#me: feels dizzy as soon as I stand up

[moondvncer]

as we say in italy: giovedì gnocchi

[phagodyke]

argh..

[sherlock-is-ace]

.

[werecreature-addicted]

Bully knot bully knot bully knot bully knot-

Jock bully werewolf who catches you standing outside in the rain, he laughs before offering you a ride... for a price of course.

Normally the price for a ride is good old-fashioned road head, but with the heavy rain and slick roads it's a little too risky for you to be leaning over distracting him with your mouth around his cock, so you'll have to make it up to him another way.

the second the car is in park Ceaser jerks his seat back and down and tugs you onto his lap. Don't be so shy, go on and ride him, he knows you want to, a slut like you is always desperate for some good dick and he assures you that with the downpour no one will see the two of you fucking and besides, you owe him for the ride.

you awkwardly strip and try your best to not hit the horn with your ass, before sitting in his lap again. You don't ride him as much as you hover above his lap and let Ceaser snap his hips up driving his big dick into you. just because you're the one on top doesn't mean you get to be in control or set the pace, He doesn't let his fucken fleshlight control the tempo either.

He digs one of his clawed hands into your hip, the other he uses to wrap around your throat squeezing hard enough to let you see stars then releasing again laughing as you gasp for air.

"Beg me to cum inside of you," he growls, the car rocking back and forth with each powerful thrust of his hips. He lets go of your neck making you a little dizzy with the sudden rush of blood back to your head.

"come on you stupid bitch use that air for something useful and beg for my cum," he spits, you can tell he's close to his orgasm, He'll probably cum soon either way but you obey him

"Please Ceaser- please give it to me,"

He snarls in pleasure as he pushes his knot into you and he cums, you whimper at the full feeling. your thighs trembling. he reaches between your legs stroking your clit with the pad of his thumb.

"shhh, you always whine like a bitch when I knot you, you should be used to it by now. my knot isn't that big is it?" he teases, slowly rocking his hips back and forth as he rubs your clit.

"I-It is big it hurts," you whine which only makes him snicker.

"Awe such poor baby. must be hard being a slut who can't even take a knot properly, I'm just going to have to keep fucking you and training that tight cunt." His harsh laugh is cut off and twisted into a moan when you cum, clenching around his already-spent cock.

"fuck pretty, warn me next time," he gasps. "I should beat your ass for cumming without permission."

"Please don't Ceaser," you plead, falling down against his chest, his swollen knot still stuck inside of you. He rolls his eyes and huffs annoyed. Still, he was feeling generous right this second. Maybe he'd let you keep his knot warm for a little while longer and he'd count that as your punishment.

[hoshiros]

—✯ TRY IT, BITE IT, LICK IT, SPIT IT

cw. 18+ mdni. all chars 20+, pro-player!rin, afab!reader, oral (f!receiving), praise, petnames, established relationship, inspired by that one leaked panel of rin because what the hell

When ITOSHI RIN wins a game, your face is always the first one he wants to see.

Oftentimes, he'll search for you in the crowd with your embarrassingly noisy neon poster boards cheering him on. Other times, you'll already be waiting for him at the gates with your arms opened wide for him to run into.

For the last four weeks, though, he’s had to suffer the agony of your absence.

Rin called you incessantly while in France, reminding you of how many days separated him from being in your arms. "Wait for me. I'll be home soon," he said. "And be good," he'd add on, almost cheekily.

His promises were always sincere and lethally calculated. He wanted you to need him so badly that you'd fall apart on his tongue in minutes. Then he'd do it again, and again, and again, until he was satisfied.

When he finally came home, you barely had time to breathe before his lips were crashing into yours. You wanted to ask him if his flight was alright, if he had dinner yet, but then he licked himself into your mouth and the entire thought vanished.

And now you're being devoured by a monster.

Rin's been between your legs for so long that you're dizzy, head airy and light as he fucks into you with his tongue.

"Stay still," he warns sharply, words muffled as he stuffs his face closer into your sopping cunt. His warning is followed with his hands circling around your thighs, palms flat against the skin and leaving seas of heat along it.

You whine pathetically when he presses your hips down into the mattress, forcing you to be still for him.

"Can't—" you choke, spine curling from the bed so far that your head tilts backward. "Slow down, Rin!"

"Slow down?" He murmurs roughly. Rin furrows his brows, like he genuinely can't comprehend your request. "Actin' like it's your first time," he mocks, finishing his sentence by wrapping his lips around your clit.

You squeal, hand shooting down to shove his head back. He almost laughs when your weak attempt only pushes the bangs out of his eyes, giving him an even better view of you.

Rin pulls back enough to click his tongue, amused by your squirming but equally frustrated at your protests. He draws away from you. You feel cold as he does, the space he occupied suddenly devoid of his warmth.

"M'sorry princess," he coos, trying to coax you into relaxing. Peppering light kisses up your thigh until he gets to the spot resting on his shoulder, Rin can feel every shiver as you recover. "Too rough?"

You take a moment to catch your breath, waves of overstimulation crashing in your stomach. Finally, your gaze slowly drifts down to him, roaming over his face.

Your pussy clenches around nothing at the sight.

Sweat gleams across his forehead, stray strands of hair stuck to the skin as he also finds his breath. The entire bottom half of his face is so wet. You did that. You did.

"Hmm?" Rin hums, trying to get an answer. He looks so fucking cocky. So hungry. His tongue runs across his lips as if he can't stand not tasting you for even a second longer.

You shake your head, fingers still in his hair tugging lightly until he groans. "I can take it," you sniffle, guiding him back down closer to your heat.

"I know, baby. You're so good."

Rin dives back in as if he's starving for you, lathering your cunt in rough, long licks until you're shuddering. His hands travel down to the base of your thighs once again, pulling your body closer so that he can finish his meal.

You cry out softly, aching hole desperately trying to squeeze his tongue. He was the one who was so good to you. You dare to gaze at him again, just to admire his beautiful face.

Your breath hitches.

Rin has that same look on his face as he does on a football field—like a winner chasing a goal he knows he'll always get.

[cloudzoro]

Getting Caught | One Piece ♡

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Getting caught having sex with your man by one of his friends.

reaction/headcanon requests for jjk, one piece, haikyuu, fmab & death note (male & female characters) are OPEN!

masterlist | request rules

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

genre: smut (minors dni)

characters included: ace, crocodile, zoro

cw: dirty talk, pet names, threesome, size kink, public sex, voyeurism, big dick!zoro, possessive behaviour, Zoros one kinda made me 💦🤭🥵💫 while I was writing it

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Ace

Ace has been visiting your home a lot recently. Since the two of you started dating, he promised not to be gone too long. When you do finally get him back, you're all over him.

He's sitting on your couch while you're on his lap. You grind down against his cock, which he had pulled out of his shorts. The brim of his hat presses against the back of the sofa and prevents him from getting comfortable, so he takes it off of himself and places it on your head. The sight of you stripped naked in just his hat has him bucking his hips up into you.

“sit on my cock, pretty girl,” he says. “Let me fuck you, baby.”

You reach down and guide his cock into your hole. He helps you sink all the way down onto him, and when he finally bottoms out, you moan in his ear. He holds you still as you clench around him. He knows if you start moving now, he'll cum almost immediately.

“Please fuck me, Ace”, you whine before kissing him. He hums into your mouth and slowly ruts upwards. As soon as he moves, the door swings open. Ace is quick enough to grab a nearby blanket and wrap it around you while pulling you to his chest, blocking any possibility of whoever just walked in seeing you naked.

You look to the doorway to see Marco standing there. He seems embarrassed and as if he's trying not to laugh.

“I was just coming by to see how your reunion is going”, he says, a smug grin plastered on his face.

“It's doing fine; now beat it!” yells Ace, throwing a pillow in his direction. Marco runs, but not before yelling through the now-closed door.

“Nice hat, y/n!”

Crocodile

He has you on your back, legs pushed up to your chest as he fucks you. He's so deep inside you and so big that he attacks all your senses. You couldn't focus on anything else if you tried. You can feel his palm pressing against the tiny bulge in your stomach.

“Can you feel that baby? Feel me deep in your pussy?” his voice has you clenching around him. The room smells of smoke and sex, and it makes you so dizzy that you can barely respond to him. You let out a long whine and nod. Crocodile laughs from above you. “Can I flip you over?” he asks. You whine a yes, and he flips you onto your hands and knees.

A large, heavy hand pushes you down against the sheets. He pushes back into you and the new angle makes you scream into the fabric beneath you. Every thrust sends you forward into the mattress, and Crocodile does absolutely nothing to hide your moaning.

