#i'm SURE there must be a way to do that but no one wants to tell me >:(

[sophiewritesworld]

Take a seat - E.M.

Eddie Munson x Plus size female Reader Warning: MDNI 18+, porn with a tiny plot Summary: Eddie wants you to sit on his face. It takes a bit of convincing.

The trailer is quiet tonight, save for the faint hum of the radio in the corner, some late-night metal station Eddie insists on keeping on low. The air smells faintly of weed and the vanilla candle you lit earlier, its flickering glow casting soft shadows across the cluttered living room. You're sprawled on the couch, one leg draped over Eddie's lap, your oversized band tee riding up enough to expose a sliver of your plush thigh. His fingers trace lazy circles there, calloused from guitar strings, but so gentle it sends a shiver up your spine.

"You're so fuckin' beautiful, you know that?" Eddie's voice is low, rough with that reverent edge he gets when he's been staring at you too long. His dark eyes glint in the candlelight, fixed on you like you're the only thing in the world worth looking at. His hair's a mess, curls spilling over his shoulders, and that damn leather jacket is slung over the armrest, leaving him in a faded Black Sabbath tee that clings to his lean frame.

You laugh softly, brushing off the compliment like you always do. "Eddie, stop it. I'm just... me."

His hands stills on your thigh, fingers pressing a little firmer, not painful but insistent. "Nuh-uh. Don't do that." He leans closer, the couch creaking under his shift, and the other hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing over your bottom lip. "You're a goddamn goddess, and I'm not lettin' you pretend otherwise."

Heat creeps up your neck, and you squirm under his gaze, not because you're uncomfortable but because Eddie has this way of seeing you- really seeing you- that makes your heart race. Your curves, your softness, the parts of yourself you’ve spent years learning to love—he worships them like they’re sacred. Every stretch mark, every roll, every inch of you is his personal altar, and he’s made it his mission to prove it.

“Eddie…” you start, but he cuts you off with a kiss, slow and deliberate, his lips warm and tasting faintly of the cheap beer he was sipping earlier. His tongue teases yours, coaxing a soft whimper from your throat, and when he pulls back, his grin is all mischief.

“Been thinkin’ about somethin’,” he murmurs, his hand sliding up your thigh, fingers dipping just under the hem of your shorts. “Somethin’ I want us to try.”

Your brow arches, curiosity piqued. “Oh yeah? What’s that, Munson?”

His grin widens, but there's a flicker of nervousness in his eyes, like he's gauging your reaction. "I want you to sit on my face."

"Your breath catches, and for a second, you're not sure you heard him right. "What?"

"You heard me, sweetheart." His voice drops an octave, all velvet and sin. "I want you to sit on my face. Wanna feel all of you, every fuckin' inch, right there. Wanna taste you, drown in you."

Your cheeks burn, and a nervous laugh bubbles up. "Eddie, I'm... I mean, I'm not exactly small. What if I-?"

"Don't," he interrupts, his tone firm but not harsh. His hand slide to your hip, squeezing the soft flesh there like he can't get enough. "Don't you dare say what I think you're gonna say. You're not gonna hurt me. You're not too heavy. You're perfect, and I want this. I want you."

His words sink in, and the sincerity in his eyes chips away at your hesitation. Eddie's never been shy about his desire for you - hell, the man's practically feral for you ost days - but this feels different. Intimate. Vulnerable. He's offering himself up to you, begging for something that feels like a gift and a challenge all at once.

You bite your lip, considering, and he must sense your wavering because he leans in again, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then the sensitive spot just below your ear. “C’mon, baby,” he whispers, his breath hot against your skin. “Let me show you how much I want you. Let me take care of you.”

Your resolve crumbles, desire pooling low in your belly. “Okay,” you whisper, barely audible. “But you tell me if it’s too much, alright?”

He pulls back, grinning like he just won the lottery. “Deal. Now get those shorts off, princess. I’ve got plans for you.”

Eddie’s bedroom is a chaotic shrine to his passions—posters plastered on the walls, guitar picks scattered on the dresser, a half-empty pack of cigarettes by the bed. But right now, all you can focus on is him, kneeling on the mattress, his hands beckoning you closer. You’re down to your underwear and that oversized tee, feeling exposed but undeniably wanted as his eyes rake over you.

“C’mere,” he says, voice thick with anticipation. You crawl onto the bed, the springs squeaking under your weight, and he reaches for you, pulling you into a searing kiss. His hands roam, greedy, one slipping under your shirt to palm your breast, the other gripping your ass like he’s anchoring himself. You moan into his mouth, and he groans in response, the sound vibrating through you.

“Fuck, you’re so soft,” he murmurs against your lips, his fingers kneading the plush curve of your hip. “Every part of you… it’s like you were made for me.”

You’re straddling his lap now, your thighs bracketing his hips, and you can feel him, hard and straining against his jeans. The friction makes you gasp, and he takes the opportunity to nip at your lower lip, tugging gently before soothing it with his tongue. His hands slide under your thighs, urging you to lift up, and with a playful smirk, he maneuvers you until you’re hovering over his chest.

“Eddie, wait—” you start, but he shakes his head, his hands firm on your hips.

“No waiting,” he says, his voice a low growl. “I’ve been dreaming about this for weeks. You’re not gettin’ outta this one.”

He guides you upward, slow and deliberate, until you’re positioned above his face. Your heart pounds, a mix of nerves and arousal, but the way he’s looking at you—like you’re the most delicious thing he’s ever seen—makes you feel powerful. Desired. His hands grip your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and he lets out a shaky breath.

“Goddamn, look at you,” he says, his voice reverent. “So fuckin’ gorgeous. Sit down, baby. Let me have you.”

You hesitate, still worried about your weight, but Eddie’s having none of it. He tugs you down, not forcefully but with enough insistence that you lower yourself, your thighs framing his face. The first brush of his breath against your core sends a jolt through you, and you grip the headboard for balance, your knuckles whitening.

“Relax,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against the thin fabric of your panties. “I’ve got you.”

He nuzzles against you, his nose grazing your clit through the cotton, and you whimper, your hips twitching involuntarily. He groans, the sound muffled but unmistakably hungry, and his hands slide to your ass, squeezing as he pulls you closer. “Fuck, you smell so good,” he says, his voice thick with need. “Can’t wait to taste you.”

His fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, and with a quick glance up at you—seeking permission—you nod, breathless. He slides them down, helping you lift one leg to free them, and then he’s staring at you, completely bare, his pupils blown wide with lust.

“Perfect,” he breathes, and before you can respond, his tongue darts out, a slow, deliberate lick that makes your whole body shudder. You cry out, your grip on the headboard tightening, and Eddie moans, the vibration sending another wave of pleasure through you.

He takes his time, exploring you with long, languid strokes, his tongue tracing every fold, every sensitive spot. He’s not rushing, savoring every second, and the sounds he’s making—low, guttural moans, like he’s the one being pleasured—only heighten your arousal. His hands knead your thighs, your ass, encouraging you to move, to grind against his face, but you’re still holding back, worried about smothering him.

“Baby,” he mumbles against you, his voice muffled but insistent. “Ride me. C’mon, I want it.”

You glance down, and the sight of him—his curls fanned out on the pillow, his cheeks flushed, his lips glistening—nearly undoes you. “Eddie, are you sure?”

His eyes meet yours, fierce and unwavering. “Fuck yes, I’m sure. Sit. Down.”

The command in his voice, paired with the raw desire in his eyes, pushes you over the edge. You lower yourself fully, letting your weight settle, and Eddie groans, his hands gripping you tighter as he dives in with renewed fervor. His tongue circles your clit, then flattens, dragging slow and firm, and you can’t hold back the moan that tears from your throat. Your hips start to move, tentative at first, but his encouragement—his hands guiding you, his muffled praises—makes you bolder.

“That’s it,” he gasps, pulling back just enough to speak. “Fuck, yes, just like that. You’re so perfect, so fuckin’ perfect.”

You’re lost in it now, the pleasure building, your thighs trembling as you grind against his mouth. Eddie’s in heaven, his tongue relentless, his nose bumping your clit with every movement. He’s worshipping you, just like he promised, and the realization—that he loves this, loves you, every curve and inch—sends you spiraling toward the edge.

The room feels hotter now, the air thick with the scent of sex and the candle’s fading vanilla. Your breaths come in ragged gasps, your body trembling as Eddie works you closer to oblivion. His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, squeezing your ass, urging you to move faster, harder. You’re riding his face now, unselfconscious, your thighs pressed against his cheeks, your weight fully on him, and he’s loving every second of it.

“Fuck, baby,” he mumbles, his voice barely audible against your skin. “You’re so good, so fuckin’ good.” His tongue plunges inside you, then flicks back to your clit, alternating between sucking and licking with a rhythm that’s driving you wild. Your hips buck, and he moans, the sound vibrating through your core, pushing you closer to the edge.

You glance down, and the sight of him—his eyes half-lidded with bliss, his lips slick with you, his hands holding you like he never wants to let go—sends a fresh wave of heat through you. “Eddie,” you gasp, your voice breaking. “I’m—I’m close.”

He doubles down, his tongue working faster, his lips closing around your clit and sucking just hard enough to make you see stars. Your thighs shake, your grip on the headboard faltering, and you lean forward, one hand tangling in his curls. He groans, the sound raw and desperate, and the vibration tips you over.

“Eddie—fuck!” Your orgasm hits like a tidal wave, pleasure crashing through you, your hips grinding against his face as you ride it out. He doesn’t stop, his tongue softening but still moving, drawing out every aftershock until you’re whimpering, oversensitive and boneless.

You lift yourself slightly, worried you’ve been too much, but Eddie’s hands tighten on your hips, pulling you back down. “Not yet,” he rasps, his voice hoarse but hungry. “One more, baby. Gimme one more.”

You’re trembling, your thighs burning, but the need in his voice reignites something in you. “Eddie, I don’t know if I can—”

“You can,” he says, his lips brushing your inner thigh. “You’re so strong, so beautiful. Let me have you again.”

His words, his worship, make you feel invincible. You nod, settling back down, and he dives in with a renewed intensity, his tongue tracing patterns that have you gasping within seconds. This time, he’s relentless, his hands guiding your hips in a steady rhythm, his moans mingling with yours. The pleasure builds faster, sharper, and you’re already so sensitive that every touch feels electric.

“God, Eddie,” you moan, your head tipping back. “You’re so good—fuck, you’re so good.”

He hums in response, the vibration sending another jolt through you, and you can feel it, the second climax barreling toward you. Your hips move on their own, chasing the sensation, and Eddie’s right there with you, his tongue and lips and hands all working in perfect harmony. You’re his world, his everything, and he’s making sure you know it.

It hits you harder than the first, a white-hot explosion that leaves you crying out, your body shaking as you come undone. Eddie holds you through it, his hands steady on your hips, his tongue slowing but never stopping, drawing out every last wave until you’re gasping, collapsing forward onto the headboard.

This time, you lift yourself off, rolling to the side to lie beside him, your chest heaving. Eddie’s face is flushed, his lips swollen and glistening, and he’s grinning like a man who’s just conquered the world. “Holy shit,” he says, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. “That was… fuck, that was everything.”

You laugh, breathless and a little dazed. “You’re insane.”

“Insane for you,” he corrects, rolling onto his side to face you. He pulls you close, his hand cupping your cheek, and kisses you, slow and deep. You can taste yourself on his lips, and it’s intimate, grounding, a reminder of what you just shared.

“You okay?” he asks, his thumb stroking your cheek. “Was that… good for you?”

You nod, still catching your breath. “More than good. That was… I don’t even have words.”

His grin widens, and he presses a kiss to your forehead. “Good. ‘Cause I’m gonna need to do that again. Like, a lot.”

You laugh, swatting his chest, but there’s no denying the warmth spreading through you, the way his love, his worship, makes you feel like the most beautiful thing in the world. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously in love with you,” he says, pulling you into his arms. And as you lie there, tangled together, you know he means every word.

[plumbwolf]

He needed the money, Derek reminded himself, for the third or fourth or sixteenth time. He needed the money, and he didn't have time for a part-time job. Erica had sworn up and down that the magazine she freelanced for was staffed entirely by professionals, even if those professionals did make soft-core werewolf porn.

He needed the money, Derek reminded himself, for the seventeenth time, as an intern sprayed him down with the mist-setting on a garden house. Another intern in a plaid button down with a heavy-looking bag over one shoulder ran in as as someone was artfully mussing Derek's hair from behind. He panted "Shit. Am I late? Tell me I'm not late."

He needed the money, Derek reminded himself, for the third or fourth or sixteenth time. He needed the money, and he didn't have time for a part-time job. Erica had sworn up and down that the magazine she freelanced for was staffed entirely by professionals, even if those professionals did make soft-core werewolf porn.

He needed the money, Derek reminded himself, for the seventeenth time, as an intern sprayed him down with the mist-setting on a garden house. Another human intern in a worn Invader Zim t-shirt ran in as someone was artfully mussing Derek's hair from behind. He panted, "Shit. Am I late? Tell me I'm not late."

"You're late," several voices called out at once.

"Shit." The intern set down his large bag on a nearby bench and nodded at Derek. "You must be my model. I'm Stiles, your photographer. Sorry about all the swearing."

Despite Derek’s concerns about his wardrobe, Stiles did seem like a professional. He had barely done more than glance at the way Derek's nipples were peaked with cold underneath the extremely thin white t-shirt they'd had him put on. And he hadn't once touched Derek without asking permission first.

"Is it cool if I-" Stiles pantomimed something with his fingers, "make a few adjustments?" He had beautiful hands. If they'd met in a bar somewhere, Derek would have pegged him as a pianist, or maybe the artist he supposed Stiles technically was.

Derek nodded. "Go ahead."

Stiles beamed at him. "Thanks. No bad touching, I swear. I promised Erica I'd return you with your virtue intact."

Too bad, thought Derek, and felt himself flush. He was suddenly glad the water in the bathtub was too uncomfortably chilly to make anything but his nipples hard.

Stiles crooked a finger in Derek’s collar and dragged it down another inch. “Arms behind your head, please? Yeah, just like that. I’m just gonna-” He adjusted the t-shirt sleeves, casually complimenting Derek on his arms (‘That’s just the right amount of flex’) as he worked. 

“Now,” he said. “Would you mind tugging up the hem of your shirt? You’ve got great armpit bush, and that’s showing up just fine through the cotton, but I’d like a clearer view of the ol’ happy trail.”

Derek locked eyes with Stiles and pulled at his shirt. The cotton had stuck to his stomach, and the wet ‘slap’ it made when he let it go sounded loud in a room with tiled acoustics. “Like that?” 

“Uh.” Stiles cleared his throat. “Maybe a little higher? Yeah, that’s perfect.” 

*click*Stiles never stopped talking as he worked, chattering on about college (he’d been in a class with Cora before he’d graduated last year), Star Wars, work, (‘Can you flash those beta blues at me? How about a little fang?’), his cat (a striped Tabby named ‘SecUnit’), how he’d seen Derek at the nursery last month when he’d come in for a new succulent-

“I’m not getting the angle I want. Do you mind if-” Stiles wrinkled his nose. “Can I maybe climb in there with you?”

“ . . . sure?”

Stiles grinned at him, and dropped to the ground to unlace his shoes. He rolled up his jeans with a foot on the edge of the tub, and then climbed in to sit on the back edge. “Much bet - fuck, this water’s cold!”

“I know.”

“Sorry, big guy. Can you stand it for another ten minutes? I swear we’re almost done.”

“I’m a werewolf, Stiles.”

“I’m still buying you coffee after the shoot. I mean, I will have an intern run out for coffee. That I will pay for. Tilt your head a little more to the left? Nah, look at me straight on again. Smolder for me. God, that's super hot.”

Stiles started to ramble (incorrectly) about how he could never be a model himself. “Way too scrawny. I won this baby,” he plucked at his stupid t-shirt, “as a raffle prize in seventh grade. You got tickets for passing a high-school level reading comprehension test. I mean, seventh-grade. And it still fits!"

 Derek laughed.

*click click click click click*

Stiles pulled back and looked at his camera. "Forget everything I said two minutes ago. There's our cover shot. Fuck, look at your cute little bunny teeth. And those eyes crinkles! We’re going to sell a million copies.”

“Gonna buy one yourself?”

Stiles winked. “I might even buy two.” He pulled his camera over his head and set it down on the stool next to the bathtub. “That’s a wrap. You can put your arms down. Or wherever.” 

Derek unhooked his arms with a low groan, while Stiles fidgeted on the edge of the bathtub. A second or two later he muttered, ‘Fuck it’ and dropped down fully into the tub, landing with his knees in the water on either side of Derek’s legs. He put a tentative hand on each of Derek’s thighs. “I really hope I’m not reading this wrong.”

Derek took a fistful of the t-shirt that absolutely did not fit and that he planned to steal later and burn. He tugged, lightly, and Stiles scooted obediently forward so that he was sitting directly above the zipper on Derek’s borrowed jeans.

Suddenly the water seemed a lot less cold. 

“I thought you could read at a high school level.”

“College,” Stiles blurted out. “Maybe even post-grad. No barely legal reading levels here.”

“Good,” said Derek, and pulled him the rest of the way down.

TYLER HOECHLIN

[strwberri-milk]

Good morning, Berri. I'm back with another LADS request. You can consider this request a continuation of this: https://www.tumblr.com/strwberri-milk/780182378558767104/good-morning-berri-im-back-with-another-lads May I request: You bring the LADS men to your family's Christmas reunion party held annually at your grandparent's place for the first time. It didn't take long for that one flirtatious cousin to hit on your boyfriend. What happens?

i dont think ive done this before but also, just a heads up these are going to be shorter bc of the fact that youre asking for all of them - please remember that if you want more detailed requests to cap it at three as my rules state.

He won't take it at all. He doesn't respond to any sort of flirtatious comment that is being directed at him, no matter how subtle or overt the comment may be. He makes it very clear that he's only interested in you and nobody else, and just because it's family doesn't mean he's going to be nice. He wants to set down clear boundaries and make sure that nobody thinks he's going to do anything behind your back.

Zayne is the most polite of the group at least. He rebukes any sort of affection with a firm nod and a gentle push in the right direction - physically too, if he must. If they try to touch him or get too close he'll redirect by moving their hand by the wrist or gently pushing against their arm and putting his own around your waist.

At some point it'll just become very awkward for them when Zayne decides to just start giving them a cold stare. They'll say something, call him funny and try to touch his bicep again and everyone's watching because they've been seeing this rejection over and over again. He'll simply tell them that if they try to touch him one more time he'll be leaving because he feels like they're acting highly inappropriate with him. He'll level them with a pointed look and now they're forced to acknowledge their actions.

If they try to deny it then he'll drop it but if they try again then he'll simply ask to leave, the two of you slipping away as Zayne doesn't want to put up with it anymore. If they finally apologise then Zayne is going to make it clear that the apology hasn't made things "okay", avoiding them for the rest of the night in a more pointed manner and making everybody gossip and whisper.

Xavier will just avoid their touches. It doesn't matter how awkward it might be for him to literally jump away from them but he'll do it if he has to. He's already attached to you by the hip so it's not like you're going to be too far away for him to grab at. They'll laugh awkwardly, telling him that they don't bite and that he doesn't need to run away so viscerally. He doesn't bother replying, just turning his attention back to you and keeping close to you.

If they keep trying then he'll just turn and tell them to leave him alone. He isn't interested and he won't ever be interested. That, paired with the death glare he gives them makes it clear that even if Xavier looks passive and chill, there's no way he won't act on a perceived threat to his relationship - which is what they're presenting as. He'll make the message clear by just asking you if the two of you can go home and Xavier won't show up at any future events if they're present.

