is ridiculous!”

“She winked at you, bro, she wants you to!”

“Just tell her you like her, dumbass!”

You turn to see all three Leclerc brothers marching toward you.

Charles and Lorenzo are flanking Arthur like bodyguards pushing a reluctant teenager toward a dance floor. Arthur’s eyes go wide when he sees you.

“Uh—hi.”

You raise a brow, smiling. “Everything good?”

Lorenzo gives him a not-so-subtle nudge. “He has something to say.”

Arthur glares at his brother, then turns back to you—nervous, sweaty-palmed, heart-in-his-throat.

“I… uh… I’ve been meaning to ask if you’d maybe want to… go out sometime? With me. If you want. Because I… really like you. And I’ve definitely ruined every interview, and I’m sorry, but—”

You step closer, tug on the front of his hoodie with a smirk.

“What took you so long, Leclerc?”

Before he can answer, you pull him in for a kiss.

He melts into it. Warm hands at your waist. A quiet, stunned "mmf" against your lips.

Behind you, Charles and Lorenzo explode.

“FINALLY!”

“ABOUT DAMN TIME.”

Arthur pulls away, red-faced but glowing, forehead pressed to yours. “Can we, uh… keep this part off the record?”

You laugh. “Maybe. If you give me a proper interview next time.”

He grins. “No promises.”

[teapartyprincess4two]

your writing is sooo good! i NEED a johnnie smut omg please write one💞

Monster- J. Guilbert

pairing: Extrovert!reader x Shy!Johnnie

classification: SMUT w/ a plot

inspiration: request^^, Monster by Lady Gaga

warnings: 18+, MDNI, literal sex, use of y/n, dom!Johnnie (kinda), “slut,” alcohol use, slight cursing, Jake and Tara are dating in this

summary: Tara plays matchmaker, earning Johnnie the night of his life with you in a bar restroom.

—

Johnnie’s been watching you all night, but he’s waiting for the alcohol to settle into his bloodstream before he finally walks up to you. You sit at the bar in a black, backless dress that allows a few of your tattoos to peak through. Bouncy curls are swept onto your shoulder, framing one side of your face as you chat with the bartender.

“Gonna keep staring or are you finally gonna make a move?” Jake nudges Johnnie’s shoulder.

Nights out like this are common for the pair, especially when living a fast paced life in the city of Los Angeles. When they’re not filming or editing, they’re usually out getting drunk, and they’ve managed to creat regular rotation of bars.

Today they find themselves at the Magic 8 Ball, the least crowded bar in L.A on a Friday night. No matter what unfamiliar faces that fill this place, though, yours is always constant. Every Friday, without fail, you saunter in and take a seat at the bar.

Johnnie can tell, just from watching you, that you’re an extrovert. You never seem to stay at the bar, you always wander onto the dance floor and lure a random stranger in for a quick bop around the room.

That’s what intimidates him, because as an introvert he’s not sure he’ll be able to keep up.

“I’m not staring,” Johnnie quips quickly, taking a swig of whatever alcoholic mixture swirls in his glass. He hisses as the liquid goes down.

If it were just Jake and Johnnie, the conversation would’ve died there. But tonight Tara joined them and she isn’t so adamant on letting the topic go.

“You should invite her to sit with us! You never know what could happen,” she prods teasing fingers into Johnnie’s sides, “plus she looks nice! I need a girlfriend to hang out with!”

“Johnnie needs a girlfriend, Tara. Not you,” Jake jokes. Johnnie rolls is eyes, scooting away from Tara as her fingers continue digging into his sides.

“I’ve had a girlfriend,” Johnnie replies, eyes darting back to where you sit at the bar.

“Yeah, had,” Jake says.

“It’s just hard to—“

“ALRIGHT! Enough!” Tara interrupts Johnnie mid sentence, slamming her hands onto the table as she stands up. “If you won’t make a move, I will,” she says, shimmying out of the booth.

Johnnie’s eyes are blown open in shock. He tries grabbing Tara before she can get too far, but she’s small and sneaky.

“That’s one way to do it,” Jake laughs, watching in amusement as his girlfriend does what his best friend doesn’t have the balls to do.

Johnnie, on the other hand, watches in horror.

There you are, sipping on your drink and chatting with the bartender, blissfully unaware of Tara’s approaching figure.

Tara sits at the bar, taking the seat directly next to yours. She interrupts your conversation with the bartender to order two drinks, one for you and one for her, before swiftly turning her attention to you with a warm smile.

Johnnie can’t bear to watch, but he also can’t look away.

You seem to like Tara, because you’re quick to engage in conversation with her. In the matter of seconds Tara has managed to learn your name, your favorite drink, and even your favorite song (it’s the one that plays over the club speakers).

“Oh God they’re coming,” Johnnie whisper shouts, trying to look casual. Tara’s arm is looped with yours as she leads you to their table, an accomplished look painting her face.

“What the fuck do I do? What the fuck do I do?! Fuck!”

“Just act casual. Don’t be weird— Oh fuck! Just shut up!” for some reason Jake finds himself just as nervous as Johnnie. Maybe he was just being empathetic, but they both scramble to get themselves together.

“Don’t be weird? What the fuck does that—”

Johnnie can’t seem to catch a break, because as soon as Tara reaches the booth she’s interrupting him. “Guys. This is Y/n, my new friend,” she gestures towards you, “Y/n, this is my boyfriend Jake and this is our friend Johnnie.”

The moment Tara says your name it’s engraved in Johnnie’s mind. He’s already in love.

Your smile is so big it could light up the room. You extend a hand to the two, immediately introducing yourself and falling into the booth next to Johnnie.

His heart is pounding and his ears are red hot with embarrassment.

“Well, while you two get acquainted, Jake and I are gonna go get drunk,” Tara says, pulling Jake out of the booth before he can get any more comfortable than he already is. She shoots Johnnie a wink before sending you a small wave, leading a confused Jake into the crowd of people.

“She’s nice. I like her,” you comment, watching until the couple disappears. “She’s… something,” Johnnie coughs, he’s so unbelievably awkward.

You chuckle, mostly because you think he’s cute and you find his fiddly personality amusing.

“Johnnie, huh? I had a friend named Johnnie once,” you say, attempting to make conversation. Your manicured nails tap against you glass cup, silver hoop earrings reflecting the strobing lights as you try catching his gaze.

“Bet he didn’t look like this though,” Johnnie replies, clearly referring to his all black attire.

“Hmmm, no. He definitely didn’t,” you giggle. You take a sip from your drink, a lipstick stain remaining once you place the cup back onto the table. Johnnie wonders what it’d feel like to kiss you.

“You’re much cuter,” you continue. Johnnie can’t tell if he’s dreaming, were you actually flirting with him?

Maybe it’s the surge of confidence your compliment gives him, or maybe the alcohol finally kicked in, but Johnnie suddenly finds himself being flirtatious.

“So do you flirt with all the Johnnies you know?”

He’s surprised at how fast you quip back, “Nope. Just the cute ones.”

You’ve subconsciously leaned closer to him, your faces dangerously close.

“Okay, so we’ve established that I’m cute,” he smirks. “What else am I?”

You giggle, a sound that Johnnie swears he can listen to for forever.

“Well clearly you’re not shy anymore,” your finger traces the rim of your drink. A drunk smile and sultry eyes lure him in, pulling him close enough for his lip rings to press against your skin.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs, a wandering hand finding your thigh. You shiver at the sensation. His fingers were ice cold, but they still managed to ignite a fire deep within your core.

“Like this?” you tease, batting your eyelashes.

You never made it a habit of sleeping with strangers, but Johnnie was the sheep in wolves clothing that played innocent until you were close enough to bite.

“I warned you,” his breath fans against your lips one last time before he’s capturing your lips in a heated kiss. It’s the first kiss Johnnie’s had in years which makes it that much more exciting.

Your plump lips chase his as your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer to you. The club is loud, but you’re so immersed in the man in front of you that you forget you’re not the only two people in the room and lose all control.

Johnnie’s hands find your waist, tugging until you’re straddling his lap. He pulls away breathlessly, silently thanking Tara for working her magic once he sees you on top of him.

Your dress rides up slightly, revealing more of your backside than you’d like. The sight earns you a few whistles from bystanders, breaking you from your lustful daze. “Oh shit,” you squeak, trying to scramble off of Johnnie, but his grip is firm enough to keep you in place.

An animalistic, monster-like need has overtaken him and he’s willing to sacrifice his self image to fuck you in front of all these strangers. But he simultaneously doesn’t want anyone else to see you, to enjoy you, the way he’s about to.

“Restroom. Now,” he growls, pinching the soft skin of your ass. You squeal in excitement, allowing the desires of your flesh to cloud your judgement as you hop off of him and wiggle your way out of the booth. You adjust your dress as you wait for Johnnie to follow before taking his hand in yours and leading him towards the restroom. He makes a mental note to let this be the only time you lead him tonight.

Everyone’s watching, yet you can’t find it in you to feel embarrassed. If anything it excites you more.

You find the restroom quickly, a wave of gratitude washing over you when you realize it’s a single stall. This means you can be as loud as you want, and from the look in Johnnie’s eyes, you can tell you’ll also need the extra room.

He’s quick to lock the door and immediately engulfs your face in his hands, bringing you in for the second heated kiss of the night. Johnnie’s eager and it shows in the way he swipes his tongue across your bottom lip.

His left hand remains on your face while the other travels down to your ass, squeezing firmly against the material of your dress. A moan escapes your lips, providing him the perfect opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth. He tastes surprisingly sweet, like pomegranate and pineapple.

He leads you to the sink counter, your bodies bouncing back slightly when they hit the cold marble. “Up,” he commands.

You hop onto the counter, giving him enough room to fit between your legs. Johnnie’s erection presses against your inner thigh, but he gives you no time to comment on it before his lips are back on yours.

Johnnie’s hand’s find your boobs, massaging your mounds slowly as he deepens the kiss. “More,” you murmur against the kiss, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him in closer to you. He smirks against your mouth at your neediness.

“So needy.” He pulls your head back, providing him with perfect access to your neck. Sloppy, open mouth kisses trail from your jawline down to your exposed collarbone. Each one gives you goosebumps.

“Fuck me please,” you whimper, feeling your panties become more soaked by the second. “So polite,” he teases, sucking on your skin until it bruises.

The rough material of his jeans comes in contact with your clothed pussy. He dry humps you just to hear the strained moans that escape your lips.

Finally, when you rut back, he decides he’s teased you enough. Your dress is bunched up around your waist, exposing the wet underwear that he pushes to the side.

“So fucking sexy,” he grunts, kneeling in front of you to get a better view. He’s in love. What he wants to do is eat you out, but there’s no time for that in a club as crowded as this. Especially not when there’s only one restroom.

You watch in awe as he presses a quick kiss on your bundle of nerves, immediately licking his lips right after. “Yummy,” he chuckles, bringing you in for another hungry kiss.

Your hands find his belt, unbuckling it with fervor and tugging at his belt loop to bring him back in to you. He gets the message and helps you in unbuttoning his skin-tight jeans. Your forehead is flush against his as you watch his dick spring up, it bobs back and forth as you take in the sheer size.

“Holy fuck,” your voice is full of exasperation. How was that meant to fit inside of you?

Maybe it’s because he hasn’t done this in a long time, but Johnnie suddenly feels self conscious. He hides his face in your neck before you can notice how red it becomes, but you’re quick to push his shoulders back.

“Hey, don’t be embarrassed. Where’d that monster go?” you place a gentle kiss on the corner of his mouth. His dick twitches and cries precum at the reassurance.

He pulls you back in for a kiss, feeling confident once again. He lines himself up tentatively with your entrance, rubbing the tip along your folds before slowly pushing himself in.

Your eyes are screwed shut, small tears forming at the corners as you struggle to adjust to the stretch. “Fuck Johnnie, wait,” you say, pushing against his stomach slightly. Suddenly you’re not sure you want him to fuck you dumb, his size alone was enough to have you seeing stars.

Your words fall on deaf ears, though, and before you know it he’s pushed himself all the way in. You gasp, throwing your head back against the bathroom mirror. Your pussy clenches around him as you try to hold him in place knowing the longer you keep him there, the more time you’ll have to adjust.

It’s no use though, because he begins thrusting into you at a relentless, unforgiving pace. The pain is quickly replaced with pleasure, the tip of his penis kissing your cervix every time his hips slam into yours.

“Fuck you’re so tight,” he grunts, strong hands gripping your waist so he can fuck into you even faster. You whimper at the sensation, his fingers were sure to leave bruises.

“Just like that, Johnnie. So good,” you egg him on, holding onto his neck for support. He hasn’t slowed his pace, instead moving one hand from your hips down to your throbbing clit.