A few minutes later, you hear a loud banging at the door, and before either of you can move, Mihawk swings the door open as if he's completely unaware of what you are doing.

Your husband pulls you upwards so your back is against his chest and wraps his big arms around you, covering your most intimate parts. There's a beat of silence before Mihawk launches into a flustered tirade.

“You two are completely inconsiderate. Do you ever fucking shut up?” While he continues ranting, Crocodile leans down to speak in your ear.

“Look at him; he wants us so bad,” he whispers. He's not wrong if the flushed skin and raging boner are anything to go by. “Do you wanna invite him in?” he asks, paying no mind to Mihawk's scolding. When you nod, your husband drops his hands away from your chest and between your legs. Mihawk goes silent now that your body is exposed to him. “She has another hole for you,” says Crocodile, pressing his fingers against your lips. You obey his silent command and open your mouth to suck on his fingers. “y'know if you want help with that,” smirks your husband, gesturing to the tent pitched in Mihawk's trousers.

Mihawk considers the offer for a minute before approaching the bed. Crocodile lets go of your body and pushes you back down as Mihawk pulls his cock free from his trousers. You lick up the underside of his cock and then take him into your mouth, relaxing into taking as much of him as you can. You can hear verbal encouragement from both men, but you're not focusing on the words at all; you're too busy being stuffed with cock.

Zoro

Zoro can't keep his hands off of you, you've been at a bar for all of ten minutes and he's itching to pull into the nearest bathroom and fuck you stupid.

“Baby, come on,” Zoro says, pulling your back against his chest as you stand at the bar. “No one will even notice we're gone.”

Your boyfriend is impossible to resist and you let him drag you to the bathroom. He pins you against the wall, kissing you as he pulls his cock free. He holds his hand in front of your face, instructing you to spit in his palm. He uses your saliva to lube up his cock before lining himself up with your cunt and pushing in. You pull Zoro into another kiss, much nastier and messier than the last. His hips rock into you, cock dragging against your sensitive walls.

“Hold on to me, pretty girl”, he groans as you cling to his shoulders. He fuckss you harder, intending to make you cum as quickly as possible so he can get you home and really take his time with you. Neither of you realise that you didn't lock the door until you notice a blonde man with a familiar pair of eyebrows staring at you in shock.

“Zoro, Sanji's here,” You whine, slightly embarrassed. He knows; he heard Sanji coming in. He just doesn't care. At this point, almost nothing could stop him from making you cum.

“Let him watch. Let that shitty cook see what he'll never have” The cocky smile on his face makes your pussy drool. Zoro isn't jealous; he has no reason to be, but he has one of the nastiest possessive streaks you've ever seen in your life. “This pretty pussy is all mine, right baby?”

“uh-huh” is the only pair of syllables you can form as he fucks you so hard you fear you might crack the wall. You're not lying, though. Every part of your mind, body, and soul belongs to Zoro and vice versa. Sanji tries to focus on glaring at the swordsman, but he keeps getting distracted by your exposed skin and pretty noises.

“Cum for me” He emphasises the word ‘me’ reminding both you and Sanji that every drop of cum that leaks from your sweet pussy is his. Your body follows through on the command, shaking in his grasp as you cum. Both men stare at you in awe. Zoro cums soon after, unable to stand the way your cunt pulses around his sensitive cock any longer. “Get out of here,” Zoro growls, voice startling Sanji back to reality and he hurries off so you and Zoro can clean up in privacy.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed :)

comments and reblogs are massively appreciated ♡

[hoshifighting]

It appeared on my twitter, that tiktok of the 95 line and hoshi and I swear I can't get out of my mind the way Hoshi mouthed "fuck like a p*rnstar". I feel dizzy 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

this video rents free in my mind, with that...

part 1 | part 2 (coming soon)

pornstar!hoshi who’s built a reputation as the guy who’s charming AND talented. he’s fully committed to—not just for the cameras, but because he’s having the time of his life.

pornstar!hoshi who’s playful but knows how to be professional on set. he cracks jokes while the lighting gets adjusted, his smile disarming everyone around him. “does this angle make my abs look good, or should I flex a little more?” he teases, winking at the camera crew. but the second they call action, he’s on. his expressions, his movements—it’s all so natural that you can’t help but admire him, even when you’re the one underneath him.

pornstar!hoshi who’s supposed to be acting, but the moment he’s buried inside you, all of that goes out the window. the cameras are rolling, the director is calling soft cues, but he doesn’t hear any of it. all he can focus on is you. the way your back arches, the way your lips part on a gasp that sounds so real it makes his head spin. he’s moving, sure, but it’s not for the cameras—he NEEDS to see you cumming for real.

pornstar!hoshi who treats his co-stars with the utmost respect, always checking in between takes. “you good?” he’d whisper in your ear, his hand resting lightly on your thigh as he made sure you were comfortable. “need water? a break?”

pornstar!hoshi who has this uncanny ability to make everything look so effortless. the way he moves on camera, the way he adjusts to your rhythm, the way he looks at you as if no one else is even there—even though there are six people holding boom mics and lights around you.

“fuck, y/n,” he groans during a particularly heated scene, his voice low and rough enough to make you moan louder. it’s not just for show—it’s genuine.

pornstar!hoshi who’s known for his hips—not just how he moves them, but how he controls them. he’ll start slow, teasing, just to make his partner wetter, and then speed up in a way that has you clutching at his shoulders, your mind going blank. “there it is,” he’d murmur, only you could hear it. “does it feels good huh? such a perfect pussy.”

pornstar!hoshi who isn’t afraid to improvise, pulling off moves that make directors and crew stop and whisper, “how the fuck does he do that?” he’s the guy who can make a simple grind look like art and who knows exactly how to make you arch, moan, forget that youre supposed to be acting—both on and off-camera.

pornstar!hoshi behind the scenes is somehow even more dangerous. why? he’s soft, attentive, and domestic in a way that takes you by surprise. he’ll sit beside you during breaks, sharing snacks and laughing about how awkward some angles feel.

“did you see how they wanted me to hold you earlier?” he says, mock pouting as he mimics an exaggerated pose. “i looked like a pretzel.”

“You always look like a pretzel,” you tease, stealing one of his chips.

when the other take starts, no difference, real fuck to real eyes. the makeup artist is standing off to the side, brush frozen in her hand, glances at the lighting tech, watching hoshi fully sweat, who’s wide-eyed and whispering, “uh… is this still part of the scene?”

it’s not, and everyone knows it. hoshi’s thrusts is too personal, the way his fingers circle your clit with too much enthusiasm, care even, like he’s memorized every little thing that makes you squeak or roll your hips harder against him. the room is quiet except for the wet, obscene sounds of him fucking into you and the soft, desperate noises spilling from your lips.

pornstar!hoshi who’s dizzy from the sight of you. your face is flushed, your chest rising and falling with every poor breath, and the way you gasp his name—so full of need—has him gone.

“come on, baby,” he murmurs urgently, his fingers speeding up on your clit as his cock angles just right, brushing that spot inside you that makes you roll your eyes. “you gonna cum for me? huh? let me feel it. let everyone fucking see it.”

your hand shoots out, grasping his wrist as you sob, “hoshi, I—fuck, I can’t—” but the words die on your lips, replaced by a moan so loud and needy that his hips stutter. he leans down, his forehead pressing against yours, his forehead and hair starting to get wet.

“you can,” he whispers, his voice breaking like he’s barely holding himself together. “you’re gonna. i need you to. please, y/n.” his body working overtime to bring you just to see you cumming because he needs to see it, needs to feel it.

“look at me,” he says, his voice cracking as his free hand tilts your chin up, forcing your eyes to meet his. “look at me when you cum. let me see you.”

and when you finally do, your body tightening around him, his vision blurs. “that’s it, good girl, good girl—hm—fuckkk!” he groans.

the camera focuses tightly on where pornstar!hoshi is buried inside you, each thrust making you twitch as overstimulation sets in. you’re trembling now, gasping out broken noises that makes everyone confused its pleasure or exhaustion, your body convulsing around him. his hips falter for just a second before he hisses sharply, his head tipping back, a pained frown creasing his face.

he’s cumming, pumping into you like he’s helpless against the feeling of your wet cunt wrapping his tightly. even he looks surprised, glancing down at where you’re wrapped around him like he can’t believe it. when he finally slows, he pulls out just enough for the camera to capture the cum spilling from you, thick and unreal.

the director calls for a close-up, but hoshi’s already moving, his hand brushing against your thigh in a subtle, tender caress that’s out of sight from the cameras. his thumb rubs a slow circle into your skin, grounding you as the scene comes to a close.