Rafayel doesn't respond well at all. Similar to Xavier, he has no problem acting out. He's known as difficult for a reason and he will pull out every diva card he needs to. The first statement is flatly ignored, Rafayel looking at them like they're the dirt on his shoes as he asks them what they're trying to do. He isn't a fan of what they're insinuating and he makes it clear, rolling his eyes and treating them unkindly.

He'll maintain a cold attitude throughout the entire event, making it a point of walking away or straight up laughing at them if the statement calls for it. He finds it highly offensive that they think hitting on him in front of you would work on him even if the two of you weren't together. If he gets bored of actively belittling them then he'll start ignoring and making it clear he wants to go home. He's even clingier than usual, and nobody's going to really like him after this event but he doesn't care, citing the flirting as the main reason why he's going to be mean and he has no problem doing so.

Sylus is also quite cold. He'll only humor it once, raising a brow and asking if they think now is really an appropriate time to be making such comments about him. He'll look around pointedly, arm around your waist as he draws attention to them attempting to flirt with a man in a clearly committed relationship. Then, he'll turn to you and say something in your ear while looking at them - it doesn't matter what he said but he'll laugh and you'll smack at his chest. The way he's acting will of course make them think it's about them and have everybody else whispering about it which will definitely ruin their day.

If, somehow, they have the guts to keep flirting with him he'll just tell them to shut up and leave him alone. He doesn't want to hear them talking to him nor have them think he'd even entertain the thought for half a second. His voice is harsh and maybe even a touch cruel but they probably will finally leave him alone afterwards.

Caleb is generally a very friendly guy but any advances that are given to him are just...bounced off if it's family or someone close to you. He doesn't want to be fully rude so he'll just develop selective hearing and ignore anything that he doesn't want to hear. It doesn't matter what they say or how they try to convey it - if they're trying to flirt with him he won't respond. It'll get to a point where they look desperate for his attention, clearly trying to flirt and failing so miserably as he shows them photos of you that he loves for the nth time.

If a stranger/someone not close to you tries to flirt with him all they get in response is a firm "no." No explanation, no other conversation, just a no. He won't say anything to them at all after the fact if it's clear the only intent was to try and get his number or something, making it clear he's in a loving relationship and that he has no want to entertain their advances.

[namelessgakusei]

EP. 4.1 Belief and Perception

Devil May Cry x Reader Insert

Warnings: It's DMC. Based on the New Netflix Series. Spoiler warnings for the actual show. Not proofread. Slightly canon divergent.

EP 3.3 And pull the trigger (prev.)

EP 4.2 (TBA)

Synopsis: A recorded message from the White Rabbit tests your relationship with Dante.

"You have to keep this safe, always. You promise?"

"I promise."

"Vergil, do you promise—"

"I promise!"

...

"I'm not sleepy..."

"You're never sleepy. Okay, what story do you want tonight?"

"Tell me about Dad. Do we get to meet him soon?"

"Alright, I'll tell you a story about Dad. But, after that, you have to go to sleep."

Eva looked hesitant for a moment, but soon smiled at the young Dante.

"Your Dad..."

"Son of Sparda."

Dante woke up with a groan, his head feeling like it's been split in two. It didn't helped that he remembered some childhood memories, those before the incident, further contributing to the unpleasant feeling. "Why does my head feel like this?"

"It's a miracle that you can even feel anything." Enzo beams from his left. The broker congratulated him for still being alive despite half his face still being pure muscle, but immediately lamented that they are prisoners once again, with a dozen other people bound on the floor by vein-like appendages that stretch across the walls. You frowned, placed between the two of them, as he tried to discreetly tell Dante that you've been out of it since you woke up.

"So, you did survive the bomb." An unknown voice calls out to the boy. "By his hand, all things are possible." A grey-haired gentleman in a blue two-piece suit smiles knowingly at Dante, making the other scowl as he tries to recall where he first met the guy.

Dante, proud of himself, smirks. "Aren't you the guy in those mattress commercials?"

"That's the vice president." You interjected, eyes closing off with a resigned sigh.

"Oh." Your brows furrowed. He knows that, he should know that, he's not stupid so why would Dante...

You opened one eye and saw his' stealing glances around your direction, before meeting with yours, looking expectant. Is he... trying to cheer you up? He doesn't even know why you're...

The act itself was stupid that it made you huff in amusement, cracking a small smile despite yourself, and Dante seems to be taking it as a win.

The sound of heavy footsteps cuts through your small reverie. "You're awake." The rough voice of the Red Demon scraped in the silence as he grinned down at all the hostages with Dante's sword in tow. His brother trails behind him, relatively calmer, holding up a jewel case. "The White Rabbit left you a message."

Perhaps emboldened by your initial reaction, Dante's mouth kept running with a cocky smirk. "Remind me again who's the Human Torch knockoff and the leaf blower?" You gaped at his brazenness, dumbfounded by the sheer audacity, but who were you to be surprised? This is Dante we're talking about.

It did get him the reaction he wanted, getting his sword pointed at him as the Red Demon seethes. "You sure you want to be insulting us right now?" It's a bit disappointing that they are this easy to rile up, are demons that simple-minded or is it just these two? You look away with a shrug, joining in the mess, "It isn't much of an insult, really." Dante snickers along with you at that.

Before the demon could lose control, his brother gently reminds him of their objective, making the former huff. As the two of them padded to the DVD player, bickering over the correct way to insert a CD, the vice president turned to Dante. "Have you considered what I told you?"

Both you and Dante raise a brow from his question, with the latter glaring as he remembers what Baines said over the speaker a few hours ago. "You mean what you said about my soul being dirty?"

"I said that God may yet redeem you, regardless of your origins."

"Surely you see how he must have a plan for you."

"To bring you back from the brink of death."

You leaned back to the wall, knowing exactly the kind of person the Vice President is: the delusional and dangerous kind, one that will do anything to reach their goal once they laid their eyes on it, regardless of repercussions. He's dead set on trying to get Dante to join his side, regardless of the latter's feelings, all for the name of God. To think this is a leader of America and of DARKCOM... The thought gives you a headache.

Their conversation soon fades to the background, with you not wanting to hear any of it in lieu of your own sanity, as there are bigger problems to deal with than listening to some religious lunatic who has too much power in their hands. Everything's been a mess for the past few hours. This is extremely unlike the kind of situations you previously found yourselves in, and you're supposed to be the person to have a backup plan to save your asses. Now, you're reduced to a helpless civilian who got caught twice due to your own foolishness.

If only your emotions didn't get the better of you that night. If only you didn't jump off the vehicle's roof a few hours earlier. You wouldn't be caught by Lady Arkham. Dante's neck wouldn't have exploded. There won't be any hostages on the plane right now. You were supposed to think ahead, know everything, have the upper hand, but no, you're useless. It's pathetic, but you kept thinking of all the possible scenarios should you have kept your cool.

"This is all my fault."

Enzo tutted at your whisper, scooting closer with a serious expression. "You take that back right now."

Your eyes turned to him first before your head did, shocked and curious, as you've never seen him look like this. Despite his binds, Enzo somehow looks like a stern father. "I know you became like this because you don't want to get hurt again, but you can't possibly have foreseen this much."

His eyes softened as his usual lighthearted expression returned. "Sometimes, you just need to let go and have faith that it all works out."

Your face contrasts his, loss for words from processing his statement. Blind faith? In this age? You need to consider everything to even do something! Else, everything will fall apart and you're left wondering what you did wrong, as you're surrounded by the consequences of your actions. How can he confidently say that like it's nothing? No, looking at him now, he...

"Is that how you survived these kinds of situations before?" You smiled and released a weak laugh. What the hell, sure. Letting loose might not be that bad after all.

Your response seems to satisfy your adoptive father, as he beams. "Heh! Give your old man some credit! I've been in this business long before you surpassed me!" Right, despite his disposition, Enzo's far more experienced than you. ...yeah, despite his personality. "Thanks, Da—"

"Got it!" Agni, the Red Demon, exclaims, as the lone television buzzed to life. On the screen, the White Rabbit appears, looking maniac as usual. "Welcome aboard Air Force Two!"

"We ask that you please pay attention to the screen for an important safety announcement."

"You're all going to die."

Every single hostage, except for those who knew about the world of demons, thrashed around in panic, whimpering for help against their gags. You narrowed your eyes. How will you get killed? Having those two demons kill you all is too much work for an aircraft to get hijacked. If you were meant to die, they could've just picked a random location. A plane crash isn't out of the question, surely the demons could survive that. But Dante's here and being their target, there should be something else in this.

"That is until the son of Sparda can save you."

There it is. The catch. Why this situation? Revenge to Sparda? Or does it have something to do with him being a half-demon? What is it? Think...!

The White Rabbit's words echo at the back of your mind.

He wants Dante to unleash something.

But what? ...His demon self?

Enzo's shrill voice of shock made you flinch, cutting your train of thought. "Son of a what?!"

"God, and just when I started respecting you..." You groaned and leaned your head back.

The White Rabbit's recorded video continues, taunting Dante about his origins and his denial despite the obvious. "Would just any hybrid, the child of some brute and a frail sapien, be able to do the things you can do?" At those words, Dante's face slowly starts to heal back, cementing the fact that his abilities are beyond comprehension. The White Rabbit then revealed the complete pendant, each halves fitting perfectly despite the contrasting colors, taunting Dante with his family’s heirlooms."Why did half of the amulet that Sparda used to seal the rift between realms end up as a piece of your jewelry?" The heirlooms that his mom gave him. The heirlooms that were given to him and Vergil. The only thing that was left of Eva, wrapped around the Rabbit’s neck like he has any right to it.

"The deadbeat father you never met, who abandoned your family without a thought, was the noble and exalted demon knight Sparda."

Dante scoffed. "Right, Sparda. Can you believe this guy?" Nudging you, he expects a similar reaction, but you only pursed your lips. His expression faltered upon that. The silence is enough for the both of you to understand what that meant. The White Rabbit continued after the pause, seemingly knowing that Dante would be replying to his message. He kept ranting on about Dante’s denial and aversion to the truth, someone who’s willing to delude himself and live a lie, rather than accept and take responsibility for his father’s actions. 

"As for that little partner of yours,” You perked up from that, Dante too, as he glared at the video. “Dressed up in white and acting as your inhibitor... are they your replacement brother?" The Rabbit taunts him for being delusional to the point of unconsciously making you fill the role of Vergil in Dante’s “little family”. Needless to say, Dante’s enraged, making him lunge forward, only for the restraints to tighten up around him and pulse with a faint light, seeping out his energy. 

Were you… a replacement for Vergil? Did Dante really think of you like that? But, looking at how much he wants to defend you, you don’t reckon to believe the Rabbit’s words. The recording continued, belittling both Dante and his father; and while you won’t consider the earlier statements to be true, you’re also guilty of using Dante as a “replacement” for your own. 

You two were just lonely children looking for a home on one another, after all.

A clap from the White Rabbit changes the mood of the video like a switch, as his voice becomes chipper, chuckling while he adjusts his collar. “Sorry. Got off a tangent there.”

"The point is, the plane you're on is rigged with explosives, which my men will detonate momentarily." Rudra, the Blue demon, steps forward with a detonator in hand. The sight further frightens the hostages, with some of them now hysterically crying through their binds. “But not to worry, as Sparda’s son, it should be simple for Dante to save you all.”

All eyes landed on the young man, both fearful and expectant, making Dante grin nervously from the pressure.

"I'd bet on it."

taglist!: @mischiefmanaged71 @tamashithe2nd @im-just-a-simp-le-whore @96jnie @flwerie @deathrye @that-dumb-bitch @sleepykittycx @sidewalkenforcer @devil-might-sob @sophrickingfunny

[eraserbread]

Imagine forbidden romance family friend yuji and kento’s daughter nanami would be furious 😩🫣

"dad, can i pleaseeee have a friend over?"

"what did your mother say?"

"she said to ask you."

"then, go ask her again." kento nuzzles back in his chair, flipping the nonfiction book in front of him to the next page. it was evening now, past dinner and chores. supposedly, rin had finished her homework because she's at her father's neck, pouting, giving him that look she stole from him.

"but you could just say yes, and i'd leave you alone." her meticulous smile falters just before brightening her face once more. kento gives her a shadowed glare. "pleaseeee?"

"go ask mom."

rin stares at him dead-eyed for a moment. he blinks up at her, eyebrow crooked like he's wondering why she's still distracting him. "ugh, you never let me do anything-

stomping off down the hallway, ken is just glad rin took his answer well enough to leave him alone. though she's his spitting image, rin has your bite—that attitude he married and treasured. but it's different on his little girl—funnier.

he breathes out a laugh, then goes right back to reading.

what kento didn't know is that he dodged a bullet. no—a sixteen-year-old boy-sized nuke headed straight into his home.

"just wait until your dad finds out," you're grumbling, pushing rin and yuji from her room and into the hallway. and it's your fault—you ended up caving and agreeing that she could bring her friend over. after all, it's a weekend, she's overachieving in school, and her chores are done. now, you must punish her and all her calculating, mischievous ways. kento is far too light-handed for teenage girl antics.

"b-but I don't have one!" rin's classmate, yuji, whom she's known since middle school, is on trial next to her—young, pouting face round with shame.

"what's happened?" kento steps out of the bedroom, a tied robe keeping him decent. his eyes are shadowed with the promise of sleep. but he can't sleep when every light in this house is on; in fact, he couldn't sleep at all. you weren't next to him.

"i found them..." you start, letting them into the open space with a push, "in her bedroom, kissing."

"mom, wait—it wasn't like that." rin's hair is tossed, and kento is not dumb. his eyebrow twitches. images of the description flutter to the front of his mind, and it's unwelcome and ugly. he's furious. but rin would never know. kento doesn't share the hot side of his emotions with anyone but you—surely not to his livewire teenage daughter

"you think i don't know what kissing is?"

"you're being so totally overdramatic."

"i'm dramatic? no phone for a week," you hold an empty palm to your defiant teenager, ushering her with a curl of your fingers. "now."

of course, rin listens to you easily, but she still pushes it into your hands and stomps all the way back to her room. the door slams—just for good measure.

then kento sighs, shaking his head. in his mind, a fair punishment would be the inability to have more friends over—that's what he wants. just one less promise of an angsty brat in his space. "dear, i think we should reevaluate-

"shut up, kento."

nanami takes it, nodding once, sucking his cheeks when he watched rin hand over her phone like she'd never see it again. yuji watches over your shoulder, guilty as hell and suddenly two sizes too small for his baggy jeans. the truth is, he's been seeing rin on and off since they started high school. it's just a thing that led to unsure pecks on the lips behind closed doors.

it was never anything so serious until you lost your shit. now, your big, scary husband is towering over yuji with a quirk in his brow, taken aback when you walk past and shove rin's confiscated phone into his robed chest.

alone now, standing face-to-face in the bright, white light of the hallway, yuji looks so meek as he bows his head. "sir, i'm so-

kento doesn't want to talk. he hardly wanted to get out of bed, and now you've made it his personal mission to show the kid off. he and his glossy skincare still seeping into his pores, uncombed hair, and peeking chest through his garment.

but like a good husband, he takes a sigh and turns back to his room to get dressed.

and when he crawls back in bed with you after the kid is safe at home with his grandfather, he whispers in your ear, wrapping his arms around you, "well, at least you did not overreact."

"is that supposed to be funny?"

[eternalguk]

pink hearts and black clouds || jjk. — 02 teaser

Love me at my lowest, I’ll love you when you’re barely holding on

↠ Pairing : Jungkook x Reader

↠ Summary : Jeon Jungkook is the epitome of a brooding grunge. Moody, distant, and always a little too sarcastic. A grumpy, tattooed college student who barely tolerates anyone… except you. Somehow, the girl who’s a whirlwind of pink hearts and strawberry lipgloss is the one who keeps dear Jungkook on his toes.

But you must admit… behind that gruff exterior, there’s a side of him only you get to see—gentle, caring, and ready to spoil you in his own way. Everyone else may see him as the tough guy with a permanent scowl, but you know better. Jungkook’s heart? It’s all yours.

↠ Genre : established relationship au, college au, grunge!bf x bimbo!gf, angst, fluff & smut

↠ Word count : tbc

↠ Warnings : none for teaser (there will be smut in the chapter)

↠ A/n : Hi there ; I’m back! I don’t know if anyone even remembers this series, but I’ll be posting chapter 2 of PHBC over the weekend. As a thank you for the love I have received, I wanted to post a teaser 🫶🏻 I hope you enjoy this little snippet. I have missed these two so much! If you would like to be on the taglist, please comment below :) and if they are a new couple for you, I have tagged chapter 1 and the masterlist below where you will find a link to the prologue and teaser - incase you want to get a feel for the series before reading~ Feel free to share some feedback and what you would like to see from our chaotically different lovers 🦢!

↠ Song : ‘Closer’ by Jungkook / ‘Good for you’ by Selena G

❧ Chapter 02 : Lace and Chains

prev. || next  || masterlist

You tug on Jungkook’s arm, your lace-trimmed beige cardigan brushing against his tattooed sleeve. "Stop sulking and hand out some flyers!"

He doesn't move. "Why did I agree to this?"

"Because you love me," you say with your trademark wink.

Jungkook groans but walks over anyway, taking a stack of flyers from your hands. "I can't believe I'm doing this."

"Believe it, Daddy," Taehyung teases, earning a glare from Jungkook.

"Shut up."

Taehyung just laughs, scrambling for his phone to take more pictures of you posing with your flyers.

"Make sure you get my good side!" you call out, striking a pose.

"They're all your good side," Jungkook mutters under his breath, though no one hears him.

"Okay, next we need to practice my speech," you say, clapping your hands together and squealing like a child who has been let loose in a candy store.

"Speech?" Jungkook repeats, already dreading it.

"Yeah? For when I win," you explain, but not without sending a glare Jungkook's way.

Obviously there was going to be a speech! And obviously you were going to win!

Jimin's eyes light up. "Oh, now this l've gotta see."

Stay tuned to find out more 🦢!

[localcursedfriend]

Ok everyone is talking about Doctor Damian and I know that's like the path he seems to be going. However, I think Charge Nurse Damian would absolutely hit. Like all of those traits that made him a little odd as a kid, before he went through unpacking all the stuff with the LoA, would serve him beautifully as a charge nurse. Clear, quick, efficient communication? Exactly what you need when you're in charge of people who are in charge of making sure people stay alive and healthy. A firm prioritization system? A must if you are overloaded with work and need to do everything all at once (Nurses straight up deserve so much more help man). Confidence in yourself and how you operate in your space? Absolutely. He would get to use all the cutthroat confidence and attitude he was raised in while getting to be kind and empathetic like he is at his core. (Also he gets to use all his like Robin skills, but I think a lot of that can be cross applied to if he became a doctor, sooo)

But more importantly Damian wants to help people in a special way. I'm not saying doctors don't help people, they absolutely do, but nurses get much much more face time with patients. They get to see the impact that they are making. I think that's something that NEEDS to be a part of Damian's story. It's important for him to see the change he's doing, seeing goodness grow one person at a time because it's part of his story and his growth.

[magicalrocketships]

Rivers of Light || Max/Daniel || part 10 ||

(reminder that this in its entirety contains mpreg, reference to giving birth, Max Verstappen's bad dad, past abuse, and on-track accidents.) Cyril's hot wife remains made up (I mean, she may be hot in real life but I don't even know for certain if she exists, therefore this version of his hot wife remains made up).

All previous parts can be found in the masterpost here. This chapter is on AO3 here.

Max hasn't had many people be kind to him since he crashed out of Formula 1. He'd forgotten how it had felt.

Part 10

Bastiaan falls asleep in Cyril's arms after dinner. One minute he's frowning up at him, and the next, his little eyes are closing and he's falling asleep right where he's tucked up against Cyril's chest.