Your legs instinctively push together, but his body moves them back into their previous position as he continues. “Such a slut,” he purrs, watching the euphoric look that paints your face when he rubs his thumb against your sensitive nub.

“Yes! Such a slut,” you’re drunk on dick, babbling whatever will get you closer to your pending release.

“My slut?” he asks, using the hand that was previously gripping your waist to take a firm hold of your face. Your eyes lock with his, taking notice of the way lust clouds his pupils. “All yours,” you whisper.

He smirks, leaning down to kiss you. Your tongues collide in a heated mixture of moans and whimpers. All the while he continues pounding into you and rubbing circles on your clit.

One particularly hard thrust has you dumb, a string of curse words and chants of his name being the only thing you can manage to say. “C’mon baby, c’mon,” he growls, sloppily kissing you as he feels his climax approaching.

“Johnnie!”

Your walls flutter around him, your entire body trembling as your orgasm washes over you.

Your hair falls in front of your face and you find yourself holding Johnnie’s wrist, pushing his hand away as it continues working on your clit. “Almost there,” he moans, pulling his hand away to focus his attention on fucking you.

You’re sensitive. You’re whimpering. You’re so fucked out that it’s overstimulating.

“Cum for me, handsome,” you moan, still coming down from your own high. He continues rutting his hips into you, chasing his release until finally it washes over him.

Hot spurts of cum paint your insides, lazy hips rolling against you. He’s panting from above you, hands falling from your body and latching onto the counter for support.

“Fuck that was… that was amazing,” Johnnie says, pulling out of you reluctantly.

He knows the sooner he pulls out and you two get dressed, the quicker you’ll become strangers. And that’s terrifying.

“You were amazing,” you reply, using your finger to pull his pensive gaze back towards you by his chin.

“Don’t tell me it’s a one and done,” you pout, “I was hoping to have more moments like that.”

Johnnie still stands between your legs, his limp dick resting on your exposed thighs. He lights up at your suggestion. His hands have opted for a much softer hold on your hips, thumbs massaging your skin. He knows he was rough, but he couldn’t help it.

“I mean— I’d like to— we could— fuck I’m so bad at this,” he stutters, suddenly reverting back to his natural, awkward state.

“You’re cute,” you giggle, pecking his nose and hopping off the counter. His ears flush red again.

“How about we get cleaned up and then we’ll worry about the rest later, yeah?”

“Yeah,” a big goofy smile adorns his face. His rosy cheeks make you wanna pinch him and gush over how cute he looks.

“Weren’t you just fucking my brains out a second ago?” you tease, only making him more flustered.

“I’m shy, I can’t help it.”

“Not that shy apparently,” you pull him in for one more kiss.

—

MASTERLIST

a/n: Tara the goat, the best wingwoman ever!

I locked in. Thank you for ur kind words bby, I LUV U!

Enjoy 🎱😜 - L.A.M.B👼🏻💗

—

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[miss-cincaide]

The pink, the blue or the red 

Summary: You can’t decide on a piece of lingerie for your upcoming date. So what do you do? Ask your best friend for help of course. After all you don't think he'll care. And you especially don't expect this to be the beginning of your 'friends with benifits' situation..  

Pairing: Fem! Reader x Megumi Fushuguro (aged up!) Kinktober prompt 2: Lingerie  WC ~1.7K. Warnings: Unprotected sex (P in V), pulling out, cum, light dirty talk, becoming friends with benefits, 

“ I can’t decide!” You huffed from the cracked opened door to your bedroom. Your back pressed against the door, your face angled through the crack and stared down at Megumi sitting cross-legged on your couch, the bunch of homework and course books spread out all over your coffee table. “I don’t know if the blue one is better than the red one, but the red one feels too desperate so maybe the pink one?” 

There was an unmistakable pause, a silence then, an “Are you asking me to look at your underwear before your date?” Megumi’s tone held a hint of disbelief in it and you couldn’t help yourself by correcting his choice of words: “Lingerie.”

It didn’t help; Megumi sighed in exasperation. 

The kind of sound that clearly said you were acting stupid for one, and two, he was about to group you in the same category as Itadori. “ I don’t know. Ask Nobara” 

You let out a low whine, a quiet stomp of your foot against the carpeted floor “ I did. And Nobara said that ‘guys only care about tits and a hole’ so it didn’t matter which one. Then I asked Yuji and it became a whole discussion about why I should care about the color of my lingerie if it’s anyway covered by clothes and IF things go that way, it will most probably be dark so the color won’t matter anyway.”

You heard Megumi mutter something under his breath and proceeded to amp up the begging with your most pitiful puppy dog voice “Please ‘Gumi. You’re my only hope for honest to god feedback.” 

Another long pause, you were about to start bribing him, before he sighed and dropped back against the couch. “Fine.” 

Megumi didn’t sound happy, but you didn’t care as you let out a glee of joy and stepped out of your bedroom. A silky kimono with lace details which matched the lingerie set, thrown over and tied up on your hip, showing off just the very edge of the matching set underneath. 

“So I thought of something like this” You stood in front of Megumi and did a little twirl showing off the kimono that followed the line of your body. Megumi remained frustratingly impassive, his every expression carefully schooled. He wasn’t giving you anything; did he like it? Hate it? Find this bothersome? Find you bothersome? “Come on, Gumi say something” 

“You’re planning to go out to a bar like that?” His eyes ran you up and down, followed the outline of the kimono and then flickered back up to your face, his eyes never lingered. “Doubt it. Stuffing it in a bag to take with will make it look wrinkly and cheap.”  

“It wasn’t cheap” you pouted, then as the penny dropped you realized it was your cue to take it off. Seduce him if you will. You moved to undo the belt, your fingers scrambled to untie the death-knot on your hip. You hadn’t actually thought things would go this far. 

“And that’s another issue,” Megumi pointed out. You could practically hear how he rolled  his eyes. “ When are you going to learn how to tie things up in a single bow?” 

“ But they untie themselves!” 

“That’s what you want from them. Especially in this situation.” 

You didn’t bother to reply, banter-scolding a familiar routine at this point. You’d say there was nothing less sexy than to have to stop and retie the bow, Megumi would point out that at the speed you were going, you’d be ancient by the time you got it untied. “Aha!” you grinned before he could say another word as your nail finally caught the inner loop and you slowly tugged the silky belt free. 

The kimono soon followed, first opened up, then slid off your shoulders to the floor. All you were left in was a half-sheer dark blue set embezzled with small white gems. The bra worked hard to push your girls up, the lace which started just above your nipples giving a small hint of modesty. The lacy skimpy Brazilians did the opposite. 

“What do you think?” You asked, then did a slow twirl to show it off from every angle. When you turned back around to face Megumi, his eyes were firmly planted on the floor at your feet. You bit back the twitch of disappointment in your heart. 

“It looks good.” His voice sounded tense like he uttered it through gritted teeth. 

“You’re not even looking!” You moved to stand closer to him, hearing the unmistakable hitch of breath. “Does it look bad? It looks bad, right? Tell me truly and honestly so I know” 

“You want a true and honest opinion?” You nodded quickly. Megumi didn’t look up at you as he slowly moved to stand up off the couch. He was close, towered over you, definitely aware of you. You smiled a little to yourself and began doing another demonstrative twirl. He stopped you halfway with a firm grip on your arm. “You wanna know what I think? I think you’re doing this on purpose.” 

You gasped as he pushed you forward, and bent you over, your stomach made contact with the side of the couch, one hand braced over the back, the other caught yourself on the armrest.

“I think you’re doing this to rile me up and it’s working” Megumi pushed his hips forward, flush against the soft curve of your ass. His cock was unmistakably hard in his pants. He rolled his hips, and made you feel every inch of him. 

Big. Hard. Needy.    

You trembled. A pathetic whimper left you. 

“You don’t really care about those dates or men. We both know you’re going to go there, have a few drinks, then run away when things get serious.” Another roll of his hips, this time sliding himself between your ass cheeks. “ If you want something, be a big girl and say it.” 

“Don’t stop” you whimpered moving your hips in line with his. He does exactly as you asked, but not a touch more. You're ground against him, desperate for more friction, more touch, more of that delicious cock which so perfectly ground against you, scratching you with the lace of your panties and the shift of his jeans. Outlined but hidden, leaving the rest to imagination. Fuck it was torture. “Or.. you know… keep going, just don’t stop” 

Megumi took a step back from you. “On the couch. Now.” 

You scramble to shift your body over the armrest and into one of the soft cushions. Back against the couch, soles of your feet on the edge of the pillow, knees loosely to your chest. Megumi joins you a moment later, pushing up your knees closer and out of the way. He didn’t bother slipping your panties off, just pushed the damp skimpy thing to the side before thrusting right in. 

“Ah-heh..mm, What about foreplay?” Your hands wrap around his neck keeping him close and steady, there to see his every expression, so close you can hear him swallow, groan and curse as your pussy took him. 

“What about it?” Megumi raises an eyebrow, his hand reached out and brushed a sweat drop off your face. Then trailed trails down your neck, lingered at your bouncing tits then lower, down to your clit. “You’re saying you can be wetter than this?” 

 His fingers touch you; you moan, arching you back. Closer, away, you don’t know anymore. You feel him push your legs even closer to your chest, his thrusts growing rapidly. You realized he was bullying you; with his words, with his fingers and with his fucking cock that felt ten times better than you could have ever imagined. “Y-you’re mean, Megumi” 

“Am I now?” He picked up his pace, rolled his hips and you were coming, dripping, soaking him wet. You were moaning, gasping, cursing or was it him? Another scream and he was gone. Your pussy clenched over nothing.

 Empty.

 You’re whined, your hips thrusting empty air in desperation.

 “Fuckkk”  He was coming, gasping, painting your stomach and tits white with the hot thick cum. 

His sweaty head dropped down to your shoulder, and your nails let go of his back. 

The reality came crashing down on you like a sobering weight; You just had sex with Megumi.  You just fucked your best friend. And you didn't know what it meant, were you now migrating to friends-with-benifits? Something more? Something-

“Did.. did Yuji see the lingerie?” There was an unmistakable twitch of jealousy in his voice and a tone that demanded an honest answer out of you. 

You didn't quite know how to interpret it. You answered him either way. “Kinda? I showed him the pictures of them but not on me”

Megumi growled, his hand on your knee tightened slightly before he let you go. He moved off you, flopping down onto the couch beside you. “Then I need to see the other two before I can give you my honest opinion” 

Your face flushed, your brain short circuited. Your body moved seemingly on its own, awkwardly scrambled out of the couch and with shaky legs began carrying you back to your room. 

If this was what happened with the most innocent, blue set, you couldn't wait until he laid his eyes on the lacy pink one, or barely there red one…

Author note: I have to say I am not sure how I feel about this fic. I love the Megumi in this and I do kinda wanna write more Friends-With-Benifits scenarios. What do you think? Anything you'd wanna read?

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[lazysoulwriter]

monaco madness - pedro pascal.

Pedro had always known you were obsessed with Formula 1. The kind of obsessed where Sunday plans revolved around race schedules, where you angry muttered driver names in your sleep, and where he once caught you watching an onboard camera video from 2008 just for fun.

So, when he suggested going to Monaco for the Grand Prix, it wasn’t just because of the glitz, the yachts, or the allure of Monte Carlo. It was because he loved seeing you in your element.

What he hadn't expected was to get completely sucked into it himself.

-

From the moment you stepped onto the circuit, decked out in Ferrari red, you were practically vibrating with excitement. The roaring sound of engines in the background made your eyes light up in a way that had Pedro smiling like an idiot.

“You’re going to explode,” he teased, tightening his grip on your waist as the two of you made your way to your seats.

“I might.” You turned to him, grinning, adjusting your sunglasses. “Do you even understand what’s about to happen?”

Pedro scoffed. “I understand that cars go fast.”

You snorted. “Wow, expert analysis. Maybe they should hire you for commentary.”

“I’d do great,” he said smugly. “I’d just point at the screen and go, ‘Look at that one. He’s winning.’”

You rolled your eyes, looping your arms around his neck. “You are so lucky you’re pretty.”

“I am pretty,” he agreed, leaning down to steal a quick kiss before you could pull away.

“Pedro!” you scolded, laughing against his lips. “We don’t have time for this! The race is about to start!”

Pedro groaned dramatically but let you go, watching as you practically bounced in your seat.

The cars lined up, the lights went out, and the moment the engines roared to life, you grabbed his hand without even thinking. Pedro barely had time to process the chaos before you were on your feet, screaming alongside thousands of other Ferrari fans.

“GO, GO, GO!”