“cut!” the director calls out. “that’s a wrap!”

hoshi doesn’t react immediately. he leans down, his lips finding yours in a kiss that catches you off guard. his tongue slides against yours, wet and warm, moving with a craving that feels almost private.

your eyes widen for a moment, but you give in, your fingers clutching weakly at his arm. when the director announces again that the shoot is officially over, hoshi pulls back, his lips brushing yours one last time before he closes his eyes. he plants a quick peck on your lips before shifting back to help you sit up.

as you adjust yourself on the edge of the bed, his assistant rushes over with a robe, but hoshi waves them off and takes it himself. instead of covering his own body, he wraps it around you, his hands careful not to disturb you too much.

“there,” he murmurs, tying the sash loosely around your waist. “better?”

you nod, sipping on the juice box that someone from the crew had handed you, looking strangely unbothered by the fact that you’d been riding him like your life depended on it just minutes ago.

hoshi, now half-dressed, stands nearby talking to his assistant, his hand absently twirling a strand of your hair. the motion is lazy, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

you can’t quite make out what they’re discussing—something about scheduling and timing—but when his assistant walks off, you glance up at him curiously.

“what was that about?” you ask, your voice hoarse from all the moaning earlier.

hoshi smirks, running a hand through his messy hair. “nothing big. just checking my schedule.” he pauses, leaning down a little closer to you. “i heard it’s your first time in town, though.”

“yeah?” you reply, raising an eyebrow.

“yeah,” he says, his voice dropping slightly. “so… i was wondering if i could take you out. show you the town... like… on a date.”

you blink at him, caught off guard. ���a date?”

“yeah,” he repeats, his grin softening into something almost shy. “off-camera. no scripts, no director yelling cut. just you and me.”

you sip your juice, feigning nonchalance even though your heart’s doing cartwheels. “i guess i could fit you into my schedule,” you tease.

hoshi chuckles, his hand brushing against your cheek before he straightens up. “good. because I wasn’t gonna take no for an answer.”

[luveline]

I'd love a wisdom tooth with Hotch; I got mine removed last Saturday and I'm in pain 🥲

You should’ve had your wisdom teeth out years ago, but you couldn’t afford it. When Aaron suggested you get them removed after a particularly embarrassing bout of pain, you’d been honest with him: you still couldn’t afford it. Stuff kept going wrong, your car would break down, or your landlord would hike the rent, and you didn’t have enough saved up to do it without worry. 

So he pays for it. You don’t ask him to, you fight him on it, but he hates seeing you in pain. 

“You’re my hero,” you say, mumbling through gauze. “Generous hero.”

“It’s not generosity,” he says, reaching across the console of the car to catch your hand, “try not to touch your mouth.” 

“I feel dizzy.” 

“I know, honey. Can take some more deep breaths for me?” 

He suspects you’re not only dizzy, but overstimulated. You take a few deep breaths, and then you say, “That’s so nice.” 

“What is?” he asks, regretful as he takes the steering wheel into both hands and turns the car onto the next road. 

You’re his sweetheart, he means that firmly, and he’d do much more than pay for your dental surgery. You’ve been very honest with him about how grateful you are. It’s uncomfortable —you shouldn’t have needed his assistance, how unfair it is that you couldn’t afford it alone— but it’s sweet, too, to see your thankfulness manifesting itself while you aren’t entirely yourself. 

“You calling me honey.” 

“You think it’s old-fashioned.” 

“You’re super old-fashioned.”

“That’s not very nice,” he teases. “I remember when we first met, you were so nice and polite. Now you’re abrasive.” 

“I am not!”

“You’re cruel to me. What should I do about it?” 

“Nothing.” 

Aaron reaches over again to grab your thigh. “Nothing? That’s typical.” He pulls your leg toward him, and he gives the soft inside a squeeze you aren’t expecting. You laugh like a kid being tickled.

“You’re just bullying me while I’m defenceless.” 

“Is that what you are?” he asks, rubbing the length of leg he’d squeezed apologetically. “You can be mean to me for now, then, but when you’re feeling better we’re going to have to have a talk about where my nice girl went.” 

You make a sound that’s half excitement and half panic. “Do you mind?” 

He’s being a little much, sure, but you’d been swaying toward overwhelmed a few minutes ago. He figures some tough love will keep and hold your attention before you can remember the pain. “I don’t mind.” He pats your leg with his fingers, frowning when you shiver. “Are you cold?” he asks worriedly. 

“I’m freezing.” 

Luckily for you, you’re home. Aaron parks the car and gets out swiftly to retrieve you, fonder now that he can see up close. You aren’t as out of it as you’d been to begin with, recognition and light in your eyes as you unbuckle your seatbelt and he offers his hand. “Thanks,” you say, ducking out of the car with a little wobble, “I’m still dizzy, can you–”

“I’ve got you,” he says, hand braced more roughly than he means to at your elbow. 

It’s more of the same inside. You’re unsteady on your feet, he has to grab you to keep you standing, but he gets you into the kitchen at your request. His first port of call is a blanket for you. 

As he wraps it around your shoulders, he’s sure the anaesthesia is entirely worn off. You meet his gaze with an undeniable love. It’s in every line of your face. 

“Thank you,” you say. 

“You know I’m just kidding when I say you aren’t nice.” 

You nod. 

“Because you are,” he says. Looking after you isn’t generosity, it’s self-preservation. He’s found you, sweet and loving as you are, his match in teasing and seriousness alike. He has no intention of treating you with anything other than the utmost care. “Are you warm enough now? It’s a common side effect of sedation, the coldness. Your dizziness, too. It’ll feel better soon.” 

“Can I take this gauze out? I feel silly.” 

“If your gums aren’t bleeding anymore.” 

You haven’t had to spit, so you’ll be alright. Aaron washes his hands, has the honour of removing your gauze and witnessing your odd stitch, which he throws away to wash his hands again. Then he wets a cloth for you to wipe your face. It’s perhaps the uglier side of loving someone and looking after them, but he genuinely couldn’t care less. You’re just as lovely to him as you were yesterday, minus a few troublesome teeth. 

“Your cheek is swelling,” he says, stroking the line of your jaw carefully. 

“Well, you can’t stop liking me now. Then this surgery would be a total waste.” 

He laughs. “What do you mean?” he asks, tipping your chin up. 

“You pay for me to have no toothache and then we break up? It doesn’t make any sense.” 

“It makes zero sense. You’ve invented a scenario where I’d leave you,” he smiles like an idiot, “and that timeline doesn’t exist.” 

You close your eyes. He kisses your nose, weary of your soreness. 

“Timeline,” you mumble. 

“Oh, you have something to say? Let’s hear it.” 

You laugh and push him away. “I don’t have anything to say to you.” 

Unfortunately for you, Aaron has no intentions of being pushed away from you. He leans over to give you a hug and a kiss pressed to your temple, his hand feeling a path against the ridge of your shoulder. “Please tell me if I hurt you, I know your face is sensitive,” he says. 

You settle in his arms. “No, this is nice.” 

He presses another kiss atop the first one. 

[nastybuckybarnes]

Rat in the Mouse Cage

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Summary: There's a rat on base, and all evidence seems to be pointing to you.

Warnings: lowkey mean!soap, angst, language, angst, ptsd, angry!ghost, more of mouse's backstory??,

Word Count: 5.5K

A/n: here it is, the angsty one. I had SO much fun writing this and I reaaalllly hope you guys enjoy! The next few parts are in progress but you should see them soon!

~*~

Soap opens the door to the boardroom, a room you've never been in before, and you follow him when he motions you into the room.

Captain Price is seated at the table, his eyes focused on a file in his hands.

The air is tense, and you're immediately on edge.

"Have a seat," Soap says, his voice hard.

You comply, sitting across from Price anxiously.

"Is... everything okay?" You finally ask, looking between the two men.

Price sighs and sets his paper down, finally lifting his gaze to yours.

"No. Everything's not okay."

You feel dizzy with how quickly the blood leaves your face.

"Ghost... is okay?" You ask after a long moment, squeezing your hands together as you prepare yourself for the worst.

"Yes, Ghost is fine."

You frown, glancing around.

"Where is he?"

Price and Soap exchange glances, the latter standing at the closed door with his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

You've never seen him look so... angry before.

"Listen, I'm gonna give you this one chance to come clean. Don't make this any harder for yourself than it already is," Price warns softly.

"Who do you work for?"

