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

[moons-among-distant-stars]

“but today.. today you’re happy”

[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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[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.

[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 

[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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note: if you want to be tagged in my fanfic related posts, you can access my TAGLIST and comment 💐 if your user is striked through, I wasn’t able to tag you :(

[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.

[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

[6okuto]

HE'S NOT SPECIAL

suna x gn!reader | won’t lie. was Fully thinking of miguel o’hara while writing this. i left it vague so u can project anybody though. LOL

suna’s been glaring at you wrapped in a blanket on your phone for the past 10 minutes.

a blanket in one of your favourite colours that you love that he—your boyfriend, he comments to himself—bought for your birthday.

a blanket you’re now kicking up every 15 or so seconds as you loop edits of something, someone, that’s caught your attention more than him in his time of need.

“babe.”

“hm?”

you don’t turn to him when you respond, you don’t pause the video or even lower the volume. rintarou huffs before climbing under the blanket with you.

his arms wrap around your stomach, and he rests his forehead against the back of your head. for a second he could almost forget you weren’t paying attention to him, until he hears you make a noise—a squeak? squeal? giggle? at a new edit you’ve found.

this time, instead of ignoring it, rin lifts his head to watch with you.

“this is who you’ve been posting recently, right?”

he knows he’s right. he pays attention to everything you talk about.

“yeah, isn’t he so handsome? oh my god when he says—” the character’s voice line cuts you off, and you let out another noise before slightly rolling forward and kicking the blanket again.

your boyfriend debates whether he should be offended or find your reaction endearing. (in an offensive way.)

“i could do that.”

“do what?”

“say the thing he said.”

you don’t respond for a few seconds before breathing out a confused laugh. “...okay?”

“he’s not special.”

this time you really laugh. “okay?”

“why don’t you kick your feet when you watch me?”

“what—hey, you don’t know that i don’t,” you protest, finally turning to look at him. “are you pouting?”

“no.”

he is. he has been the entire time, he notes, as he forces himself to stop. you put your phone down and jokingly coo, reaching to squeeze his cheeks. “aw, you’re jealous—”

“no i’m not. that’d be dumb.”

“my rin’s jealous,” you sing-song, and rintarou almost hates how his heart jumps at the way you call him yours. he glares at you while you squish his face together and you laugh again. “okay, okay, i’m sorry. i’ll stop watching edits now.”

still smiling at him, you let go of his face and hug him back. then you lean forward to press a kiss to his lips and rin relaxes into it, fingers ever so slightly pressing into the small of your back after successfully getting your attention back.

you pull away to murmur a few inches away from his lips. “just for the record, i’d still pick you over him.”

rin huffs warm air against your skin before nuzzling into the crook of your neck, content. “good.”

@devilgirlcrybabiey @lordbugs @smiithys @xfangirl-trashx @passionateuchiha @scaramouchesfootstool @fifteenshadesofpinkk @chloee0x0 @kenmaslov3r @bakugosgrenade @dai-tsukki-desu @Thathoneybee @momoewn @aintgeluh @dazaisfavgf @simpforerenn @crystal-lilac @vhenis @omiigad @kur0-kawa @semispilledcoffee @ksyhmm @idontlikeyourjob @sparrowb3nscloset @awkwardaardvarkforever @rory-cakes @prblmtic @kuroaka @sunaslay @the-midnightskies @h0n3ysgh0st @lackey-laufeyson @bontensbabygirl @dira333 @Kamukayakmonyet @danyisapingu @isentsworld @lilithlunas @anime-ships-gay @todorokiskitten @kellesvt @scill-a @curiouslilbeast @fiona782 @cvhenia @mitskiologist

[notnamedjohn]

IN STARS AND TIME SPOILERS

ACT 6/TWO HATS

God I love how much Loop tries to hate Siffrin but deep down really just can’t bring themselves to commit to it. Like they start off as being intentionally annoying because “look this idiot got stuck in a timeloop! How embarrassing! He wants to stay with his friends but can’t bring themselves to actually talk about it! COULDN’T BE ME” and they empathize with Sif because yeah no shit they went through it too. They actually want them to break free of the loops because what they are going through is horrible and so so painful that it hurts to watch.

They give actual genuine advice (hidden behind alot of teehee’s) and talk through Sif’s ideas and theories. They are always there waiting for Sif to come back and try to work out the next thing they should be doing. And, in my opinion, I think they enjoy it. They went through their own timeloop hell and they finally have someone who understands and can talk to about it. Sure that person is you who made the same blinding mistake and is making it worse and you can’t help to make fun of them because its like the you from your most embarrassing moment that lives rent free in your head is right in front of you and you get to be like “hey man what were you thinking? That was really stupid what you did oh my god.”

But I can only imagine how that “haha ur dumb but im here to talk” energy gives way to actual spite and jealousy as Siffrin gets farther than Loop. They killed the king, Loop never could. They find out more about wish craft, Loop never got that opportunity. They can read their native language and speak it again, Loop is still stuck with headaches and fleeting memories. And worst of all? They won. They get to live their lives with their family. They made it through hell and won. The King is defeated,their family is with them promising to stay together and keep adventuring together seeing all these wonderful places and things. And Loop never will. Loop lost their family. They lost them because of their wish. A wish they couldn’t handle. Their family THEIR family is gone forever. The only one who can remember them is stuck with copies that see them as a stranger. And the only way to get them back? To even HOPE to have a chance at being by their side? To kill the better version of you. To murder the one who the Universe loves more. To kill the person who stole your happy ending and family. The person who struggled the same as you. Who came to you whenever they needed help, because they trusted you. The person who came so SO close to failing just like you, but you saved them because you know how much it hurts. The person who you wanted to succeed. The person who you can’t kill no matter how badly you want to.

If you lose to Loop in their fight. They won’t kill Siffrin. They can’t. Not after all of the pain the two of them went through. Not after they have a chance of being happy. Loop just can’t do it because they feel that they don’t deserve it. For all their talk of Siffrin needing to work things out with their family, Loop can’t do the same. They can’t look them in the eye and tell them they are Siffrin, they tried so so hard but couldn’t do it and left them all behind. In their eyes, why should they get a happy ending? They doomed an entire reality, their family and left them behind. They can’t take Siff’s place because they know Siff deserves it. Because they won. They made it. They earned their happy ending.

And im so FUCKING NORMAL ABOUT THAT.

[hippolotamus]

Eddie’s thumb hovers over the location dropdown in the weather app, just like every day. And just like all those other days he allows himself to click it. The list unfolds as he huffs a humorless chuckle at how much it’s grown.

When he got his first cell, the only place he ever needed was current location. Technically, it’s still the only one he needs. Regardless he’s continued adding to it through the years. Hershey, Virginia Beach, a couple random towns in the Carolinas, Georgia and Florida. Fucking Sundance, Wyoming. All because he gave up pretending he doesn’t need to know.

It’s sunny, mid-50s today. A nice break for the time of year. Eddie scrolls through the upcoming week, noting a heavy snowstorm hitting in a few days. His nose wrinkles and he begins to worry his bottom lip between his teeth. Another thing born out of pure habit.

Not for the first time he types out a few messages before deleting them again. Eddie doesn’t even know if he’s got the right number. It’s been nearly three years since they exchanged anything at all. Not since Eddie could have manned up and told Shannon he could be a father, but not a husband. Not her husband, anyway.

He could have just been honest and said what he wanted when she finally decided to show up in her second trimester. He and Evan could have continued building a life together. But Eddie’s never claimed to be smart. Especially when it comes to all the bullshit his own dad drilled into his head about responsibility and honor and god knows what the fuck else. In the end it was too sticky to let go, trapping him like a spider web.

He can’t even say it was worth it because she loves him and they’re making it work for the sake of Christopher. Because why would that have happened? Instead all he got was a tour in Afghanistan, divorce papers (not that he’s surprised or blames her at all) and coming back to an empty house. Well, not totally empty. He’s got a son he’s still getting to know outside of a screen and shitty internet connection. A son he could have been raising with the love of his life this whole time.

Hope your coat’s warm enough, cowboy he types.