Pedro had never seen you like this. Eyes wide, face glowing, shouting in frustration when someone overtook a Ferrari like they had personally offended you.

“Are you serious? That’s a penalty!” you cried, throwing your hands up.

Pedro leaned in, amused. “I have no idea what that means, but I love how angry you are.”

Before you could reply, a Ferrari made a daring overtake, nearly brushing the wall. The entire grandstand erupted, and Pedro felt something shift inside him. A thrill ran up his spine, and suddenly, he got it. The speed, the tension, the sheer insanity of it all. His fingers gripped the railing, and before he could stop himself, he was shouting,

“OH, SHIT! THAT WAS INSANE! FORZA FERRARI!”

You whipped your head toward him, stunned. “Wait. Are you—Are you into it now?”

Pedro ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. “I think I just saw God.”

You burst into laughter, throwing your arms around his neck and kissing him full on the mouth. “Welcome to the dark side, tifoso.”

For the rest of the race, Pedro was in it. He booed strategy calls, cursed at pit stops that took too long, and even found himself gripping your thigh when things got too tense. Every time Ferrari made a move, you both jumped out of your seats, yelling like lunatics.

At one point, he turned to you, slightly out of breath. “I swear to God, if we don’t win, I’m—”

“You’re what?” you challenged, grinning.

Pedro narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know yet, but it won’t be pretty.”

You laughed, pulling him down for another quick kiss. “You’re so dramatic.”

He smiled against your lips. “And yet you love me.”

When the checkered flag finally waved, Pedro collapsed into his seat, exhaling like he’d just competed in the race himself. You giggled, straddling his lap, running your fingers through his hair.

“So?” you asked, tilting your head. “Worth it?”

Pedro smirked, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “I’m never missing a race again.”

You grinned. “That’s my baby.”

And just like that, Monaco had gained another die-hard Ferrari fan.

---

requested! loved thissss.

[donutz]

Not much but a romantic Sebastian and a burnt out gn reader who enters his shop to get some well deserved rest?

Burnt out! reader with Sebastian

A little rest won't hurt...

— I verbally went "ooo" at this request, also apologies for taking so long(This applies to future requests)

Warnings: Possibly touch starved Reader and Sebastian; Reader acts alcohol drunk(Sorry I don't mean to bring up trauma😓) but is actually sleep drunk; Accidently flirty Reader; Very vivid descriptions, I just think it makes it kinda 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 so that's why I'm warning you; 𝓕𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴 mentions but nothing 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 happens; Flustered Sebastian ooo

Door, after door, after door, after door, you’re tired of this unending loop. The only good thing about this is that incredible shop and its owner.

God, what was his name again?

Sabers?

No that’s not it.

Uhhh.

Dang.

You can’t even think right! When’s the last time you forgot a name?

… You can’t remember that either, okay.

You’re limping through the halls, senses on point, well minus your sight. Your tired eyelids keep on dropping down or hanging.

You want to take a rest soooo baddd.

But you can’t. Not with Urbanshade watching you.

Not with Pinkie or Pandemonium.

Hate it.

Hate this place.

YOU hate this place.

Well accept for Sebastian since this place is the only reason he’s down here.

Just make it to Sebastian and you’ll be fine. Shove through the doors that won’t open or groan whenever you need a keycard.

Fight through the pain!

Well that’s pretty hard mentally.

And your mental state isn’t doing very well.

Ughhhh JUST GO THROUGH THE DOORS.

Sorry I didn’t mean to yell.

I’m just second personing your thoughts.

Actually my thoughts on what your thoughts are. Because I don’t actually know your thoughts. So yeah.

Oh god finally, door 48. You speed walk over to the next door, apparently not noticing Chainsmoker behind you.

.

.

.

“Woowww, you reallyyy saw that one. Y’know I–” He stops talking when he looks at your state. 

You’re looking down with your spine stretching till it pops out of your body. Your extremely tired eyes are barely even focusing, just waiting for that document to pop up.

Your body creates low and shallow breaths.

You look like you’re going to pass out.

“Oh uhhm… You alright?” Sebastian asks, with concern rolling around on his face.

Upon hearing his voice, you look up with excitement and expectation. Only being able to see two of his pastel blue eyes.

You try to speak but can’t, you’re dead remember?

Sebastian sees your attempt and sighs.

“Look, I know it’s hard out there but–” He pulls out his claw in front of you.

Seeing that as a, “Take my hand friend” Gesture, you take it. You seem touch starved with the way you quickly grasped onto his claw.

Using your two hands to grab his claw, breathing hard.

You wish you could feel his fingers.

In your hand of course.

Freakanator 3000.

But after a few seconds of silence and hand holding, you’re suddenly brought down to go see the document.

You didn’t even do that!

Did Sebastian do that?!

Could that have happened this whole time?

Then why did it happen now?!

Groaning in your head, you were motivated to see Sebastian and just maybe rest.

You were contemplating on whether you should keep going so you can find that dumb crystal and get out of here or for Sebastian. Meanwhile, he sat, surprised at the touch.

Maybe wanting some more?

From you specifically?

Just maybe?

You rushed through doors after ‘respawning’, even skipping some doors after hearing the entities behind you.

You perfectly nailed down the ways to survive the monsters, getting more and more excited as you get closer to Sebastian’s shop.

The adrenaline rushed through your body as you nearly broke down a few doors.

I thought those were bulletproof?

Slowing down your running, you nearly tripped upon seeing the room that Sebastian would be located in. Letting out big breaths that were loud enough to hear through your head gear.

Sometimes you let out a few guhs and coughs.

It was that bad.

You could drink your own sweat and that’ll help.

Your hands were on your knees, your legs shaking and sweat drops dripping onto your visor while you were looking down.

“Oh man, I can hear you from here. Take a break, yeah?” Sebastian commented, trying to not give you clues that he’s worried about you.

Saliva recollects in your mouth as you look back up at the vent. Your legs carry you over even if it hurts.

Getting out of the vent, you saw Sebastian and tried to smile.

“Ooo… You alright?” His question seemed genuinely curious.

You nod, crawling over to a spot and shutting your eyes.

Sebastian stays silent as he thinks that you fell asleep.

Your body collects its strength, your organs pumping correctly, the only thing that your brain needs now is sleep.

Yeah, the ONE thing that’s hard to get. Currently.

Your swaying right foot indicates that you’re awake, so Sebastian questions you on it.

“Oh you’re awake? I thought you passed out-”

“Offf course I’m awakee..!! How could I– Fall asleepp with a gooddd looking fella like youuu”??

Now that got him to pay full attention to you(Not like he wasn’t before).

“Are.. Are you drunk”?

‘Didn’t know prisoners could drink down here.’ He thought.

“Drunk on your lookss? Yeahhh. Youu look.. Soooooo HOT”!

Sebastian looks away to his left, mouth scrunched making it look like he’s disgusted. But he’s not! Because in this fanfic he actually likes you back.

He’d be flushing with red if he was warm blooded. 

You could tell with the way his fingers are fidgeting with each other. He attempts to pin back his side bang only for it to fall again.

He lets out a groan.

Changing your resting position, you stand up, walking over to Sebastian.

“I could pin your hair back for you. Hic up, baby. Ooo I’m so sleepy I’m hiccuping”.

“HAUH”?!?

“Oh sorry did I make you uncomfortable? I didn’t mean to I’m- hic up sorry”.

“It’s uhm. No. You didn’t make me uncomfortable, it's just that you’re so”..

“Bold? Yeah. I get like this when I’m sleep drunk”.

Oh so you’re aware you act like this?

“Y- Yea.. Bold”.

You stumble over to Sebastian, eyeing his tail. Looking back up at him, you point at his scales.

“Can I touch”?

“Yeah sure”.

Dropping down onto your knees you feel along his hard yet smooth scutes.

“I wish I could.. Actually feel your uhh, scales”.

“Hm”.

“But I can’t :(”

“Awh what a bummer.” He playfully teases.

After feeling up his tail some more, you ask him—

“What does it feel like”?

“My tail”?

“Yeah dum dum.” You chuckle at the slightly insulting nickname.

“Oh well now I won’t tell you because of your insult”.

“Nooooo, breathy chuckle, I was chokinggg… Wait no.. I was jokinggg”.

Sebastian stifles a laugh with his hand, his torso lightly shaking.

“Alright alright. My tail is pretty cold, it’s like smooth in a more slimy way. Yet there’s no slime. It’s kinda weird but I’m used to it”.

“Ooo, slimy tail. So if I take my hands off your tail I’ll get slime on my glove”?

“No, I just said that it’s smooth in a slimy sense yet there’s no slime”.

“... Sebastian, that makes no sense.” You said sternly.

“... Shut up”.

Eventually, you end up falling asleep on his tail. Drooling in your head gear, making a pool of it at the bottom.

Seeing you unconscious yet alive brings comfort to Sebastian. You’re still here, just not awake. Alive.

He’s never really thought about wanting a human alive before.

I don't mean to make Sebastian seem like this shy 'baby', I just think he'd get all blushy and nervous at bold romantic actions.

[sweetheartsofpanem]

One Good Day, Gone - Soft Things Survive

Previous Part

warnings: refer to series masterlist

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

word count: 2.95k

series masterlist | main masterlist

The image of her—curled beside me, so soft, so damn trusting—won’t leave my head. The sound of her voice when she said “People don’t stick around for me anyway” keeps looping, cruel and quiet.

I said nothing.

And then I left.

Because that’s what I do, isn’t it?

I leave before they ask me to stay.

Before I can fuck it up worse. Before I can love them so much it makes me stupid.

I press my palms harder into the counter. My arms shake. Just a little.

You don’t get to want things, I tell myself. Not anymore.

And that’s when the front door flies open.

I barely have time to register it before—

“Are you kidding me?”

Katniss. Of course.

She doesn’t slam the door, but her presence hits like she did.

I don’t turn around.

“Not in the mood, sweetheart.”

“Too bad,” she snaps. “You think you get to pull that shit and not hear about it?”

I sigh. “You’re gonna have to narrow that down.”

“Don’t play dumb,” she says, marching into the kitchen like she owns the place. “Y/N showed up at our house crying. Couldn’t even speak at first. Peeta had to hold her up.”

I stiffen. My fingers curl against the counter’s edge.

She sees it.

“Oh, now you wanna look like you care?”

I turn, finally. “You don’t know what happened.”

“I know enough,” she fires back. “I know she trusted you. I know you said something that made her look like someone punched the air out of her lungs. And I know you left.”

“She’ll be fine,” I mutter, weakly. “She’s strong.”

“She’s tired,” Katniss snaps, stepping in close now. “She’s tired of people like you pretending they care right until it costs them nothing to leave.”

I try to scoff. Shrug it off. “You don’t get it.”

“No,” she snaps, eyes sharp and unrelenting. “You don’t.”

I look at her, finally. Really look. And it’s not rage on her face—not just. It’s disappointment. Sadness. The kind of bone-deep frustration only someone who still cares about you can carry.

“She’s not a Capitol threat,” Katniss says, her voice quieter now but no less firm. “She’s not a mutt. She’s not a tribute. She’s just a girl who wanted one good day. And you couldn’t even give her that.”

The words land harder than they should. I grit my teeth.

“She got too close,” I say, like that explains everything. “I warned her.”

“You mean you punished her,” she says. “For caring.”

I flinch.

She steps back like she can’t even look at me for a second, then lets out a humorless laugh. “God, you’re so afraid of being loved, you’d rather make her think she imagined the whole thing.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

“But you did.”

I swallow hard, jaw clenched.

“She looked at me like she didn’t know what she’d done wrong,” Katniss says, and her voice cracks—not with emotion, but anger. The kind you feel when you see someone good get hurt for no reason at all. “You know how long it took her to let someone in again? And it was you. You had the chance to be—” She stops herself. “You had a chance. That’s all.”

I don’t say anything. Because I don’t know how.

Because I did.

And I walked out anyway.

Katniss stares at me for a moment longer. Her expression doesn’t soften.

It just… settles.

Like she knows I’m not ready to hear anything else. Like she knows I already know.

She exhales through her nose. Shakes her head once.

And then she turns and walks out.

Doesn’t slam the door.

Doesn’t look back.

Just leaves me standing in my kitchen like a man who burned down his own house and only now realized he’s still inside it.

The silence that follows isn’t peaceful. It scratches. It claws.

I drop into the nearest chair and run my hands down my face.

You couldn’t even give her one good day.

I can still feel her shoulder against mine. The way she looked at the mug in her hands like it was the only thing holding her together. The way she didn’t ask me to stay—but stayed beside me anyway.

And I left. I fucking left.

Because I thought if I stayed, it would mean something. If I stayed, it would be real. And if it was real, it could go wrong.

I’d fail her.