Max contains his jealousy well. Bastiaan's never fallen asleep anywhere other than with him. This whole trip has been full of new experiences for his baby, and he must be very tired. Max would like to fall asleep too, but he hasn't slept through the night in a long time. He's used to it by now, but even being used to it doesn't mean he doesn't wish it was different sometimes. 

That he could, just for once, put the weight down. 

He and Daniel don't stay long after Bastiaan falls asleep. It's late anyway, but his baby stays mostly asleep through having his little hat and sleeping bag put on him, and his mittens tucked down over his hands. He stirs as he's put down in the carrycot, but he's asleep again after Max has shushed him, moved the pram back and forth to rock him a little as Daniel says goodnight to Cyril and Sephine before they turn their attention to Max. He gets kissed on the cheek by both of them. Cyril says he will call when Max is back home, and Sephine says they'll have to have Max and Bastiaan to stay when Max is next in Paris. It's nice. It's kind. It's a lot. Max hasn't had many people be kind to him since he crashed out of Formula 1. He'd forgotten how it had felt. 

It almost makes him want to cry. 

He doesn't. 

He's not sure he can anymore. 

&&&

Bastiaan wakes up an hour after they get back to the hotel, which is about half an hour after Max has passed out in the big bed with the carrycot next to him. When he'd gone to sleep, Daniel was still awake, scrolling through his phone with the lamp on by the little bed under the window. He had refused to let Max sleep there. But when Bastiaan starts to cry, the lamps are off, and Max tries to keep it that way in case Daniel can somehow sleep through his tiny, tearful baby making his feelings known. 

He's not a happy baby. Max cycles through the things he knows to do: nappy change, trying for a feed, nappy check again, a little playtime with his giraffe and his rattle, but Bastiaan doesn't want or need any of it. He's miserable and fierce about it, red cheeked and angry, little cries that tear Max's chest in half. He sadly accepts a feed after about half an hour, and that keeps him quiet for a while, but the moment Max tries to put him back down in his carrycot he's crying again, the saddest baby that anyone has ever seen. Max wants to cry too. He's so, so tired. He hates Bastiaan being so unhappy and not being able to tell Max what he needs. He hopes babies don't get nightmares. Bad dreams are awful enough when you're old enough to understand them. Max kisses his little flushed cheeks. 

"I'm sorry, little baby," Max says, over Bastiaan's exhausted sobs. "I know we're not at home. You've met all these new people today and I think everything smells funny and you don't know where you are. You've been very brave and now you don't want to be anymore, do you? You just want to be asleep but you don't know that you have to stop crying to get that, because you're only little. Such a little baby, my baby Bastiaan." He kisses his hair. Cradles him close. "We're not alone like normal, my baby, and it's not just me you're keeping awake. You made a new friend today, didn't you? And I think he'd like to go back to sleep now. Can we let him? Can we just go to sleep, baby?"

"It's okay," Daniel says finally. "You can put the lamp on. I'm awake."

"I'm sorry," Max says. He sounds desperate because he is. He's so tired. "I don't know why he's so upset. I can't make him stop."

"He's a baby, I think," Daniel says. He switches the lamp on. Sits up and swings his legs out of bed. He's in a t-shirt and his boxers. He'd still been dressed when Max had fallen asleep.

Max is topless because he'd fed Bastiaan, and part of him wants to cover up. He wants to shut that voice down inside of his head that's his dad, that's telling him to be ashamed of feeding his baby, but he's too tired to fight it. He cradles Bastiaan to his chest instead. Kisses his head. 

Daniel looks at him. "Max," he says. "Come on. Take a break. Why don't you give him to me for a few minutes. Go and wash your face or have a shower or something. You look wrecked."

"He's crying," Max says, trying to shush his distraught, exhausted baby, but Max is so, so tired. "I can't leave him."

"You can," Daniel says. "I'm assuming you don't have help in the middle of the night normally. Just let me help this time. Take a break. Go on. Have a shower or something."

"I don't want a shower," Max says. He wants his baby to go to sleep. 

"Honestly," Daniel says. "Give him here. Just for a few minutes."

Max finds himself holding out his baby for Daniel to take. He doesn't want to trust anyone with Bastiaan, but he needs to pee and it would be nice to do that just once without holding a baby in the middle of the night. A shower would be nice too, but it's not shower time. He lets out a ragged, desperate breath.

"Take a shower," Daniel says, as he rocks a crying Bastiaan, cradling him close. "Go on. I'll call if I need you."

"I'll be two minutes," Max says, staring longingly at the bathroom. Back at his tearful baby.

"Take five," Daniel says. "Push the boat out."

Max takes four. He comes out with his underwear pulled back on with a fresh pad inside, and a towel around his waist. His hair's wet and Daniel had been right, it had been good to stand under the hot spray for a minute. Breathe. Bastiaan's still crying but it's not as urgent as it had been before. He sounds so, so tired. Such a tired little baby. 

Daniel's got his phone in one hand and Bastiaan in his other. He's playing a soft little video of baby lullabies and water sounds with a slow animation of little twinkling stars accompanying it. He looks over at Max and winks. Bastiaan's eyes are starting to droop, but he's still crying. He's trying to chew on his fist. 

"Does that mean he's hungry?" Daniel asks. 

Max nods. He holds his hands out, but Daniel shakes his head.

"It's okay. Get into bed and then I'll hand him to you. Do you need anything?"

Max has his water bottle by the bed. He's okay. He drops the towel on the floor and gets into bed. He beckons Daniel over with his baby. 

Daniel tucks Bastiaan carefully into Max's arms, then makes a big show of getting the pillows from the other side of the bed and putting them behind Max to prop him up. It is more comfortable, but it's okay. Max was coping. Bastiaan doesn't need much help latching on, and for a moment there's quiet except for the soft sound of Daniel's lullaby video and Bastiaan's sleepy little sucks. 

"I'll leave it on," Daniel says quietly. "I think it helped."

Max nods. He's so, so tired. 

Daniel takes Max's water bottle and goes to refill it in the bathroom. He brings it back, then goes back into the bathroom to pee. When he comes back out, he sits on the end of Max's bed, by Max's feet. 

"You okay?" Daniel asks. 

Max doesn't shake his head. He hasn't been okay for a very long time, but he's holding on. He's holding on so tight it's making his fingers bleed. 

"I'm fine," Max says. He doesn't look away, not until Daniel does. 

"Think he'll fall asleep?" 

Bastiaan's eyes are already drooping. Max strokes his cheek. His lovely little baby. 

"Yeah," he says. "At some point."

"You're doing great, you know. He's perfect."

Max has been lying for such a long time. One more won't hurt. 

"Everything is good," he says. "Go back to bed."

"In a minute," Daniel says. "When he's sleeping."

They sit there, quiet in the middle of the night, until Bastiaan falls asleep. 

Max looks away first. 

[glossdebut]

best laid plans | MYG

✧ PAIRING: yoongi x f!reader

✧ SUMMARY: You meet Min Yoongi at a GS25 on a nothing Tuesday. You don't expect him to change your life. You certainly don't expect to change his.

✧ TAGS: strangers to lovers, angst (with a happy—but hopefully realistic—ending), smut, fluff, this is a heavy one so please heed the warnings!

✧ WARNINGS: mental health issues, depression, depressive episodes, suicidal ideation throughout, suicide mentions throughout, implied suicide attempt (sort of?), panic attacks, specifically panic attacks after (consensual!) sex, smoking, recreational marijuana use, vaginal fingering, oral (m. receiving), oral (f. receiving), vaginal sex, mentions of unprotected sex (but no real unprotected sex), MINORS DNI, please do not read this fic if any of these warnings are triggering to you!

✧ AUTHOR’S NOTE: okay. so... i said i wasn't going to post any more fics until june. and i won't post any more until then after this! i'm still on semi-hiatus! but something happened in my personal life last week, and i couldn't... not get it all out, somehow. so... here's this almost 14k monster. thank you claret @yoonmetogether for beta reading and giving me so much love and support while i was in the process of writing this! i love you! and thank you yoongi, for writing/releasing so far away (and the last) in 2016 and teaching teenage aqua how to stay, even when i didn't want to. and teaching adult aqua the same thing every year since. i hope this fic helps someone. that's why i'm posting it.

P.S. i recognize that i haven't edited my taglist since my hiatus. if you want to be removed, let me know.

✧ WORDCOUNT: 13.6k words

It’s a Tuesday night, which means nothing. Just like Monday meant nothing. Just like Wednesday won’t either.

The buzzing fluorescent lights in the 24-hour convenience store stutter overhead. You’ve been zoned out in the ramen aisle for at least five minutes now, doing the same song and dance you always do. Pretending you’re going to try something different this time, be a little spontaneous. Because you must break the pattern today or the loop will repeat tomorrow, right?

Still, though, your hand hovers over the same one you always get—the spicy one in the black package that scorches your mouth and makes your nose run. But at least it makes you feel something. So, you grab it.

Into the basket it goes, landing beside a bottle of Milkis and a crumpled bag of gummy worms. You sigh, turn around—

—and nearly walk straight into some guy you didn’t even know was in the store.

You both do that awkward side-step thing, freeze, then side-step the same way again.

“Oh. Shit. Sorry,” the guy mutters, voice low and scratchy, like it hasn’t been used yet today.

He’s wearing an oversized hoodie, the drawstrings uneven. His hair, bleach blonde, is tucked messily under a beanie, and there’s a faint line on his cheek from what was clearly a very intense nap. He’s holding a can of cold coffee and a pre-packaged egg sandwich in one hand, clutched between long fingers.

His eyes flick up to yours, and you realize, belatedly, that you’re staring. You should probably move, or say something.

“No, I—sorry,” you say, taking a step back. Your basket clinks against your knee. “Didn’t see you.”

Both of you are still kind of in each other’s way. There’s that weird, hesitant pause where you’re not quite sure who’s supposed to move next.

You clear your throat, nodding at his sandwich. “Midnight craving?”

“Something like that,” he says, eyes flicking down to the ramen in your basket. “You going for pain, huh?”

You blink, then smile a little. You didn’t expect him to be game. “Only the kind I can control.”

That makes him huff a short laugh through his nose. “Hey, no judgment. I’m out here buying coffee at midnight, so.”

You nod toward the sandwich again. “And that. Bold choice.”

“I wasn’t ready to commit to tuna.”

“Fair.”

It feels dangerously like flirting, just for a second. Awkward, clumsy flirting, sure, but flirting nonetheless. But the moment ends just as quickly as it came, like you’ve both run out of things to say at the exact same time.

You awkwardly step in opposite directions after that.

You return to your mission. First, hot water from the machine by the coffee counter. Plastic fork from the stack that’s always slightly sticky. You sit on one of the cracked stools by the window while the noodles steep and sip from your Milkis while staring out at the empty street.

By the time you make it to the register, the guy is gone. You kind of expected that. 

He was cute, you think. A year ago, when you were a different girl and sort of had your shit together, you probably would’ve asked for his number. Batted your eyelashes or something stupid like that.

But now? You barely have the energy to brush your teeth most days. You’re certainly not in a place for romance. Not when your big life plan has boiled down to ‘survive one more month.’ 

So no, you’re not mourning the possible missed connection with the kind-of-cute stranger in the GS25. Just acknowledging it.

But then, when you’ve paid and make a move to shuffle out, the automatic doors slide open—and there he is. 

Again. Leaning against the low brick wall, trying to light a cigarette with the wind working against him. The flame sputters out twice before catching.

You could leave. You should. But you linger, and since the street is pretty much desolate, he notices.

“Didn’t mean to loiter behind you,” he says, glancing up.

You shrug. “Didn’t mean to run into you. Twice.”

He waves his free hand dismissively, the other bringing the cigarette to his lips, plastic bag dangling precariously. “No harm done.”

That should be it, probably. End of conversation, end of interaction. Two strangers walk in opposite directions to wherever it is they call home.

But something about the slump in his shoulders, so similar to your own, makes you momentarily brave.

“You got somewhere to be?” you ask, gnawing at your bottom lip.

“Does it look like it?”

It doesn’t. Neither do you.

“Wanna sit?” you offer, gesturing towards the curb. “I’m just gonna eat before it gets cold.”

His eyes widen, like that’s the last thing in the world he expected you to say.

“Uh. Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

You sit. He settles a little awkwardly beside you, pulling the sandwich out of its crinkled plastic. It’s predictably silent between you, but you don’t hate it.

He eats. You slurp noodles.

And eventually, inevitably, you glance sideways.

Okay. He is cute. Decidedly. Maybe even hot, if you caught him on a better day. In a bleary, worn out way. The kind of good looks that sneak up on you, delicate and masculine all at once. Pale skin. Sharp jaw. Soft mouth. You’re not going to do anything about it. Obviously. But… still.

“What’s your name?” you ask around a mouthful of noodles.

“Yoongi.”

You nod. Don’t offer yours yet.

Yoongi takes another bite of his sandwich. Swallows. “You here often?” he asks, immediately grimacing. “God. That sounded—"

“Like a line?” You laugh. “Yeah. It did.”

“Didn’t mean it like that.”

You shrug. “I’ll allow it. Just this once.”

Small talk comes easy after that. You find out he used to live on the other side of the river and only recently moved to this part of the city because of a roommate situation that imploded. You tell him that you only planned to live in your current apartment for a year, until you could afford something better. It’s been three now.

He tells you he’s currently between jobs. You admit you’re technically not sure if you still have your night gig, because your boss hasn’t texted you in three days and you don’t want to ask.

He gives you the remaining half of his sandwich. You pass over your ramen wordlessly, letting him steal a few bites. It’s still awkward, eating so closely with a stranger like this. Sharing your dinner with someone who doesn’t even know your name. But it’s weirdly nice.

When the food is mostly gone, he holds out his cigarette pack. You take one and he lights it for you. You both pass it back and forth in silence for a minute.

“I used to think I’d be famous by now,” he says eventually, exhaling toward the gutter. “Like, not stupid-famous. Just… enough that I wouldn’t be here. You know?”

You nod. You do know. 

“I wanted to be a writer,” you offer in return. “But I hate writing. And I hate people who are good at it. And I hate that I still kind of want to do it anyway.”

“I don’t even know what I do anymore,” he says. “I was making music for a while. Then I got tired. Now I sleep too much. Avoid my friends. Pick up shifts at my cousin’s record store when he gets desperate enough to ask.”

“That actually sounds kind of nice.”

He snorts. “It’s not. But thanks.”

You tip your head back, look up at the sky, which is a washed-out navy and completely starless. Seoul smog. “I work part-time at a bookstore that almost exclusively sells erotica. And I cry like, three times a week, minimum. Usually in the bathroom. Sometimes in front of customers.”

Yoongi flicks ash onto the ground. “You win.”

You both sit with it. The warm, awful food. The too-sweet soda and the gummy worms melting in the bag between your knees. The companionship of a stranger willing to share a cigarette and half of his shitty sandwich, whose life isn’t all that different from yours.

You turn your heads at the same time. Your eyes flick down to his lips where they’re sealed around the cigarette. Inhale, exhale. To his long fingers, thumbnail bitten to shit. 

He’s really pretty, even like this, in the unflattering light of the streetlamp you’re sitting under. Long lashes and dark eyes that pierce through you. You wonder if his mouth really is as soft as it looks.

He’s looking at your lips, too, you realize. When you catch him, he looks away fast, ears pink.

“This is nice,” he says, staring at the concrete beneath his shoes.

You blink. Then, just as quietly, “Yeah. It is.”

He offers the cigarette again. You take it. Neither of you says anything else for a long time.

✧

The bookstore has been blissfully, predictably dead since you opened this morning. That’s really the only upside of the job—nobody shows up. You could count the regulars on one hand, and half of them only come in to use the bathroom, despite the clearly posted sign that says they can’t.

You’ve developed a theory about it, about the shame that still lingers around buying erotica in person. As if reading about sex is fine, but purchasing it in the flesh is something to feel embarrassed about. You could write a dissertation on it, probably. But you won’t. You don’t write anymore. You just clock in, count the till, and reorganize displays no one looks at.

You’ve already done your morning routine. Opened up. Counted money. Packed a frankly alarming number of online orders (apparently people really love vampire erotica). Now, you’re posted up behind the counter, flipping through a paperback about sexy cowboys with a bright red cover and a title that would make your mother blush.

You’re in the middle of counting how many times the author uses the word member on one page (six, and one was throbbing) when the bell above the door gives its half-hearted ding.

You glance up from the counter, fully prepared to give your standard ‘we don’t have a public bathroom’ spiel, when you see him. Hoodie. Messy, bleached hair. Soft mouth.

Yoongi.

Your mouth actually falls open a little. You eventually gave him your name that night, but you hadn’t exchanged numbers. You didn’t even follow each other on social media. And yet, here he is, bearing witness to you in all of your smut-peddling glory.

“I guessed,” he says, by way of explanation. He sounds a little breathless. “You said bookstore, and there’s like, two in the area. The other one didn’t have nearly enough erotica.”

“So you just… showed up?” 

He shrugs, sheepish. “You didn’t give me your number.”

If he wasn’t cute, you might be a little creeped out. He’s lucky he’s got such a nice face. It makes things feel romantic. 

“You want something?” you ask, gesturing to the wide variety of bodice-rippers your manager has displayed so proudly at the register.

“Yeah,” he says. “A cigarette. And maybe to talk to you again.”

You exhale through your nose, amused despite yourself. “Come on.”

You lead him through the back, past the haphazard ‘Employees Only’ sign that no one respects. Outside, the alley smells like stale piss. Very romantic, indeed.

Just like Tuesday, he lights a cigarette for you to share. You take it, and he leans against the brick wall, watching you.

“I kept thinking about you all week,” he says suddenly, no preamble. His eyes are fixed on the smoke curling off the end of the cigarette. 

You take a drag, the smoke clinging to your teeth. “I thought about it too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You look down at your shoes. “Didn’t think you’d actually show up, though.”

He gives a quiet little laugh, almost self-deprecating. “Honestly, I almost didn’t.”

“So why did you?”

“I don’t know. Stubbornness? Hope? Boredom?” He shrugs. “I guess I just didn’t want to go another week without feeling like something mattered. Even if it’s just a conversation in a piss alley.”

That earns a smile from you. A real one. You pass the cigarette back.

“I don’t know what this is,” he says eventually. “I don’t even know if I’m in a place to have a thing. But I liked talking to you. And I’m tired of not liking anything.”

You look at him. He’s not exactly looking back, more at the space near your shoes. But his profile is soft, a little hopeful.

“I feel the same way,” you say, cheeks hot and heartrate climbing. Something you haven’t felt in a long time—not for good reasons, at least.

He smiles. It’s small, but it feels real.

“You’re gonna give me your number this time, right?”

You dig your phone out of your pocket and hand it to him.

He types in his number one-handed, cigarette dangling from the other, then calls himself so he has yours too. When it buzzes in his hoodie pocket, he hums like that settles something. Like now, technically, you belong to each other in some tiny way.

You take the cigarette back from him. Your fingers brush, knuckles stay touching longer than they should.

“You’re not gonna ghost me now that you’ve won the chase, right?” you murmur.

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “You think that was a chase?”

You shrug. “It was something.”

For a moment, you just stand there in the alley. The world keeps moving, traffic hums in the distance. Your shitty boss is probably inside wondering why you’ve been gone more than the regulation five minutes.

But you don’t move.

You look at him. His mouth. The cigarette between your fingers. And your body makes a decision your brain is too tired to argue with.

You lean in and kiss him.

It’s clumsy at first. Your lips a little dry, the angle off, but it doesn’t matter. He makes a sound like a surprised exhale against your mouth and then he’s kissing you back, slow and warm and honest.