“Daddy!” Chris babbles from the floor, using Eddie’s pant leg to pull himself to standing. His toothy smile is on full display while he looks up at Eddie like he hung the goddamn moon and stars.

“Hey there little man.” Eddie tosses his phone to the side in favor of picking up his son and arranging him on his lap. Chris snatches up the yellow car from the next couch cushion, choosing to run it in a small loop over Eddie’s forearm, shoulder and chest. “Where are you off to today? Big race?”

Chris shakes his head vigorously. “Outer space,” he says as though that should have been obvious.

Eddie chuckles to himself. “Of course. How long until liftoff?”

There’s no answer as plastic wheels continue zooming along until Chris decides he’d rather be on the floor again. Eddie loosely assists as his son climbs back down. Some days are more difficult than others, but he tries to follow the physical therapist’s advice to let Chris do as much as he can by himself. She says it won’t do either of them any good in the long run. Eddie can certainly see the wisdom in that even if he’s constantly itching to roll Chris in layers of bubble wrap.

He blindly grabs for his phone, buzzing from the coffee table. “Hello?”

At first there’s complete silence and he winces thinking it’s yet another telemarketer. Before he can check he hears rustling, like someone’s covering the mouthpiece.

“Hello?” He asks again, more insistent this time.

“Uh, sorry. Didn’t think you’d actually pick up.”

Eddie thinks he might drop the phone. Or throw up. Maybe both? Probably both.

“Evan?”

tagged by the lovely and talented @monsterrae1 @spotsandsocks for Inspiration Saturday (go check their posts, I’m very excited) Instead of working on anything current, I wrote this instead. Not sure I have any actual plans to expand it, I just had to get it out of my system, y’know? So, bon appetit or whatever 💖

no pressure tagging (lmk if you want added or removed) @stereopticons @this-is-bwr @shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @disasterbuckdiaz @wikiangela @tizniz @theotherbuckley @elvensorceress @apothecarose @barbiediaz @buckaroosheart @buddierights @chaosandwolves @daffi-990 @diazsdimples @eowon @fortheloveofbuddie @gayedmundodiaz @giddyupbuck @heartshapedvows @honestlydarkprincess @hoodie-buck @indestructibleheart @jesuisici33 @ladydorian05 @lemonzestywrites @loserdiaz @spaceprincessem @statueinthestone @steadfastsaturnsrings @the-likesofus @theplaceyoustillrememberdreaming @thewolvesof1998 @vanillahigh00 @watchyourbuck @weewootruck @wildlife4life @your-catfish-friend @epicbuddieficrecs

[peachm1lkk]

Blowing off some steam

Synopsis - After the last reset, Jude has some time alone to go over what had happened... His mind goes on to wonder about a specific hitman.

CW — Very vanilla nothing too extreme, unhealthy coping mechanism, Masturbation used as a coping mechanism, Readers past deaths are referenced throughout fic, Character analysis(?), Self loathing, little dialogue, bitter ending, unrequited lust, Smut with minimal plot, potentially OOC behavior

Pairing(s) — Jude (Solo) / Jude x Sean

AN — Cross posted on Ao3 // Actually struggled with this a lot, mostly due to Jude being a crybaby bitch fag who's too concerned with BFF being dead on the floor to care about smooching...

By the morning, when Jude is back in bed, when he knows if he were to turn his head to the side slightly he'd see a notification from you— He feels a little sick. Memories that had technically never happened in the first place were all still raw in his mind, his stomach churning with the knowledge that your blood was now on his hands.

God, he can still feel the weight of the gun in his hand, how shaky his hands were as he tentatively lifted the gun to you. He can still hear how your soft sobbing, a noise he wishes he never has to hear again, ended so abruptly with the simple pull of the trigger, the silence after deafening.

He can still see his fucking face.

Jude sits up abruptly, his heart pounding as he grapples with the memories that claw at him from the shadows of his mind. The sunlight pouring through the curtained window feels abrasive, too bright for the darkness that clings to his thoughts. He can’t let this happen again; he won’t let it. He has to find a way to break this torturous cycle. His phone buzzes on the nightstand, and he almost ignores it, a part of him wanting to drown in despair. But what choice does he have? Every second counts after all.

With trembling fingers, he picks it up and glances at the notification- Reading over your message with a vague sense of impending dread.

‘Hope you got home safe, I'm with Delilah rn so I won't be able to talk much’

He doesn't know why he expected something new, he's seen this same message a thousand times before. And he'll respond the same way he always has, the same way he's figured would keep you alive, breathing, and happy.

He frowns inwardly, but after a brief moment of thought he finally responds

‘Yeah, I’m good. Just tired. There's been some crazy traffic recently so I think you should just spend the night

His thumb hovers over the send button, a dark fear creeping in that this, too, could seal your fate. But he presses it anyway, the familiar rush of regret washing over him like ice water. He only sets his phone down once you react to his message with a thumbs up.

Jude swings his legs over the side of the bed, willing himself to move, to act. He paces the small room, each footfall echoing in the silence. He stares absentmindedly at his disheveled appearance, attempting to brush his hair into something more appealing before giving up on it altogether.

Killing you didn't provide as much relief as he thought it would then. Though he doesn't remember what happens after your death, seeing as he was barely confident in the idea that he kept the timeline open longer than he usually does. He remembers little things, though, little insignificant details like the stomach-churning smile on Sean's face and how overwhelmingly warm his hands felt despite being wrapped around the cooled metal of the pistol.

But the important details and memories of what had happened after your death were left fuzzy and muddled. Scarring his psyche with only the disgusting feeling of hopelessness that clung to him like a second skin. Jude’s hands trembled as he fought with his clothes, hurriedly tugging them off and tossing them to the side, trying to shake the suffocating weight of despair off his shoulders. He had to think of something—anything—that could break this maddening loop.

Why on earth would anyone want you dead? You hadn't mentioned the Morel brothers, and he knows the chance of you and anyone of them crossing paths was low enough that the possibility could be dismissed easily enough. And as far as he knew, you didn't seem to have a particular contempt towards anyone and vice versa.

So why place a hit on you?

He doesn't realize he's in the shower till the cold water hits him, a little yelp spilling from him as he pulls away reflexively. The shock of the cold jolts him into clarity as the water cascades over him, quick to transition into a welcoming warmth as time goes on. Jude lets the water wash over him, the steam enveloping him like a shroud. It feels good—soothing and almost nurturing in how it makes him relax. Each droplet carries away the remnants of yesterday's despair, though he knew that in the end, they'll still remain on the back burner of his mind.

You really were some type of plague to those around you…

His thoughts, though vaguely on you, began to wander. He didn't want to pull it back to you, to not have you on his mind for even just five seconds would be a welcomed peace. He doesn't know if he prefers obsessing over you to thinking about Sean. He doesn't know why he lets his mind wander to thoughts about him of all people, nor does he know why he didn't put a stop to it when his mind decided to think of him in a much more… intimate manner. At least more intimate than he probably should be comfortable with.

Jude grips the tiled wall, feeling the slick surface under his fingers as he fights against the chaos in his mind. Images of Sean flicker like a broken film reel, each frame more vivid than the last—the sharp angles of his jaw, the way his smirk could twist into something both inviting and sinister. Jude curses softly under his breath, brows furrowing at the memory of Sean's praise when he'd coerced Jude to shoot you.

Jude grits his teeth, the warmth of the water suddenly feeling suffocating. Why is he thinking about that? Why is he even thinking of the way Sean practically purred when calling him a ‘Good boy’? The memory was as sickening as it was intoxicating. If only he could remove the context, then maybe he wouldn't feel so guilty about the heat slowly pooling in his core—a tension that had no right to exist in relation to a monster like Sean, let alone the act he’d committed.

The self-loathing isn't enough to dissuade the rising tide of desire that swirled within him. It felt like a betrayal, a revolting, horrid betrayal of his own character, a betrayal of the torture the two of you have been subjected to for what was probably decades. And here he is, hesitatingly nursing his hardening erection, thinking about Sean, of all people.