Like I failed Lenore Dove.

My throat tightens.

Lenore Dove.

I haven’t said her name out loud to anyone in years, but she’s always there. Always just under the surface.

The way she smiled when she stole peaches from the market. The way she said “You love like all-fire, Haymitch Abernathy.”

The way she died in my arms with a promise I couldn’t keep burning on my tongue.

I couldn’t save her.

And now—now I’m looking at someone new. Someone alive. Someone who looked at me like I was worth something. And I couldn’t even hold that.

I didn’t protect Lenore Dove.

And now I’m hurting Y/N just by being near her.

Because I don’t know how to stay. Because I don’t think I deserve to.

So I make it easier. I make it ugly. I make it cold so when I leave, there’s nothing left for her to mourn.

But I saw her face when I walked out.

And that look—it’s going to follow me for the rest of my miserable life.

I sit there too long.

Long enough for the light to shift through the windows and cast everything in that washed-out gray that makes the house feel more empty than usual.

I don’t move.

Not until my fingers start twitching—restless. Itches I can’t scratch.

I open the cabinet. Find the bottle I’ve been pretending not to look for.

It’s not the good stuff. Doesn’t matter. I twist the cap off and take a long pull without flinching.

It burns going down.

Not enough.

I drink again.

The third swig hits harder, starts to dull the edges. My hands stop shaking. Or maybe I just stop noticing.

I sink back into the chair and let my head tip against the wall. Close my eyes. Try not to see her.

Y/N on the floor beside me, smiling into her mug like the world wasn’t heavy for once.

Y/N saying, “People don’t stick around for me anyway.”

I drink again.

Lenore Dove died because of me.

That’s the truth I never say out loud. The one that lives under everything else.

I didn’t mean to hurt her. I didn’t know what Snow had done to the gumdrops. I didn’t think—

But I gave it to her.

She ate it because she trusted me.

She died because I loved her and didn’t know how to keep her safe.

And now there’s Y/N.

God, Y/N.

Sitting there beside me, gentle and quiet, looking at me like I was someone worth leaning into. And I felt it—I felt it—and still I pulled away. Still I opened my mouth and said the one thing I knew would undo it all.

Because it’s safer that way. Isn’t it?

Make them hate you so you don’t have to watch them die.

Or worse—watch them leave.

I take another drink.

It doesn’t help.

Nothing does.

Because all I can think about is the way she looked when I stood up. Not shocked. Not angry. Just… small.

Like she’d been waiting for it the whole time.

And I proved her right.

I don’t remember falling asleep.

I remember the bottle. I remember the silence. I remember her voice echoing in the walls of my skull like it was carved there.

Then nothing.

When I blink awake, the light slanting through the windows tells me it’s already afternoon. My head feels like someone cracked it open and stitched it back together with wire. My mouth tastes like ash and regret.

I groan and sit up too fast. The room tilts.

The bottle’s on the floor beside the chair, nearly empty.

Figures.

I rub my eyes, then my hands drag down my face and over my beard like that’ll somehow scrape the guilt off with the stubble. It doesn’t. It never does.

My chest aches. Not just from the hangover.

The regret’s there the second I wake—but it doesn’t start to choke me until I realize what’s missing.

The house is too quiet.

No knock at the door. No soft footsteps in the kitchen. No sarcastic little voice muttering something about my awful coffee or how I smell like furniture polish and bad decisions.

Nothing.

I glance at the chair across from mine.

Empty.

Of course it is.

But it looks wrong. Like it’s supposed to be filled. Like someone should be here, curled up with a mug and a half-annoyed smile and some stupid story I pretend not to care about but secretly hang onto.

The emptiness in the room doesn’t feel neutral anymore.

It feels like a punishment.

Like I’ve finally succeeded in burning it all down.

Because she’s not just across the street.

She’s not just next door.

She’s gone—from here. From me. From the space where she used to exist like she belonged without even trying.

And the worst part?

She still didn’t ask for anything.

She gave me that moment. That warmth. That silence. That softness.

And I gave her nothing back but an exit.

God, I’m such a fucking coward.

I sit there for a while, head in my hands, willing the pounding in my skull to quiet down. It doesn’t. But I start thinking anyway—dangerous, reckless thing that it is.

Maybe it’s better this way.

That’s what I tell myself. Over and over like a mantra.

She’s safer without me.

She’s not mine to hold onto. Never was.

She deserves someone gentler. Someone who knows how to stay. Someone who doesn’t drink himself unconscious because he can’t handle the way someone looked at him like he was worth loving.

I did her a favor.

I spared her from learning the hard way.

It’s better this way.

It has to be.

Because if it’s not—if I let myself believe even for a second that I could’ve had something with her—then I ruined the only good thing I’ve touched in years. And I don’t know if I can live with that.

I push myself out of the chair, gritting my teeth through the headache, and move toward the sink to splash water on my face. Cold. Bracing. Like maybe it’ll shock the guilt out of my system.

I lean over the sink, breathing heavy, eyes squeezed shut.

And then I hear it.

A laugh.

Light. Bright. So familiar it knocks the breath right out of me.

Her laugh.

Y/N’s laugh.

Muffled by distance. Outside. Probably in front of her house. Maybe talking to Peeta. Or Katniss.

It’s the first time I’ve heard it and known it wasn’t meant for me.

And it wrecks me.

Because I don’t deserve it—but god, I want it.

I want her in this kitchen. On that couch. In my life. I want to make her laugh like that again, except now I’ve made her cry instead. I’ve made her think she meant nothing.

I press my palms into the edge of the counter until they ache.

The water’s still running. I let it pour.

It can’t drown out the sound.

Not of her laugh.

Not of everything I just lost.

The laugh fades, but the damage is done.

It echoes long after it’s gone, carved into the corners of the room like she was here, like I could still turn around and find her standing behind me.

I grip the sink tighter. My knuckles ache.

It would be so easy to let it go. To bury the feeling. To finish the bottle and let the regret turn soft around the edges until I can convince myself none of it mattered. Until I forget how warm she felt beside me. How quiet the world got when she smiled.

But I can’t.

Not this time.

Because the laugh wasn’t angry. Wasn’t bitter. It was light. Untouched. And something about that—about her being able to sound that free without me—makes the hollowness in my chest expand.

I keep thinking I saved her by walking away.

But maybe all I did was prove her right.

And now I can’t stop wondering what would happen if I didn’t.

If I turned around. If I said something. If I showed up and looked her in the eye and said I’m sorry and you were right about me, but maybe you were wrong about yourself.

The thought sits there, stubborn and uninvited.

I shake my head.

I’m not good at fixing things. Not people. Not anything that matters.

Still…

Maybe.

You don’t know how long you’ve been lying on their couch.

Long enough for the blanket Peeta tossed over you to settle warm against your shoulders. Long enough for the ache in your chest to dull from something sharp to something heavy.

You’d been outside earlier. Laughed at something Peeta said without meaning to. The sound surprised even you—too light for how hollow you still feel.

But now you’re back here. Inside. Tired again. Curled in the corner of their couch like a breath you haven’t quite let go.

They haven’t asked questions. They don’t need to.

They know what happened. They knew yesterday, when you walked into the kitchen and broke apart in Peeta’s arms. When Katniss sat beside you and didn’t say a word but stayed longer than she usually does, like the silence between you meant something. And it did.

It still does.

They don’t push.

Peeta’s sketching on the floor, cross-legged with his brow furrowed like he’s drawing something only his hands are allowed to understand. Katniss is by the window, sharpening an arrow with slow, even movements. Not because she needs to. Just because it gives her something to do.

You haven’t cried today. That feels like a victory and a loss all at once.

The sadness is still there. Pressed into your skin like a bruise. But it’s quieter now. Not gone. Just waiting.

You pull the blanket tighter around yourself and shift, resting your cheek on the back of the couch.

You don’t have to talk. Don’t have to explain.

They let you be here, exactly as you are. And for now, that’s enough.

The arrow stops scraping.

You glance over to find Katniss watching you from her spot by the window, whetstone still in one hand, blade forgotten.

She doesn’t look pitying. She never does.

Just calm. Focused. Like she’s been turning something over in her head and finally decided it was worth saying.

“Y’know,” she says, voice low but clear, “you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Your chest tightens.

She says it like a fact. Not for comfort. Not to make you feel better. Just because it’s true.

You blink at her, caught off guard. “I… didn’t say I did.”

“No,” she says. “But you think it.”

You open your mouth, then close it again. Because she’s right. Of course she’s right.

Katniss sets the arrow down.

“I know what it’s like,” she continues, softer now, “to think people leave because of something you said. Or didn’t say. To believe if you were just quieter, or better, or less—whatever—they’d stay.”

She shrugs, eyes flicking to the floor and then back up.

“But some people leave because they don’t know how to stay. That’s not on you.”

You swallow hard.

It hits somewhere deep. Somewhere still bruised.

“I don’t want to hate him,” you whisper.

Katniss nods, like she understands more than you’re saying. “You don’t have to.”

Then she goes back to sharpening the arrow.

Like it didn’t cost her anything to say it.

Like it wasn’t exactly what you needed.

You breathe in slow through your nose, out through your mouth.

And then Peeta says, without looking up from his sketchpad, “You’re not too much, you know.”

Your head turns toward him before you can stop it.

He’s still drawing—his voice calm, his pencil moving like none of this is heavy for him even though you know it is.

“You feel things deeply. That’s not a flaw,” he says. “You’re not a problem to be solved or a mess to be cleaned up. You’re just… you.”

You blink fast. Once. Twice.

He glances up now, just for a second, eyes soft. “And we like you that way.”

It breaks something small and sharp inside you. Not in a painful way—just enough to let some air in.

You nod, because you can’t speak. If you try, you’ll cry again. You’re not sure you’d stop.

So you just pull the blanket closer and look down at your lap.

And in the quiet that follows, it settles in your chest—low and warm and still aching, but less alone now.

They’re here.

They stay.

You close your eyes for a moment, letting the weight of their presence wrap around you like the blanket on your shoulders.

It’s quiet. Safe. Not happy, not healed—but steady.

And then, like a ripple through still water, a thought comes.

I wonder how he is.

It’s not desperate. Not angry. Just… there.

You picture him in that too-quiet house, the one with creaky stairs and shelves that lean like they’re tired. You wonder if he’s still drinking. If he’s sleeping. If he’s thought about you at all.

You don’t let yourself stay in the thought long.

But you don’t push it away either.

You open your eyes. Breathe in. The blanket is warm. The couch doesn’t feel wrong beneath you.

And for now, you let that be enough.

Next Part

[pedriache]

You can write one about Pau Cubarsi where he teaches her how to play soccer, a really cute moment pleasee

Only friend — Pau Cubarsí.

Pairing: Pau Cubarsí x Fem!Reader

Summary: Pau knew you hadn’t been doing good, so he came over to get you out of your room by forcing you to play footy!

Word count: 920+

Disclaimer/s: mostly fluff + me projecting gulps so lighttt angst

A/N: hi guys yes this is me projecting my problems into writing thats my bad honestly I HATE WINTER!!

“Get out of bed.” Pau insisted, standing in your doorway with pursed lips. The second you heard the door open, you’d already known it was him since your parents knew better than to open it without knocking.

Shaking your head, you pull the blanket over your head. “Pau, go away. I’m tired.”

“Tired?” Pau sighs, slipping off his shoes and entering your room. “It’s two in the afternoon. It’s time to get up. I have plans for us.”

The bed dips under his weight and you finally turn around to face him. Dark circles ring around your eyes as you look up at him. “I went to bed at five.”

“In the morning?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t care.”

“Wha—“ You don’t get to finish your sentence because Pau had looped his arms under you and pulled you out of bed. “Pau!”

“Get dressed. We’re going to the park.” He says sternly, setting you down and offering a small smile. “Quit pouting.” He chuckles, placing a small kiss on your lips.

Trudging towards your closet, you change into ‘park safe clothes’ while Pau waited downstairs with your parents. Once you slipped on shoes and did your hair, you stomped down the steps.

Pau sat up on the couch, watching as you rounded the corner with a grumpy expression. He grinning, standing and saying his goodbye’s to your parents.

Your parents adored Pau. Like.. adored, adored. So did you, of course, but to them Pau could never do any wrong. To you, he could. Making you get out of bed to do God knows what, was wrong.

“What are we even doing today?” You quirk an eyebrow, climbing into the passenger seat.

Pau’s mouth forms a devious, shit-eating grin. “I’m teaching you how to play football.”

Instantly you reached for the door handle. Pau, having much faster reflexes, locks the car doors. “Nuh-uh!” He laughs, “you can have aux, just come with me, okay?”