He tastes like smoke and canned coffee. You drop the cigarette and his hand finds your jaw. Your fingers reach for the edge of his hoodie, twisting in the fabric like you’re worried he’ll disappear if you don’t hold on.

You kiss him again. And again.

You’re not trying to make it romantic, really. You’re not trying to make it anything. It’s just—fuck, it’s been so long since someone touched you like this. Since someone wanted to.

And Yoongi kisses like he wants to be anywhere but alone. Like he gets it.

When you finally pull back, both of you a little dazed, he lets out a quiet, almost embarrassed laugh. “Okay,” he says, voice rough. “So… this is happening.”

You nod, heart hammering. “Don’t make it a thing.”

“I won’t.”

And he kisses you again, one more time for the road, hands on your hips like maybe he needs the grounding just as badly as you do.

Yoongi leaves around the back and you go back inside like nothing happened.

But he leaves with your number, and you can still taste him on your lips.

✧

Weeks pass, but you both take full advantage of having each other’s numbers.

You text mostly during lulls, when you’re hiding behind the register pretending to alphabetize the books, or when Yoongi’s stuck in the back room of the record store sorting the new arrivals.

You never say good morning or good night. It’s not like that. But he sends you photos of weird album art, and you respond with blurry selfies surrounded by piles of books with egregious titles.

There’s comfort in the ease of it. No pressure. Just a quiet thread tying your days together.

You: someone asked if we have a bathroom and when i said no they said “then what do you do?” like they wanted me to shit in front of them for proof

Yoongi: People are the worst. Come work here. The pay is shit but at least no one talks to me

Sometimes you send voice notes instead of typing because you’re too tired, and he never comments on how drained you sound. He just sends one back where his voice is raspy and low and he’s clearly half-asleep but trying anyway.

It’s not dating, but it’s not not dating. You’re not friends, not exactly, but you care, at least a little, about whether he eats. Whether he sleeps. Whether he means it when he says he’s fine. 

It’s just whatever the two of you are capable of giving right now. Somehow, that’s enough.

It’s nearly midnight when your phone buzzes.

Yoongi: You up?

Yoongi: Don’t say anything about how that sounds btw

You stare at it for a second. Then you type:

You: i am. what’s up?

You: and yes i’m going to make fun of you anyway

You: is this a booty call

Three dots bubble up and disappear. Once, twice, three times.

Yoongi: I just want to see you

Yoongi: Is that okay?

You sit up, heart doing something inconvenient in your chest.

You could say no. You could ask why. You could point out the hour, claim you have work in the morning. But you haven’t seen him since the day you exchanged numbers (and saliva), so instead, you say:

You: yeah

You: come over

You send him your address. Twenty minutes later, he shows up, in the same hoodie as last time. Holding a plastic bag with canned coffee for him, Milkis for you, and a package of cookies you once mentioned liking in a text two weeks ago.

You don’t say anything at first. He holds up the bag like it’s proof that he should be allowed inside, and you take it with a soft, bemused snort. Then you step aside so he can come in.

He enters like someone trying not to wake a sleeping house—careful and quiet and unsure of what to do with his hands.

You close the door behind him. You both fidget for a second.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he says finally, standing just inside the doorway, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Kept thinking about you.”

Your heart tips, like it’s leaning closer to him whether you let it or not.

“I’ve been thinking about you too,” you admit softly.

And then, because it’s late and you’re lonely and he’s warm and real and here, you kiss him. Again.

It’s immediate this time. No fumbling. No hesitation. Just mouths pressing together like they’re picking up where you left off in the alley behind the bookstore. His hands find your waist. Yours cup his face, thumbs brushing the sharp edges of his cheekbones. You kiss him slow, then faster. Harder.

You don’t think about what it means. You don’t try to label it. You just let yourself feel it—the weight of his body, the sound of your breaths, the sudden, startling relief of being touched.

His mouth trails to your jaw. Your neck. His hoodie bunches in your fists.

When you finally pull back, both of you flushed and breathless, he presses his forehead against yours.

“I like you,” he says quietly.

You swallow around the knot in your throat and nod. “Kiss me again.”

There's a sharpness to the way your mouths move now. You tug at his hoodie, fingers slipping under the hem to touch skin, and he makes a sound against your lips, small and desperate.

Yoongi’s hands are everywhere. Gripping your waist like he’s trying to ground himself, sliding up your back, curling in your shirt like he can’t bear to let go. He presses you up against the door, urgent, and you gasp when his teeth graze the underside of your jaw.

“Fuck,” he mutters, breathing hard. “I’m sorry—I didn’t come here for this, I just—”

“Don’t stop,” you say, voice barely there. “I want this.”

That undoes him a little. You feel it in the way his mouth crashes back to yours, the way he exhales sharply through his nose like he’s already drunk on it. He kisses you hard, lips and teeth and tongue with no finesse.

His thigh slips between yours and you move against it, just enough to chase friction, just enough to let him feel how badly you want this too.

“Jesus,” he whispers, low and raw. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You tilt your head back and let him mouth at your throat, lips wet, sucking a bruise into the skin. Your hips roll down again, slow and deliberate, and Yoongi’s breath stutters.

“I missed this,” you admit, half-ashamed. “I missed being touched. I missed wanting someone.”

Yoongi lifts his head just enough to look at you, eyes heavy, expression unreadable.

“You’re not the only one,” he says.

And then he kisses you again, deep and dizzying, and slips a hand beneath your waistband. His fingers are warm against your skin. Tentative at first, like he's giving you a chance to stop him, even now. Like some small, rational part of him is still waiting for you to say, ‘don’t.’ But you don’t. You tilt your hips forward instead, breath catching, and he exhales like that’s all the permission he needs.

He pushes his hand into your underwear and groans when he feels how wet you are. 

“Fuck,” he gasps. “You’re so—fuck.”

It’s been a long time since someone touched you like this. Since someone wanted you like this. Desperate but gentle, afraid of messing it up. His fingers slide through your slick heat and you let out a sharp breath, clinging to his shoulders, your forehead pressed to his.

“I’m not gonna last long,” you whisper, already dizzy. “This is—fuck—this is embarrassing.”

Yoongi huffs a soft, broken laugh. “Don’t care. Come for me. Come fast. I want to feel you lose it.”

He fucks you with his fingers slow, then fast, then slow again. Just enough pressure to make you tremble, to make you cry out softly into his hoodie. His thumb finds your clit, and you nearly sob from the shock of it.

“Yoongi—” you breathe, hands scrambling for purchase. “I—fuck—”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Just like that. Let me have it. I got you.”

You come fast. Hard. Pathetically hard. Your body locks up and then shudders violently, mouth open against his collarbone, heart pounding like it’s trying to claw out of your chest. Yoongi holds you through it. Doesn’t say anything. Just lets you ride it out with his mouth pressed to your temple, breathing you in.

When it’s over, you’re shaking. Barely upright. He eases his hand out of your underwear and presses a kiss to your hairline, tender in a way that makes your eyes sting.

You bury your face in his neck. 

“I can’t believe I let you finger me against my front door,” you mumble, mortified as you catch your breath.

“Can’t believe you invited me to,” he replies, grinning against your skin.

You both laugh. Quiet and shaky and a little shellshocked. You’re still leaning into him, your breath evening out, your body boneless. The high is fading, but the warmth he left behind is stubborn.

You lift your head, eyes still a little glazed, and give him a suspicious squint.

“I have a question,” you say.

Yoongi blinks, cautious. “Shoot.”

“How the fuck are you not getting laid constantly?”

His eyebrows shoot up. Then he laughs, quiet but full-bodied, like he’s genuinely caught off guard.

“I mean,” you continue, gesturing vaguely to your crotch, “that was—God. And I didn't even know if you’d be good at it! Like, I kind of assumed it would be decent, because you have a mouth and hands and a pulse—but that was fucking criminally good. Who taught you that? Why is this not a more widely available service?”

Yoongi presses his face into your shoulder and groans, laughing harder now. “Jesus Christ.”

“I’m just saying, someone out there is missing the opportunity of a lifetime.”

He finally lifts his head again, his cheeks tinged with pink. “Yeah, well. Most people don’t really stick around long enough to find out.”

That sobers you a little.

You study him—his messy hair, his blown pupils, the way he tries to play it off with a little shrug. But there’s something underneath it all. Not sadness, exactly. Loneliness, maybe.

You reach up and brush your fingers through his bangs, almost absently. “They’re idiots.”

Yoongi watches you for a moment. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t deflect. Just leans into your touch. 

And then the quiet gets to you, makes you want to crawl out of your skin, so you say:

“So… uh… want me to suck your dick?”

Yoongi freezes. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

“...Right now?”

“No,” you say dryly. “Next Thursday.”

He laughs. “Are you always like this?” he asks, amused, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You ignore him and reach for the waistband of his sweatpants instead, fingers slipping under, deliberate and slow. “So?”

Yoongi exhales sharply, eyes fluttering shut. “Yeah. Fuck. Yeah, I want you to.”

His head tips back when you start kissing down his neck. His breath goes shallow. The way he touches you, light on the back of your neck, like he doesn’t know what he did to deserve this—it makes you want to give him everything all of a sudden.

So you drop to your knees in your entryway, hitting the floor with a quiet thud that echoes in the quiet. Yoongi looks down at you in amazement, eyes wide, lips parted, chest rising and falling fast.

You tug his sweats down and he helps, fingers twitching against the fabric, thick cock already hard and leaking at the tip.

“You’re serious,” he says, voice thin. Disbelieving.

You glance up at him, smirking. “That a problem?”

“Not even a little.”

You spit into your palm, spread it over the head, and he twitches in your grip. When you lean in and lick a slow stripe up the underside of his cock, Yoongi lets out a quiet, broken sound.

You’re a little rusty, but you don’t tease. You don’t take your time. You just sink your mouth down around him, spit-slick and sloppy. 

“Fuck—” 

Yoongi’s head knocks lightly against the wall. One hand finds the back of your head, loose and shaking like he doesn’t know whether to pull you closer or hold you still.

You bob your head faster, messier. Let your saliva drip down over your fingers, curled around the base of his cock while you work the rest with your mouth. He groans again, choked and startled, and you feel him twitch in your palm.

“Jesus, you’re gonna—fuck, you’re gonna make me cum.”

You hum around him. That does it.

He gasps. Buckles a little. Then pulls back. Not all the way, just enough to jerk himself through the last few strokes, breathing ragged.

“Shit, shit—I’m—fuck, baby, fuck—”

You look up at him, mouth open, lips shiny and wet, tongue out just barely. 

He spills across your mouth, your cheek, your chin. Hot and messy and so, so much. You blink through it, a little stunned, a lot turned on.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, staring at the mess he made of you. “You’re—god. You’re insane.”

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, still grinning. “You’re welcome.”

Yoongi laughs breathlessly. “I think I just fell in love with you a little.”

You feel the shift, then. It’s small, almost imperceptible, but suddenly the air feels different. Too quiet. A little too still.

“Don’t be weird about it,” you huff, just to fill the space. 

Yoongi leans down and helps you up with careful hands. Your legs are a little wobbly. His hoodie is rumpled. His hair’s a mess. His sweatpants hang loose on his hips and his lips are kiss-bitten and red.

You glance at him, then away just as fast.

You’ve crossed some invisible threshold. You both know it. And now you’re just... here.

“I’m gonna, um.” You gesture vaguely toward the hallway. “Wash my face.”

Yoongi nods, but doesn’t say anything. You don’t look back as you walk away.

In the bathroom, you stare at yourself in the mirror, palms braced on either side of the sink. You wash your hands. Splash your face. Pat dry and breathe.

Or try to.

Fuck, are you having a fucking panic attack? Over that? Your chest is tight, every cell of your skin foreign to you. Like you’re wearing someone else’s body and she just did something you weren’t supposed to.

What the fuck was that?

Not the act itself. That part was great. The enthusiasm, the sheer filth of it—you don’t think you regret it. Maybe. It felt good, in the moment. You wanted it.

It’s what came after.

The shift. The quiet. The moment you felt like he saw too much of you. The part of you that glows when it’s being wanted, and dims just as quickly when it’s alone again.

And—Jesus, ’I think I just fell in love with you a little’? Who the fuck says that?

It takes you longer than you’d like to calm down. You do the breathing exercises you were taught, back in college when counseling was free and they handed out pamphlets on every corner of your campus. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. You smooth down your shirt. Brush your fingers through your hair. 

Then return to the living room like you didn’t just spiral for fifteen straight minutes.

When you return, breathing still a little labored, Yoongi’s sitting on the arm of your couch with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like he’s afraid of what comes next. Like you’ve left him with his thoughts for too long. 

He sits up when you approach, brow furrowed at the state of you.

“You okay?” he asks.

You sigh and sit down. 

“Yeah. I just…” You stare straight ahead. “That was good. Really good. But it’s been a while. And I don’t know what I’m doing. With any of this.”

Yoongi nods slowly. “You don’t have to know,” he says. “I don’t either.”

You turn to look at him, and the thing in his eyes, the softness, it’s too much. So you keep going. 

“Not just the sex. Not just… you. This,” you say, gesturing at yourself, then your apartment. The mess that’s accumulated over the past month. “Letting someone see me when I don’t have it together. When I’m not even trying to pretend I do.”

You rest your head on the back of the couch, stare up at the ceiling like maybe it’ll swallow you whole if you keep talking.

“I don’t know why the fuck now of all times is when I’m letting myself feel anything,” you say. “It’s not like my life is better. It’s not like I’ve earned it.”

Silence. 

Then Yoongi shifts. Leans forward, elbows on his knees again, like he’s working up to something.

“You don’t have to earn anything,” he says. “There’s no quota for being okay. Or being wanted. You can be a mess and still deserve good things. You can be at your worst and still… feel.”

You laugh. Bitter and small. “So what, we’re just two disasters trying to convince each other it’s fine?”

He shrugs. “Pretty much.” And then, so gentle it nearly breaks you, he adds, “I don’t think I’m here to fix you. I just want to be here.”

How can he be so sure?

You don’t know a damn thing about him. Not really.

You know he works the stock room in a record store part-time and hates most of his coworkers. You know he smokes too much. That he eats terrible sandwiches and drinks canned coffee. That he texts like he’s trying to make you laugh even when he’s probably in the middle of some breakdown of his own.

You know he’s good with his hands.

You know he looked at you, in all of your mess, like you were still human. You know that he says dumb, grossly honest shit way too easily.

But you don’t know where he grew up. You don’t know what keeps him up at night. You don’t know what kind of heartbreaks he’s carrying, or who let him down hard enough that he walks around like he does.

And still, there’s something in your chest that won’t calm down. Something desperate. Clawing. A tightness you don’t want to name.

Why?

Why the fuck are you feeling so much for someone who’s barely more than a stranger?

Is it just the attention? The intimacy? The fact that, for once, someone touched you without asking you to be okay first? Is this what happens when you’re starving? When your skin has been untouched for too long and someone comes along with warm hands and tired eyes and lets you fall apart without flinching?

Maybe.

But it doesn’t feel shallow. It doesn’t feel fake. Instead, it just feels too easy. Like being with him turns the volume down in your head. Like you don’t have to explain yourself to be understood.

It scares the shit out of you.

Yoongi slips down from the armrest, sinks into the cushion next to you instead. Your knee brushes his. His arm rests behind you on the back of the couch, not quite around you, but near enough that if you leaned even slightly, he’d catch you.

Neither of you moves for a while. You just breathe. 

Then his arm moves and his pinky finger nudges yours.

A small thing. Stupid. Barely anything.

But it’s the first deliberate touch since everything happened in the entryway. And it’s soft. Hesitant.

“We don’t have to do… that,” he says, quiet but firm. You know he means the sex. “We don’t have to do anything.”

Maybe you don’t need to define it yet. Maybe it’s not about love or fate or healing. Maybe it’s just about want.

Two people letting themselves be wanted for a while.

You hook your pinky around his.

Just this, you think. Just this is fine. 

✧

Yoongi doesn’t push. He doesn’t label anything. He just keeps showing up. 

Sometimes at your place, sometimes at his. Sometimes at the bookstore, when he has a day off.

There’s a pattern now.

Late-night convenience store runs. Shared ramen on cracked stools by the window, making fun of people’s bad haircuts as they pass on the street outside. Socks borrowed and never returned. His hoodie living permanently on the back of your chair. Your phone lighting up with ‘Proof of life?’ on days he knows you’re at a low.

Sometimes you kiss. Sometimes you just sit in the same room and don’t say anything. Sometimes he talks and you don’t respond. And that’s okay, too.

It’s not about what it is. It’s about the fact that it keeps happening.

When you disappear, he still shows up. Like today.

It’s not a dramatic breakdown. Not this time.

Instead, it’s the kind of bad week that sinks its teeth in slow. No single catalyst, no big meltdown. Just one exhausting day stacked on top of another, until your body forgets how to move without dragging. Your sink is full of dishes you can’t look at. Your hair’s unwashed. You haven’t eaten anything substantial in days.

You didn’t text Yoongi to come over. You didn’t say much of anything at all this week.

But you must’ve sounded off, or maybe he just knows how to read silence better than most, because around three in the afternoon, you hear the soft knock at your door.

You don’t answer at first. You don’t mean to ignore him, you just can’t make your legs move.

A minute passes, and your phone buzzes from somewhere near your pillow.

Yoongi: Not trying to crowd you. Just wanted to drop off some food Yoongi: Leaving it by the door. No pressure

You muster the energy to roll out of bed and crack the door open. A plastic bag sits at your feet and Yoongi is already halfway down the hallway, hands in his pockets.

“Yoongi,” you call, your voice raspier than you expect.

He turns around.

“Hey,” he says, probably surprised that you’re upright.

You open the door wider. “You can come in. If you want.”

Yoongi hesitates just for a second, checking that you’re sure. Then he nods. He picks the bag up and slips inside without a word, setting it on your kitchen counter. 

He doesn’t try to hug you or touch you or ask what’s wrong. He doesn’t judge your apartment, the clothes strewn about, the closed curtains, the dishes piling up in the sink. He barely even looks.

“You eaten today?” he asks, gently.

You shake your head. “Not really hungry.”

“Okay,” he says. “I’m gonna make something anyway. Just in case.”

He moves around your kitchen like it’s his. Not because he’s overly familiar, but because he’s not afraid of your mess. He pulls out eggs, rice, a few green onions from the bag he brought.

You retreat back to your couch. You didn’t mean to lie down again, but the second you sit, your body droops until you’re horizontal. So you stay curled on your side, facing the wall. Listening.

The clink of metal. The whoosh of your gas burner catching. The soft sizzle of garlic hitting oil.

You don’t remember falling asleep, but when you wake up, Yoongi is sitting on the floor in front of the couch, cross-legged, a steaming bowl in his lap and another on your coffee table.

You push yourself up slowly. Your head aches, your throat’s dry, but you can’t lie. It smells good.

“You didn’t have to—” you start.

“I know,” he says, soft. “I wanted to.”

You eat in silence. The rice is soft, buttery, a little salty from the soy sauce and the eggs scrambled through it. You’re hungrier than you thought, but you pace yourself.

Halfway through, he glances over at you.

“You wanna watch something dumb?”

You nod.

Yoongi takes your bowl when you’re done, rinses both of them without comment. When he comes back, he takes a seat next to you. He scrolls through streaming apps on your TV until he lands on something you like.

The opening credits roll.

He doesn’t try to hold you. Doesn’t try to tell you it’s going to be okay. He just sits beside you, shoulders barely brushing. When your body droops again, he lets you lean into his side.

Somewhere around the fifteen-minute mark, he mutters, “You don’t have to be okay for me to want to be here.”

You don’t look at him. Your throat tightens like you’re going to cry. Which is something, at least, after the numbness of the week. 