He wasn't attracted to Sean, well, at least not romantically, and who would be? But the allure, the idea of just a moment of release was tempting in a way that felt foreign and wrong. He could almost laugh, first thing he does when he resets is get hard at the idea of fucking your hitman. With tender hands he slowly caressed his skin, finding it slick and warm under the cascading water.

He wonders if his hands would be rougher, calloused from years of taking lives rather than nurturing them. Jude's breath quickened, a mix of exhilaration and dread flooding his veins. Would Sean’s hands be as unforgiving on him as they were on those he hunted?

The thought sent a shiver down his spine, not all of it unwelcome. He turned the water temperature up, letting the heat seep into his bones, a poor attempt to burn away the guilt that clung to his skin. With every passing second, he felt himself teetering on the precipice of something reckless, something that could tip him sideways into a place he feared to explore.

But there was a part of him that craved the chaos—the danger. Perhaps it was simply the thrill of believing that if he gave in to those dark urges, even just once, it might somehow free him from this endless cycle of torment. He could almost imagine it: Sean pulling him close, breath hot against his ear, whispering promises that hinted at both pleasure and pain.

Jude’s breath hitched at the thought, a visceral pull drawing him deeper into that fantasy. He imagined the way Sean’s lips would graze against his neck, hot and warm against sensitive skin, as if claiming territory in this twisted landscape of betrayal and desire. He pressed his forehead against the cool tiles, his heartbeat thrumming in his ears.

He can feel his breathing becoming deeper and heavier with need as his hand slowly moves along his shaft, the friction sending sparks of pleasure through his body. He can't believe he's doing this, but any rational slips as he forces himself to just think of it as a needed stress relief.

Albeit hesitantly, he slowly increases his pace, the sensation building with each deliberate stroke, the warmth of the water mixing with the heat radiating from his skin. Jude's mind races, spiraling deeper into that dangerous fantasy, his thoughts swirling around Sean's presence— The hitman looming over him, dark eyes glinting with mischief as he leaned closer, their breaths mingling in an electrifying moment that coursed through Jude like wildfire. He could almost feel Sean’s weight pressing down on him, pinning him against the slick tiles, a predator delighting in the hunt.

Every thrust of his hand felt like a desperate grasp at freedom—freedom from guilt, from despair, from the haunting memories that threatened to drown him. With each rising wave of pleasure, he exhaled the remnants of your blood staining his conscience, if only for a fleeting instant.

The fantasy grew more vivid, more consuming—Sean pinning him against the wall, their bodies pressed close together as the world faded to nothing but them. Jude’s heart raced; he could almost feel those rough hands gripping him, holding flesh against flesh, slick sounds escaping from where their bodies met. He can't help but stifle a whimper at the thought, his hips thrusting into his fist with a stutter.

A part of him wondered how he'd act, if he was as slow and meticulous with it, pressing warm kisses and bites across his pale skin whilst palming his erection, teasing him for getting hard for the same man that killed his friend not too long ago. Or perhaps he was rough, gripping him by the throat, forcing him to meet those dark, smoldering eyes as Sean whispered obscenities that twisted pleasure and pain into a single, intoxicating thread.

His breath hitched as he imagined the weight of Sean’s body on him, the heat radiating from their skin seeping into one another's bodies.

He could almost feel Sean’s breath against his ear, teasingly low, promising both ecstasy and betrayal in equal measure. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He pictured Sean's lips curling into a sadistic smile, his voice dripping with mockery. “You’re just so unbelievably easy to break…” Jude's heart raced at the thought, a shaky moan leaving his lips.

“Easy to break,” Jude whispered to nobody in particular, choking slightly on the words as they slipped past his lips.

The heat coalescing in his core grew unbearable, and he quickened his pace, desperate for release while desperately wrestling with the shame that clung to him like a shroud. How could he crave someone who had taken so much from him? It was madness—sheer madness—but it felt like salvation wrapped in the guise of sin.

Each stroke turned frantic, a wild race against time as he chased that fleeting moment of bliss. Jude's body responded eagerly, each ripple of his pleasure resonating with the chaos in his mind. Sean’s face painted vividly in his imagination, taunting him with an allure he couldn’t resist.

“Come on, Jude,” Sean would say, that wicked grin lurking at the corners of his mouth, “You know you want to.”

The forbidden nature of it all only heightened his arousal—this was wrong on every conceivable level. Yet, here he was, locked in this bathroom, chasing a release that felt like a confession and an act of rebellion all at once.

With every thrust into the warmth of his palm, he imagined Sean’s hands gripping his hips instead, telling him such sweet praises of how good he was and how badly he must've needed this. The shame twisted deeper, but so did the pleasure, and Jude was left teetering on the brink between desire and revulsion.

“Good boy,” Sean would whisper, his voice like velvet against Jude’s skin, pulling him further down into a haze of need and desperation. Those words echoed in his mind, a cruel mockery of everything he fought against—of everything he wanted to deny.

With a final thrust of his hand, Jude felt himself reaching that precipice, spiraling into the abyss of ecstasy. He bit his lip to stifle a cry, the sound muffled against the bathroom tiles as bliss washed over him like the torrent of water cascading down his body. For a fleeting moment, everything blurred—the guilt, the memories, even your face faded into the background noise of pleasure.

But as he came crashing back down from that high, reality settled in like a thick fog pressing against his chest. The weight of regret came flooding back as the last remnants of pleasure ebbed away, leaving behind the bitter aftertaste of shame. Jude leaned heavily against the wall, breathless and disoriented. He shut his eyes tightly, feeling as though he'd just betrayed everything he stood for—the very essence of his being now tainted by a twisted fantasy about Sean.

It wasn't his fault, a part of him stated, for what was probably decades, he'd been stuck in a horrible time loop of watching you die. And somehow, he was expected to uphold his morals and principles perfectly? That he was expected to keep his already fragile mental health together without moments of solace? The irony twisted within him like a knife.

The defense, though weak, was enough to provide some level of comfort for what he's done. With a shaky hand, he turned off the shower and stepped out, wrapping himself in a towel that somehow felt inadequate.

“You’re losing it, Jude.”

[thiswasinevitableid]

Together (Sternclay)

Another whumpcember prompt winner was Panic Attack. This is a continuation of this 1950s fill, but can be read as a stand alone

Authors note: This fill was supposed to be NSFW but took a very different turn than planned and it didn't fit with the tone. So, if you'd like to see part three with some fluff and smut, let me know.

The morning after the best night of his life, Joseph wakes up on the floor. 

That hasn’t happened to him since he bought the new bed, big enough so that he has to thrash a lot before he hits the floor. Lord only knows what buried memory sent him tumbling this time. He always wakes in too much of a panic to remember his dreams. 

“Joseph?”

He closes his eyes, breathes in steadily and slowly. It’s Barclay. Just Barclay. He came home with him last night after a Christmas party, he’s the first man Joseph’s ever slept with, he’s handsome and gentle and he cannot see Joseph on the hardwood, the ghosts of a nightmare making him kick and shout like a kidnapped child. 

“I’m okay, big guy” he stands, reaching for his robe, “I just caught my foot in the sheet and lost my balance.”

Soft footfalls, then Barclay is in the doorway, mug of coffee in either hand, “Here I thought you remembered last night and got all jelly-kneed. Know I did when I woke up.”

Joseph takes the offered mug, “I don’t come out of my dreams that easily. But now that you mention it…” he leans in and kisses Barclay once, sweetly, on the lips. The taller man sighs happily, gaze languid as he watches Joseph sip his coffee. 

“Would this be why you asked me last night how I take my coffee?”

“You caught me.” Barclay loops an arm around his waist, and Joseph is suddenly glad the curtains to the front are closed, “usually use that line before getting someone into the sack. But I do always wanna know. I…it’s important to me. To make it good for the other person. Makes them less likely to toss me out.”

He doesn’t bother to hide his distaste, “Some people don’t have the manners god gave a rock.”

“I mean I get it. Lots of guys aren’t on the level and need me to go before their wife gets home, and a lot of the ones who are lose interest as soon as they find out I did time.”