Chewing on your cheek, you let out a huff. “Fine. Only because I hate your music.” He nearly tried to defend himself, but stopped when he saw the look you were giving him.

The park was quiet today, which was lucky for you. Only a few families milled about and they were at the play sets. Pau reached for his ball in the back seat before getting out. When you begrudgingly got out, he wrapped an arm around your shoulder.

“This will be fun!” He insists, planting a kiss to your forehead. No matter how annoyed you may be, it was so hard to stay in that state when your boyfriend was just so.. perfect.

“Fun is going to the mall. Fun is not spraining your ankle because your boyfriend forgets he’s playing with his girlfriend and not his teammate.” You point at him accusatorially, which sends waves of guilt through him.

“I apologized for that a million times!” He groans, letting his hand drop to your hip. “I won’t do that again. Promise.”

Rolling your eyes with a small smirk, you chuckle. “Sure. Okay, put the damn ball down.”

Pau grins, setting the ball on the fresh grass. “What should we start with today?” He thinks out loud to himself, which you watch with your hands on your hips.

“Well shit, I don’t know.” You mumble, “oh! Oh! Remember last time when I did that one thing?”

The teens eyebrows pull together before it dawns on him. He nudges the ball, playing with it as he thinks. “Okay, yeah. You’re talking about when you kicked it behind you?”

Shaking your head vigorously, you use your hands while you explain, “nooo. Dribbling! I think thats what it’s called?”

Pau looks up from the ball to you, “yeah, that’s what it’s called. Okay, jog beside me and watch the ball, i’ll explain as I do it.”

Nodding, you and Pau set off in a slow jog, as you do so, he explains his tactics and you watch him move. “It’s easier to do when you’re in a full on run, but you should start off jogging, it’ll make it easier to learn.” He stops the ball, kicking it up into his hands before he sets it in yours. “You got this.”

Swirling the ball in your hands, you chew on your bottom lip. “Right. Super simple.” You mumble, psyching yourself up. “Alright, let’s go.”

Letting the ball drop to the grass, you do just as Pau described. You nearly stumble, but catch yourself and continue. Every so often, Pau gives you a new pointer, and you adjust to it.

Throughout your time learning how to play, Pau gives you compliments and praises;

“Yes! Yes just like that, you’re a natural!”

“See, you know what you’re doing!”

“Might as well start calling you Messi.” — That was teasing, which you’d flicked him for, eliciting a loud giggle from the boy.

After nearly an hour of non-stop playing, you slump onto the bar of the net, catching your breath. “How do you do this nearly every fucking day?” You gasp out, taking a large gulp of water to alleviate the pain.

Pau sits across from you, leaning back on his palms. “Nena [baby], i’ve been doing this since i could walk.” He says with an amused expression.

Your eyes roll, “true.” Taking another large gulp and jump to your feet. “Let’s go again!”

Pau looks up at you incredulously. “Again? Not even an hour ago you were complaining about me even bringing you here.”

“Yeah, well. Times change.” You grin, reaching for the ball.

likes , comments , and reblog’s are appreciated. lmk if you’d like to be tagged in future pau posts.

ᝰ.ᐟ tags @halfwayhearted @ar4ujos @sakashq @joaoflms @hrts4havertz @spidybaby @unx100to @n0vazsq

[hoseoksluna]

MURK | myg ft. jjk

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

genre: angst, smut

word count: 16.9k

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

pinterest board: murk

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You keep it clenched in a tight fist. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You step into the shower, needing to get away. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You put a stop to it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you ask him. “Why are you here?” 

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

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

Stillness in his features. “So did I.” 

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

“Tilt your head back.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then it hits you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You gasp. “No, Yoongi, I didn’t—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yoongi hasn’t come back yet. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You drift to sleep during the ride home. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What did he tell you?”

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

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

“Did you?” 

“No.” 

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

It’s better than to feel nothing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And again. 

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

He became obsessed with it. 

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

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

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

You wanted Jungkook again. 

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

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

He put two and two together. Immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You fixed your mistake quickly. 

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

“Did I talk? Like I do normally?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And in the meantime, you doll yourself up. 

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

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

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

“He’s coming over later.” 

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

And you pray nothing gets in the way. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You hungry?” 

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

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

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

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

And he deepens the eye contact. 

“How do you like your butt plug?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t wear boxing gloves?” 

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

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

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

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

And you will. 

You will heal both of the males. 

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

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

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

But Yoongi can’t bear to see it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stillness, arousing stillness. You smile, innocently. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You have a perfectly free hand by your side.

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

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

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

He only chuckles, deeply. Teased, but pleased. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you shall. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yoongi hums. “Where?” 

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

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

“Like what?” 

“Touch yourself.” 

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

“How?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Am I doing it right?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The afternoon spent in the cabin dissolves. 

You didn’t expect that to happen. 

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

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

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

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

Out with the old, in with the new. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Off. Everything.” 

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

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

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

But when Yoongi leaves, your heart sinks in panic. 

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

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

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

It’s you who alleviates the tremors. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t have to think twice. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nods. 

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

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

He’s Daddy. Undeniably. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

BACK to masterlist / READ part one, READ part two 

[starvingnarcissistmusic]

I should really make a non music blog so that people who like my music don’t get bombarded by random unrelated stuff but this is like tangentially related sort of so whatever

God I just love Mal Du Pays. I am always a sucker for “the enemy is you / the enemy is a manifestation of some part of you” trope in any media but MDP has by far gotta be one of the best applications of it I’ve ever seen.

I mean even just the design of it is brilliant. Obviously inverting a characters colors to get the evil / darker version isn’t anything new for this trope, but ISAT is unique in that you have quite literally been STARING AT MDP THE WHOLE GAME, every single time you die and every single time you loop back. Turning the non diegetic game over screen into a diegetic encounter is incredibly clever and immediately gives MDP that sense of crushing pressure that makes it so memorable.

Also literally any game where the game over music is later established as the motif of a character automatically just wins me over by default. It’s such an effective tool in immediately conveying just what MDP is, even before any of the dialogue starts. It’s the end of this journey. It’s the pain of a home you’ve never known. It’s an entire universe collapsing in on you at once. It’s the end. It’s the end. It’s the end.

And I think, it’s a little Fucked Up, that Siffrin’s sadness looks identical to him. Every other sadness we see in the game is very distinctly not human in appearance, incredibly abstract and inhuman pretty much all around the board. But Mal Du Pays? The sadness of our main character? Pretty much the same. Literally a color swap. I think that’s incredibly telling. A being born of Siffrin’s grief and pain and agony, and the form it takes is his own silhouette.

Thematically, it’s very On The Nose that Siffrin’s worst enemy is simply himself, but at the same time, it’s exactly what you expect. I remember getting to MDP for the first time, seeing Siffrin walk through the void and just… knowing what would come next. Of course it would be another him. For Siffrin, his hell is himself. This nightmarish half-life, devoid of a past and with nothing but a quickly collapsing future, his worst impulses and fears and agonies and pains personified, and all it looks like is his shadow. Of course, what else could be here, at his lowest of lows, but a reflection? Of course there would be nothing here but you. It’s always only ever been you. Mal Du Pays is a mirror. A mirror that hates you like you do, that loathes you like you loathe yourself. In the worst, most monstrous way possible, it tells you exactly what you’ve been telling yourself your whole journey. And so you believe it, let it sink its words into your skin and bury you in the misery. Because maybe then, maybe when you finally give in, it won’t hurt anymore.

(A cold comfort is still, however little it may be, a comfort.)

And then you’re saved. The King is defeated, your friends came back for you, you manage to come up for air again. But it’s not enough. It’s never enough. Everything is still coming to an end. You’re still going to be all alone. And so, you sink again.

Notice how Bigfrin doesn’t have a face in this panel? This is Siffrin at their most self destructive, most desperate, lower than lower than low. And in a way, I think that by quite literally looking like the Sadness they nearly created, they’re symbolically drawing a parallel there. Siffrin fully embraces what Mal Du Pays represented, to the point that their new form looks just like it. Even if they didn’t manifest MDP, they are just as horrible. After all, the mirror goes both ways. Mal Du Pays looks just like Siffrin, but that also means that Siffrin looks just like Mal Du Pays. And maybe, in Siffrin’s head, they’re one and the same. Maybe they’ve always been.

Oh god it’s 1 in the morning. I did not mean to make this that long lmao w h o o p s

uhhhhhh in summary tldr mdp is very good isat is also very good play isat

(also if you want more MDP content, I sort of wrote a whole song about it. So listen to that if you’d like. Im goin to bed)

[loveforsatoru]

Lots of things remind you of Satoru. The color blue, sweets, the evening just before the sun sets and the skies grow dark. Quite frankly, everything reminds you of him. Wherever you look, he’d always be there. You love him so much it makes you sick.

He deserved it, though. He was a good man, the best you’ve ever known. The least anyone could give him was love– and god did you give him more than enough to satisfy his soul for this lifetime and the ones to come. Because he, for someone who often thought logically and did not put much attention onto what happens after death, always knew that he would be yours and you would be his, everywhere out there in this infinite universe, even if he cannot hold you in all of them.

Just like now as you stand over his grave with an emotionless face and tears running down your cheeks, an umbrella over your head to shield you from the pouring rain which mirrors your tears, reminding you that the world moves on despite your inability to do the same.

Your days have blended together like a never ending loop since his death. You live the same thing over and over and over. Grief, tears, mourning, sadness. You wish you could forget the image of his severed body laying on the ground, covered in blood. It doesn’t feel real. Maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s just a bad dream and you’ll wake up soon, hopefully.

You’ve been standing here in the empty cemetery for hours. You haven’t eaten, haven’t slept, or uttered a single word. What’s the point? He’s not here to listen anymore.

You discard the umbrella, letting the rain soak you entirely, and sit in front of where he’s buried.

Satoru Gojo; loving teacher and husband. 1989-2018.

You gently trace your fingers over the engraved words, the same way you would over his cheeks when he’d come home from missions and fall right into your embrace– the place he always craved to be, where he should be right now.

During the entire fight, the only thing on his mind was you. You, you, you, you. And how badly he wanted to get it over with just so he could hold you and leave everything else behind.

He planned to retire after this final battle, so he could finally live a life of peace. Move away from Tokyo, perhaps to somewhere up in the countryside where the loudest sound in the morning would be that of chirping birds. He would go wherever the wind could take him as long as you were there, too. Without you, he’d feel like nothing.

It’s ironic, really. You’re the one who has to learn to live without him.

Part of you is expecting him to appear from thin air and wipe your tears away, telling you he’s here and he won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.

The final conversation with him was one you didn’t want to have. You waited outside the door while he spoke to Yuji, listening to every word before the younger boy left.

“Those kids won’t forget you, you know,” You say as you settle onto his lap and his hands find home on your waist.

“Yeah, but sometimes it feels that way,” He sighs, “Whatever happens, I’ll just have to accept it.”

You hum in response as he holds onto you a little tighter than usual and buries his face in your neck, drowning himself in you.

You let him do as he pleases, knowing you could never push him away even if you tried.

“You’re a little off,” You say softly. “Is everything okay?” You stare into his eyes, hoping to find some sort of warmth and reassurance amidst the clouds that swarm in them.

Of course it’s not. You can sense the little bit of doubt that radiates off of him. He wasn't the type to question his own abilities, but there’s a lot on the line, a lot to lose, a lot of you that he doesn’t want to let go of.

“You think so?” He tries to mask it with his usual tone. You can see right through it. “I’m a-okay. Don’t worry so much, sweetheart. You know me.”

“I do know you and that’s why I know you’re not a-okay. Talk to me, Satoru. Please.”

If this were any other day, he would, but it’s not. He just wants to hold and kiss you for as long as he can. He knows he might not be able to again.

“Let’s just stay here a little while. Forget about everything else for now,” He presses his lips against your temple and they linger for too long.

You huff in defeat and nod, because as much as you want to deny it, the impending feeling of doom won’t allow you.

“Okay.. but promise me you’ll be alright.”

It’s too much to ask for. He can’t make you a promise he can’t keep. You’re his wife, the love of his life. It would kill him even more to die knowing he broke the last promise he ever made you.

Instead, he pulls away to admire every detail of your face without a word.

“Promise me,” You repeat, “Promise me you’ll be okay, Satoru. I need to hear you say it.”

Your desperation is like a knife to his heart, but he can’t do that for you. This is the one thing he has to deny you no matter how badly he wants to bring you closer and say it’ll all be fine.

He hides his forming tears away with a chuckle, but there’s no humor behind it and kisses you like it’s the last time he will. It was. He remembers the way your lips taste even in death.