The question catches you off guard, and you cock your head to the side.

"I... I don't work."

Price scrubs a hand over his face, the language barrier only adding to his anger.

He glances over at Soap, and the Sergeant takes that as his cue to clarify.

"We know you've been sellin' information. We need to know exactly who it is you work for. Who your buyer is."

Your mouth drops open in shock at the accusation, but he's speaking again before you have a chance to defend yourself.

"We've already caught you, so don' bother tryna lie your way outta this."

You shake your head so hard you make yourself dizzy.

"No, no! Not me! I-I don't talk to anyone! I don't give any information, I have no money I don't sell anything! Where is Ghost?" If Ghost is here, he'll listen. He can help you. He'll trust you.

You just need Simon.

"He's not here," Soap says coldly.

"I want Ghost, please!" You all but cry.

"Well he doesn't want you!" Soap shouts, slamming his hands on the table. "No one wants a filthy rat!"

The words are spat with enough malice to cut you deeper than a knife ever has.

"Ghost already knows the truth. Had to keep him away or he'd kill ya before we get answers."

The two men watch as Soap's words have the desired effect, your shoulders slumping forward and tears welling up in your eyes.

It hurts them to have to do this, to have to hurt you. You seemed so sweet, so innocent. But if it's what protects the team, so be it.

"I'm gonna ask you one more time," Price says, "Who do you work for?"

You bring your teary eyes to his and shake your head once again.

"I don't work. I don't sell anything and I am not rat."

You're innocent, and this is a hill you'll die on if you have to.

Price heaves out a heavy sigh then nods at Soap.

He walks around the table to you, ignoring the way you shake your head and try to rise up out of your seat to get away from him.

You raise your hands in surrender when he reaches you, not fighting him as he zip-ties your wrists together in front of you.

"Please, I just want Ghost, please," you beg tearfully, trying your hardest to hold back sobs as he marches you out of the room.

Soap says nothing, only leads you down a hallway that you've never seen before.

"Wh-where do you take me?"

He stops outside of an elevator, hand firmly holding your bicep as he waits for it to arrive.

"Holding cells. A cage fit for a rat like you."

Cage. Another cage.

You can feel yourself start to hyperventilate.

You can't go back in a cage. You won't.

The elevator doors open and he pushes you inside, following after and quickly pressing the button marked 'B'.

You stare at the back of his head as the doors close.

"I didn't do it," you whisper once again, your voice soft and full of tears.

Soap swallows his feelings, the regret carving a hole in his heart.

He truly thought you were good, that he knew you, could trust you.

He can only imagine how angry Ghost will be when he finds out who he's been sharing his bed with.

"You may have Ghost fooled, but I can't deny the facts, and they all point to you," he says stiffly.

Your heart hammers painfully in your chest as the elevator walls begin to close in on you.

You can't go back in a cage. You can't. It took you forever to break out of the first one, the one you called home. Now, you've found something good. A real home, a family.

Only for them to turn on you.

Before you're fully aware of what you're doing, you sweep Soap's feet out from under him. You then straddle his waist and knock your fist against his head, wincing when his head rocks back against the ground with a dull 'thud'.

It hurts you to hurt him, but you don't have time to dwell on that.

Instead, you rise to your feet and hit the STOP button, then grab his knife from his belt and slice your wrists free.

Tears cloud your vision as anxiety eats you, and you scrub your hands over your hair. You throw your head back as you struggle to breathe, only for your escape route to hit you right in the face.

Glancing between Soap's unconscious body and the roof opanels, you cringe internally at what you're about to do.

It takes a lot more effort than you thought it would to hunch him over where you need him to be, and then you're stepping carefully on his back and pushing the ceiling tiles aside.

You climb up and out, crouching on top of the elevator for a long moment as you try to figure out your next steps.

~*~

"Simon, a word," Captain Price says, intercepting the man as he returns to base.

Ghost tenses slightly, but falls into a step beside his superior.

"I wanted you to hear it from me first. We've taken your little mouse into custody for now. Soap brought her downstairs for detainment while we investigate further. All our intel shows that she's our rat."

His head snaps to his Captain and he stops walking.

"What are you talking about?"

Price sighs and extends a file for Ghost to read, but the man only stares down at it.

"I know how heavily you're... involved with her, which is why I wanted to be the one to tell you."

"Let me talk to her."

Price doesn't get to give him an answer, he's already marching toward the elevator.

"Simon, this isn't up for debate. She's guilty, and she'll be punished for what she's done. That's the way of the world, son. I hate that you got your feelings wrapped up in this, but-"

"We need to explore all other options before we continue with this. How could she be the rat? She never leaves my quarters unless she's accompanied by Soap or Gaz."

"That you're aware of," Price corrects, coming to a halt beside the man as he waits for the elevator.

"You can't be on this, Simon. You wanna talk to her, you can this once, but after that this is out of your hands. You're too involved."

Simon grinds his teeth together but remains silent.

He just needs to talk to you, that's all. Somehow, he'll prove you're innocent, and this will all be dealt with.

After what feels like an eternity, the elevator doors open, and Simon's heart drops into his feet.

"Soap!"

Price is at the man's side in an instant, helping him into a seated position and checking his pulse.

His hard gaze turns to the Lieutenant.

No words are spoken. They don’t need to be. Simon knows exactly what’s going through the man’s head.

If you’re innocent, why run?

While Price checks on Soap, Simon steps into the elevator, looking up to where the tiles have been moved.

Your escape route, no doubt.

Through there, he's sure you've found a way out through the vents or into the ceiling, but either way he knows you're probably long gone. Lost now somewhere in the hidden areas of the base.

Rather than dwell on that, he's quick to help his Captain bring Soap to the medical wing, silent the entire time.

He knows you're not the rat. Deep in every fibre of his being, he knows. He can feel it in his bones. But his gut feelings aren't enough to sway his Captain.

"I want her found and I want it done quick. We keep this under wraps, no one is to know she's on the loose. The last thing we need is anyone in a panic."

"Let me just talk to her. She'll listen," he tries.

Price shakes his head, "what part of 'you can't be on this' do you not understand? You're dismissed, and if I catch you trying to involve yourself, I'm gonna hafta take it above my head," he threatens.

Ghost says nothing, only grinds his teeth together, turns on his heel, and marches out of the medical wing.

He's not sure where to go, spends a good amount of time pacing angrily through the halls as he tries to figure this out, folder from Price held tightly in his hands.

He hasn't read it yet, he can't.

Though he knows it's not you, he can't shake the fear, the ill feeling gripping his spine at the idea of you being capable of something like that.

Eventually, he discards the file on the desk in his office then heads up to the roof to smoke a pack or two.

He doesn't feel your presence until his third cigarette.

Trying to stay nonchalant, he takes another drag.

"I know you're here," he finally says, blowing out the smoke and looking down at the ground.

His mask is pushed up around his nose, and he doesn't bother adjusting it.

"I'm not going to tell them where you are or... bring you to them. I just... I just want to make sure you're okay. Please."

You stand in the shadows, eyes on his back as you weigh his words carefully before slowly stepping forward.

He turns to you, his heart breaking when he sees your puffy tear-stained face.

"Why do you want me to be okay? Why see me?" You ask, your voice hoarse from all the crying.

His brows pull together and he longs to reach for you.

"Why wouldn't I? All I've ever wanted is for you to be okay."

Your bottom lip wobbles and you shake your head, crossing your arms over your chest as he steps toward you.

"Soap told me... what you really think," you begin, "that you... you don't want to see me. You-you think I'm rat, too."

"He's lying." He says the words immediately, without a moment of hesitation or a shred of doubt.

You glare up at him, taking a half-step back when he reaches for you.

"I'm not going in cage."

"I know." He takes another step forward.

"I didn't do it." You take another step back.

"I know."

"I didn't do it and they-they don't believe me. I save Soap's life! I do everything I can to help! To be good, and they don't believe me! Why don't they believe me?!" Your eyes blur with unshed tears and you suck in a hiccuping breath.

"I don't know," Ghost whispers.

His heart aches for you and he feels anger simmer deep within him at the lies spewed in a pathetic attempt at drawing a confession from you.

"They tell me you will kill me," you whisper, shaking your head as tears slip down your cheeks.

"I could never, Mouse." He takes another step forward, and he's almost close enough to touch you.

"If I don't go with them... they don't trust me. But if I do go with them... they still don't trust me. I am in cage... or they kill me."

Finally, he reaches forward, tilting your chin up and forcing you to look at him.

"I won't let that happen," his voice is harder now. "I won't let any of them touch you."