“This could be me next week,” he says, like it’s nothing. “Or tomorrow. So. I get it. That’s all.”

And then the movie continues. One ridiculous scene after another. The light from the screen flickers across his face.

You don’t say thank you yet, but you know you don’t have to.

✧

You still haven’t put a name to it.

Neither of you has tried. There was one moment, maybe, a few days ago. Yoongi was over for no particular reason. He’d looked at you from your kitchen floor, head propped against the cabinets, lips red from kissing, and opened his mouth like he might ask.

But then the takeout came, and the moment passed.

You text like friends. ‘Want anything from the store?’ ‘This customer just asked if we sell records on vinyl. I hate it here.’ ‘What are you doing tonight?’ ‘Absolutely nothing.’ ‘Come do nothing with me.’

You hang out like you’re in a relationship. Eat cross-legged on his bed. Steal fries from each other’s plates without asking. Sometimes fall asleep shoulder to shoulder watching terrible TV.

You make out. A lot. 

Against walls. On couches. Outside each other’s doors at night when neither of you feels like saying goodnight just yet. It never quite escalates to the point it did that night—maybe once or twice it almost does, but one of you always pumps the brakes.

You don’t meet each other’s friends. You don’t ask about exes. You don’t introduce him to your sister or take photos together or exchange socials. Because that doesn’t feel like what this is.

You like the bubble you’ve built. The little world where nothing outside matters. Where it doesn’t have to matter yet.

Because outside the bubble, your life is still a mess. Rent’s overdue. Work is torture. You haven’t written anything in over a year and you haven’t figured out how to be proud of yourself again, not really.

But inside it—when Yoongi’s mouth is on yours, when he texts you ‘Made extra ramen if you’re hungry btw’ like that’s not the most romantic shit anyone’s ever said to you, you feel steady.

But, like anything else, it comes with its own set of issues.

The thing about not fucking is that it used to be about not wanting. A lack of drive. A lack of spark. A lack of time or energy or libido or options.

But now? Now, it’s something else. Because you have the option. 

Now, it’s starting to feel like a crack in the glass. Like every time you grind against his thigh with your hips twitching and your breath shaky, or every time he pulls your shirt off and buries his face between your tits but doesn’t go lower, the crack gets a little deeper. And you’re both pretending not to see it.

Because the truth is: you want to fuck him.

You desperately want to fuck him.

You think about it constantly. The way his fingers curled inside you that first night, the soft, filthy way he talked to you, the way he looked down at your face when you sucked him off like he was watching a goddamn miracle unfold.

You think about how he’d feel inside you.

You ache with it.

But you don’t bring it up. Because once you do, once you have sex, it’s not a bubble anymore. It’s real, something with expectations.

And you know yourself, you know how you get. You’ll start needing more. Wanting more. And Yoongi, sweet and quiet and lost in his own way, will become another thing you don’t know how to manage. Another thing you don’t know how to keep.

You’re scared of that. Of ruining it. Of letting your body talk you into something your heart might not be strong enough to carry.

So you kiss him like you’re dying, but when his hands drift to your waistband, you laugh, too high-pitched, and pull away. Pretend you’re tired. Or hungry. Or something, anything. Any excuse not to cross that final threshold. Yoongi never pushes. He just nods, catches his breath, and helps you back into your shirt like a gentleman.

But you feel the tension growing. Between your thighs. In your chest. In the way you wake up soaked and aching after every sleepover, body clenching at nothing. In the way your kisses are starting to come with more teeth. With soft little growls in your throat you didn’t mean to let out.

Tonight, he’s at your place again. It’s late. You both know he should’ve left hours ago, and the crack is splintering even further, faster than you realize.

You’re straddling Yoongi on the couch, your knees bracketing his hips, your mouth fused to his. Your hips are rocking down, slow and aimless at first, but building. You can feel him getting hard beneath you, feel the press of him through his sweats as you drag your clothed pussy over him like your body is starving.

Yoongi groans into your kiss. His hands grip your thighs, fingertips twitching. But, like always, he doesn’t push. He just lets you move, lets you grind down on him with that ragged little gasp in your throat, lets you take what you need without crossing the line you’ve both carefully danced around for weeks.

Except tonight, something’s different. You’re different.

Because when he tilts his head and mouths at your neck, hot and slow, and mutters, “you’re gonna make me come in my fucking pants,” you snap.

Completely.

You pull back just enough to look at him, breathing hard, eyes wild. “I want to fuck you.”

He blinks. Catches up slowly, like he’s not sure if he imagined it.

“I want you to fuck me,” you amend, a little louder. Desperate.

Yoongi just stares at you for a moment, mouth parted, chest heaving. His hands tighten on your thighs. 

“You sure?” he asks, voice rough.

Once you say yes, it happens fast. 

Yoongi’s hands are everywhere. Gripping your hips, your waist, sliding up your back to tug your shirt over your head. He peels it off and tosses it somewhere behind you, eyes locked on yours like he’s giving you one last chance to change your mind.

You don’t.

Your bra’s off next, fast, and he curses the second your tits are bare, like he can’t believe this is happening. Like he’s been thinking about it for weeks too, and now that it’s real, he doesn’t know where to start.

So he starts with his mouth.

He palms your breasts and groans low in his throat, then leans forward and takes one into his mouth like he needs it—hot tongue flicking over your nipple, lips sucking gently before he bites, just enough to make you gasp. His fingers find the other, circling and pinching lightly.

“Fuck,” you whimper, arching into him. “Yoongi—”

You grind down on his cock again, still half-dressed from the waist down, the friction sharp and unbearable. You’re soaked. You can feel it. Your panties are useless at this point, clinging wetly to your folds, and you’re half a second away from tearing them off yourself if he doesn’t move faster.

“Condom,” you breathe. “Please. Where—?”

“Yeah—fuck—yeah, hold on.”

You scramble off his lap at the same time he stumbles off the couch, both of you half-laughing and swearing under your breath. He digs through his bag on your floor, frantic, muttering, “I swear I had one—fuck, wait—yes.”

He holds it up like a prize, and you don’t even give him the chance to rip it open before you’re tugging your shorts and panties down in one go, stepping out of them and crawling back onto the couch.

Yoongi stops cold, stares at you for a second.

Hair messy. Chest heaving. Legs spread. Eyes hungry.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, tearing the foil open and shoving his sweats halfway down his thighs with shaking hands. His cock bobs free, hard and flushed and so ready, and your mouth actually waters.

He rolls the condom on with practiced ease and climbs back over you, settling between your legs like he belongs there. Like he’s done it a hundred times in dreams and is finally allowed to touch.

He presses inside you slowly, inch by inch, and the stretch knocks the breath from your lungs. You’re soaked, but it’s still so much, been too long, and you cling to his shoulders with a gasp.

Yoongi groans, forehead dropping to yours.

“Jesus, you’re tight,” he rasps. “Fucking wet.”

You whimper, hips already rolling up to meet him. “Been wanting this,” you whisper. “Needing this—”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, voice shaking. “You gonna let me give it to you?”

“Yes, please—”

And then he starts to move. Just the brutal press of his hips to yours, every thrust deep and deliberate and filthy, like he’s trying to bury himself somewhere he won’t be able to crawl back from.

Your head tips back against the couch, eyes rolling up, mouth falling open on a gasp that barely sounds like a real word. He’s got one hand gripping the arm of the couch behind your head for leverage, the other wrapped tight around your thigh, keeping you pinned wide open beneath him as he fucks into you.

“Fuck, Yoongi—fuck—”

“You like it, baby?” he growls. 

You whimper, nodding helplessly, your hands scrambling up under his hoodie to claw at his back, his sides, anywhere you can touch.

Your skin’s on fire. Your thoughts are gone. All you know is the sharp, perfect drag of his cock, the sound of your soaked cunt every time he slams into you, the guttural noises he makes when your walls flutter around him.

“You feel so fucking good,” he groans, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched. “Tight little pussy just gripping me—shit, baby, I can’t—”

His pace stutters for half a second, like your body is pulling the soul out of him.

You cry out when he hits deep—too deep—and he groans, pulling your legs higher around his waist to get the angle just right.

“There,” he growls when you shatter under him, thighs shaking, cunt clenching so hard he nearly loses it. “Fucking cum.”

You come like you’ve lost control of your body. Loud, legs locked, nails in his back. It hits hard and fast and doesn’t stop, rolling through you in hot, humiliating waves. Yoongi hisses, desperate now, chasing his own end, rhythm starting to break.

“Gonna fill you up,” he pants, even though the condom’s there, even though it’s just a filthy fantasy, and you sob at the idea of it. “Fuck, I wish—wish I could come inside you—fuck—you’d let me, wouldn’t you? Let me ruin you for anyone else—”

“Yes,” you gasp, not even sure you mean it, but it sounds right. Feels true.

That’s all it takes.

Yoongi groans like it’s been punched out of him, hips jerking as he comes hard, cock twitching inside you, face buried in your neck as he spills into the condom.

You both stay there, gasping against sticky skin through the aftershocks. He kisses your neck once. Then again. And again.

“Holy shit,” you breathe, dazed. “I think you just rearranged my internal organs.”

Yoongi laughs. “Cool. I was aiming for your soul.”

The couch cushions are half off the frame, your legs still trembling where they’re spread open around his waist. Yoongi pulls out slowly, careful, and your body aches from it, clenches down involuntarily, already missing the stretch. 

He ties off the condom, looks around for somewhere to put it before settling on the empty takeout bag from earlier. Pulls his sweats back up.

You sit up with limbs like jelly, not bothering to put your underwear back on just yet, and run a hand through your hair. Your thighs are sticky. Your lips are swollen. You feel fucked out and raw and wrung clean.

Your body is so satisfied.

Predictably, your brain is a different story.

You glance over at Yoongi. He’s slouched against the other end of the couch, head back, eyes closed. His hair is damp at the temples, chest still rising and falling like he hasn’t quite come back to himself yet.

He looks gorgeous.

You want to kiss him.

You also want to run.

That tight, itchy feeling—the one you’ve been avoiding since you first let him touch you—comes roaring back. You just crossed the line. You fucked the one good thing in your life that wasn’t tangled in expectations. That didn’t ask anything from you.

You broke the bubble.

He opens one eye and glances over at you.

“You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. Just…” You trail off. Shrug. “That was intense.”

Yoongi huffs a soft laugh. “Yeah. You think?”

You stand. Your legs are still shaking.

“I’m gonna, uh… go pee,” you say, already heading toward the bathroom. “Before I die.”

He doesn’t stop you. Just nods, eyes following you for a second before he looks away.

You close the door and sit on the edge of the tub. Breathe.

You want to feel good. You do feel good. But also… you feel like maybe you’ve fucked up. Or you’re about to. Or like this is going to change something that shouldn’t be changed.

You think about what you’ll say when you go back out there.

You think about whether he’s getting dressed. Whether he’ll leave. Whether he should.

You think, I don’t want this to become another thing I have to recover from.

✧

When you finally open the bathroom door, the light feels harsher than it should, and your skin’s still warm from the shower you didn’t really want but took anyway. Just to delay, to think, to scrub away the sweat and the way his hands felt on your hips and the way your body sang for him.

You step into the living room wearing clean underwear and a fresh shirt. Your face is bare. Your hair is damp. Your expression, despite your best effort, is a little too tight.

Yoongi looks up from the couch, where he’s still sitting, this time in his sweats and hoodie again, elbows on his knees, fingers idly twisting the hem of his sleeve.

His eyes meet yours. He doesn’t smile, but his gaze softens. Immediately.

“Hey,” he says, quiet.

You nod, cross your arms. “Hey.”

He watches you for a second, then leans back, patting the space next to him.

You hesitate, but you lower yourself onto the couch anyway. Not quite touching, not quite distant. A safe middle. 

“Wanna tell me what’s wrong?”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Yoongi says, disbelieving. “Then why do you look like you’re trying to figure out how to ghost me while I’m still in your apartment?”

You wince, staring at your knees. “I just—I didn’t mean for this to turn into, like… a thing.”

He nods slowly. “Okay.”

“I mean, we’re not, right? A thing?”

You look at him now, really look. Your heart’s racing. Your stomach’s twisting. You’re not sure what kind of answer you want.

Yoongi looks back at you for a long moment. Then he leans back again, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

“I don’t know what we are,” he says. “I wasn’t trying to make it anything.”

You swallow hard, because part of you thinks that should make you feel better. Instead, it just makes your chest ache. You were the one who let him in, even when you swore you wouldn’t. You’re not trying to make him feel like he’s the one at fault here. It’s you. It’s always you.

“But,” he adds, eyes flicking to yours again, “I like you. I care about you. And if we’re fucking now, yeah, that’s gonna mean something to me. Even if we never put a label on it.”

“Doesn’t that make it worse?” you ask, voice thin. “If it means something?”

Yoongi doesn’t speak for a long while. You sink into him without meaning to, thigh to thigh, arm to arm. You don’t really know why.

He exhales, slow and deliberate, and says, “Can I tell you something?”

You nod against his shoulder.

“I wasn’t supposed to be at that convenience store,” he starts, voice shaky in a way that makes you sit up, just slightly. “I mean, I didn’t have a reason to be anywhere. But that night… I think I was sort of… walking around to see if I’d change my mind.”

You still. Your heart trips over itself, because that could mean a lot of things. Because you know, just by the tone of his voice, that he means the worst. 

He keeps going.

“I’d been thinking about it for a while. Not in a loud way. Not even like a plan. Just… wondering. If things would be better. Easier. If I just stopped. Just disappeared.”

You don’t interrupt. You don’t breathe too loud. You just listen.

“And that night, it felt close. Like maybe I was ready. Like maybe no one would notice.” He lets out a shaky laugh. “I hadn’t talked to anyone in a couple days. I didn’t even brush my teeth before I left the house. I just started walking.”

Your eyes sting. You try not to let it show.

“I stopped at the store because I thought—fuck it. One last shitty sandwich. One last can of cold coffee.” He huffs. “Really poetic, right?”

You let out a breath. “Yoongi—”

He shakes his head. “I’m not telling you this so you’ll feel bad. Or because I think you saved me. You didn’t. You just… made it a little easier to stay.”

You’re crying now, because god, you didn’t know, but you know. You know how it feels to always have that in the back of your mind, to convince yourself that there would be relief in giving up. Letting go. 

He turns his head toward you now, not quite meeting your eyes, like he’s still unsure if he’s allowed to say all this out loud.

“I still think about it. Sometimes. Not all the time. But… it comes back. When it’s quiet. When I’m alone too long. But since that night, it’s been easier knowing that someone gets it. That I don’t have to pretend I’m fine all the time.”

He finally looks at you, and it’s not a dramatic, sweeping kind of moment. There’s no soft lighting or music swelling. Just his tired eyes, and your tired heart, and the shared weight of knowing what it feels like to want to give up—and choosing, for whatever reason, not to.

“Maybe that’s all this has to be,” he says. “Not a love story. Not some perfect, clean thing. Just… two people who don’t always want to be here, making it a little easier for each other to stay.”

You can’t speak. You nod, and your eyes blur, and Yoongi presses his forehead to yours like it’s the only way he knows how to say thank you for seeing me.

✧

Days later, things aren’t better—not in the way people usually mean. Your life is still a mess. His is too. 

But something’s changed. Settled.

He lets himself in now. Doesn’t knock. Kicks his shoes off like he lives there, shrugs his hoodie off and drops it somewhere near the couch, grabs two cups and fills them with whatever’s in your fridge.

And you let him.

You sit next to each other, thigh to thigh, flipping through shows you won’t finish. You kiss during the commercials. You fall asleep with his hand on your waist.

You still haven’t said you’re together. You still haven’t said what you mean to each other. But when you’re quiet for too long, he looks up from his phone and asks, “Okay?”

And when he’s too quiet, you ask, “Wanna stay the night?”

And when you both lie awake in the dark, not talking, not moving, you think: I’m still here.

And so is he.

✧

It starts with scraps. Half-sentences in your notes app. A phrase here, a sentence there. Something you jotted down after Yoongi left one night, when your chest felt like it was holding more than usual and your bed still smelled like his shampoo.

Then it becomes a little routine. You open your laptop without the usual dread. You stare at the cursor blinking in a half-finished document and think: maybe I can.

It’s not for meant to be published. It’s not for anyone but you. But it’s something.

One night, Yoongi finds you sitting on the floor with your laptop on your thighs. You’re so focused, you don’t even hear him come in.

He just watches for a second, quiet.

“Writing?” he asks eventually, and you jump.

“Jesus—” You slam the laptop shut on instinct, and he raises both hands in surrender, shoulders shaking with laughter.

“You don’t have to show me,” he says, setting down the drinks he brought. “But… that’s new.”

You shrug, embarrassed. “It’s nothing. Just… stuff.”

Yoongi sinks to the floor beside you. “You haven’t written since we met.”

“I haven’t written in a long time.”

He doesn’t ask why not. He already knows.

Instead, he leans his head on your shoulder and says, “I’m glad you’re starting to again.”

He doesn’t push. He doesn’t ask for details. He doesn’t ask to read it. He just sits with you, there on the floor, eyes closed. Like your writing means something just by existing.

You open the laptop again.

You keep writing.

✧

Yoongi is sitting cross-legged on your bed while you type, cradling a cup of tea you made him because he clearly needed something to do with his hands. 

You can tell he’s nervous. He’s got that look on his face like he’s about to say something serious but is trying not to scare the shit out of you. It isn’t working.

“So,” he says, after a long stretch of silence, “I have a friend.”

You glance up from your laptop, blinking. “Amazing.”

Yoongi huffs. “Kim Namjoon. He’s an old friend. College. We used to mess around with production stuff, back when I thought I was gonna be a genius producer with a Grammy by 25.”

You smile a little at that, set your laptop aside. “What’d he say?”

Yoongi hesitates, fingers drumming softly against the side of his mug. “He got some seed money. Not much. Just enough to rent a space, get a couple of half-decent mics, some gear. Says he wants to start a small label.”

Your stomach does a little flip. Not because you’re worried. Not yet. But because of the way he’s saying it. Like he’s trying not to want it too much.

“He wants me in on it,” Yoongi continues, staring down into his tea. “It’d be three of us, working in a basement, surviving off cup ramen. Maybe getting a local artist to sign on eventually.”

You exhale. “That sounds… really fucking cool.”

Yoongi finally looks at you. He’s smiling now, just a little, but it’s tight at the edges. “Yeah. It does.”

“And?”

He shrugs, but it’s not a real shrug. It’s that shoulder-lift people do when something matters too much. “And I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m ready to give a shit again. I don’t know if I’ll fuck it up. I don’t even know if I still have anything to say.”

“You do,” you say, instantly.

His jaw flexes. “Yeah, well. Maybe. He’s starting soon. Wants me to come by next week. Just to mess around with some demos, get a feel for it again.”

You nod slowly. Try not to let the ‘what if’s start swirling. What if it pulls him away? What if he leaves? What if this tiny, fragile thing you’re building—whatever it is—gets buried under a dream he's only just remembered how to want again?

But you don’t say any of that.

Instead, you say, “You should do it.”

Yoongi searches your face for a long time, hesitant, like he’s trying to catch you in a lie. 

“Yeah?”

You reach over and take his mug, set it on the nightstand. You curl into his side, your face pressed to the crook of his neck.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I think maybe… we’re both starting to remember how to want things again.”

You feel him breathe out. Slow. Unsteady.

But he nods.

✧

Yoongi doesn’t stop texting. He still sends you memes, voice notes, the occasional photo of his workspace—a cramped basement room with exposed pipes and cords spilling out over his desk, coffee-stained notebooks piled next to a MIDI keyboard.

But he’s not around as much.

The nights you used to spend together—half-draped over one another on the couch, kissing during reruns, sleeping side-by-side without labels—are fewer now. Sometimes he falls asleep at the studio. Sometimes he doesn’t respond until 2 a.m., when you’re already asleep.