Sometimes, you can still hear his voice and the sound of his laughter rings in your ears. Nowadays, that’s the only thing that brings joy into your days. You don’t know yourself anymore. A part of you died with him and you’re afraid you’ll never be able to get it back.

You remember the way he smelt and the way his eyes would crinkle when he would smile a little too hard– mostly at you and your corny jokes that he found hilarious. The way he’d sing in the shower and hug you from behind before fully drying off while you prepared dinner because he knew it’d annoy you, but your scolds were never serious. He could tell with the way the corner of your lips threatened to curl upwards.

All of these cherished moments and many others have now become memories to remember him by. The day you forget any of it is the day you die, with your last request being to be buried right beside him.

Repeated sobs escape your once sealed shut lips. You cry and dig your hands into the muddy grass below you, clawing and clawing to seemingly reach the core of the earth and bring him back, but it won’t. Nothing will. You can’t do anything to bring him back and it rips you apart at the very center of your heart.

You’ll look for him in the skies, the wind, the trees, the color blue, sweets, the evening just before the sun sets and the skies grow dark, and anything and everything else. Until one day, your time will also come and you’ll be reunited once again.

But for now, all you can do is cry. And you do, everyday without fail because any life would be better than one without him.

[walkrawr]

₊˚ෆˎˊ˗ Walker Scobell secretly dating Male! Reader !

just like we promised . . .

✴︎ small oneshot of Walker and Y/N gaslighting Leah and Aryan

✴︎ made this for fun and because there’s literally zero walker scobell x male reader don’t come for me pls 💔 I hate posting fanfics just kill me atp it’s so embarrassing idk why

✴︎ !!! I am not trying to sexualize or label Walker in any way possible, this is purely a work of fiction.

There was a certain art to keeping a secret. It was like throwing a pebble into a stream—small, subtle, and easy to overlook, blending in so well that no one would ever think to look for it.

Walker and Y/N had mastered that art.

It’s not that they don’t want to show off each other or that their friends and family won’t accept them, it’s just easier to keep it a secret (and more fun).

Their relationship was never hushed conversation or stolen glances across a room. It was insults, sitting just a little too close, knowing exactly what made the other laugh— it was acting normal. Just normal enough that no one ever looked twice.

And right now, at some restaurant booth with Aryan and Leah across from them, no one was looking twice.

Even though they should.

“Okay, Donnie Darko is such a mindfuck. Like, the whole time you’re watching, you think you get it, but then the ending just hits you like a ton of bricks. Also Jake Gyllenhaal was a fine fucking guy in the movie too—“ Walker leaned closer to Y/N, his voice quiet.

“Yeah, I know. We literally watched the movie last night. ” Y/N muttered, more focused on whatever is on his phone.

“You’re not even listening,” Walker teased, nudging him lightly. “I’m just saying, the whole thing, y’know? time loops, fucking Frank, the plane crash. “

��Shut up already.” Y/N rolled his eyes, finally turning his head to look at Walker slightly smiling. “Donnie Darko is a amazing cinematic film, got it.” He mocks Walker, snickering.

He scoffed, “Can a man not talk about a movie?” Shaking his head, feigning offense.

“God, could you two stop acting like a couple?” Leah cuts in, chewing the straw of her sprite.

“As if we aren’t,”

“What.” Aryan finally looks up from his phone as Leah blinking as if she misheard.

Walker’s eyes flickered between the confused two and Y/N, “What?”

Aryan just stares at Walker before scoffing, “What do you mean ‘what?’ You just said—“

“Said what?”

“‘As if we aren’t?’” Leah whipped her head towards him, repeating what he said.

He exchanged a look with Y/N, brows furrowed. “No,” Walker sneers, pretending to be confused. “I didn’t say that? What?”

“You literally did?”

“Nuh-uh, you’re probably just tired, Leah.”

“I know I’m not tired, you said it.”

Y/N looked at Walker, suppressing a smile. “Wait, what did you say again?”

“I dunno. I think I said, ‘As if we would’ or something.” Shrugging his shoulders, acting as if he forgot.

Aryan tilted his head, puzzled. “That’s, that’s not—“

Walker reached over the table to give Aryan a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “It’s okay, it’s just a misunderstanding.” Aryan raised his eyebrow in genuine confusion.

“I’m never talking to you guys ever again.” Leah let out a frustrated groan as she leaned back into her seat.

Walker looked over and gave his boyfriend a small smile. Their secret was still theirs to keep, the pebble untouched.

[ollypopwrites]

I wish you would write a fic where Emmrich or Rook is in a timeloop and the one who isn't in the loop belives the other every time they tell them about it.

oh my god and they WOULD believe each other.

This is like… very rough and i haven’t finished my coffee so forgive me but I wrote a little bit.

It’s the fifth time Rook has looked at him in near abject horror, and he can’t help but smile fondly despite her reaction. What an impossible thing, and she takes Emmrich’s word for it wholeheartedly every time.

He thinks he may have it figured out this time. Five repetitions of the same day, the first had been a confused panic inducing day when he cornered Rook and told her as calmly as he could that —

“There seems to be some sort of anomaly happening, as I seem to be reliving the same day as yesterday.”

The second to third days had been spent tirelessly finding a solution. Difficult, since any progress of creating anything to help would be reset. But Rook was by his side, after the first initial shock and without fail she would stay up until the final hour in which Emmrich would promptly fall asleep, only to wake up as he had every day previous.

The fourth he had figured it out, but was unable to get to Arlathan forest (where he was now certain this particular wrinkle started) and finish the ritual. This fifth day, as he sat in front of Rook, who reached out to grab him.

“We’ll figure this out, Emmrich, I promise.”

Everytime it was the same. Maybe not word for word, but she gave her unyielding support. Her solemn promise to save him.

“Thank you, Rook.”

He knew what needed to be done, he already knew where they needed to go. Yet, he spent the day at Rook’s side. Just one more day.

By quarter to midnight, when his eyes started drooping, his body started to shut down so that by the stroke of the first hour he was thrust back, he watched Rook start to panic.

“It didn’t work! We didn’t figure it out,” she hissed. “Emmrich, come find me tomorrow— or today - whatever- we will get this. I know we will.”

Emmrich is feeling bold after having wasted a precious day of looping through time just to spend one more stretch of hours with her undivided attention. To watch her worry and fuss over ‘saving him’ from a terrible fate. It hadn’t been quite as dramatic as he originally thought, no, indeed, he found himself enjoying it.

Emmrich grabbed her hand, kissing it, and smiling, “my dear, we already did.”

Rook was just a little off-kilter, and she frowned. “Then why didn’t you —“

“Selfishness,” he admitted gently.

His time is running out, even as he moves to pull her in he’s growing tired. Unable to fight off the magical pull that requires him to fall asleep and wake up in the same day. Emmrich tilts her face up to his, a gentle touch underneath her chin and a whispered plea for forgiveness before he kisses her, as he has wanted to for weeks.

It lacks any of the propriety or the prerequisite lead up. It is, at its core, a selfish indulgence. Just before the clock strikes twelve and wipes the slate clean. Their first kiss that she won’t remember come morning, and he will probably remember forever.

She kisses him back, and only stops to speak with their lips still touching, “how many times have we done this?”

“Just this once.”

“You should… we should do it again. Tomorrow… or today, I guess.”

Just as he starts to feel the elation he falls asleep.

Emmrich wakes abruptly, as if from a dream. Downstairs, Manfred knocks a book off of a shelf as he has for the past five days at the same time, the same sound, the same hiss of shock. He dresses, he goes through the routine of the morning before calmly walking next door to Rook’s door.

She comes to answer his knock with bleary eyes, and in rumpled sleep clothes.

“What is it, Emmrich?” She frowns.

“Rook, I need to get to Arlathan forest. And I need you to come with me. It is a matter of urgency.” His tone doesn’t convey it, and he’s smiling too easily.

Rook nods, ready to help. Always ready. “Lemme…” she yawns, “sorry, let me get dressed. We’ll go right away. You okay?”

“Perfectly content. Just a small metaphysical anomaly. Quite enlightening, really.”

prompt post: “I wish you would write a fic where…”

[cinnamongorll]

Unburied - Chapter 1 🫀

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Original Female Character Summary: Recently pardoned for his crimes as the Winter Soldier, Bucky Barnes is expected to rebuild his life, but the ghosts of his past force him to remain in the shadows. Elise Monroe, an assistant at a biotech company, is drowning in the demands of her job and her boss’s ambitions. When their worlds collide, a fragile friendship forms, but Bucky’s haunted history plunges Elise into a web of vengeance and hidden truths. As the tension between them builds, so do the threats that lurk in the shadows. In a world of uncertainty, one thing is clear: Bucky’s past won’t stay buried for long. Tags: slow burn, friends to lovers, pov first person, pov third person, multiple povs, eventual smut, violence & gore, ANGST, protective Bucky, mutual pining Word count: 5.1k

next chapter | masterlist | ao3

_________________________________

Chapter 1:

‘THE WINTER SOLDIER PARDONED.’ 

The words, printed in bold, track across the bottom of the TV screen on a constant loop. 

In the corner,  a blurred CCTV photo of the Winter Soldier appears. A black mask covers the bottom half of his face, his hair conceals the rest. The focal point, though, is his large metal arm, frozen mid swing, inches away from landing a blow to America’s hero. 

Beside it, an aged photo of ‘Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes’ from 1941, off to fight in the war. He stands against a brick wall, his cap slanted on his head, his uniform crisp. It’s the smile on his face, the light in his eyes that makes it difficult for Bucky to look away. 

The reporters’ voices grow louder, more animated, and finally, Bucky manages to tear his eyes away from the two echoes of himself on the screen. 

“Now, I believe we should consider this a threat to our national security, Joe. How can we ensure that a man with this kind of history isn’t going to hurt anyone again?” The bald man on the screen declares. His face grows redder with each heated word, making his eyes bulge and his collar tighten. 

“The White House has made it clear that James Buchanan Barnes is no longer under HYDRA’S control,” Joe responds, cutting a nervous glance at the camera. “We have to trust their judgement in this manner” he adds, shuffling the papers in front of him with a hollow smile. 

The red faced man scoffs, seemingly unfussed about criticising the president’s decisions on live television.

“Come on! He’s a trained assassin! He can speak god knows how many languages, can use every weapon known to man. He has a metal arm for pete’s sake! This kind of being should not be allowed to walk the streets.” 

The screen flashes with another CCTV image of the winter soldier. Bucky’s hand curls around the remote. 

Joe straightens and his plastered smile falters for a second before he fixes it. 

“You do make a point there, Seth, but we have to remember that James Barnes was once a hero. He fought the Nazis -” 

“And how many Nazis has he helped since then?” Red faced Seth cuts him off, leaning back as he lets the viewers at home absorb his words. 

Joe sighs deeply and glances to the left, clearly urging his director to wrap this segment up. He looks down at his papers again before speaking. 

“The reports say he was brainwashed, frozen for years at a time. Many might consider him a sympathetic character -” 

“Those sympathies do not outway the pain he has inflicted,” Seth interrupts again, louder this time as he leans forward. “A tragic backstory does not make him less dangerous.” 

There’s a sharp cracking sound. Bucky looks down to find the remote mangled in his metal hand. He instantly relaxes his grip but the damage is done, the broken fragments of plastic fall to the floor next to his feet.

Dread floods his body, muffling the reporters’ voices. Bucky flexes his hand, watching as the glow from the TV reflects off the shined vibranium.   

The reminder of his pardon still trails across the bottom of the screen. He knows that the panic will have died down by tomorrow, gone in a week, but right now, his face, albeit blurred, is splattered across every TV in the country. 

He found out about his pardon weeks ago, when he passed the psych evaluation and was told about his mandatory weekly therapy sessions. It didn’t surprise him, though, that they waited to release the news to the press. Better to hold off, see if he’ll slip up and start killing people before they make their decision public. 

Bucky wipes his flesh hand across the bottom of his face, rubbing his thumb along the stubble on his jaw. He sighs deeply as his eyebrows pinch together.

It doesn’t take long for the reporters’ voices to break through his panic. 

“Thanks, Seth for joining us tonight and sharing your… passionate views on the topic.” Joe turns back to the camera, his voice drops as his smile fades. “James Buchanan Barnes is pardoned. The Winter Soldier is gone. That’s all for tonight.” 

He glances down, shuffles his papers. The camera cuts to the weather girl giving her nighttime report. 

Bucky stands so quickly the couch moves backwards. He stalks across the room to his small kitchenette, swiping his baseball cap and gloves from the counter and striding towards his apartment door, footsteps heavy.

The air is cool when Bucky steps out onto the street. A frigid gust of wind grazes his cheek, ruffling his recently chopped hair. He pauses in a shaded part of the street and pulls on the baseball cap and gloves, a precaution for anonymity, not a defense against the chill. Bucky is used to the cold. 