Your breathing gets quick again and he holds your hand, squeezing tightly.

"Breathe with me," he whispers.

You obey, following his breaths and successfully calming yourself down.

He nods, satisfied, then gently takes hold of your wrists, inspecting the angry red marks left by the zip-tie.

His eyes lift back up to yours and it's like you're seeing him for the first time that night.

"I didn't do it, Simon. Please, I didn't."

His eyes soften and he nods, cupping your cheek softly.

"I know, love. I believe you."

You finally nod, exhaling heavily as if a weight is lifted off of your chest.

He believes you. You knew he would. You knew you could trust him.

"But someone else did, and now they're trying to frame you for it."

It takes a minute for his words to process in your brain, but when they do you're frowning up at him.

"Why me? Who... who would do that?" What kind of horrible monster would do something like this?

"I don't know, little one. But I'll fix this. I just need you to trust me."

You blink your wet eyes a few times at him.

"How will you fix?"

"Just trust me." That's easy enough. You've been doing it since the moment you met him, and you have no intention of stopping anytime soon.

"What do I do?"

He pushes your hair away from your face and presses a sweet kiss to your forehead, then pulls you into a tight hug.

You relax instantly, melting into his arms and snuggling your head against his chest.

He rests his chin atop your head and sighs heavily.

"Just give me time, Mouse, I promise. I won't let them touch you."

Your hands ball his shirt into your fists.

"Where do I go?"

He sighs one more time and closes his eyes, trying to figure that out as well.

Eventually, he settles on telling you the truth.

"I don't know."

~*~

His fist is knocking on Price's office door later that evening.

"Come in."

He's inside the office before the words are fully out of his Captain's mouth.

"I know you said not to get involved," he begins, holding back an eye-roll when Price sighs.

"Simon," he warns.

"And if you tell me one more time then fine, I won't get involved on your side of this," he continues as if Price hasn't said a word, "but there's a rat here, and you need all the help you can get if you wanna flush them out."

Price rubs his forehead and squeezes his eyes shut.

"We already know who the rat is."

"No, you think you know who the rat is," Simon argues.

"All the evidence points to your mouse. Are we supposed to deny the facts because she warms your bed at night?" He snaps, growing tired of this.

"The facts are that you didn't even properly talk to her. You cornered her, ambushed her, threw vile accusations and lies at her to try and get some fake confession from her, and you're surprised that she ran. Those are the facts."

Price leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.

"So, you've talked to her."

Simon places his hands on the desk, leaning forward.

"Let me help."

Price shakes his head, "nothing comes between me and my team."

"Then let me help and nothing will."

Price's thick brows raise.

"Are you threatening me, Lieutenant?"

Silence hangs long and heavy between the two of them and neither man makes an effort to break it for a good few minutes.

Finally, Price speaks.

"The safety of my team comes first before anything else."

Simon nods slowly and straightens back up.

"If that's the case, then it's in the best interests of everyone involved if you let me find the rat. The real rat. Because I'm not lettin' a single one of you touch a hair on her fuckin' head."

It's quiet again for a few minutes, but this time Simon is the one who speaks.

"Three days," he says quietly. "That's all I need."

Price looks at him warily for a long while before huffing out a sigh and shaking his head.

"If you don't have the rat in front of me in three days, regardless of who it is, I'm gonna gas the building with your Mouse hiding in it. Best way to flush out a rat."

Simon grinds his teeth together but nods his understanding, turning on his heel and marching out of the office.

He doesn't go far, only down the hall to his own office where the folder lies.

He plops down in his chair and flips it open, ready to pour over every word until he finds something to work with.

He's only reading for about half an hour before he hears it, soft creaking coming from the ceiling above him.

He knows it's you, but before he can say anything, theres a knock on his office door.

"Come," he barks, tossing he file back on his desk as Soap pushes the door open.

Simon's eyes narrow at the man, the lies he spewed still tumbling around in his brain.

"Heard you visited Price... and you've met with yer Mouse," the mohawked man says, his eyes scanning the room.

"She's not in here."

Soap's eyes snap to Ghost's, the latter leaning back in his chair.

"How's your head?"

Soap nods, looking down for a moment.

"M'not concussed, wasn't her hit that got me, it was the bounce against the floor."

Ghost only shrugs, "can't say you didn't deserve it."

Sighing, Soap leans against the doorframe.

"Are we really gonna do this, Lt?"

"You're the one standing in my office, Sergeant," he counters, crossing his arms over his chest.

They're quiet for a moment, and he knows Soap is going to speak his mind.

"Everything points to her. S'only reasonable."

"And that's reason enough to lie? To spew nothin' but bullshit through your teeth? To scare her? You were tryna get her to confess to something she didn't do to make things easier for you."

Soap steps into the office, his own anger rising.

"That's not true. I tried to do my job. You find out there's a rat, you see the pile of evidence, and any rational person would follow the trail. S'not my fault you're shaggin' the broad 'n now you can' think for your bloody self."

Ghost is on his feet before the man is finished speaking, stalking toward him.

"That's enough, MacTavish," He growls, glaring down at the man.

"You're dismissed. Get outta my office."

Clenching his jaw, Soap turns and leaves without another word.

Sighing, Ghost sits back down and puts his face in his hands.

He knew his teammates had their doubts, but he never realized how deep that distrust went.

After a moment, Simon glances up at the vent in his office where he knows you sat listening to the entire exchange.

"I'll fix this, Mouse. I promise," he whispers.

Flipping the folder open again, he pours himself back into it, reading over everything. Every name, every date, every location, and every piece of information that got leaked.

Finally, after what feels like hours, he finds a comonality other than you.

"Mouse? You still with me? Knock once for yes, twice for no."

He listens patiently, and eventually, you knock once on the vent.

"Perfect. Now, I want you to follow the sound of my feet, okay? We're leaving my office."

Again, one knock greets him.

He rises from his desk and leaves his office, walking slowly and making just enough noise for you to be able to follow him from your place in the ceiling.

He leads you this way and that, finally coming to a halt in a utility closet.

Pushing the ceiling tiles out of the way, he climbs up on a few boxes and sticks his head into the ceiling, his heart easing when he catches sight of you again.

"You okay?"

You nod, crawling toward him.

"Come down here."

You obey, slowly climbing out of the hole in the ceiling and gasping when his strong arms wrap around you.

He holds you in an embrace far longer than he normally does, then tilts your chin up and presses a firm kiss to your lips.

"I think I've figured it out, little one. But I need something from you in order to prove it."

You nod eagerly, desperate to clear your name.

He sighs and nods once, then opens the door to the utility closet, looking both ways to make sure no one's around before motioning for you to follow him.

You do, staying only a half-step behind him as he leads you through a door and into a stairwell.

"This way."

You follow closely behind him as he leads you down a flight of stairs, looking around as much as you can as you try to figure out what his plan is, where he's taking you.

Finally, he leads you down another hallway and stops just outside of a door.

He looks at you, his eyes suddenly serious, far more serious than you've ever seen them, and you can't help the nervousness that chews at you.

You pick at the skin around your nails absentmindedly as he places a hand on your cheek, cupping it gently.

"'M'gonna ask you to do somethin'... somethin' that I know you're not gonna wanna do. But I just... I need you to trust me on this, okay?"

Your brows pull together at his words.

"Okay..."

"Do you trust me?" He asks his free hand on the door handle.

He doesn't open it. He needs you to confirm out loud to him and to yourself before he opens the door.

You nod, looking between him and the door anxiously.

He grips your chin more firmly and forces your eyes to stay on his.

"I need you to look at me when you say it. Do you trust me?"

Your stomach flips and you need to wet your lips before speaking. Your skin crawls at this, at the intensity of his gaze, the unknown behind the door.

"I do. I trust you," you finally confirm.

He lets out an audible breath of relief, and then he's pushing open the door and your heart is falling into your stomach.

Immediately, you shake your head and take a step back, only for him to catch you and halt you in your tracks.

"No."

Simons sighs, tugging you forward gently. "Mouse, please."

You shake your head more firmly this time.

"No," you repeat, "I-I can't. I won't. No more cage."

Simon looks over to the holding cells with a heavy heart, then pulls his eyes back to yours.

"I know. But this... this is the only way. You need to trust me."

You yank free from his grip and take a step away from him as tears cloud your vision.

"I-I didn't do it. Why do you bring me here?"

You look at the cells then back to his eyes and shake your head once more. You thought you could trust him. You thought he trusted you.

"Please, Simon..."

He reaches for you, tries to pull you into an embrace, only for you to step away once more.