Joseph wants to turn and cup his face, promise him that he won’t lose interest, that the fruit trees in the yard will up and walk to Fresno before he sends Barclay away. Wants to pretend that there’s a world where it won’t be his own fault that his beautiful, fiery feeling between them fizzles out.

“Well” he sets his mug on the dresser, “you know I’m not married. And you’re the most fascinating man I’ve met in a long time. So, Mr. Cobb, unless you have somewhere urgent to be, I think you should come back to bed.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Joseph may want Barclay for a roommate, but Barclay is still in the “rehabilitation” program. That comes with a lot of rules and a tight leash. 

God, would he like Barclay on a leash? He thinks he would. 

Focus, Stern. There’s a job to do. 

He trusts his teaching assistant to guide the Intermediate Japanese class through their review session while he makes the drive from campus down into east Oakland. The administrative offices are next to the jail, and he’s mistaken twice for someone’s lawyer before Owens is able to see him. 

“Stern!” Owens shakes his hand, “Finally taking me up on the offer of joining the force?”

Not even if hell froze over.

“Not quite. I have a question about the Re-Entry Program; are members ever allowed to live outside of the halfway house?”

“In rare circumstances, like if they have family in the area who won’t lead them right back into crime. You asking because of Cobb? The missus said you two got on like a house on fire last weekend.”

“We did. Between you and me, I’ve been thinking about getting a housemate; the place is too big for me, and my job keeps me busy enough that meeting a nice girl to share it with won’t happen any time soon. The problem is, it’s in such a good location I don’t want to lose it by moving.” He lets his smile brighten, “Barclay and I get along, and it’s the same distance from the cafe you have him working at as the halfway house. You know I can handle myself, and I trust you to vet the program members to not be dangerous.”

Owens fiddles with his pencil, “How about this: I’m trying to convince the county to let us use a sponsor system for the program. You and Cobb could be a test case; he’s a nice guy, and between you and me I thought it was good he got a soft judge. All you’d have to do is give reports once and awhile, help become a productive part of society, all that.”

“I think we can manage.” He sits down so Owens can show him some paperwork, makes a note in his pocket calendar to swing by the cafe and talk to Barclay about it. Tries not to think about how Barclay has less to atone for than he does.

He gets to Bettys right before closing, nurses a paper cup of coffee outside while he waits for Barclay to finish up. 

As he goes to throw his cup away, he hears someone urgently call a name, and then something heavy hits him in the side. A narrow muzzle pushes into his face, covered in brown and  black fur. 

His limbs are going numb, he needs to run, he can’t, he’s not there, he’s in Oakland, he’s safe. 

“Joey! Joey get down!” A harried young woman hauls the German shepherd off him, “Sit. Oh thank goodness you remember that one. I am so, so sorry sir. She used to belong to my brother who she adored and when she saw you she just snapped the leash and ran.”

“It’s okay, just a scuff on my coat.” He looks down at the dog, fights a flinch as it barks once, happily, and wags its tail at his attention, “I’m sorry I’m not who you’re looking for.”

“If you ever figure out how to explain that to her, let me know.”

Joseph notices the ribbon pinned to her jacket. Someone she loved is M.I.A.

“I’m sorry.” He murmurs. 

She gives him a sad smile, “I envy her optimism.” Another final apology, then she wishes him Merry Christmas and leaves with Joey in tow. 

Joseph brushes the dirt from his coat, so used to burying his fear he barely feels it. She’s heavier than the last one that hit him, his face slamming the mud, the shouts behind him, knowing that if they get their hands on him he’s done for, no one will come for him, and lord help him he knows what they do to spies, he’s seen it-

“Joseph?” Barclay is behind him, angelic under the street lights, “you okay?

“Just a little lost in thought.” He remembers why he’s here, pushes the past away, and steps as close to Barclay he can without drawing attention, “let me take you to dinner? I have some amazing news.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Maybe it’s a good thing two men can’t tie the knot. Right now that’s the only reason Barclay hasn’t gotten down on one knee only  three weeks after meeting Joseph. 

It’s not the house, mercifully quiet and tidy due to their joint cleaning, or Joseph making sure they split dinner duty. It’s not the new room that’s technically his own even though he spends every night under soft sheets with Joseph.

It’s that when they talked about the “sponsorship,” Joseph offered a bulleted list of how they could phrase the agreement so that Barclay could leave if he needed to, could not be just tossed out on his ass if things went south between them. That the night before he moved in, Joseph sat down with him to make a grocery list to cover them both. That when Barclay holds him, he feels safer and more at home than he thought he ever could, and can feel Joseph’s shoulders shaking with some nightmare, and hopes with everything in him that this relationship simmering between them will soothe whatever part of his past keeps chasing him. 

Life isn’t a fairytale. God knows they both understand that. But doesn’t it deserve a chance to be? 

In place of a proposal, he’s keeping Joseph company on the drive down to Salinas to see his family. Christmas is a relatively new practice in the family; it overlaps with Hanukkah this year, but according to Joseph, there’s been pressure to make at least a passing effort at Christmas.

“A neighbor told my mother it seemed un-American to not observe such an important day.”

“What the fuck?”

Joseph jabs his baked potato, “It’s the same one who couldn’t understand why my family wasn’t carted off to internment because they don’t understand Korea isn’t Japan.”

Barclay suspects that if Mrs. Stern is anything like her son, the neighbor was instantly withered by disapproval. The last time he visited him on campus he saw him turn that stare on some older students harassing the janitor and felt vicarious shame the rest of the night. 

They turn from the highway, away from the coast and into the farmland. Fields whiz by, brown without the strawberries, spinach, and artichokes that will cover them in the spring and summer. The radio has been playing the same ten Christmas songs, and so Joseph lowers the volume and asks about the Christmas party that Barclay attended at the halfway house. 

He sighs, “It was okay. Hank liked the records I got him.”

(They’d gone to the store on Shattuck to find them, pressed up against each other in the small space as they looked through the shelves and crates, and Joseph had walked out with five for the house, half his picks and half Barclays, plus one they’d grabbed for at the same time).

Joseph casts a glance his way, “What happened?”

“A bunch of the guys got me a ‘special gift.’ Said it’d make me into a real housewife. Relatedly, if you know any women who need stockings, point them my way.”

Two fingers raise off the wheel, “First of all, the joke is on them for wasting money on something that isn’t funny. Second of all, if they think taking care of a home is embarrassing, I have three generations of women who will happily threaten them in no fewer than three languages for you.”

“Keep that in mind, babe.” He leans over, kissing Joseph on the cheek.

The conversation turns to the movies, and by the time they turn onto the main drag they’re deep in debate about what to see the next time they catch a matinee. 

A plane buzzes overhead. Barclay wonders who the fuck is flying right now; maybe a celebrity zipping up for a Christmas on the coast, or an overworked mailcarrier. 

Joseph tenses in the driver's seat as he pulls toward the parking spaces in front of the darkened Parks Grocery. 

“Joseph? Baby, what’sAH!” He yelps as the bumper bangs into the sidewalk. 

“Shit.” Joseph hisses, then his voice flattens, “I’m sorry, it’s nothing, I just had trouble seeing the curb. Is the car alright?” 

Barclay pokes his head out, peering between the headlights, “Might be a little dent, but that’s it.”

When he looks back, Joseph's face is the same as it was a few minutes ago, friendly and collected, “That’s a relief. Okay, I can take the presents if you take the food; they’ll hold up better to the onslaught.”

Joseph’s right; the instant the door opens, he’s being hugged by a woman with brown hair piled on top of her head, an older man slapping him on the back, and a girl who looks like she could be his daughter clinging to his legs. He hears something ripping and hopes it’s wrapping paper and not Joseph’s shirt. 

The memory of coming back to the Lodge after being gone, of arms around him welcoming him home, sticks under his ribs like a knife. 

“Alright, alright, let the poor man in.” A figure that can only be Mr. Stern appears, looking up at his son before hugging him, “what, you thought I wasn’t going to get in on the action?” 