He begins walking, his chin dripped and his gloved hands shoved in the pockets of his leather bomber jacket. The streets are quiet, it must be near 11pm, but Brooklyn is still bright, projecting a warm glow to light his way. Bucky tucks himself closer to the buildings he walks past, choosing to remain in the shadows. 

“How can we ensure that a man with this kind of history isn’t going to hurt anyone again?” 

Bucky clenches his jaw, his boots strike harder across the pavement. 

“This kind of being should not be allowed to walk the streets.” 

His hands curl into fists. 

“The pain he has inflicted” 

A muscle jumps in his cheek. 

“The Winter Soldier is gone.”

Bucky releases a breath, resembling a scoff. 

With each step he can feel that heavy sensation crawling over his body, the one that reminds him of his strength, what he’s truly capable of. 

Bucky might have his mind back but his body still belongs to the Winter Soldier. 

All of HYDRA’S training: languages, surveillance, hand to hand combat, firearms, explosives. None of it has disappeared. Bucky is still as deadly as before. The only difference is that now he can choose whether or not to kill. 

Without realising, Bucky scans his surroundings, searching for cameras, threats, places to hide. It’s a habit he can’t break. 

Maybe Seth has a point. Maybe people should be wary of him. 

The cafe is just up ahead, Bucky slows his pace, not wanting to rush inside and scare the other customers. Not that there would be many at this time. “Maggie’s” is open 24 hours but it’s usually dead after 10pm, other than the occasional late night coffee drinker like himself. 

Bucky isn’t sure how much caffeine actually works on him, he suspects that the super soldier serum dulls its effectiveness, but if there’s even a small chance it will keep him from falling asleep, he’ll take it. 

His gloved hand pushes against the glass door, fogged up with age and grime. A bell rings softly as he steps inside. The smell of burnt coffee and old wood hits him immediately, welcoming him back. 

The place is empty, apart from a woman in the back corner, typing rapidly on her laptop with two empty mugs beside her. Bucky’s eyes don’t linger for long, he quickly dismisses her as a  threat. He doesn’t have to worry about being recognised, either. She doesn’t even look up from her screen. 

Bucky rolls his shoulders and walks up to the counter. Maggie is there, wiping invisible dirt off the red vinyl top. Her grey hair is tucked up in a bun, reading glasses sit perched on her head. She smiles when she notices him, the wrinkles around her eyes creasing with recognition. 

“Evenin’ soldier,” Maggie greets in her husky voice, tossing her rag over her shoulder.

Bucky stiffens, as he always does when Maggie uses that nickname. The first time she called him “soldier” he was so shocked, so stoked with panic that he asked her what she meant before he could stop himself. 

“Ah, I can spot y’all from a mile off,” she had replied, scanning her watery blue eyes up and down his rigid figure. “You’ve all got that same look. Too still, too quiet - like a coiled spring. Just waitin’ for someone to give you orders.” 

Bucky shifts under Maggie’s sharp, observant stare. He dips his chin in greeting, causing the rim of his cap to cover a little more of his face. 

“The usual, huh?” she asks, not waiting for an answer, already shuffling over to the coffee machine. Bucky lets out a slow breath and leans an arm against the counter top. Maggie isn’t one for conversation either, thankfully. The only sounds are the soft clink of a coffee mug and the hiss of the machine. 

He can’t help it, Bucky’s eyes subtly scan every inch of the place as he waits, carefully titling his body to check each corner. Still just the woman with her laptop and empty mugs. This time, when his eyes graze over her, his quick stare is a little more assessing. 

Her hair, somewhere between blonde and brown, is pulled back into a haphazard ponytail. A tousled fringe frames her face but doesn’t cover her eyes, dark and razor sharp, as they flicker across the laptop screen, reflecting the bright glow. 

She looks to be in her late 20s, slender build, average height, her movements controlled, posture relaxed but upright, no visible weapons - 

Stop. Bucky urges himself, blinking rapidly. She’s not a threat. 

“Here ya go, soldier,” Maggie says, her voice cutting through his mental checklist, as she presses the ceramic mug into his gloved hand. Its warmth bleeds through the leather, dull and distant. 

The bitter smell of cheap coffee momentarily grounds him. Bucky pulls a crumpled $10 bill from his back pocket and lays it on the red countertop. It’s too much for coffee, but Maggie doesn’t complain. The cash register dings as he turns and begins walking to his usual seat, in the opposite corner to the woman with the laptop.  

The chair is made of plastic, he imagines most people would find it uncomfortable but Bucky is content. He can see the whole cafe from this angle. Every possible threat laid bare in the dim light. A slow, steady breath leaves his mouth. 

Bucky lifts the mug to his lips and takes a sip. The coffee is bitter, sharp on his tongue. But it’s hot and he savours the burn as it goes down. He glances out the window, watching the rain pick up, splattering the foggy glass, making the lights outside even more blurry. 

Minutes crawl by. The clock on the wall reads 11:30pm. Bucky swallows the rest of his coffee, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the vinyl table top. After a moment, he realises that he’s unintentionally matching the pace of the woman’s typing. The clatter of keys is deafening in the empty cafe. 

He wonders what she’s doing on that laptop. Something important, surely, or else she wouldn’t be here until almost midnight. Maybe she’s wondering why he’s here too. 

Bucky adjusts his position in the seat, flexing his gloved hands against his dark jeans. In a few hours, the sun will be up and he’ll have to face the day. His next therapy appointment is in the morning. Dr. Raynor will ask him if he’s had any more nightmares. He’ll tell her he hasn’t. 

Will it still be lying if he doesn’t sleep? 

Bucky is picturing the frown on her face when the door swings open, the bell clattering against the frame. 

Behind the counter, Maggie jumps. Bucky even notices, from the corner of his eye, that the woman in the corner stops typing for a second before resuming her rapid pace. 

Bucky doesn’t move an inch. He finds it difficult to be startled. It’s like that human instinct was trained out of him. 

Instead, he subtly shifts back in his chair, becoming invisible as the newcomer enters. The air shifts with the cold draft that follows him in. 

Male. Late 40s. About six foot. Roughly 200 pounds. Dark jacket. Heavy boots. No obvious weapon. 

The newcomer walks swiftly to the counter, no wasted steps. Bucky doesn’t stare, but his peripheral vision is keen, analytical. 

He orders a coffee, handing Maggie some coins, then tucks his hands into his pockets, looking around. 

That’s when Bucky notices it. A brief moment, a flicker of attention. He follows the tilt of the man’s head across the room to the woman on her laptop, still too absorbed to notice her surroundings. 

Bucky can’t see the newcomer’s expression but the look lingers long enough for his instincts to kick in. The ones trained into him. Bucky’s posture remains relaxed, casual, but there’s a new stillness to his body. A tension beneath the surface. 

The man takes his mug from the counter. His hand is calloused, rough. Probably works in some sort of manual labour. With his coffee in hand, he pauses, considering, before he crosses the room, not even glancing Bucky’s way, and plants himself down at the table next to the woman. 

Bucky’s lips twitch into a thin, unreadable line. His vibranium fingers flex once, then still. 

The clatter of keys slows to a crawl and, for the first time, Bucky watches as the woman’s eyes lift from the laptop. 

Dark brown, he notes.

In a flash, they’re gone. Back to the screen like they never left. Her typing picks up again, but the pace is different. Aggressive at first, quick and urgent, and then slow, distracted. 

Beside her, the man leans back in his seat, rolling his broad shoulders. He sips his coffee with a casualness that could only be manufactured. Legs spread, fingers tapping against the ceramic mug like he’s inviting attention. 

The man doesn’t look over at the woman directly, but there’s a pattern to his movements. A glance in her direction between sips, his body turned just slightly, not making it obvious. Testing the distance. 

Bucky catches the slightest shift in the woman's shoulders, stiffening as she straightens her spine. 

He grinds his teeth. A subtle shift in his jaw, a flicker of a muscle that betrays every murderous thought running through his mind. 

The man clears his throat. In the quiet cafe, it might as well be a gunshot. 

The woman flinches. Her typing halts, fingers hovering over the keyboard. 

Bucky shifts in his seat. The first visible movement he’s made since the man walked through the door. He begins to hope that the man looks over at him, begs for it, actually. 

Another sip. The man smacks his lips, makes a sound low in his throat. 

The woman exhales sharply through her nose, and takes a final, longing look at her screen. She closes her laptop with a quiet snap and reaches for her bag. Not rushed or panicked. Just done. 

Bucky’s fingers flex against his knee, then still. His shoulders ease, just barely, but his jaw remains tight. He watches, heavy lidded, tracking her movements. 

The man isn’t so subtle. His thick, oil-slick gaze roams over her as she gathers her things and tugs on her black trench coat. 

The woman stands carefully, adjusting the strap on her bag, before sliding through the gap between the two tables. She doesn’t rush, her movements are purposeful, eyes locked on the exit. 

Bucky inhales a soft, woody musk as she passes his table, not even looking in his direction. 

The bell jingles softly as she steps out, into the night. 

The air in the cafe shifts. Heavier, somehow, in the emptiness that follows. 

Light eyes, hooded but biting, flick towards Bucky’s table. It’s only a glance, brief but deliberate. It’s enough for Bucky to feel that heavy sensation crawl across his body again, settling in the weight of his vibranium arm. 

Bucky tilts his head in acknowledgement, it’s subtle but unmissable. His stare is undisguised. His expression unreadable. 

For a moment, neither of the men move. Sounds reduce to the hum of the refrigerator in the back, rain hitting the windows, and the scratch of Maggie’s pen, working on her crossword. 

A normal person might have flinched, when the man’s chair scraped against the tiled floor, sending a screech ricocheting through the room. But Bucky just narrows his eyes, studying his response, concluding its predictability.  

The man stands, his cheeks sporting a faint red glow. He adjusts the cuff of his sleeve then lifts his mug, draining its contents in one long gulp, and sets it down with a deliberate thud. 

He doesn’t look Bucky’s way as he walks to the door. 

The bell rings again, harsher this time. A warning to the night air. 

Bucky watches him go, the door swinging shut behind him. 

He exhales slowly, waits a beat. 

Then, just as smoothly, Bucky rises from his chair and follows. 

The smell of the rain hits him with the first step outside, boots splashing in a puddle. The “Maggie’s” sign glows neon red above him, illuminating the beads of water that roll down his leather jacket. 

He blinks, angling his head, letting car horns and distant music fade into the background. The feeling in his gut takes priority. It’s a churning sensation, muscle memory. His mind ticks like a clock.

There. To his left. The man. 

Bucky’s not following him. Not yet. He’s just walking in the same direction, pace even, enjoying the night air. But a tension lingers, pressing against his ribs, nudging him forward. 

Bucky shoves his hands in his pockets. His eyes are scanning the street in front of him, tracking the man, analysing his movements, calculating threat levels. 

A man heading home wouldn’t be so cautious with his steps, wouldn’t hold his shoulders so tight, wouldn’t glance behind him, then pretend he didn’t. 

Bucky keeps a careful distance. Out of sight but never out of range. There one second. Gone another. Invisible. Alert. 

He adopts this persona a little too easily, embracing the cold detachment without resistance. 

“This kind of being should not be allowed to walk the streets.” 

Bucky’s steps falter, just a little. Enough for his mask to crack. 

He imagines his conversation with Dr. Raynor in the morning. 

“What did you get up to last night?” she’ll ask, glancing between him and her notebook. Pen poised over the page, ready to translate his furrowed brow and grumbled answers in her sharp scrawl.

“Oh nothing. Just followed a man four blocks home because he looked at a woman wrong.”

Bucky cringes and lets out a dry, humourless laugh. 

Paranoid? Probably. But Bucky wasn’t betting on it. 

The man is still moving at a decent pace. Determined. Confident. 

Bucky inhales, slow and deep. The damp air clings to his skin, thick with the scent of wet pavement and gasoline. 

Just go home, he urges the man. Don’t make any trouble. Bucky’s hands curl into fists in his jacket pockets.

Up ahead, the man turns. The movement is so sharp, so calculated. Bucky’s instincts snap into place like the bars of a cage. 

He knows that move. Knows what it looks like when someone spots their target. 

Before he can react, before he can track the man’s new path, a door beside him bursts open. A young couple tumble out into the street, hands in each other’s hair, lips on skin. 

Bucky steps out of the way, muscles tightening. It’s only a split second. But it’s enough to put a considerable distance between himself and the man. 

He quickens his pace, scanning the street. Searching for that purposeful gait.

The pressure on his ribs grows, pressing harder, constricting his breath. His heartbeat remains steady. His focus sharp. 