Where you'll go, you have no idea. You just know that you can't... you won't go back in a cage.

"Mouse, I promise you. Three days is all I need. And then I'll come let you out and you'll never have to look at this place again. I swear it."

"No."

He sighs, rubbing a hand over his forehead. He doesn't want to do this to you. If he could prove your innocence without this, he would. But he knows his team, his captain. He knows what it'll take to get the truth out.

"If we don't do this, they're gonna gas the building with you inside, and you'll die."

Your fiery gaze finally returns to his and for a moment he wishes it didn't.

"I'd rather die than go back in cage."

His heart cracks in his chest.

"Please, Mouse. For me. Please. Trust me, just this once."

Your bottom lip quivers as you stare at the cell, eyes getting distant as horrible memories of a past you long to forget creep up on you.

Finally, you suck in a sharp breath and turn to look at him again.

"Three days?"

He nods immediately, his shoulders relaxing while his eyes soften.

"Yes. Three days at most, I promise. I swear, on the memory of my nephew, three days."

Reluctantly, you walk forward, looking at every cell before stepping into the one in the corner. The largest and the darkest.

Your shoulders are tight by your ears as you look around.

It has a thin mattress on the ground and a toilet in the corner. Over half the cell is shrouded in darkness, and the other half is in direct view of the door.

It's bigger than the cage you grew up in, but the sick feeling doesn't leave your stomach as your freedom is brutally ripped from you once again.

Simon squeezes his eyes shut as he closes the door behind you, his heart hurting.

Knowing what he does about you, about your past, this feels like the ultimate betrayal. Arguably one of the worst things he could put you through.

But he needs to.

You flinch at the sound of the lock clicking, not turning to face him even as tears start to trickle down your cheeks.

"Mouse..."

You shake your head, wrapping your arms around yourself in a pathetic attempt at comfort.

"Go," you whisper.

You don't want him here, watching you like some caged dog.

His hands wrap around the bars of your cell as he tries to get you to understand.

"It's not permanent, I swear."

"Go!" You snarl, a hiccuped sob following your words.

And just like that, the floodgates open.

You press your hand to your mouth to muffle the sound, but you can't hide the shake of your shoulders, the way you curl in on yourself.

It breaks his heart.

Silently, he takes a step back, then another, and another, pausing when he reaches the door.

"I'll be back for you. I promise."

~*~

Somewhere, somehow, between blinks, you fall asleep.

One moment you're closing your eyes to blink, the next you're waking up groggy and stiff.

Ghost stands at the door to your cell, a tray of food and a bottle of water in hand.

He needs to swallow the lump in his throat before he speaks, his heart breaking seeing you like this.

"I brought you food... thought you could use some company."

You're curled up in a ball in the corner of the cell, eyes teary and red as you glare at him.

He put you here.

It kills what's left of his soul to see you like this.

"Things are coming together, won't be much longer now, I promise."

You say nothing, only keep your icy cold glare focused on him as he sets the food down and slides it through the opening at the base of your cell.

The sound of your sniffles plagues him, and he wishes none of this happened in the first place.

He watches you for a moment longer, his eyes sad, before turning and leaving you alone once again.

When he finds out who's framing you, he's going to have his fun with them.

You're alone for only a few moments before the panic sets in once more.

Your chest rises and falls rapidly as you struggle to suck in short gasps of oxygen, nails scratching at your neck as you search desperately for your necklace, for the one item that's ever made you feel safe.

Tears run like rivers down your cheeks and you moan out your sorrows.

What would your mother think if she saw you?

She sacrificed everything, everything, for you to leave one cage only for you to willingly walk into another.

You shake your head at yourself, at your foolishness.

This was probably their plan all along. They probably know your father, they've probably gone to get him.

Scrambling to the tray of food, you grab the knife and desperately try to pry at the lock of your cell. When that proves fruitless, you jam the blade into the hinges, sobbing hopelessly.

The knife slides against the metal and finds its way to your thigh, slicing you nice and deep.

You hiss at the pain and drop the blade, stumbling backward then sliding down the wall.

It's useless. There's no escaping.

You start to feel dizzy as your thoughts overwhelm you, and before you know it you're whispering soft apologies and prayers in your mother tongue. Begging for peace, for freedom.

As you whisper the words, something dawns on you.

From the moment of your birth, you were promised nothing but pain. And life was only too eager to oblige; bestowing upon you torment after torment, loss after brutal loss.

Until finally, you broke free. You found your salvation, your Ghost, only for him to be another painful reminder that freedom is not something you were ever meant to taste.

~*~

Price meets Ghost in the boardroom at a ripe 0500hrs the following day, a steaming cup of coffee in a paper cup held tightly in his grasp.

Soap follows shortly after, on high alert.

Gaz trickles in last, the least tense of the three and possibly the most innocent in Ghost's eyes.

"So?" Price asks, looking around the empty room.

"Where's my rat?"

As if on cue, there's a firm knock on the door.

Ghost slaps the tablet he was holding against Price's chest and makes his way to the furthest corner of the room, content to spectate.

"Come in," Price says gruffly, eyes dropping down to the tablet in his hands.

His brows draw together, and then he's looking up at the newcomer.

"Corporal Matthews."

The young man salutes his superiors, then steps into the room, looking around curiously.

"What's going on?"

Price has already pieced it together, giving a short nod to the masked man in the corner.

"Why don't you tell me?"

Gaz and Soap exchange glances, the former shutting the door and leaning against it, blocking any form of escape.

The Corporal chuckles nervously and looks between the three men before swallowing hard when Price steps forward.

"So... you think it's funny what you've been doing? Care to explain to me what exactly you find so fucking funny about this?"

Soap clenches his jaw, dread bubbling in his stomach.

A sick part of him hopes Ghost is wrong, that Matthews isn't the rat, if only to absolve him of the guilt he's sure will eat him alive after all he did to you. All he said.

"What are you talking about?"

"Enough with that, son. We know it was you. Don't make this more difficult than it already is," Price whispers. In his eyes is none of the anger that was there when he spoke to you. No, instead there's nothing but disappointment.

Simon's anger will be enough to cover the whole team, and then some.

"Well, what about the Lieutenant's whore? Huh?" Matthews defends, glaring at the men. They bristle at the words, eyes darting to the hulking man hiding in the shadows in the corner.

"Funny how you knew exactly what we were talkin' about," Soap says, stepping forward and squaring up with the man.

So it's true. He was wrong about you. And he has no idea what he's going to do to fix it.

Price hands the tablet to Matthews and watches as realization dawns on him slowly.

On the screen is live video footage of the holding cells where a familiar mouse is curled up in a ball, rocking back and forth.

"She's been in there for days. This latest leak? Happened last night. Couldn't've been her. We set you up, and you took the bloody bait."

"Well it's her fault anyway!" Matthews suddenly explodes, tossing the tablet onto the table angrily.

"If she wasn't fuckin' the Lieutenant then Jacobs would still be alive! If he didn't have his face in her snatch every night, he'd see that she's a fuckin problem!"

Silence hangs heavily in the room for a long moment as Ghost rises to his feet and slowly approaches the other man.

"You wanna tell 'im that?" Price asks, nodding over the Corporal's shoulder.

He glances back then does a double take, spinning around and backing up only to run right into Soap.

Ghost stops right in front of him, glaring down at the man.

Corporal Matthews tries to hold his ground, to not be intimidated by the huge man in front of him, but he's seen firsthand what this man -this beast- is capable of.

"Didn't get to have my fun with Jacobs, prick died quick. But you can bet 'm'gonna take my time with you."

[naughtyjjk]

jjk men on the last day of no nut november

characters: nanami, geto, gojo, toji | fem x reader warnings: 18+, smut, dry humping, orgasm denial, tease, masturbation, dildo, creampie noo!! i meant to post this yesterday on nov 30 but i was really busy. anyway, here it is now. the scenario is: somehow, you and the jjk men have made it to the end of NNN. here's what happens just minutes before dec 1.

NANAMI...

he wants to complete this challenge fair and square. which means that it's 11:40 pm, twenty minutes before november ends, and he won't even let you touch him. he knows exactly how sensitive he is right now, how being deprived of sex this past month has affected him both mentally and physically. if he gives in even a little bit now, he won't be able to stop himself.

and he's so close to winning. only a few minutes away before it's december.

when you try to reach out to him for the fifth time tonight, nanami growls and grabs you by the wrist, pinning your arms above your head on the bed. he leans in to whisper by your ear, "no cheating."

the words make you shudder, only turning you on more as you feel his hot breath next to you. his voice is low and strained; he's holding himself back, too. somehow, that makes this whole situation even hotter.

you've both stripped down to only your undergarments: bra and panties for you, and boxers for nanami. this is the farthest he would let you go. if you took the next step, if you were completely naked, nanami is sure that he wouldn't be able to control himself.