“Good to see you too, Dad.” He passes off the presents to a tall, blonde man, “Dad, everyone, this is my friend Barclay.”

He waves, pie tray in his free hand, “Thank you for letting me come on such short notice.”

The older man in the glasses waves his hand, “Eh, what’s one more, she’s cooking like the entire Giants are coming for dinner.”

“And who is that because, huh?” The woman who must be Mrs.Stern jabs a wooden spoon his way, “you ate half the table at the Seder last year.”

“Doctor says I gotta keep my strength up. That makes sense, right Joseph?”

“He’s a nice boy, he’s not gonna argue with his mother.” The grey haired woman says dryly from her spot beside him. 

“Bubbe is right on the money.” Joseph takes the pie and carries it to the counter.

“I can help out if you need.” Barclay offers, but Mrs. Stern waves for him to sit down. 

Joseph introduces him to everyone, and Barclay begins to understand why both floors above the grocery are occupied. Of the two sets of grandparents, his great aunt and uncle, parents, and older sister Lily, only Lily lives elsewhere. She and her husband, Craig, brought themselves and his niece Sophie down from San Francisco for the day. 

At one point he looks around, unable to find Joseph, and sees him speaking quietly to his parents in Korean. His stomach twists, wondering if it’s about him, if Joseph feels forced to justify while a man with a rap sheet is sitting in their living room. 

Then Sophie is nearly in his lap, demanding to know what kind of pie he made, and he lets himself be drawn back into the conversation. 

A tap on his shoulder, and he looks up to find Mrs. Stern.

“Barclay, can you help me bring some things up from the store? I forgot to cart them up earlier and a few of the boxes are a little heavy for me on those stairs.”

“Sure thing.” He follows her out the door and down the side stairwell, the grocers cool and dark when they get inside. She shifts boxes around in one of the storage closets while Barclay scans the newspapers on the wall. 

(Joseph’s whole family took her name, he realizes. “Park” belonged to his father, hence the name in friendly red letters out front). 

“Joseph said you two are moving in together?”

“Yeah. I’m really excited.”

“You mentioned you were up on the coast for a while. Is your family up there?”

He nods and she continues, “well, I’m flattered you chose our ‘christmas’ dinner to come to instead.”

“It’s, it’s not like that, my, I-” He looks over at her leaning on the counter and realizes he’s stepped right where she wanted him to. 

“I…I got into some trouble. And when I got out, they only let me up to see my family and friends once. They told me they were afraid that if I was paroled there, I’d just take up old habits.”

“And would you?”

He thinks about the names on immigration documents, the pleas for safety,  Indrid forging signatures perfectly while Barclay and Dani worked out which routes were the safest to send them.

“In a heartbeat.”

The steel in her posture softens, “You’re honest. That’s a good thing in a man.” She places a box onto the counter, “Joseph told Lawrence and I the truth. Don’t be angry with him for that, he comes by his inquisitive streak honestly from both of us and knew to head off our questions so we wouldn’t embarrass you by mistake asking them at the table.”

“I kinda had a hunch he had.”

She steps closer, “Can you promise me something? Keep an eye on him these next few weeks. This time of year is hard for him. He’s never said why, I assume it has to do with what happened over there. He hides it well, I’m not sure even Lawrence notices. But a mother always knows.”

Barclay feels strange relief, knowing someone else has spotted the brittle edge to Joseph's smile that's been worrying him the last few days,

“I’ll do my best.”

She reaches up and pats his cheek, “Thank you. Now, let's get these boxes upstairs. Careful not to drop that one, it’s mostly applesauce.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

He’d been doing so well. He made it through the drive down when the plane buzzed overhead and he was back in Dresden. Through the moment at the table when Sophie had if Barclay had been in the war and his mother simply said, “he was a hero, like your uncle.” Joseph had wanted to shout that unlike him, Barclay really was one. 

Then someone had to go and set off a firework right after they got home. 

Now he’s standing in the bedroom, fighting himself with rapidly dwindling success. He held it together then, why can’t he hold it together now? What if these attacks never stop, what if they get worse. If they get worse, someone will notice, oh god help him what if they happen in class, he’ll be fired for sure, what good is a professor who can’t do anything but shake? And if Barclay finds out, he’ll be gone in an instant, because Joseph will confess on top of everything else and then Barclay will know him not only as a coward who can’t keep the past at bay but as a failure. The one person he wants more than anything in the world will leave him and there will be no one to find him when one of these episodes finally stops his heart-

Warm, large hands cup his face, “Joseph, hey, stay with me.”

“I’m here.”

Barclay shakes his head, brown eyes overflowing with tender concern, “No, you’re not. You’re somewhere else. Come back to me. Please?”

“I don’t know how, I’ve tried and tried and I can never make it stop, I just have to ride it out, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-”

“What are you apologizing for?” Barclay, voice genuinely confused, is trying to guide him to sit on the bed, but his limbs are lead even as his heart tries to break his bones from the inside out, “you aren’t hurting me, things went well with your family, I thought everything was okay…”

Oh god that’s what the tone he couldn’t place at first is; Barclay is scared. He thinks he’s done something wrong. 

He’s already failing him. 

He has to push through, he can salvage this.

“Can you please close the curtain. And maybe roll up a towel at the bottom of the window? It’s those fucking fireworks, the noise and the light is getting to me.”

Barclay nods, squeezes his hand, and stands. Joseph inhales as deeply as he dares. 

It gets stuck, turning to a sob halfway through.

“Woah, woah baby hey” Barclay drops to his knees, “whatever you’re thinking of is in the past, it can’t get you here, you’re safe-”

He shakes his head without meaning to, “I don’t deserve to be. Someone else should have come back in my place.”

“Bullshit.” The murmur is surprisingly forceful. 

“No” he snaps, “it’s not. I was a spy, Barclay, and that means doing terrible things for the sake of keeping your cover. It means turning a blind eye to some of what you’re seeing because if you look too long you’ll decide to hell with the mission and try to stop it.”

Barclay stays quiet, keeps hold of his hands. There’s a burn scar on his wrist from an oven and Joseph raises it to his face, keeps it against his cheek. It’s easier to talk with it there, like whatever he says is a secret Barclay will hold in his palm for safekeeping. 

“I had a few near-misses but the worst one is the one I can’t shake. It was understood that if another agent was caught, unless we could be certain we could escape with them without blowing cover, we were not to intervene, even if it meant their death. I was in Dresden, technically as an axis member, but really on a mission where if I failed, there’d be more men dead than just me. It was already stressful because I knew there could be a bombing any moment.” 

He presses a kiss to Barclays skin to steady himself, “the other agent on the mission was found out. He ran, but where we were….there was no chance of escape, there were too many of them. I heard the shouts, knew what was happening, then he rounded the corner and I realized he was about to call out for me to help him. So I” he closes his eyes, lets him see it again as penance, “I shot him. Before he could reveal me, too.”

He’s still crying, but the sobs have stopped, and his heart is no longer ten seconds away from an attack. Now if only he could bring himself to look Barclay in the eye. 

“I don’t know what to say.” 

“It’s okay. If, I understand if this changes things-”

“No! I mean yeah, it does, but not how you’re thinking.” Barclay takes Joseph’s chin and gently guides his head up, “I literally don’t know what to say. Because what I want more than anything in the fucking world is to know the magic words that would make it better. But I don’t, and I’m not sure there are any, but I’ll be absolutely fucking damned if I make you feel worse. Yeah, I could sit here and judge, but I wasn’t fucking there, and what matters to me, in this moment, is that you’re still stuck.” He rests their foreheads together, “I know you’re trying to reconcile every awful thing you went through with the story everyone wants to tell about you. But I’m not someone you have to impress, or someone you have to confess to. I’m just the nobody cook who lucked out enough for you to like him.”

Joseph doesn’t throw himself into Barclay’s arms; that implies an energy he does not have. Instead he sinks into them, only for the cook to maneuver them both onto the bed and cradle him close. 

“How many times do I have to tell you you’re not a nobody, big guy?” The teasing comes out in a shaky whisper. 

“Dunno, it might not ever stick and you’ll just have to remind me every day how great I am.” 