Then - there. 

Bucky’s head whips to the side, following the flash from the corner of his eye. 

An alleyway. The man, walking, quicker. Following something. Someone. 

Bucky turns so fast the night breeze whooshes in his ears. He stalks towards the alley, vision focusing with each step. 

It grows quieter. The noise of the street dissolves. The air is thicker, heavy with a feeling he knows all too well. 

The light fades at the gap between buildings. The streetlight’s orange glow dilutes to a pale echo, circling the alley’s entrance.

The alleyway is long, narrow. Its darkness stretches, ending in a faint glimmer. 

The scent of garbage is striking, intensified by the rain. Bins are overfilled, spilling over. 

Bucky hesitates. Pausing at the mouth of the alley. Reality tugs at the edges of his mind. No cold words have been spoken. No electrical currents have flooded his brain. He can keep walking, bet on his own paranoia. 

He rolls his shoulders. Not tonight. 

Bucky steps into the blackness, following a shadow. 

No, two shadows. 

There’s a vague shape of movement at the far end. A figure. 

The man isn’t just walking towards it. His posture has changed, his steps fall into a pattern that matches Bucky’s. 

Predatory. 

Bucky loosens a breath, slows his steps. Frigid instincts dictate his every movement. 

Slowly, carefully, he takes his hands out his pockets. Flexing his fingers, testing his control. His head tilts, only slightly, keeping the man in his periphery as he scans the rest of the alley. 

Footsteps silent, heels barely skimming the wet ground as he balances his weight. Ready. 

The man moves. Locking in on his target. 

The figure at the end of the alley. A silhouette against the streetlight’s remaining brightness. Dark jacket. Tousled hair. 

She’s turning, just slightly. There’s a flicker of her profile. 

Recognition slams into him. 

Her. 

Paranoia be damned. 

Something cold flares inside him, ice floods every vein. Muscle memory overrides. 

His weight shifts, he moves, vibranium arm raised. 

Too late. 

A sharp grunt. A body hits the wall. 

Bucky stops short, boots skidding against the concrete. His mind is computing, struggling to catch up with the sight in front of him. 

The man. Pinned to the wall. Knife to his throat. Sharp silver reflecting the light from the end of the alley. 

Bucky’s eyes shift to the woman. Her breathing is ragged. Stance steady. Her grip on the knife is strong. 

But there’s a tremble to her hands, betraying her shock. 

The man’s eyes are wide, frozen in his panic. He looks down at the woman like he’s seeing her for the first time. The victim in his mind has vanished. Replaced by a predator. 

Bucky swallows. His muscles are coiled tight, desperate for release. But he waits for a signal, a struggle. 

The woman turns. Her dark gaze snaps to him. 

It’s wild, burning, frightened. 

Then it shifts, her eyes narrow. Something registers beyond her panic. 

She recognises him. 

Fear bolts through him. Then, no, he realises, not from the news - from the cafe. 

Bucky can see the moment she pieces it together. Her eyes flick between him and the man. 

No, he wants to say. I’m not with him. 

She inhales, sharp and sudden. Her grip on the knife tightens, the point grazes the man’s thick, leathered flesh. His skull presses against the brick. 

The look she throws Bucky’s way is repulsed. 

“Are you next?” she demands, a slight tremble cloaking her words but not quite disguising their bite. 

Bucky watches her carefully. A heartbeat passes between them. Her gaze doesn’t falter. 

He raises his gloved hands slightly, just enough to show he’s not a threat. His posture is casual but his muscles remain tight. 

“Relax,” he answers, voice calm. “Not here to hurt you.” He nods towards the knife in her hand. “Or to get stabbed.” 

His tone is even, dry, but there’s a sincerity in his eyes.

She just stares back. Expression unreadable.  

“Wouldn’t be the first time, but I’m really not interested.” Bucky deadpans, lowering his hands as he shifts his stance, feeling her out, testing the tension. 

Her eyes don’t leave his face. 

“So, what? You just follow women into dark alleys?” she accuses, shifting on her feet, flexing her fingers around the knife. 

“No,” he denies quickly, a slight furrow forming in his brow. He nods towards the man. “I was following him.” 

The man’s body jerks as the knife digs deeper, biting his skin. Blood beads at the wound and rolls down his neck. 

The woman blinks, her breathing hitches. Her eyes flash with something - guilt, maybe. She clearly didn’t mean to press that hard. A slow, shaky breath releases from her lips. 

Unease begins to build beneath Bucky’s skin. His gaze sharpens, instincts taking over. 

The man pinned to the wall is only seconds away from realising that her grip on the knife has loosened slightly. One quick grab would have her disarmed. 

A second passes. Bucky sees the man’s shoulders stiffen. The shift of his jaw. The twitch of his hand. 

He catches the woman’s eyes. There’s a flicker of hesitation there. She doesn’t know where to go from here. Not sure what to do. 

She doesn’t know whether to trust him. 

Then it happens. 

The man moves, hand snatching for the metal blade. 

Instead, it meets vibranium. 

Bucky steps forward, his hand slamming around the man’s wrist. Twisting it at such an angle that the man releases a sharp hiss from between his teeth. 

The knife clatters to the wet concrete as the woman jumps back, a gasp escaping her lips. 

The man struggles against Bucky’s grip, swinging his other hand in a desperate attempt to land a few blows. Bucky doesn’t even flinch. His fingers tighten, the vibranium almost humming with restrained force. His other hand lifts slowly to curve around the man’s throat. 

His jaw clenches, a muscle twitching in his cheek as he holds the man in place. 

Ice returns to his veins. Muscle memory is taking over. Bucky knows he should let go. But he doesn’t want to. 

His voice cuts through the air, cold and commanding. “Grab the knife. Go,” he snaps, turning slightly towards the woman, his eyes not leaving the man. 

There’s an anger rippling in his body, hot and foreign. Melting the ice. He’s done his job, he’s saved the girl. So why doesn’t he want to stop? 

The woman doesn’t hesitate. Bucky sees her hurried movements out of the corner of his eye. She bends to grab the bag that had fallen from her shoulder during the struggle, then swiftly swipes the knife off the ground. 

The man’s eyes follow her. Bucky’s fingers tighten around his throat. A sharp warning. 

Bucky waits, listening for her retreating footsteps. But the only sound is the man’s ragged breathing and his own rapid heartbeat, pounding in his ears. 

“Get out of here. Now.” Bucky’s voice is low, final. 

She stands still for a moment. The seconds stretching his patience. 

Then, with a shaky breath, she turns and walks towards the glow of the streetlights. Footsteps slow, weighted. 

Bucky watches her go from his periphery, his teeth clenched, muscles tight. The alley is quiet, colder now against his burning skin. 

It’s just Bucky and the man. 

Bucky’s lips twitch. 

The man’s body tenses under his grip, feeling the shift. He knows what’s coming. 

Both hands, vibranium and flesh, flash to the man’s shoulders. A quick pull back, then he slams forward. Skull thudding against brick. The impact ripples through Bucky’s arm. 

A choked sound escapes the man’s throat. 

Then Bucky’s lips are at his ear. 

“If you even think about following her again, I’ll find you, and I’ll kill you,” he promises, his voice a low growl. 

Fire and ice crackle under his skin, but he holds back. He has to. 

The man says nothing, just groans under his breath. 

Bucky releases his grip in one sudden movement. He steps back slowly, eyes never leaving the man. 

The man’s eyes dart to him before he swallows hard, peeling himself off the wall. He glances in the direction the woman went, but then, reconsidering, he turns and heads back the way he came in, his steps hurried and uneven. He doesn’t look back. 

“How can we ensure that a man with this kind of history isn’t going to hurt anyone again?” 

Bucky’s chin dips, a heavy exhale slipping from his body. 

How quickly it returned - that cold, biting detachment. The frost that controlled his actions.  The bitterness that hardened his restraint. It was pure instinct. Calculated. Methodical. The way he stalked the man, slammed him against the wall, threatened his life. The lack of remorse. 

“The Winter Soldier is gone.”

His jaw tightens, teeth grinding.

The anger was new, this time. 

Bucky wasn’t used to it, the white hot burn beneath his skin. The fire, fueling his movements. 

As the Winter Soldier, he had felt nothing. Only echoes of emotions, lingering in the back of his mind, frozen. Sometimes they’d melt, dripping through the cracks. But every time he reached out, they slipped through his fingers like water. 

This anger was new. Or maybe it wasn’t. An old feeling, perhaps, now returning to him. 

He could have killed that man. He wanted to. But he didn’t. 

“The Winter Soldier is gone.”

No. Bucky still struggled to accept that. 

But maybe he has adapted, transformed into something new. 

He stands there in the dark alley, listening to the rain splash off the pavement. Whatever buzz the caffeine had given him had worn off, and a deep, heavy tiredness begins to tug at his bones. 

The sun will be up soon. He’ll go to therapy. Dr. Raynor will ask him about his night, how he’d slept. He’ll lie. She’ll know. 

Then he’ll return home to a dark, empty apartment to watch more reporters debate about his right to exist. 

The same question will linger in mind, heavy and unshakable: 

What’s the point? 

……………………………….

His phone buzzes from the desk, pulling his focus from the computer screen. 

Bored eyes glance over the notification, quick to dismiss the distraction, before he catches sight of the words: 

BREAKING NEWS: James Buchanan Barnes, formerly known as the Winter Soldier, officially pardoned by the U.S. government. 

His phone is in his hand. Fingers quick, urgent, as they seek more information. 

As the confirmation settles over him, his pulse slows, along with his breathing. Everything around him pauses, forgotten, inconsequential to the information now plaguing his brain. 

Flashes of memories, once thought buried, resurface. Building, growing, cracking in his mind. 

His hands begin to shake. His vision burns - red hot. 

The phone is no longer in his grip. He throws it, hard, across the room. 

It smashes against a wall with a sharp crack, pieces scattering across the floor.

It doesn’t matter. The damage is already done. The words are still there, burned into his mind. 

[nadvs]

“Yeah,” is all he can say. Because he’s already found the girl he needs. She just doesn’t need him back.”

“Every morning, every afternoon, every night, you’re on his mind. You’ve thrown him completely off center, dominating every second of his day, the longing to see you when he’s not with you insatiable.”

“My mom said it’s cute how obviously in love Rafe is with you.”

“You think he’s kidding. He’s not. He feels insanely protective over you, and while he can see that you’re not that bothered by this, he’d get those idiots you’re working with in line if you needed him to.”

“This is only getting more difficult. He wants to tell you that he’s serious. That he’d do anything to make things easier for you, that you don’t deserve to be ignored, that you should cut this act out and be with him for real.” (this is my fav part)

“He can’t talk like that with a girl who’d never want him. Who he’d never recover from getting rejected by.”

“He’s hopeful you follow through. Because even if you’re there as a friend, as all you’ll ever want to be to him, he plays better knowing you’re watching.”

“His stomach flips and he feels like a little kid with a crush on a girl in his class. The effect you have on him is starting to get really damn embarrassing.”

“I’ll give you her email, alright?” Rafe says impatiently. “You done now? I’m trying to talk to my girl.”

“Hearing you say those words and knowing they’ll never be directed to him is its own brand of agony. And it’s so soft, so insane that he’s already thinking about love, but you’ve thrown him for such a loop that he can’t control it.”

“You need your crush on Rafe to remain superficial. Any deeper and you’re just opening yourself up to more heartache.”

“You lean on the armrest, settled next to him with your arm pressed against his, finding that you’ve grown to enjoy the conversations you’re always having outside of the crowds, the feeling of being tucked away into privacy together.”

“At least Rafe won’t see you with another guy once you call this off, but now he’s wondering if he’ll see you at all, if you want to stay friends with someone like him, if he can manage being platonic with a girl who has so ruthlessly claimed his heart.”

nadia... girl... you CANNOT drop this bomb on me and just act like nothing happened. i have literally no words to express how much this chapter broke me simply because of the descriptions of how rafe feels about reader... you describe love so well and its actually making me ill because oh my god i want them to be together asap and ur like freaking torturing me. i love love love this SOOO much u dont know how much i adore ur writing!!!!!! literally made my week. love u bb 💝

i’m a mess in the best way. i ADORE seeing which parts you liked most!! it makes me feel like my story is in a book and i’m seeing what’s underlined 🥹 it’s such a cool way to see the fic through your eyes!! thank you so much. i love exploring how feelings grow/develop and how simultaneously painful and wonderful love can be in my writing, so hearing that i describe love well means the world 😭 (and this fic was partly inspired by sumn i heard abt how a properly done slowburn is when their first kiss takes so much time and tension that the reader themself feels relief once it finally happens and that became my GOAL hehe) love you so much, thank you angel 💘