It’s hard. You won’t lie to yourself about that. You feel the absence like a low-grade fever. Always there, dull but insistent.

And there’s still no word for what you are. No boyfriend, no girlfriend. Just… you, and Yoongi. And this thing you’ve built together, quiet and warm and undefined.

But when you do see him—when he walks through your door smelling like coffee and sweat and work—you can see it on him. The spark. The momentum. The low, buzzing joy of trying again. Of wanting something bad enough to bleed for it.

He’s tired. But he’s tired for a good reason, now.

And that makes you want to try, too.

So you keep opening your laptop. Not just to scribble down half-formed ideas, but to finish. You sit with the mess of it, the aching in your fingers, the voice in your head that says ‘why bother’—and you write anyway. You dig up old stories, rework scenes that used to make you cringe. You find your voice again, piece by shaky piece.

Sometimes, late at night, you send him snippets. Just to say, look. I’m doing it, too.

And he always responds, eventually. Usually something like:

Yoongi: Fuck yes

Yoongi: Proud of you

Yoongi: Also the studio toilet flooded again. I’m going to kill Joon

You laugh. You keep writing.

It still hurts sometimes. Missing him, wondering what all this means. But now the hurt is paired with movement. With hope.

✧

Eventually, you finish something.

It’s not perfect. Not even close. There are typos and sentences that feel like strangers to themselves, and places where the ending is still a little jagged and wrong. But it’s done.

A full manuscript. Your name at the top. Your words, your voice, your pain and hunger and stupid hope wrapped into a whopping 112 pages.

You think of Yoongi when you submit it with an application to a graduate school program. A program you’ve read and re-read the description for more times than you care to admit. You don't know if it’s good enough. If you’re good enough. But for the first time in a long time, you do it anyway.

And then you don’t tell anyone.

Maybe it’s selfish, but you want the hope for yourself. Just for a little while. You want to keep it quiet and sacred, untainted by expectations or well-meaning encouragement or the crushing weight of what if it doesn’t happen. You just want it to be yours.

You keep seeing Yoongi, of course. When he can. When he’s not tangled up in late-night meetings and studio sessions. You see each other in stolen hours, sleep-heavy kisses, lazy dinners eaten on the floor.

But lately, even those small moments feel bigger.

And then one night, you get a text.

Yoongi: You home?

You are. You say yes.

He shows up ten minutes later, breathless, hoodie damp from trying to dodge light rain, cheeks flushed with joy. Real joy. The kind that lights his whole face from the inside out.

“I had to tell someone,” he says the second you open the door. “I had to tell you.”

You let him in, confused but smiling all the same. You’ve been doing a lot of that lately. “What happened?”

He doesn’t even sit. He paces back and forth, rakes a hand through his hair, practically vibrating.

“We signed someone,” he finally says. “Tentatively, but, this artist from Busan, she’s insane, she’s so weird and good and her voice is like—fuck, I don’t even know how to explain it. But Namjoon loved her. We all did. And she said yes. She said yes, to us.”

You blink, stunned. “You—Yoongi, that’s—holy shit!”

He grins, wide and unguarded, and you’ve never seen him like this before and it just makes you so fucking happy. You’re up on your feet before your brain catches up. 

You hug him tight, breath caught in your throat. Because he’s shaking a little, and he smells so good, and this is what he looks like when he’s proud of himself. When he’s living.

You pull back to look at him, hands on his jaw.

“I’m so proud of you,” you whisper.

And Yoongi’s expression shifts. Softens. Deepens. He takes a breath. 

“I love you,” he says.

Like it’s not sudden. Like it’s been sitting on his tongue for weeks, waiting for the right moment to fall out.

“I just—I do. And I didn’t want to say it while things were still messy, or early, or whatever. But this is what I wanted. That night, at the convenience store. This. You. Someone who gets it. Someone who doesn’t fix me but lets me stay. And I love you.”

Fuck. There it is. 

You don’t speak right away. You reach for him instead. Pull him back in. Rest your forehead against his and let yourself feel it. All of it.

And then, soft and steady, you say it back. 

“I love you too.”

✧

It’s not frantic, not this time. 

Not messy or rushed or born of need. It’s slow, reverent, deep. Yoongi’s hands cradle your face like you’re something fragile, something he’s terrified of breaking now that he knows what you mean to him. His thumbs stroke your cheeks. His breath catches when you tilt your head and kiss him harder but just as slow, open-mouthed and aching.

You walk him backwards toward the bed. He lets you. He goes willingly, grinning against your mouth like he can’t believe this is happening again, that you’re his, and that this time, it’s not just comfort or heat or distraction. It’s love.

He sinks onto the mattress, and you climb over him, straddling his lap, kissing him again and again, hands tangled in his hair, grinding down against the hard line of his cock through his sweats.

But then he pulls back. Barely. His hands settle on your thighs. His eyes are dark and shining and hungry.

“Let me eat you out.”

Your breath catches.

“I—what?”

Yoongi licks his lips. “You don’t get it,” he says, too far gone to filter it. “I’ve been wanting to. Since the night I fingered you against your fucking door, I’ve wanted to get between your thighs and just live there. I love you, and I love your pussy, and I’m gonna make you come so hard you forget every single bad day you’ve ever had.”

You stare at him, slackjawed.

Then you exhale, soft and wrecked, and whisper, “Okay.”

Yoongi repositions you onto your back, gentle, lips back on yours. His hands slide down your body like he’s mapping out every inch. He tugs your shirt off, unhooks your bra, kisses down your neck, your chest, your ribs, like he has all the time in the world.

And then he pulls your shorts down. Your panties too.

He groans when he sees you. Like, actually groans.

“God, baby. Look at you.” He kisses your inner thigh, drags his nose along the crease, eyes flicking up to yours. “So fucking pretty.”

And then he licks into you.

You cry out, sharp and sudden, because it’s so much. He’s warm and wet and greedy, tongue flat against your clit, then pointed and precise, then everywhere, like he can’t choose, like he doesn’t want to.

He moans against your pussy like he’s the one being touched. Like he could cum just watching you feel good, because of him.

“Yoongi—shit—” Your hands fly to his hair, thighs trembling, already shaking, already close.

He wraps his arms under your thighs, holding you open, keeping you grounded, mouth working you over like he’s worshipping you. He sucks on your clit, gentle but firm, and you arch off the bed.

“I’m gonna come,” you warn, voice breaking. “Fuck, Yoongi—”

He groans, messy and eager, never once letting up. And then you do.

You come hard, thighs clamping around his head, hands in his hair, eyes rolled back. It’s hot and overwhelming, your body jolting and twitching, his name a broken whimper on your tongue.

He keeps going until you push him away, overstimulated and trembling.

“Jesus,” you breathe.

He grins, climbs back up your body, presses his mouth to yours without hesitation. You taste yourself on his tongue.

“You love me,” he murmurs, like it’s the best thing he’s ever been told.

You nod, dazed. “I do.”

He kisses you again.

“You’re gonna let me do that every day, right?”

You laugh, breathless. “If you keep doing it like that, yeah. I might not survive, but yeah.”

You let Yoongi kiss you for a while, slow and soft and full of so much love, but eventually, you push at his shoulder. He pulls back instantly, eyes wide and brows furrowed.

“Lie down,” you murmur. “Let me take care of you.”

Yoongi blinks, lips swollen and wet. But he lets you push. “Baby—”

“You’ve been working so fucking hard,” you say, crawling into his lap, straddling his thighs. “Let me ride you. Let me make you feel good. Please.”

Whatever protest he might’ve had dies in his throat the second you reach down and palm him through his sweats. He’s hard—has been since he had your pussy on his tongue—and he groans, low and helpless, as you slide your hand beneath the waistband.

You stroke him slow, loving, watching the tension bleed out of him with every pass of your fist.

“Fuck,” he whispers, eyes fluttering shut, hips twitching into your touch. “Feels good.”

You smile. Kiss his chest as he fumbles for the condom in his wallet.

When you finally sink down onto him, Yoongi lets out a groan. His hands fly to your hips, gripping hard, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched so tight you can see the tension in his neck when he leans his head back.

“God—” he gasps. “Fuck, baby, you—”

“I know,” you breathe, grinding your hips in slow, careful circles. “I know. Just relax. Let me do this for you.”

You ride him slow, deep, dragging his cock through your tight, wet heat over and over. Every inch of him feels like it was made for you, thick and perfect and pulsing inside you, your cunt already fluttering from how good he made you feel earlier.

Yoongi can’t keep still. His fingers squeeze your thighs, your hips, then your waist, like he can’t decide where to hold on. Like he’s barely holding on at all.

He opens his eyes to look at you and whines, higher than he probably meant to. Because you’re riding him like you love him. Because your tits are bouncing with every slow roll of your hips, and your face is flushed, and your eyes are locked on his like there’s nowhere else you want to be in the entire fucking world.

It springs him into action.

He sits up, wraps his arms around you, mouths at your tits like he’s starving. He sucks at one nipple, then the other, licking and kissing and biting softly like he can’t stop, like he needs to touch you.

“Yoongi,” you gasp, fingers tangling in his hair.

He moans into your chest. Hands moving down to your ass, guiding you up and down on his cock in that same slow, dirty rhythm, like he wants to make this last forever.

“Can’t even think,” he pants. “You feel so fucking good—too good—fuck, I love you—”

You ride him harder, faster, your hands on his shoulders. Your whole body shakes with how good it feels to be full of him, to see him like this—wrecked, undone, yours.

“I’m so close,” you whisper, hips stuttering. “Yoongi—”

“Come for me,” he begs. “Please, baby, come on my cock, wanna feel it.”

You do.

You fall apart in his arms, gasping his name, pussy clenching around him so tight it nearly rips the orgasm out of him too. You’re shaking, sweating, still grinding through it as he buries his face in your neck, groaning your name, fucking up into you just a little, just enough—

He comes with a low, broken ‘fuck,’ arms locking around your waist, cock pulsing inside the condom. He’s so loud, so needy, and god, you’ve never loved anyone like this.

You collapse against his chest, both of you breathless and slick with sweat, still joined, still trembling.

And Yoongi holds you like he never wants to let go.

✧

You stay like that for a while, pressed to his chest, his arms strong around your back, the rhythm of his heartbeat still racing under your cheek. The room smells like sweat and sex. Yoongi’s hand is stroking slow lines up and down your spine. 

He hasn’t said much since you both came down, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. Just full.

You’re the one who breaks it.

“I did something,” you admit.

Yoongi hums, not missing a beat in the way his fingers trace over your skin. “Yeah?”

You nod against his chest, then force yourself to sit up, just enough to look at him. His hair’s a mess. His eyes are half-lidded and lazy, but sharp with attention the second he realizes you’re serious.

“I applied to grad school.”

Yoongi blinks.

“For writing?” he asks.

You nod again, heart hammering. “Yeah. An MFA. I submitted a portfolio. Finished something for the first time in forever. I would’ve told you sooner, I just—” You shrug. “I didn’t want to jinx it.”

His mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again, like he’s still processing.

And then he grins. Slow. Genuine. Gums showing and eyes shining.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, sitting up and grabbing your face in both hands.

Your eyes sting. “I don’t even know if I’ll get in. It’s probably stupid—”

“It’s not,” he cuts in, firm and quiet. “It’s not stupid. It’s huge.”

You try to look away, but he keeps your face in his hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks, grounding you.

“I’m so fucking proud of you,” he says. “Seriously. I’ve watched you try so hard to find something again, and you did it. Whether or not you get in doesn’t matter. You tried. That’s fucking everything.”

You bite your lip, blinking fast. Yoongi kisses your forehead, then your nose, then your mouth.

“Thanks for telling me,” he murmurs. “I’ll keep it safe.”

And you know he will.

For the first time in a long time, the future doesn’t feel so terrifying.

✧

The email comes on a Wednesday.

You’re not expecting it. You’ve nearly forgotten the timeline, pushed it into the back of your mind like a daydream you didn’t want to get too close to. You’ve been telling yourself not to hope too much. Not to want it, even though you do. Badly.

It hits your inbox around 11:42 a.m., and you stare at the subject line for a full minute before you open it. And then—

You’re in.

You read it twice, then two more times. It still doesn’t feel real. You read the phrase We’re pleased to inform you like it’s in another language. Like it’s not something anyone was ever supposed to say to you.

Then you laugh. A startled, breathless sound that turns into something half-sobbing.

You call Yoongi.

He doesn’t pick up on the first try—he’s a busy man these days—but he calls back two minutes later.

“Hey, baby. What’s—?”

“I got in.”

There’s a long pause.

And then, softly, “what?”

You swallow hard. You’re pacing your kitchen now, barefoot and trembling. “I got in. Grad school.”

“Holy fuck.”

You laugh again, breathless. “I know.”

“Holy fuck.”

“I know! Yoongi—”

“You got in,” he says. “You fucking got in.”

He sounds like he’s smiling. Like he’s trying not to cry. You’re trying, too.

“I’m so proud of you,” he says. “So fucking proud of you. I’m gonna lose my mind.”

Your throat tightens. “I don’t know what to do now.”

“Come to the studio,” he says instantly. “No one’s here today except me. I’ll order food. I’ll roll a joint. I’ll kiss you a lot. Do some very dirty, celebratory things to you on the desk, if you want.”

You’re already grabbing your keys. “Okay. Yeah.”

“Meet me out back.”

When you get to the studio, he’s outside. Leaning against the back of the building, waiting. The joint is already rolled, tucked neatly behind his ear, and he’s got that look on his face—that slow, lazy grin.

“You,” he says, pushing off the wall the second he sees you. “Fucking you.”

You don’t say anything. Just drop your bag on the cracked concrete and launch yourself into his arms.

He catches you easily, wraps you up in him—hoodie and warmth and the faint smell of cigarettes and detergent and Yoongi. His arms curl tight around your waist, and he lifts you slightly off the ground as you bury your face in his neck.

“You got in,” he murmurs again. “You really—baby, you did it.”

You nod against him, laughing and sniffling all at once. “I did.”

He sets you down but doesn’t let go. Just pulls back enough to kiss you. Once. Twice. Then a third time, slower. Deeper. Like he’s trying to memorize this version of you—buzzing and breathless and so fucking proud of yourself.

When he finally pulls away, he grins and taps the joint behind his ear.

“Celebration?”

You nod. “God, yes.”

He lights it. Takes a drag, passes it to you, and you both sit on the loading dock out back, knees bumping, fingers laced, smoke around your heads. The sun’s low in the sky. It’s chilly, but you don’t feel cold. Not with his hand in yours.

And everything’s… okay. Not fixed. Not perfect. But better.

Because loving Yoongi didn’t save you, and you didn’t save him. You still have bad days. Panic attacks. Guilt. Long, unbearable silences you have to claw your way out of. He does, too. Life is still life.

But he holds your hand through it.

And when things are good—like now, like this—you feel it in your bones: you love him. You fucking love him.

You lean into his side, head on his shoulder, and you think:

I can do this. I can live this life. 

Especially if he’s in it.

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[cheshireliam]

"Surprise Bag 2025" Story Sale: The Villain Became A Plushie!?

Ring Schwartz

This is a fan-made translation solely for entertainment purposes with no guaranteed perfection; expect mistakes, grammatical errors, and some creative liberties. All original content and media used belongs to Cybird. Please support the game by buying their stories and playing their games. Reblogs appreciated.

Read this before interacting

Ring was turned into a plushie. 

(He’s incredibly adorable, but… he’s also so dirty, it's unbelievable.) 

The adorable plushie version of him was covered from head to toe in grime. 

Kate: What happened to you on the way here?

Ring: I crawled under a shelf in the hallway. 

Kate: ? Why would you…? 

Ring: Because I saw this. 

Kate: … Oh! 

Ring took an earring out of his pocket and gave it to me.

It was the one I thought I’d lost the other day. 

Ring: You looked so sad talking about losing it. 

Ring: I saw it under the shelf when I shrank. 

Ring: It looked like what you described, so I thought…

Ring: If it could help me find something you’d lost, then maybe having this body isn’t so bad. 

Kate: Ring… thank you so much. 

The realisation that he got himself dirty just to retrieve my lost earring squeezed my heart, I was full of gratitude and wanted to do something for him in return. 

Kate: Please let me clean you as a way to thank you! 

Ring: Wha— 

I grabbed both of his little hands and held them tightly. 

Kate: You can’t wash yourself with these hands, can you? 

Kate: Leave it to me. I’ll make sure you’re all fluffy and clean! 

Ring: W-wait a second! 

Kate: Don’t worry. I used to wash my plushies on my own when I was a child, so I have lots of experience! 

Ring: No, that's not the— uwahh! 

Lifting Ring up, I climbed into the bathtub with him in my arms and bunched up the hem of my skirt. 

Ring: Ahh, your legs! I can see your thighs! 

Kate: Ah, I'm so sorry! They must be unsightly… 

Ring: They’re not unsightly, if anything they're beautiful… wait, no! I can do this myself. 

I rolled up my sleeves and grabbed the shower head while Ring was flailing around in panic inside the bathtub. 

Kate: I’m going to turn on the water. I’ll be careful not to get it on your face. 

Ring: Uwah!

He yelped in surprise when gently showered with hot water.

Kate: I’ll start washing you now. Let’s start with your head… 

Ring: You really don't have to do this for me. 

Kate: But you can’t reach your head. 

Ring: Ugh… 

His little hands couldn’t reach past the top of his ears.

Seeing how strongly he protested, I turned off the shower and looked him in the eyes. 

Kate: Do you really hate it…?

I had offered to wash him as an act of gratitude, but it made him more uncomfortable than expected. 

I started thinking maybe I should stop, but it turned out that my worries were unnecessary— 

Ring: … I don’t. 

Kate: Huh?

Ring: I don’t hate… being washed by you. 

Ring reached out his tiny hand and touched the hem of my skirt. 

Ring: I’ll be counting on you. 

He lifted his head and gave me a determined look. 

…

Kate: The dirt really isn’t easy to get off, huh. 

Ring: … ggh.

Focusing the shower on the dirtiest spots, I scrubbed gently yet thoroughly.

The dirty water swirled away down the drain as he gradually became cleaner.

But hot water alone wasn’t enough to clean off the tougher stains.

Unexpectedly, Ring began trembling and forced his words out through his clenched teeth. 

Ring: … This isn’t over yet?

Kate: No, because hot water just isn't enough. 

Kate: Oh, lift up your arms.

As I scrubbed under his arms while still thinking about how to tackle the stubborn stains, Ring suddenly stood up.

Ring: I’m at my limit.

Kate: Eh? Kyaa—

Ring: Whoa—

In an instant, something sprang out before my eyes. 

Startled, I let go of the shower head and was drenched in hot water. 

When I pulled myself together, I noticed that Ring had returned to his original form and was now hovering over me. 

Ring: Sorry, it’s my fault for standing up so suddenly… are you hurt?

Kate: I-I’m fine. 

Water dripped from his hair down to his cheek, and his soaked inner shirt clung tightly to his skin, revealing his muscular figure. 

Ring’s toned body was now clearly visible through his wet shirt. 

Muscular arms, bony hands, sharp features… everything about him exuded an aura of masculinity—. 

Kate: … Kate. 

He called my name in a feverish voice and reached toward me. 

Kate: Achoo! 

I let out a loud sneeze and he quickly scrambled off me.

Ring: Sorry, use this. 

He grabbed a nearby towel and wrapped me in it, but he was startled by how cold I'd gotten as soon as his hand touched my arm. 

Kate: Whoa— 

Suddenly, he pulled me into his arms right there in the bathtub. 

Ring: You’ll catch a cold. 

(Could it be that Ring’s trying to warm me up?) 