"come on," you beg him. "it's almost time, anyway. we can—"

"no." nanami stands firm. "you wanted this, so we're going to do it properly."

groaning, you think about how it's so unfair. sure, you did suggest this challenge, but you didn't realize just how difficult it would be to avoid having sex for an entire month, how much hornier it would make you to have this restriction.

and it's not like nanami is unaffected, either. you see the way he's looking at you while his body hovers over yours, eyes wandering to where your bra cups your breasts, the smooth skin of your stomach. he wants it too, as badly as you do.

his boxers are tight, making his erection painfully obvious. it stretches against the fabric, wanting to break free from its confines, but nanami makes no move to pull out his cock.

he needs something, though—some stimulation even if it's not direct contact. through your clothes, nanami begins to grind against you, pushing your knees apart and dry humping you on the bed with quick rolls of his hips.

you moan brokenly when you feel his hard cock between your legs, pressed against your wet panties. even this is too much. he rocks back and forth, almost like he's already lost control of himself, rutting shamelessly into you.

you feel dizzy with arousal. you could come like this, if he keeps it up, especially with the way the tip of his cock is brushing past your clit, fuck, he's really going to make you come.

"ken—kento—o-oh my god—"

nanami's hips stutter as his rhythm falters, the pleasure building up for him, and he's almost there as well. his cock pulses in warning, brushing past your clit, a thin layer of clothing separating the two of you.

then—he stops suddenly, too soon, seconds before you're about to come. seconds before he's about to come, too. it leaves both of you right on the edge, denied of your orgasms, so fucking close to that sweet release, but unable to reach it.

"hah—hah—sh-shit—" nanami groans, voice low and raspy. he's still thrusting his hips a little, unable to resist his body's instinct, but never touching you again.

your pussy throbs. you're so wet and horny, panties all ruined, trying to pull him closer. "p-please, just—fuck me," you beg him. you need it so bad. "fuck me already—"

nanami's arms are tense as he holds himself up above you, pulling his hips away from yours. he's breathing hard, panting. his cock leaks precum, soaking his boxers and making a damp spot where the tip is. you can see him twitching, the fabric shifting with every movement of his cock.

fuck, you know that he's going to absolutely wreck you once midnight comes. you know he's been just dying to get his hard, aching cock inside you; to come as he moans in your ear and release a month's worth of pent-up sperm.

but for now, he only looks at the clock, clenches his jaw, and says, "ten more minutes."

.

GETO...

the two of you are sitting on opposite sides of the room, far enough that you can't act on the temptation of touching each other. but that doesn't stop either of you from touching yourselves.

"this is—fuck, this is a very dangerous game, angel..." suguru's eyes are dark and hungry, he drinks in the sight of you, naked, as your hands roam all over your own body.

you start with your breasts, massaging and squeezing them in your palms, circling around the sensitive nipples but not touching directly yet. getting yourself more and more aroused, body arching forward as you whine for more contact.

across from you, suguru is growing harder and harder by the second. his cock twitches and slowly fills out as he watches you tease yourself until it's standing proud, tall and stiff between his legs.

seeing it now, fully hard, is enough to turn you on, your pussy reacting to his arousal. you pinch your nipples between two fingers, gasping at the tingle of pleasure it sends throughout your body. "mm, suguru... your cock..."

he's touching himself too, holding his cock in a loose grip and stroking, masturbating along with you. he groans when your hands travel down your stomach, along your inner thighs, spreading your legs apart wide to expose your pussy.

"j-just imagine," you say, conjuring up the fantasy in your own mind as well. you use two fingers to circle your clit, unable to resist any longer, and moan at the feeling. "imagine your hard, aching cock sinking into my wet pussy. think about—ngh, fuck—my pussy clenching around you as you fill me up, stuffing me full with your cock. it'd feel so fucking good."

suguru is no doubt fantasizing about it too. his cock twitches, leaking more precum as he continues to pump himself. "fuck, you're such a naughty girl. once i get my hands on you—hah—i'll rub my cock against that pretty pussy of yours, let you feel how hard i am as i tease you until you're begging me to put it in."

whimpering, you feel yourself throb, getting wetter from his dirty words. "please—my pussy is ready for you, suguru." you spread your pussy lips apart, giving him a full view of your dripping cunt. "w-want you inside me already."

suguru groans in frustration, knowing that he can't have you yet. "god, me too. i wanna fuck you so bad."

it's too much; you need to feel something more, anything. reaching for the drawer next to you, you bring out one of your toys—if you can't have suguru yet, this will have to do for now.

"this could be your cock," you say, as you hold out a six-inch dildo and bring it to your lips. it's modelled to look like a real cock with thick veins along the sides. you kiss the tip of it, then trail down the shaft. "mm, you taste so good, suguru."

you lick the toy all over, flicking your tongue just under the crown. suguru inhales sharply, gaze darkening at the sight of you giving the dildo a blowjob. everything you do to it goes straight to his cock, as if he's feeling your mouth on him too.

swirling your tongue around the cockhead, you begin to part your lips, taking the dildo inch by inch into your mouth until the tip of it hits the back of your throat. then, you move—bobbing your head up and down, sucking on the toy while looking straight at suguru.

"f-fuck, yeah, take it." you hear suguru moan brokenly as he jerks himself off faster and faster, hips bucking upward into his fist. he looks so wrecked, chest heaving, his cock painfully hard and flushed a dark red. "take all of it—"

you moan around the toy, wishing that you had his cock in your mouth instead, wishing that you could feel his hardness and taste his precum; feel how he throbs from your actions, head thrown back when you swallow him down all the way.

after a while, you pull the dildo out of your mouth. suguru is squeezing the base of his cock, panting, too close to coming. he twitches once, twice, like he could burst at any minute.

you line up the dildo between your legs and rub it against your pussy, letting the cockhead brush past your entrance again and again. teasing yourself to feel the burning desire inside you grow even stronger. "s-suguru, i need you—need your cock—"

"christ, angel," suguru curses. his hand is moving again, stroking himself, unable to resist. you're both so turned on, so fucking horny that it feels unbearable. "fuck yourself with it. come on, show me what you really want."

at his command, you push the toy inside, crying out as it spreads you open and fills you up. you squirm on the spot as it bottoms out, hips circling around it to adjust to the sensation.

when you start to pull it back out, you moan, feeling it drag and drag and drag along your walls. you imagine that it's suguru there instead of the dildo—his hot, throbbing cock penetrating you repeatedly.

you tilt the toy a bit, aiming upward, and the effect is instantaneous: pleasure bursts all throughout your body as it stimulates your g-spot, thighs trembling from how fucking good it feels. "o-oh my god—suguru—"

and it's addicting; you can't stop aiming there now that you've found the spot. you get closer and closer with every thrust, orgasm building up at an alarming speed.

"t-take it out," suguru rasps. "you're only allowed to come from my cock."

fuck. your pussy throbs in protest as you reluctantly pull the dildo out, instantly feeling how empty it leaves you. suguru is still stroking himself, much more desperate now, his thick cock disappearing and reappearing into his own fist, slick and wet with precum.

you want him so fucking bad.

only five more minutes to go. the longest five minutes of your life.

.

GOJO...

he's not exactly fucking you yet, but what he is doing is sliding his rock hard cock up and down your pussy, rutting against you like he's been deprived of any contact. which is true—he's been deprived for a whole month. a whole month! god, he's so damn horny he can hardly think straight. he has no idea how he managed to hold off for this long.

but that's why, with only a few minutes before no nut november is over, he lets loose a little. the anticipation has been absolutely killing him; he's going to come harder than he ever has before. and he can't deny himself any longer, not when you're right there, lying on the bed and tempting him with your body.