He snickers, “I already plan on that.” A yawn overtakes him, “christ, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to just drop this into a nice evening. I’m so fucking tired.”

“Then we should get some shut eye.” Barclay carefully undoes the buttons of Joseph’s dress shirt.

“But-” 

Barclay looks at him, eyes hopeful and serious, “You want this thing between us to go on for a while, right?”

“More than anything.”

“Then we don’t have to talk through every tough thing in one night. We’ve got time. We can make a life that’s worth all the pain it took to get here. Together.”

Joseph nods, presses a kiss to those full lips as a thumb brushes the last of the tears from his cheek, “together.”

[eekshade]

Muse

Steve Rogers x m!reader

Word Count: 1605

Warnings/Info: pre-serum Steve, art school Steve, no pronouns used so could be read as a gn!reader, flustered Steve <3, reader goes through Steve’s sketchbook w/out permission but Steve’s okay with it (just embarrassed), was slightly inspired by that one scene in atsv

Steve was currently anxiously pacing around your apartment, looping through the kitchen to wrap around the couches in a large figure eight path. He was in a deranged panic as he ranted about his upcoming finals, not only were finals a stressful time in general but Steve was also in, according to him, the worst art block he’s ever been cursed with.

“Steve.” You try to gently call out to him for the second time, he (again) doesn’t seem to hear you because he continues to make his way to the kitchen in order to restart his pathway.

“Steven, just-,” you grab his shoulders as he walks by where you were standing; forcing him to look at you, “stop for a second.” It came out a bit harsher than you meant but at the very least he was finally still.

“What?” He says, his voice a fine mix between annoyance and embarrassment, as he attempts to shrug off your hands, a blush dancing across his cheeks. You pull your hands back and mutter an apology.

“Instead of storming around, how about we sit down and take this step by step.” You offer and he quickly walks to the main couch while nodding softly, mostly to himself.

You sit down next to him, placing a hand on his knee, ”How much time do you have before it's due?” You ask in a tone one would take when talking to a crying child, soft and quiet; almost a whisper.

“Around three weeks.” He sighs, scooting closer to you (silently praying you won’t notice).

“Alright…” You break eye contact in favor of looking around the surfaces of the furniture, “That’s enough time, I believe.” You stand having found what you were looking for.

“Here’s the plan, let's try and get you some motivation before anything.” You grab his sketchbook off of the small dining table that sat across the room.

“What do you mean?” He asks cautiously, watching the way your hands grip the book when you walk back over to him.

“I think you should start with something you find easy, to lull yourself back into it.” You sit beside him once again, closer than before, “What do you find easy to draw?”

“I don’t really know…” He laughs sadly, “Everything sounds too hard right now.”

“That’s fine, we could just flip through and see what you draw the most.” You smile at him, causing his heart to melt; distracting him from what you had just said.

“Wait, god no, birds!” He yelped the second he processed what you had just said, “I could draw birds.” He tried to reason, but it was a moment too late.

You opened the book to a random page only to be met with a portrait of you cooking a stew for him while in his kitchen, presumably from when he was sick. He nervously watched your face, the fear of you hurting him (emotionally and/or physically) left as fast as it came, once he saw the small smile that was etched on your face as you gently traced your fingers along his pencil strokes.

You turned to look at him, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth, but any plan on saying something was abruptly taken from you at the sight of him, his face was mere inches from yours, biting his lower lip rather harshly, blush burned onto his cheeks, already staring at you. You try not to linger on the butterflies going on a mini rampage in your stomach, you quickly turn back to the sketchbook and flip the page. The next page only makes you smile more, it shows you again on both pages, this time you seem to be from his memory.

The page is flipped again to show you and Bucky laughing while playing cards with his sisters, you flip the page once more to reveal you reading with a dog laying on your legs. Laughing under your breath; the realization finally hitting you. You go to try and flip the page one more time, you wore a knowing smirk, that only grew when Steve snatched the book from your lap. You look at him but he won’t look back at you, his eyes glued to the sketchbook that sat on his lap, you laugh at his bashful demeanor.

“I’m sorry, this is weird - you just - sorry.” He fumbles over his words, after a small moment of consideration he leans forward and shoves the book into his bag, which sat on top of the coffee table.

“Wait Steve, it's okay.” You softly take his hands into your own, gently dragging him back down to where he was before.

He looks at you sadly, “God, I really am sorry.” You look at him with pure admiration and slight pity for making him so panicked.

“Please don’t look at me like that.” He whines, he breathlessly looks down at your lips for a second so brief you almost missed it.

“Like what?” You ask, eyes drilling into his.

“Like it's okay.” He whispers.

“It is.” You smile at him, “You're an artist, I can’t get mad at you for making art.” Your voice gets louder (although you're still not talking at full volume) and you lean back an inch or two at most and let go of his hands; trying to make sure you aren’t misreading the situation.

You laugh and run a hand through your hair, trying to make him comfortable again, “So, what, do you want me to pose?” You laugh at your own joke, which causes him to laugh along with you.

“Alright so, what’s it really about though?” You ask calmly while fidgeting with your hands not knowing where to put them.

He quickly stops laughing and gets flustered - not nearly as much as before, “Oh well y'know, it's kind of hard to explain without sounding like a creep.” He averts his eyes from you.

“I give you my permission to sound like a creep.” You smirk at his eye roll.

“That means so much, thank you.” He replied sarcastically, finally meeting your eyes.

“Anytime, Rogers.” You say with a wink, you notice he blushes a bit at that. “Well, go ahead.”

“You really wanna know?” He appears to have gotten more comfortable with the conversation.

“Yes! Of course I do.” You exclaimed exasperated.

“Okay - well, I think you have a good…like body.” He sounds unsure, he pauses for a few seconds to think, you open your mouth to make a joke but he cuts you off, “No, wait! Just please let me finish before you say anything, okay?” You nod.

He takes a deep breath, “You’re like my muse, I don’t think I’m using that right.” He laughs, “I mean, before I do an actual piece I need to warm up, and in order to do that, I typically draw you and sometimes Bucky.” He seems to throw that last part in half-heartedly.

“I think it's because I’m around you so much, it's just easy to properly capture you, you and Bucky.” He added.

You stare at him quietly with a smug smile.

“I’m done. Please say something.” He whines out nervously.

You lean forward, your foreheads now touching, “And Bucky?”

“Yeah, of course, you just ended up on a bad few pages is all.” He defends himself very quietly, you smile at the attempt.

His eyes keep flickering between your eyes, lips, and hands, not bothering to hide it anymore. “Steve,” you say, making his eyes stop moving for a moment to keep them on yours. “Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah?” He whispers so quietly you almost miss it.

“Can I kiss you?” You ask breathlessly.

“Yes, god, please.” He quietly whimpered.

You grab his jaw and finally push your lips against his, you bring one of your hands to the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair and tugging, this pulls out a soft moan from him, your teeth clashing together. It’s a bit of a mess but neither of you care. He whines as you pull away from him to catch your breath, you look at him as he sits beside you; lips red and wet, soft pants coming out from behind them, eyes glossed over, cheeks dusted pink. He looks back at you, with an almost sad look on his beautiful face.

“Are you okay?” You rest your forehead on his once again.

“No.” He admits, “I don’t think I am.”

“Why?” You look down and take his hands into yours, playing with his fingers slightly, before locking them together.

“Because I don’t know what this means.” He sighs and his eyes are glued onto your interlocked fingers.

“It can mean whatever you want.” You look into his eyes, “I’ll be right here with you.”

He smiles warmly at you while keeping those sad puppy dog eyes, he leans in and pecks your lips. It was short but long enough to feel his emotions vividly through it. He lets go of your hands and leans back, for a second you fear he didn’t mean it, but he then grabs his bag off the table and pulls the sketchbook and a pencil back out of it, then flipping to a new page.

He turns to you, “Is your pose offer still open?” He looks at you brightly.

“Of course it is.” You laugh and strike the most dramatic pose you could pull off.