The thought of him hugging me to keep me warm was so adorable, I couldn't bring myself to say I’ll just go change out of my wet clothes. 

(... This makes me happy, so I want to stay like this a little longer.) 

As I enjoyed the unfamiliar warmth of his body, he gently brushed away the strands of wet hair clinging to my cheek. 

Ring: I'm all clean again. 

Ring: Thanks, Kate. 

(I didn’t know what to do when I first saw he’d turned into a plushie… but now, I feel like we’ve grown a little closer and that makes me happy.) 

We both laughed, and a few seconds later, Ring suddenly shot up with his face bright red. 

He tried to get out of the bathtub, only to slip and fall. 

… Let’s keep the last part a secret between us. 

[creatingblackcharacters]

hi! this might be a complicated ask. i'm writing a Black-coded (nonhuman) ex-soldier with PTSD and was wondering if there is anything else i should consider with this character's relationship to violence. since im white, i dont have a nuanced perspective on how growing up Black(coded) might affect his behavior in this area.

my character is Black-coded in his character design, but more importantly, in-universe, he is part of a phenotype of his species that is treated like they are less intelligent and more violent than the other phenotypes. in canon material for this universe, other characters who are subject to these stereotypes have been interpreted as Black, so there is precedent for this analogy. a huge part of the source material is the struggle for equality, freedom, and liberation for all phenotypes. (not that its always done well)

the way im writing him now, he's a very calm and avoidant pacifist when possible, wanting to distance himself from the battlefield. but when he feels his new friends are in danger, he will fight again to protect them and himself. thing is, he has PTSD, and what he registers as a life-or-death threat might not register as a threat to his friends. as a result, they might find his actions overly aggressive… they don't understand what the war was like & how not being proactive enough cost him a friend. he's terrified to lose someone again, and this is the root of his behavior. that fear drives him more than the fear of returning to the battlefield. i dont want him to be an "angry aggressive Black man" or anything, i want it to be clear that he's acting from a place of fear, trauma, and protectiveness. i also want to note that he is not the only Black-coded character. one of the three never-seen-battle, carefree characters is also Black-coded. hopefully i've written him with enough nuance to avoid falling into stereotypes about aggression, but if not, i'd want to hear where i can improve.

now, the part where i really need advice is on how growing up as a part of this stereotyped phenotype might affect how he does (or does not) express things like anger, hostility, or fear. might he try to keep his emotions under wraps to avoid appearing angry or aggressive? or uncritically embrace it as a part of his identity? might he be afraid that expressing his emotions honestly will invite discrimination from his friends who do not have this phenotype? im afraid i just dont know where to begin with this one, but i feel it must be addressed as an important part of his character. oppression is a big topic in the source material and i feel i'd be remiss to avoid it in my OCs.

i know this is a long ask, but if you do choose to answer, thank you very much! if you'd like elaboration on anything, just ask. he's my favorite OC in this story and the most well-developed, and i want to do him justice

Hi, sorry for taking so long to get back to you, but I've been thinking about how to answer this question daily. In my honest opinion, I think you should pause on this character and do some further research. You have an incredibly intriguing concept that would be really cool to explore... But I don't think that, right now, you as an author necessarily understand what you need to in order to depict the complexity of this character's experience.

My suggestion would be finding and reading books written by Black men about their experiences as Black men. They will include their stories of how they had to deal with their emotions, their traumas, and their relationships. I'm sure there are even stories of Black vets, if you really want to get that specific, but just in general life experience will hold patterns worth understanding for characterization. Ta-Nehisi Coates' Between the World and Me, or Monster by Walter Dean Myers, stuff like that.

[halfbloodwhore]

Electric Touch - Part III (Eddie x Female Reader - 18+)

"I was thinking just one time Maybe the stars align And maybe I call you mine."

Read Part I Here Read Part II Here

˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗. ˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗

Eddie was not a religious man. He had never set foot in a church and the closest he'd ever come to praying was during Hellfire meetings when he'd beg the dice gods for a good roll.

However, upon hearing those seven words tumble out of your mouth, he was almost certain that he had died and gone to heaven.

"I'm sorry, I don't think I heard you correctly," he said after a beat of silence. You couldn't help but giggle at the blush creeping across Eddie's face. But, as the light laugh escaped your lips, Eddie's face crumpled, leaving you confused. He looked back down at the tray and paper he had in front of him and resumed rolling.

"Are you okay?" You asked, giving his forearm a squeeze. Eddie tensed in response to the gesture.

"Yeah, I'm cool."

"I'm sorry, was that too forward? Oh my god, that's so embarrassing. Please forget I said anything." You quickly removed your hand from Eddie's arm and used it to cover your face.

Eddie let the nearly formed, but still mostly incomplete, blunt drop which caused it to unravel. "Wait, was that a serious question?"

Peeking at him from between your fingers, you asked timidly, "Did you want it to be a real question?"

Eddie allowed himself to fully take in your appearance. He'd never had the opportunity to sit so closely to you before and, somehow, you were even more breathtaking up close. He was enamored by the little details about you he'd never noticed before, like the faint freckles that were peppered across the bridge of your nose, and the little white scar above your left eyebrow.

Eddie thought back to the countless Friday nights he'd spent alone in his room with only his right hand and the thought of you in a short skirt to keep him company. He was already at a sub-zero in the Hawkins social rankings, so what did he really have to lose?

"Of course I did," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's you."

"What does that mean?" You asked, your voice just as soft as his.

"I mean, you're probably the prettiest girl in Hawkins. Everyone wants you."

You sat in stunned silence for a moment. Your heart was beating so wildly that you were sure Eddie must have been able to hear it thumping against your chest. After collecting your thoughts, you stood up and leaned your entire body across the picnic table until your face was nearly touching Eddie's. Before you could change your mind, you cupped his face in your hands and pressed your lips against his.

Eddie's lips were soft against yours and he tasted faintly of tobacco and mint. The kiss was gentle, yet you couldn't ignore the surge of heat in your core.

You forced yourself to break the kiss even though every cell in your body seemed to be crying out for more. "You didn’t answer my question, Munson,” you murmured against his lips.

“No,” he said breathlessly. “I have not.”

Under normal circumstances Eddie may have felt ashamed about admitting to the most popular girl at Hawkins that he had never been touched by another girl before, but his mind was far too clouded by desire for him to care at the present moment.

“We should do something about that.”

Tucking his suddenly hard dick in the waistband of his jeans, Eddie rose from the picnic bench and guided you to his van. Once you had both climbed into the backseat and the door was slammed shut, your lips were back on his. The kiss was no longer gentle. You kissed him with a fervor, finally satiating the burning hunger you’d developed for the Freak.

You pulled your lips from his and trailed kisses down his jaw before sucking lightly on his neck. Your hand found its way to Eddie’s hard on and you rubbed him through his jeans, eliciting a deep moan.

Unable to wait any longer, you slid off the seat until your knees were resting on the floor of Eddie’s van and then hurriedly undid the buttons of his jeans. You wrapped your hand around Eddie’s cock and finally freed him from the confines of his pants. The foreign feeling of a hand that didn’t belong to him grabbing his erection was electrifying and Eddie thought he was going to burst.

He took some shaky breaths to steady himself and found himself praying that he’d last long enough to truly savor the experience of his cock in your mouth.

Starting from the base, you slowly dragged your tongue up his length before circling it around his tip at an agonizing pace, lapping up all the precum seeping from it.

“Oh fuck,” Eddie moaned as his head fell back against the seat. His reaction caused your pussy to clench and you just knew that your panties would be soaked by the time you were finished working his cock.

You wrapped your lips delicately around his tip and began lightly sucking. Eddie’s cock twitched in response as if it was begging you for more. Without warning you dropped your head down, taking as much of Eddie into your mouth as you could. The tip of Eddie’s cock pressed against your throat and you couldn’t help but moan at the sensation.

Eddie whimpered as your moan reverberated around his cock. He wanted to look down and see just how pretty you looked sucking him off, but the pleasure of his first blowjob had rendered him powerless and all he could do was pathetically whimper your name as your head bobbed up and down his cock expertly.

Sooner than he would’ve liked, he felt his balls pull up tight against his body. You could feel the moment his cock went taut in your mouth and you shoved him down your throat just as it began twitching. His cum shot against the back of your throat as Eddie came harder than he ever had before.

Once you were sure that he had nothing more to give, you pulled off him and took a deep breath. Eddie forced himself to look down at you through half lidded eyes. He wasn’t sure of proper post-blowjob etiquette, but it felt wrong to not acknowledge the life changing experience you had just bestowed upon him, so he said the only coherent sentence his brain was able to string together: “Thank you for that.”

“Anytime, Munson.” You said with a wink.

˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗. ˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗ ˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗

A/N: Thank you to everyone who read through Electric Touch. It honestly made my day every time I received a notification that someone liked or reblogged a previous part. This started as a silly little idea I came up with while listening to Spotify and the fact that it became something others also enjoyed is very neat 💜

[igglemouse]

Week 1 ~ Introducing Magdalena ~ Monday

Today is a big day, perhaps the biggest of days? My acting career starts in earnest. Yes, today I will go to TWO auditions and hope to land both but will be fortunate to land one. The competition is stiff of course as so many women like me come to DSV to chase a dream.

I don't know how well I will do but I do know that will do my best.

Also. Didn't start any fires in the kitchen today!

I am not the only one in my family chasing a dream. My brother Iker is as well but his chase leads him across the ocean to Windenburg. Fútbol is his passion and some team far far away is willing to take him on as a prospect. I've talked a lot about how I will always miss home and family but it must be doubly true for him especially since I do not think he even speaks the language there? He jokes and tells me that the language of fútbol is universal and while I get the sentiment I doubt it is a language that will help him find new friends. What is he going to do, juggle a ball and spell out words in the air while doing so?

All I can do is hope for the best and wish him luck. At least he is doing more with his life than Carina, our sister. That is another story for another day.

You might have noticed the little bit of fuzz on my arms? Can't go to an audition with that and can't go with a stench! I guess I could, nothing is stopping me, but that would be embarrassing wouldn't it?

I'm honestly not sure what to expect with this first one, it's for a music video and honestly I don't know much about it? I don't think it matters, I'll learn once I'm there and I don't expect much to be asked of us. Like I mentioned, this is just to get my name out there and have something to put on my resume and for a little bit of simoleons. Beggars cannot be choosers and I cannot be picky about roles, yet.

I arrive slightly on time and am instantly guided to the dressing room or more like hurried to it. They wanted me to wear one of those body stocking fitting things that is very much skin tight and while I have a few questions I should remember what I've signed up for.

I am under no allusions here, the role called for an 'attractive' woman because I imagine she'll be featured in the video and so I know whoever wins the role will be eye candy. Nevertheless, I am still hoping to win.

I head into the audition room and instantly hate what I'm wearing because the AC is set on Simartica for whatever reason. Why put us in these skimpy clothes then? Were they trying to freeze us?

Either way, I've thankfully arrived near the end of the auditions as there is a very tired looking man sitting alone at a desk and three other women in the room.

One looks terrified, the lighter girl with short dark hair sat as still as ever, staring off into the distance and fiddling with her fingers while the girl sitting next to her, the redhead, seemed cool and confident, just waiting to show her stuff.

There was a woman at the front of the room being interviewed. I didn't catch the whole thing but I did hear her response. She played up her experience in dance which makes sense but it doesn't seem like the casting guy cared that much about it.

The conversation continues but I toned it out since the short haired girl captured my attention. She whispers hello but I can tell that there is some shyness to her? Some? No, a lot of shyness. She does seem to be open to a conversation at least, perhaps just to help with her nerves?

Ah, yes, this is what I fear. Most of the women auditioning here are models and not actresses, such as I, so it makes me wonder why I am here as well? The possible pay day I suppose? Still, it is something to put on my resume, I've seen acting careers launched off of music videos as well.

I continue my conversation with her and wonder how she is a model with such low confidence of herself but then I do realize the modeling industry industry is so rife with competition that it is bound to make the prettiest of people feel ugly. It is definitely a churn, especially for young women. I say all this knowing that I do believe I could be a very successful model, if I simply decided to be so.

The conversation between the casting guy and Ms. Bagley continues...

As Ms. Bagley walks out the next girl saunters up to the center of the room and instantly tries to claim it. She calls herself Jordan McDonough, in a tone that tells us we should already know who she was and how dare she have to waste energy introducing herself. The casting guy isn't so impressed, in fact, I don't think he barely noticed her at all.

Alright, if Eliana is a demonstration of no confidence this woman is a demonstration of having far too much. Thankfully, Eliana seems to be very open to chatting with me.

Meanwhile...over in the center of the room with miss spotlight...

Jaxton let out the heaviest of sighs right after calling for the next girl. It felt like it could blow a house down and I can't imagine how many personalities he's had to deal with today. All the same, it was time for Eliana's turn leaving me alone for a moment, I do wish her luck because she seems like a sweet woman who needs it. It's a competition but it also isn't. If they like her look more than mines they will pick her, nothing I can do about that.

I watch her gather herself, fiddle her thumbs, wobble a little as she stands. She's definitely about to bomb this, I'm sure how, but I am sure that she's about to.

Ouch. I felt bad for her, she certainly wasn't stuttering when I was speaking with her just now? Just stage fright I guess? I give her wave but I'm not sure she saw it, she seemed pretty dejected?

I can't linger on her for too long though so I take a deep breath and make my way to stand in front of the man and I must admit that I think his body language changes? He leans back in his chair and takes me in for a moment without speaking but eventually he speaks.

And so I do although I am slightly confused as he didn't ask this of any of the others? I turn to face the other way slightly and he just stares, it doesn't take me long to figure out what he's staring at. My lips part for just a second to tell him what's on my mind but thankfully no sound comes from them. This man, unfortunately, might be the deciding factor on if I get this part or not and what's done is done. I know he's not the first man to stare at my butt and he won't be the last.

Index ~ Next

[bettainbarbados]

An Insomniac’s Guide to SATs

If you're in this community or have read Neville, you've probably heard of SATs. I often wonder why SATs were much more successful during Neville's day, plus how that has declined so fast, but that's a post for another day.

Before we begin SATs, here are some changes I highly recommend you do, (at least for the time being):

Stay off your devices for about an hour (I still watch TV without issue. I think it's because the TV is far enough away.) before heading to bed. If you want to enter SATs, no Instagram Reels before bedtime!

If you have trouble falling asleep, try cutting your caffeine intake or not drinking caffeinated drinks at all.

Tell yourself, “I'm entering SATs tonight.” Whenever your mind wanders about it, or you start thinking you're not going to, remind yourself you are already entering SATs tonight. If you're telling yourself you've already failed, or you won't enter, you're just setting yourself up for failure.

If you don't have trouble falling asleep before bed, ignore the above. These are changes that helped me fall asleep in a reasonable time (and not loop my scenes for so long).

[SATs = State Akin to Sleep]

SATs are exactly what they sound like, the state akin to sleep! Contrary to popular belief, you do not need to wait until bedtime to do them. What matters is getting into SATs and fully immersing yourself there—that is how you impress the subconscious thoroughly.

“Do you need to do SATs for the law to work?”

No, there are other ways to manifest! For the longest time, I didn't use SATs at all. (Having insomnia and all.) In my journey, though, I have found them to be incredibly powerful, and it leaves me to do my day-to-day in the 3D without reacting as much.

How to do SATs:

Make sure you're tired before attempting this! It's far easier to do SATs while sleepy. I have looped my scene for an hour or two—it's not fun!

Pick a desire you have. If starting out with SATs, I recommend you only try with one desire and not all of them at once.

Lie down in a comfortable position (you can also sit in a chair), one that you can fall asleep in.

Close your eyes, and tell your left foot, “You are relaxed now.” Feel it being relaxed, but don't force it. Allow it to come to you. Do this with your right foot. Then the ankles, and so forth, do it with every body part.

If done correctly, you will experience a floaty feeling in which you feel more like your mind than your body. (Best way I can describe it.) If not, repeat. Try talking in a slower voice that continuously gets slower as you do this; it'll help you get sleepier. If you have trouble with this visualization, try something easier for you. The imaginal act doesn't matter; whatever gets you drowsy and relaxed does.

You can now begin SATs. Engage in a scene (in first person—read here for more) in which you have already achieved what you desired.

You should wake up feeling like it is done. If not, repeat it the next night. However, if you feel as if you no longer need to/desire to loop the scene, continue your life as usual. Whenever you think of your desire, remind yourself it is already manifested within.

Whatever you have in consciousness as you go to sleep is the measure of your expression in the waking two-thirds of your life on earth. Nothing stops you from realizing your objective save your failure to feel that you are already that which you wish to be, or that you are already in possession of the thing sought. Your subconscious gives form to your desires only when you feel your wish fulfilled. -Neville Goddard, Feeling is the Secret

Fall asleep every night (and you must fall asleep looping the scene), being what it is your desire, and nothing on this Earth can stop it from happening.

[lachesismoonmist]

I've Been Watching You - Chp 7

On the Bucket List

Rating: Mature. Minors dni

Pairing: Jeon Jungkook / Reader

Words: Total: 73k

Status: Complete. 7 out of 26

Story Summary: There's a hot new guy in the gym. You can't keep your eyes off him, and it seems he can't keep his off you either. What starts out as Friends-with-Benefits turns into something a lot more complicated as your past comes back to haunt you and you find out your best friend's long-kept secret.

Originally posted on AO3

MY MASTERLIST

Chapter 7: On the Bucket List

Chapter Summary: JK and the MC continue to spend time together, and conversations start to creep towards dangerous territory, which the MC wants to avoid. The MC gets to strike one item off her bucket list. Sexy times ahead!

Author's Note: I'm back! This chapter took a while, because it was one of those where a lot had to be covered, and was before another peak in the story. Longest chapter so far. Also, there's smut! The smut is a different kind again - not sure if you guys noticed, but every smutty scene is slightly different. I hope it doesn't disappoint! JK and the MC spend some quality time together. Paintball might seem a little clichéd (think '10 Things I Hate About You' starring Julia Stiles and the late Heath Ledger), but I've always wanted to try it but never got around to it. There's also a Star Wars reference (I'm a total fan). Darth Vader was the ultimate badass in Episodes IV, V and VI. Tall, dark and ... Well he was wearing a mask most of the time, but he was quite handsome in a Episodes I, II and III. Are you still with me? Heh heh heh. Also, a shout out to @azurefangirl. She's one of my inspirations - I've been reading all her stories, enough times that I could convince myself that maybe I could write one too.

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

It was shoulders and back day. After doing lat pull-downs, I was at the far end of the gym doing the landmine press. Jimin came strolling over. “What did you do over your long weekend? Jiho left yesterday right?"

“Yup. After the club that night, Jiho only came back after breakfast. He said he needed to crash, and had overdosed on chocolate. We went out for a late lunch, then I sent him to the train station around 5pm. I came to the gym in the morning, but didn’t see you. Soo….. what happened to your booty call?”

“When I got to his apartment, he’d just showered. He came to the door looking like sex on legs. He got all protective too when I told him about Hajoon.” I added rolling my eyes. “Then he spent the rest of the night making sure I didn’t have any bruises anywhere. Hmm, actually, he made it his mission to give me bruises.” I pulled aside the neck of my tee shirt to show Jimin the enormous hickey.

“Oh my god! That must be the biggest hickey I’ve ever seen!” “I know right? And I’ve a matching one on my boob!” I complained. Jimin burst out laughing. “No way, he gave you one on your boob?” he cackled. “He’s a biter, huh? Is he good with his tongue?”

“Well, he did eat me out on his kitchen counter before bringing me to the bedroom. And last evening we christened my couch”.

“At last!” Jimin hooted. “I thought that couch was going to die a virgin. Wait, you went over to his place after the club, then last evening you christened your couch? Did you spend all day yesterday together?”

“No, not exactly. We fell asleep at his place after the club, but I left around 4am.”

Jimin sighed “Y/N, it’s been four years. Don’t you think you need to move past this?”

“I don’t know, Jiminie. I mean, Jungkook makes me feel safe, like he wouldn't hurt me. That’s how I managed to fall asleep at his place after the club. He was so sweet. He cleaned me up again, then just held me. But I’m scared, Jiminie. I don’t think I’ll survive getting my heart ripped out of my chest again”.

“Y/N, anyone with eyes can see the attraction and the chemistry between you two! You look like you fit together, even more so than with Nam….”

“Don’t, Jiminie”, I put my hand on Jimin’s chest “Don’t say his name”. Jimin grabs my hand with his, cradling it to his chest as he says gently “Y/N, you have so much love to give. You’re smart and funny, you deserve to be happy. You deserve more than just casual hook-ups, even if the sex is mind-blowing.” Jimin sighed again. “Speaking of mind-blowing sex, where is Loverboy this morning?”

“Oh, he had a wedding shoot. At the beach, no less. He said it would run well into the afternoon. I’m going over to Artemis anyway. Have to look in on Nuri. Oh, and guess what, yesterday Ginger came out to the front of the clinic and rubbed herself all over Jungkook!”

“That slut! She only ever hisses at me or runs away…. waaaaiiit….. did you say Jungkook?”

“Yup”, I replied, picking up my towel and water bottle.

“You brought Loverboy to the clinic?!? You’ve never brought anyone to the clinic! Well, except me of course.”

“Yeah, I felt bad about leaving in the middle of the night, and he’s obviously an animal-person. Besides, he brought his dog Bam there for the yearly check-up two weeks ago, so it’s not like it was his first time there.”

Jimin held up his hand up, “You don’t have to explain, Honey. I get it. I told you right, this time it’s different.”

Just then, I felt my phone buzz in my pocket.

[Hot Gym JK] Hey Sweetness, the photo shoot got cut short. What are you doing later after lunch?

[Sexy Vet] Oh! What happened to the shoot? I'll be at the clinic, but I'm free after 3pm.

[Hot Gym JK] Awesome. I’ll swing by the clinic to pick you up then. Tell you the story about the shoot later.

[Sexy Vet] Where are we going?

[Hot Gym JK] It’s a surprise. Wear comfortable shoes and slacks or berms.

[Sexy Vet] Ok, now you’ve got me intrigued. Give me a hint!’

[Hot Gym JK] And spoil the surprise? Nope. You’ll just have to wait to find out. See you at 3pm, Sweetness.

[Sexy Vet] Ok. C u.

Jimin was watching my face closely. “That HAD to be Loverboy. You should see the way you’re smiling right now”.

“Nonsense! This is my normal look.”

“And I’m the queen of England. Face it Y/N, there’s something between you and Jungkook. You can deny it all you want.”

I smiled, thinking about him.

“See! You didn’t even try to deny it!”

“Whatever,” I huffed.

“So you seeing him today I take it?”

“Yeah, he said he’d pick me up from the clinic. Told me to wear comfortable shoes and said it was a surprise.”

“Well, I guess that means you’re not going to do ballroom dancing.“

"Probably not," I laughed. "Gotta go Jiminie. Catch you later k”.

“Go, go, go. Say 'Hi' to Loverboy for me”.

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

Right on the dot at 3pm, Jungkook turned into the carpark in front of the clinic. I was already sitting on the bench outside the clinic, nursing a peppermint mocha, watching two kids playing with the Golden Retriever that had just been discharged today. Jungkook pulled up beside me and opened the passenger side door “Hop in, Sweetness”. I got in and showed him the second cup I was holding.

“I wasn’t sure how you like your coffee, so I just got you a Flat White, no sugar. I’ve got some sugar packets in my bag if you want some.”

“Actually I’m more a tea drinker, but a Flat White no sugar is fine”. He reached over to squeeze my knee.

“So what happened with the photo shoot?”

“The bride-to-be didn’t really want a photo session on the beach saying she hates the sand, but the groom-to-be had pressurized her into it. Today she just couldn’t bring herself to do it and broke down in tears. I think it’s the wedding stress.”

“Yikes! Was it a deal-breaker?”

“Naah. The groom-to-be panicked and told his fiancé he’d shoot the photos anywhere she wanted. She said she’d wanted to do it in the flower gardens on the other side of town, and but they are closed today. She’s a florist, so having flowers in the shoot was actually quite a big deal to her. In the end we went to her shop and took some nice but tight shots there. We picked another day for the gardens shoot, but they felt bad about the whole thing, so they paid us for half-a-day’s work and bought us lunch”.

“Ok, so everything’s fine then. Can you imagine what they’d tell their grandkids? ‘Your grandma almost didn’t marry me because I wanted our wedding photos taken at the beach.”

“Yup, everything’s fine, and thanks to them I get to spend my afternoon with my favorite vet”. He grinned at me as we pulled into the parking lot of what looked like a refurbished warehouse. ‘Got You in My Sights’ was spray painted on the front wall, along with a impressive mural running the length of the long building. I saw in smaller print ‘Paintball. Lasertag. Air Rifle Shooting’.

“You brought me here to shoot me?!?” I asked disbelievingly.

“Shoot AT you. Paintballs, that is. I was told we have the whole place to ourselves today.”

Two white jumpsuits, goggles, helmets and paint guns loaded later, I found myself hiding behind a bale of hay, hoping to catch Jungkook unawares. He hadn’t seen me duck down into this small trench so this was my best shot. I saw him creeping behind some trees, unaware that I was behind him. I lined up my sights, then pulled the trigger. A big yellow blob appeared on his jumpsuit, right in the middle of his back. He spun around, eyes wide open in shock. “You drew first blood! I’m coming for you!” he shouted and started sprinting towards me.

Now, the sight of a 1.78m tall man, all geared up, carrying a loaded weapon running towards you is downright terrifying. I yelped and sprung up, legs pumping to put as much distance as I could between me and Jungkook. I found a waist-high wall made of sandbags, leapt over it and turned towards my pursuer. He was running across open ground, so I had the upper hand. I fired at least 5 shots at him, but only had the satisfaction of seeing one hit him on the shoulder. That didn’t stop him though, he just kept coming. I jumped up away from the wall and continued running. This time, I felt the paint hit. Two on the back, one near my knee and one hit my helmet. I went sprawling, falling into a dip behind a slight rise. I drew my knees in and just sat there, trying to catch my breath. Trying to listen out for foot falls. The plan was to wait till Jungkook was almost upon me, fire one to the chest then run.

Of course that didn’t happen. I felt a shadow fall over me, and looked up to see Jungkook standing over me, smiling smugly. He held his hand out to me.

He made deep breathing sounds. “Join me, and together, we will rule the galaxy” he said in fake boomy voice.

“You did not just quote Darth Vader!” I burst out laughing.

“I find your lack of faith disturbing.”

I couldn’t take it. I sat down on the ground laughing at Jungkook’s Darth Vader impressions. “Stop! Stop!”

He grinned and looked at my jumpsuit, then back at his jumpsuit. Mine was covered in green, whilst his had just one yellow spot on his shoulder, and the other one on his back. “How did you only manage to hit me only once when I ran towards you? I was completely in the open on purpose! ”

“I told you first person shooter games aren’t my thing, right?” I cried as I got to my feet. “I can’t shoot while moving, and it looks like I can’t even shoot while staying still! That first shot I got on you was a pure fluke.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t put my life in your hands if we were in a gun fight.”

“Rude!” I shouted, then shot him in the chest at point blank and ran away cackling.

“OW! Come here you!” Jungkook shouted, running after me. After what felt like an eternity of running and hiding, Jungkook finally called time. I got shot at least half a dozen more times, while I didn’t land a single shot.

When we removed all our gear, our hair was plastered to our heads with sweat. I looked down, and realized my white cotton blouse was stuck to my skin, and a bit see-through. Thankfully I was wearing my nice, lacy white set. Jungkook’s eyes widened, and he suddenly leaned over and kissed me hard on the lips. I kissed him back, our tongues dancing.

I put my hand on his chest but he hissed and pulled back. “You know, shooting someone at point blank will cause bruising right?” he complained as he slowly lifted his tee shirt. There, right in the center of his chest was a big bruise.

I didn’t say anything. I was so transfixed by his abs, I just stood there, blinking slowly.

“Helloooo, earth to Y/N?” He waved a hand in front of my face.

I blinked twice. “You were saying?”

“You gave me a big bruise by shooting me at point blank range.”

“Ah, now we’re even. Two for two. Told you I’d claim the other half of my payment”.

“How can you even equate a hickey to paintball injury?!? One is given in pleasure, the other is an injury!“

“Tomay-toes, tomar-toes. Now we really both match – one on the neck, one on the chest”. I gave him a double thumbs-up and a wink. He rolled his eyes.

“You hungry? Wanna go grab some food and head back to my place?”

“Sure,” I said, fanning my blouse in an attempt to unstick it and dry out a little. “Any craving?”

“How about Thai food? ‘Buy My Thai’ is on the way.”

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

“Mmm…. This Pad Thai is soooo good!” I closed my eyes after slurping my noodles and chewed happily.

“Right? The place is co-owned by a couple. The wife is Thai. I did a photo shoot for them about 4 months ago for their new menu. Now I get extra shrimp in my Tom Yam Goong.”

I smiled and nodded, too busy chewing to reply. “So you don’t have a pet now?” Jungkook asked.

“No, no time for one. I don’t go to the clinic everyday, but when I do I spend long hours there. Besides, all the patients are like my surrogate fur kids. Where’s Bam? You mentioned him but he doesn’t live here with you.”

“Bam is at my parent’s. I just moved back to the city about 10 months ago after spending a few years abroad. Bam stayed with my parents while I was away. Been thinking of bringing Bam over to my place. What do you think? I’d love to have your professional opinion on it.”

“Well, you do have nice grounds here, good for walks. Your apartment is large enough for a Doberman. Is he potty-trained? I mean trained to use a tray?” Jungkook nodded. “That’s good, so he can relieve himself even when you’re not at home. I’d suggest getting some rugs for the floors that are slippery. Sliding on slippery floors may lead to increased risk of hip or elbow dysplasia.” Jungkook nodded in understanding, looking around at his floors. “Another thing is, are you going to be away a lot? If he gets more attention and company at your parent’s, you may want to think about leaving him there. But you can bring him over if you’re going to be home for a stretch.”

Jungkook started collecting the empty cartons and bowls. “I will have to travel a little on and off, but for the most part I’ll be around. Thanks for the advice though. I’ll just bring Bam over here if I’m going to be around for him.” Jungkook smiled, took my hand and squeezed it.

“Come, I wanna show you something”. He led me to his bedroom, and pushed open the double glass doors I’d seen the last time I was here. The balcony outside had a set of comfy-looking outdoor furniture – a small low table and two chairs that were large enough to sit two. A little tealight holder on the small table had a lit tealight in it, giving off the smell of geraniums. I walked over to the railing and looked out over city.

“This is such a gorgeous view.”

“Yes, it is” Jungkook said, looking at me, stroking my arm. He pulled me against him, my back to his front and whispered in my ear “Look up.” I gasped when I did. The night sky looked like a deep velvet canvas, with stars scattered all over.

“Wow”, I said quietly. “You can’t see the stars from the city. I’d forgotten how beautiful the night sky can be”.

“This is one of the reasons I fell in love with this place. I often come and sit out here when I’ve had a rough day. The night sky reminds me that I’m just a little speck in the big scheme of things. Wait here”, he squeezed me, then walked back into his bedroom. I continued gazing up when he came back with a huge grey woolen blanket and wrapped me in it.

“Come have a seat, I'll go make us some tea.” I settled into the large chair at the end of the balcony. I looked around. Because of the shape of the apartment building, I couldn’t see any of the neighbor's homes. It was just a clear view of the surrounding area and the city skyline. Breathtaking.

Jungkook came back not long later with a small pot and two tea cups on a tray. The tea smelled heavenly. “This is jasmine tea with natural rose oil” he explained as sat down next to me and proceeded to pour tea into both cups. “It’s great after you've had oily food.” I took a deep breath, closing my eyes and savoring the fragrance. I took a tentative sip.

“Wow!" I closed my eyes and took an extra deep breath.  A few more sips later, I opened my eyes to see Jungkook staring at me over the rim of his teacup. "This might be the best tea I’ve ever smelled or tasted! Makes me wanna bathe in it”.

“Well, I do have good taste” he smiled, then leaned closer to me “speaking of good taste….” He took my cup from me and put it down on the table. His warm lips found mine. His hand wound into my hair, holding my head in place, angling it to kiss me deeper. He kissed me slowly, but no less hungrily as he explored my mouth. His hand travelled down, squeezing my breasts before moving his hands to my waist, shifting me so that I was facing him, straddling his lap. He kissed his way down my neck and pressed gentle kisses to the hickey he gave me. His hands reached for the bottom of my white blouse and he pulled it up and over my head.

“I saw the white lace earlier after paintball. I’ve been dying to see it up close” He ran his finger down the shoulder strap, over the tops of the cups, making me shiver. Then he suddenly pulled down the cup, freeing my breast. He closed his lips over my hardening nipple, sucking so hard I let out a whine. He reached up and freed the other breast, shifting his attention to it. “Your breasts look so sexy like this, held up by your bra.”

“We’re out in the open, Jungkook. Someone might see.” I said worriedly, looking around.

“No one can see us while we’re here. But if it makes you feel better..." he reached past me to pull up the large grey blanket and draped it on my shoulders. He reached back then and pulled his t-shirt off in one smooth move. As always, I was mesmerized by his bulging arm muscles, the swell of his pectoral muscles, the ridges of his abs and Adonis belt. I ran my hands over his stomach and chest, then leaned forward to kiss him, as I pawed at the buttons of his cargo shorts. Then I reached into his boxers and freed his hard cock, giving it a few pumps. Jungkook moaned, then pushed his shorts and boxers off his hips so that they rested near his knees. I reached down and pushed them the rest of the way off his legs.

His hands went to the button of my slacks, pulled down the zip slowly. He brushed his fingers against my white lacy panties, then growled. "I wanna see”.

He lifted me off his lap and made me stand between his legs. He spun me around to face away from him and slid my slacks past my hips. They fell to the floor. “Your ass looks terrific in white lace” he purred, rubbing both ass cheeks with his hands. He slipped his fingers in and pulled the lace down, then helped me step out of it. I pulled me towards him to face him again. He looked divine – bare chest heaving, muscles all on display, cock standing erect. The ache between my legs grew stronger. I sat on his lap, shuffling forward till I could rub my core on his cock.

“So wet for me” he groaned, as he massaged my breasts, thumbs rubbing over my nipples. I lifted myself up slightly, then impaled myself on his cock. He moaned loudly, burying his face between my breasts. “Move please,” he choked out, his arms crushing me to him like a vise. My breasts rubbed up and down on his chest as I put my knees on the seat of the chair for leverage to take him in again and again. He held my hips in a crushing grip as he helped move me up and down. By now the large grey blanket had fallen onto the ground but neither of us cared. It was just him in his naked glory, me with my ass bare and my breasts trussed up in my bra. He pressed his thumb onto my clit, moving it in time to when our bodies closed the gap, watching how my pussy sucked him in.

“Harder, Jungkook, harder” I panted.

He applied more pressure with his thumb and my world exploded. I squirted onto his lap as he came, moaning my name.

We sat like that for a while, our arms around each other, coming down from our highs, till our breathing evened out. I lifted myself slowly off him, feeling him slide out. I rested on his lap, not wanted to separate just yet. He stroked my back lazily while nuzzling my neck with his lips.

“You know, having sex under the stars, out in the open has always been on my bucket list.”

“And you’ve never found anyone to do it with?” Jungkook asked curiously. I shook my head, as he stood up, carrying me with him.  I buried my face in his chest to avoid answering his question.  I inhaled deeply.  He smelled of his cologne, but underneath that was a very manly smell, of sweat and sex.  

“Let’s get you cleaned up” as he walked to the bathroom. He set my down gently on his marble counter, took a wash cloth and wiped our mess from the insides of my thighs and his crotch. He also wiped my breasts slowly, then pulled the cups back up. He kissed me, then went to wash the towel in the sink.

“I wanted to tell you, I have to leave tomorrow morning for a magazine photo shoot for a week. In Paris. The following week there will be a photo exhibition cum charity ball here in the Grand Ballroom at Four Seasons. I’m one of three photographers who have been invited to take photos for the exhibition. It’ll be great exposure, and it seems the guests move in high circles, so it’ll be a great chance to network. “

“That’s amazing! I’m so happy for you. It sure sounds like a great opportunity for you.”

“Come to the ball with me? As my plus one?” he asked earnestly, holding both my hands as he looked at me with puppy dog eyes.

“Don’t do the puppy dog eyes thing! I cannot resist it!” I cried, covering my face with my hands.

“But it’s my greatest weapon in getting what I want,” he said smugly. “Seriously though, say you’ll come with me? I’ll even get you a dress from Paris.”

“Oooh… high fashion from Paris, huh? You sure you know my size?”

“Oh, I know your size,” he said in a low voice as he claimed my lips with his again. My knees turned to jelly, along with my will.

“Ok,” I breathed when we finally separated, our foreheads resting together. "What time is your flight tomorrow?"

"It's at 6am. I’ll call you when I land. I'll be pretty busy during the day, we can talk at night, although you’ll be a few hours ahead of me," Jungkook said

“Ok, Big Boy, sounds good. I need to to go too anyways, I have a surgery early tomorrow morning.”

“Come on, I’ll drive you back to the clinic to get your car.”

We drove in a companionable silence, once again with his hand resting on my leg, this time, on my thigh. He insisted on driving back with me to my apartment building after that, and walking me up to my door. Outside my door, he kissed me till I was dizzy, and wouldn’t have stopped if not for my neighbor who had to walk past us. We both laughed after my neighbor croaked out a very awkward “Hi…” and slinked into his apartment. Jungkook held my face in his hands and kissed me on the nose, then on the lips. “Good night, Sweetness. Dream of me k?” and blew me a kiss as he walked down the stairs.

Previous (Chp6)

Tags: @bhonbhon, @azurefangirl

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

The Cat King and Niko Sasaki (Post-Canon Friendship)

I’ve been around for a really long time, I’ll have you know. Too long, some might argue. Too long to be alive. Too long to be lonely.

That friend of yours, Edwin’s little guard dog- he has always had Edwin by his side, from the moment he died. They’ve had each other for thirty years. Two sides of the same coin, some bullshit like that.

They talk about loneliness, but god, they don’t know a goddamn thing about it.

You want to know about loneliness?

Lemme tell you something about loneliness, okay? Lemme tell you something about the way that your ribs ache when you’re on your fourth life, and you have so many lives left to take on, and you have so many lives haunting the inside of you, banging up against your ribs, tearing their claws into your heart, and all of them are true, and all of them hurt.

God, my first fucking life. I remember it all too well. I remember each and every one of them all too well.

That’s the curse of immortality. Mortals get to bleed out the bits that they can’t stand to remember, get to blur the bits that make them look bad, get to smear nostalgia golden over the lenses of their rose-colored glasses and forget the bits that left them bruised and so beaten and broken that they weren’t sure if they would be able to ever rise to their feat again.

Do you know what I get, sweetheart?

I get the teeth.

-aletterinthenameofsanity, why must we tell them why

I cut you a piece of me, I cut you a piece of me

And where you go I will go too

I lost my life when I lost you

From now on I'm half a soul

Without you I can't be whole

So cut me a piece of you, cut me a piece of you, and where I go you'll always be

-Ryan Scott Oliver, Cut You A Piece