“I love it.” He laughs warmly, he hesitates briefly before grabbing your limbs and face, posing you how he pleases. “You're perfect.” He mutters as he starts his rough draft.

| MARVEL MASTERLIST |

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

I’m so excited for the throuple fic Eddie and Shannon need to both get their man 🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼🔼

Buck you can figure this time loop thing out i believe in you ➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰

Bedsharing buddie they need to get their head out their pillows and realize how unhinged they are 🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️🛏️

THANKS!!!!!!!!!!!!!

45 for 🔼:

---

“I know we need to actually talk about it, but I really love it,” Shannon explains, talking sort of rapidly. “And… I mean, I am the one making her. I let you consult on the first name, so-”

“I love it,” Eddie interjects. 

Shannon stills. “You do?”

He nods. “I do.”

“Oh,” she exhales.

“Christopher and Jane,” Eddie tests the sound of it on his tongue. “Yep. Love it.”

Shannon smiles, wet-eyed. “See? He named our kid.”

Eddie takes her hand and squeezes it. “He won’t hold it against you, Shannon. I don’t think so, anyway.”

“Thanks,” she sighs. “Uh, for everything.”

“You, too,” he smiles weakly. 

“Is this the weirdest conversation we’ve ever had?” She asks.

Eddie considers. 

“Nah. The second.”

“Second?” 

“Nothing beats the argument you had with my mom over circumcision with our two day-old baby in the room.”

Shannon snorts. “Oh god, I forgot.”

“Yeah, and I never will.” 

“I was right, though,” Shannon says adamantly.

“Yeah,” Eddie says quietly. “You were right.”

▶️ 

It takes Eddie a little under an hour after that to get home. Shannon lets him take a quick shower, and then he drives back to the house. When he does, he finds the Jeep parked on the street, and Buck sitting on his porch steps, red-eyed.

Oh, jeez. Did Buck come here to confess? To a crime that doesn’t belong to him? 

“Hey,” Eddie says as he climbs out of the truck. “What are you doing here?”

He knows. But he’s trying to play it cool. 

---

48 for ➰:

⚠️DISCCUSION OF DEATH/DYING AHEAD READ WITH CAUTION⚠️

That’s certainly not the name of their hotel.

Buck mounts the clock and searches the name on his phone. Adventist Health Twin Cities is a nearby hospital in Templeton, California. With an ER and a neurology department. 

Again, interesting.

He supposes it’s possible that the hospital sold things like clocks and other basic decor to the hotel… But it’s unlikely, right? Especially if this clock is connected to their time problem, it seems like something else must be afoot here. 

Whatever.

Buck only has this one theory, and he has to trust it. 

➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰

Half an hour later, they’re sitting on a big patio eating a complimentary hotel breakfast. Chris looks mildly zombified. Nevermind the fact he wakes up way earlier than this for school. Eddie is indulging in a very big breakfast. He’s practically dumping sugar in his coffee. Buck has the urge to remind him he won’t sleep, but doesn’t follow it. 

Buck eats his waffles, trying to be content with this final breakfast. He’s glad they didn’t do a drive-thru. It’s really a shame he won’t be able to taste the sea bass tonight. That shit is delicious when you don’t have a brain bleed. 

He looks out at the serenely gorgeous view of the ocean. The early morning light only makes it all the more fantastic. Their slice of heaven in purgatory. 

Buck remembers what he said the first time. 

“We should come back here again.”

Eddie looks at him for a long time. There’s a rueful quality to the glint in his eyes. 

“Anytime you want,” he says, voice a little shaky.  

He’s still trying to figure Buck out. 

Buck hopes he won’t. 

➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰

They go on the guided kayaking tour of the estuary. Thankfully, Buck has practice in knowing what’s going to happen, and allowing it anyway. 

He doesn’t tease Brittany this time. Doesn’t play any games or act like a smart ass. He just enjoys the day. 

“If you’re really lucky, we’ll see sea slugs!” Brittany exclaims as they get into their kayaks. “We have opalescent nudibranch slugs all over and the colors they come in are amazing. They’re beautiful!”

���I think it’s really cool that you’re so passionate,” Buck tells her. 

They help Chris into his kayak, and then Eddie calmly and expertly explains the best way to paddle. Buck doesn’t comment on it. Doesn’t make any quips. Seems cruel now, in hindsight. Eddie probably fucking hates kayaking. Buck sure does. 

The tour goes as well as always. They see the seals, sea lions, and otters. They spot some of those famous sea slugs. 

---

Sweet talk is posted for 48 for anything else????

[bidisasterevankinard]

oh my god!? How do I choose!?

(answer… I don’t 🤭)

🥵🥵🥵 🫄🫄🫄 🔥🔥🔥 🔁🔁🔁 🧁🧁🧁 🎨🎨🎨

I was so tempted to do more than three each ngl 🤣🫶 but they all just are soooo *chefs kiss*

hi!!! so many sentenses! thank you <333

🫄from our future series (part two. let's impregnante Buck again):

“I hope so. My cravings, my fatigue, I had sensitive nipples yesterday,” last thing makes Tommy smirk, “easy tiger this is exactly what got us in this situation,” Buck shakes the tests.

“We wanted to be in that situation.”

Buck smiles brightly, “y-yeah we wanted. So c'mon, go to the kitchen, finish unpacking and I’ll meet you there with tests. We will see results together.”

Tommy nods with a hopeful smile.

“Evan?”

Buck looks up at Tommy from opening the box, “even if it wouldn't be positive, know that I love you and you and Dany are enough ok?”

Buck’s vision gets blurry.

“For me too,” he nods, “our life is enough. You and Dany are enough.”

🥵 nsfw from triplets part two that is already posted on ao3:

But he can’t stop his hips from fucking the digit that Tommy still keeps thrusting ion and out inside him, even when he gradually get down the vibrations till they are completely off. That’s when Buck feels it. He is still hard. As if he didn’t just come all over his men.

Fuck, pregnancy will make me even more unsatiable, huh? Poor Tommy

“What do you want to know sir,” Tommy asks, taking his finger and toy out, but getting his three fingers in the second Buck sadly means feeling too empty. “Fuck, look at you. Your hole winking at me and begs to be filled. Can I do it now, sir? Please.”

🔥 Buck has fire powers fix it:

“Eva…Buck, let’s not make it harder than it already is.”

Tommy says with a shake of his head.

Buck wants to punch him for his intonation. 

“Don’t. Call. Me. That,” Buck growls through his teeth.  “And stop talking to me like I’m a child or a passenger in our relationships. You-you decided to leave, twice, and the second time, I found out it was because you have an expiration date on us since the beginning, but you forgot to mention it to me before …”

Buck bites his lip, with a shake of his head. He won’t say it to the man. Not like. Not ever. Tommy doesn’t need those words.

🔁 Tommy's time loop:

“Tommy, man, you know what to do,” Howie shrugs with a beer in his hand. “You need to learn the lesson or do something right. What do you think the universe wants from you?” 

The man looks at him with raised an eyebrow, and Tommy wants to run from his deep brown eyes.

“Finally kill me? Make me crazy? Start drinking like my old man?”

Tommy shrugs, taking another sip of his beer.

Howie looks at him not impressed.

🧁from Buck is baking as "thankfull citizen":

Tommy misses their thankful citizen. Even without knowing the person, he really fell for their baking, especially cinnamon rolls. No it feels too empty and sad without their constant sugar presents in the harbor. Tommy hopes they are ok. 

“Guy, guys, look,” Mitchell turns to the kitchen with the package Tommy recognizes in seconds with a smile. “I’m telling you this person has a crush on someone here.”

“If so maybe we should be careful with what they send us,” Lucy says, yet already looks for her favorite scones, finding it with a smile and moaning after the bite, “but you know what? If they want to kidnap me and bake this masterpiece for me,” next part she whispers, but Tommy hears something about kissing them even better. 

He doesn’t think much about it, grabbing six cinnamon rolls in two hands and biting them all like in a kindergarten. 

“C’mon, Tommy,” Mitchel cries, “you always eat basically all the cinnamon rolls. Leave others some.”

“Miwwed 'em fuck off,” Tommy says mid chewing

🎨from artist Tommy and model Buck fix it: (cw: thoughts about dun con)

Buck carefully shakes his head and takes a deep breath. Even if he’s right and Tommy looks at him with all thai tension, Tommy has no right to do so. Buck is not his. Evan is not his anymore. Evan is Alec’s, that guy whose prints Buck still has on his thigh. Or the girl’s who he let ride him for hours. Not Tommy’s. Not Tommy’s. Not Tommy’s. 

Buck already makes the plan for the night. He needs to forget Tommy. He will get Alec to the club and find someone, maybe call that monstrously huge man and ask him to use Buck round between all his friends. He will let them push his limits how they want. Not say no to anything.

[harleybeaumont]

Never Have I Ever

Chapter 4 - Extra Credit : Part 1

Book- TRR

Series- Never Have I Ever

Pairings- Bertrand x MC (kind of)

Chapter Synopsis- Maxwell finds out.

A/N- thanks @angelasscribbles for bouncing around ideas with me about Max's reaction

Chapter Warnings- language, mentions of sexual acts

Rating - Mature

Word Count- 1,310

Chapter 4 - Extra Credit: Part 1

Riley and Maxwell sat on the terrace chatting and eating breakfast the next morning, when the whistling of a chipper tune cut through their conversation. “Who the hell is that?” Max stopped mid bite and turned around to see Bertrand striding into the room with a grin.

“Good morning!” Bertrand smiled. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

Riley tried to hide her amusement while Maxwell stared at him incredulously.

Bertrand took a deep breath and scanned the horizon. “I think I’m going out for a jog. See you two later!”

Max gaped at him as he left, “Riley.. What are the symptoms of a stroke?”

“What?!” She laughed and took a bite of her cream cheese bagel.

“I think he needs medical attention. Something’s wrong with his brain!”

Riley chuckled, “Maybe he’s just.. happy.”

“Happy? Happy!? Bertrand Beaumont doesn't get happy! I need to call the family physician.. Something must be seriously wrong with him.”

Riley waved him off, “Oh Max, he’s fine! I promise.”

Maxwell sat back down at the table across from her with his brow furrowed. “How would you know?”

“I just.. do.” Riley busied herself with the fresh fruit on her plate, hoping that Max wouldn’t suspect. Damn it, she should have just kept quiet and let him think his brother was having a stroke.

Max gasped loudly. “You know something! What is it?! What happened to him!? Did he win the lottery? Did sweater vests suddenly come back in style? Did he finally get laid? What?!”

Fuck. Riley choked on her bite of food, and Maxwell's eyes widened. “Did you- Did you sleep with him?!?!?!”

“No!” She felt her cheeks heat up while Maxwell continued to stare at her. “I didn’t sleep with him.”

He gasped again, even louder this time. “But you did do something with him! Oh my God, Riley what happened?! You have to tell me! It’s the best friend code! You have to tell me everything!”

She wrinkled her nose, barely able to make eye contact. “Even if it involves giving your brother a hand job?”

Maxwell threw his hands over his mouth and his eyes widened to the size of saucers. “No!”

Riley chuckled and nodded. 

“No!”

“Yes!”

“No!”

“Yes, Max!”

“Oh my God, I’m so confused! Are you two like.. A thing?! Are you going to get married one day?! OMG we’ll be related!”

“What- no!”

“Aww, man..” Max immediately slumped into his chair, pouting. “Why not?”

Riley laughed, looking around to make sure Bertrand wasn’t present. “I’ll tell you, but you absolutely cannot say a word of this to anyone!”

“I won’t!”

“Swear?”

“Swear!” Max looped his pinky with hers. “Pinky swear!”

“Ok..” Riley checked her surroundings for Bertrand again. “I’m helping Bert out in the bedroom so he can build up the courage to seduce Savannah.”

Maxwell’s brow remained furrowed while he looked at her in confusion. “That was.. Not what I was expecting you to say.”

“It's the truth,” she shrugged, taking a sip of her coffee.

“Wow,” After recovering from the initial shock, he chuckled, “Well, I just have one thing to say.” Riley raised her eyebrows and Max broke out in a grin. “You can never stop!”

She laughed loudly, “What?”

“Do you see how he’s acting?! Seriously, he’s downright pleasant! You are a miracle worker!”

“It’s not me, it’s just the power of a good orgasm! And don’t worry, after I’m done teaching him, he’ll keep his good mood because he’ll be screwing all the ladies at court!”

Max cackled, “I don’t know whether to be happy or grossed out!”

“Happy! He’ll be in a good mood every day. Maybe he’ll even get married!”

Max sipped his orange juice while he watched her thoughtfully. “I can’t help but wonder.. What do you think Liam would think about this?”

“Liam?!” She frowned, “What’s he have to do with anything?”

Maxwell shook his head, “Nothing! I’m just curious..”

“If you have something to say, just spit it out. Rip off the bandaid, I can take it.”

He looked around to make sure the coast was clear before quietly asking. “You’re not really interested in Liam. Are you?”

Ah, there it was. “What makes you think that?!”

“Please don’t hate me for saying this… I don’t think you would be fucking around with my brother if you were really into Liam. Not that I’m judging you or anything! It’s just.. I’ve been in love before. When you meet someone you’re head over heels for, they’re all you can think about.. You don’t feel that with Liam, do you?”

Riley sighed. He asked the one question she had no answer for. “Honestly, I don’t know. Liam’s kind and sweet and handsome. I just.. don’t know if I’ve ever felt that way about anyone.” It was the truth. She was attracted to Liam, she enjoyed talking to him, he made her feel special and important. But that spark she had always heard so much about, wasn’t there. If Max had noticed, maybe Liam had too. Riley quickly added, “Don’t tell Bert.. please? I’m trying with Liam, I really am. And I do like him.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t say anything.”

Riley nodded and looked away.

“Damn.” Max dropped his eyes to his plate. “This convo got heavy.”

“Well.. let’s change the subject. I am in need of a new dress and I need someone with fantastic taste to help me pick one out. I’m just not sure who to ask..”

Max raised his hand in the air, “Ooh! Me! Pick me!”

The two laughed as they made their way back into the estate, preparing for an expensive shopping trip. 

Four days later.. 

Bertrand massaged his temples as he watched Max attempt to teach Riley the foxtrot. She stumbled for the tenth time that night and he stood abruptly. “Good God, let’s just take a break.. I’m going to head to my study to reflect on what an epic disgrace House Beaumont has become.”

Max and Riley shared a look as Bertrand collected some documents from in front of him. Max smirked at her and nodded to Bertrand, moving his hand in an up and down motion as if he were jerking someone off.

Riley’s eyes widened and she shook her head, trying to stifle a laugh. “Max, stop!” She whispered.

Max theatrically continued the movements, stopping abruptly when Bertrand turned toward him. “What is going on here? Why are you two giggling when everything is going wrong!?”

“Nothing sir! No reason at all sir!” Max said as he stood straight as a board.

Bertrand glared, “Stop doing that! You know I despise when you do that!”

“Sir, yes sir!” Maxwell saluted his brother, who huffed loudly and left the room.

Once Bertrand was out of sight, Riley shoved Max, “What if he had seen you?!”

“He wouldn’t have! Bertrand never pays attention to me! Especially not when you’re in the room..”

Riley scoffed, “Ya right.. He only looks at me with disdain for fucking everything up.”

“Ya, no.” Max replied, “You don’t see the way he looks at you when you’re not looking.”

“Like he wants another hand job?” Riley chuckled, changing out of her heels and slipping on her tennis shoes.

Max looked away, speaking softly, “I’m not so sure that’s it anymore.”

Riley glanced up from where she was seated on the ground. “What?”

“Nothing!” He donned his usual easy smile and reached out to help her up. “Let’s get some rest. I know your feet have to be sore from all that fox trotting!" He winked, "Not everyone can keep up with the Lord of the dance!”

“Ugh, you have no idea.. I’m heading to my room for a long, relaxing soak in the tub.”

But while Max went upstairs to his room, Riley surreptitiously made her way to Bertrand’s study..