"i can't—i can't stop my hips," satoru grunts, grinding against you faster and faster. he's losing control entirely, almost animalistic in the way he's moving on pure instinct, chasing after nothing but pleasure. "oh—oh fuck, baby, i need—"

every time his hard, throbbing cock brushes past your clit, you cry out, bucking up into him. you're just as far gone; a month without sex has made you so fucking desperate for it. "ah—! s-satoru, please—"

how is it still not midnight yet? how much longer do both of you have to endure this? shit, you don't know how much more you can take. a few minutes ago, you set an alarm to ring as soon as november ends, but it feels like hours and it still hasn't gone off.

and then—satoru's cock catches on your pussy, slides into you a little, no more than an inch. no more than just the tip. but it makes both of you gasp and moan—moan so loud that you're sure the neighbours could hear you. but you don't care.

satoru quickly pulls out before either of you get too close, his cock resting on your pussy now. you can feel him hot and throbbing, about to burst at any moment. your pussy throbs, too, both of you pulsing against each other, begging to feel it again.

but no matter what, you can't come yet. fuck. fuck.

still, you buck up helplessly and say, "a-again. do it again. please."

not even a second later, satoru has his cock lined up by your entrance, panting as he forces himself to go slow. his cockhead sinks into you and you clamp down on him, refusing to let him go. your back arches, moans falling from your lips as his cock stretches you open.

satoru pulls out, then pushes in again. out, in. out, in. over and over—the shallowest, most torturous thrusts you've ever experienced. but it's all you can take now, both of you dangerously close to the edge for anything more. if he thrusts into you all the way, the full length of his hard cock filling you up, you'd come for sure. just the thought of satoru fucking you properly, fucking you deep, gets you so aroused that it makes you dizzy.

"feels—hah—feels too good," satoru grunts, picking up the pace. he's losing himself to the pleasure again, hips moving uncontrollably. "ngh, shit, too fucking good. i can't—i'm not going to last—f-fuck—"

BRIIING! the alarm goes off.

you both pause, looking at each other. it's 12:00 am exactly. december 1st.

satoru snaps. without warning, without any more delays, he plunges his cock into you, bottoming out deep inside you. the two of you moan at the same time, and then he's fucking you, pounding his cock with urgency and desperation and a month's worth of being denied.

there's no time to catch your breath. you can feel satoru's cock hitting you fast and deep, filling you up, throbbing hot against your walls. he's panting into the crook of your neck, sucking on the smooth skin there. both hands flick at your nipples, playing with the hardened nubs, applying just enough pressure to make you arch into his touch. it's all overwhelming; you feel pleasure throughout your whole body, orgasm approaching fast.

when you clench around satoru with his hard cock buried deep inside you, his pace falters. he chokes out a moan and it sounds so wrecked, so arousing. you moan, too. you're both so fucking close.

"coming, coming, c-coming—"

.

TOJI...

throughout the month, as the days went by, toji has become more and more cranky. it's obvious that the challenge is really getting to him, putting him in a bad mood no matter what he's doing, and he's never abstained from sex for this long before. never been sexually frustrated to this degree.

there's so much tension between the two of you, and it's only a matter of time before someone snaps.

about a week in, toji starts to work out a lot more, mostly as a distraction. even at home, he's constantly doing different exercises—push ups, sit ups, planks, bicep curls, squats. not that you're complaining, of course. it gives you the opportunity to see him shirtless, to see his toned body glistening with sweat after every session.

as a distraction, though, it doesn't always work. he comes up to you after, pins you against the wall, and says, "i can't fucking stand this anymore. i need to get laid." his voice is strained. the shorts that he wore for the workout does nothing to hide his raging erection. "i need to fuck you."

it's not easy to resist him in that situation at all. his lips are hovering right next to yours, and you have to hold back from reaching out and touching his abs, pressing your hips together until you're grinding into each other like you so desperately want.

still, despite all that, you reply, "no."

and he stomps away, slamming every door in the hall, cursing. you take a moment to yourself too; it's not like you're immune to this, either. your pussy throbs with need, dripping wetness onto your panties. if you had been any weaker, you would've given in right there without a doubt.

when the last day finally arrives, november 30, toji doesn't give a shit about the technicalities anymore; whether it's 11:00 pm, or 11:30 pm, or 11:59 pm, it's all the same to him. he's done with this stupid challenge, tortured himself enough by holding back all month (for what, he doesn't even know; it doesn't feel like he gained anything from it), so he deserves this now.

toji has you bent over the nearest surface, cock already buried in your pussy, grinding into you filthily like he's trying to make both of you come as fast as possible. the abstinence really got to him, delirious with only a single goal in mind: to get the release he's been denied of for so damn long. a whole fucking month's worth of come just waiting to be released from his balls.

they feel so hot and heavy, weighted down by how much has accumulated since the start of november. and his cock—fuck, he's never been this hard is his life. it has a mind of its own, so horny and desperate, standing rigid between his legs and weeping with endless amounts of precum that spill out from the tip.

"t-toji, wait," you try to tell him. "it's not—ah—it's not time yet."

"what's the problem?" he asks, not stopping at all. "all you have to do is make sure that you don't come until midnight. there's no rule saying that i can't fuck you before then."

and... he's right, technically, but how the hell does he expect you to hold back when he's pounding into you so fast and rough? it's like he's fully given in to his primitive instincts, fucking you like a wild animal, hips snapping into you over and over.

"i can't—" you gasp as toji's hands reach around to grab your breasts, squeezing them, flicking your nipples. "feels—feels too good—"

"yeah?" toji asks, panting. "doesn't sound like a problem to me. means i'm fucking you real good."

you can't argue with that. moaning, you try to fight against the pleasure, but it's a losing battle. "w-wait, toji—ah—i'm close—"

"come," he tells you, voice low and sultry and so fucking hot. "just let go if you want it so bad. c'mon, be a good girl and come for me now."

a shudder runs through your body as a fresh wave of arousal hits you. fuck. you're trying your best to hold back, you really are, but it's impossible when toji is whispering right next to your ear, his warm breath on your skin as he repeats the word over and over again: come, come, come.

the assault is constant: toji's hips slamming against yours, his hard cock going deeper and deeper with every thrust, brushing against your g-spot. it's overwhelming when one hand slides down to find your clit, rubbing the sensitive nub with his skilled fingers. you arch into his touch, moaning brokenly, unable to escape the pleasure. your body betrays you as you feel yourself tipping over the edge,

"fuck," toji groans and it's clear that he's at his limit too, thrusts growing erratic now. "gonna come—"

the feeling of him pulsing and pulsing, spilling everything inside you, is what makes you come in the end. it's so much, weeks of stored up come spurting out from his hard cock, finally getting the release that he so badly needed. you clench around him as he rolls his hips, milking every last drop, the two of you riding out your orgasms together.

toji pulls out and his cock gives one last twitch at the sight of you stuffed full of his come, white and sticky as it drips out of your pussy. you're both still breathing hard, all the tension gone from your body.

god, you've never come so hard in your life. abstaining from sex for a month only made it that much more worth it in the end.

turning your head, you glance at the clock. 12:00 am. it's by pure luck that you came exactly at midnight, somehow managing to complete no nut november despite toji's ruthless teasing.

you vow to never do it again, though. not with toji. there's no way you could survive another year of NNN with him.

.

tag list: @megumisdivinedogs @urlilwhore @l0rdgeosupport3rr @purple-obsidian @l0rdgeosupport3rr @minni-creations @fos-tis-zois @the-reas0n-is-y0u @cantfeelherface @rxmbzzz @lysaray @zelzablues @str4wbrrycandy @that-goth-bisexual @simping4u @iminlovewqr0w @sharks31 @pseudowho @jisoonunn @outkasti @anathemaspeaks @fushigur0slut4 @barryatsumu @d0nk3y-k0ng @shasaaa15 @wil10wthetree @maskedpacific @genshingeeksworld @itsnotmelo

i'm going to cry tumblr is not letting me tag people so i'm sorry if it didn't work for you :( (comment to be added)

[nosyrobin]

DOUBLE WHAMMY!

Platonic!Birdflash X Tamaranean!Reader

→genre: fluff!

Summary: trying to understand social media of earth is confusing. Especially confusing when two young boy heroes try to teach you.

“Robin?” You say, walking into his room with your wild fiery curly hair floats in the air. Robin looks up from his phone, despite him wearing shades. You can feel his stare and attention clearly on you. “Yeah, what you need fire?” He says with a warm smile.

“What does GYATT mean? Some person said this towards me?” You say, walking to him closer. Immediately Robin dropped his phone along with his jaw.

“Who?!” Robin says quickly, getting up and shaking your body. You did not get dizzy, though you easily took his hands off you. “I do not remember, but I do wish to require the information about this “gyatt”? Is a bad word?” You say, now frowning thinking it’s a bad word. “What! Of course it’s not a bad word Y/N…it’s just a certain slang around here some kids say..like little ones.” Robin says, trying to comfort the alien.

The Tamaranean teen smiles immediately, “oh! So I see. It’s a wording towards the little ones to get along is it?” Robin gave a face expression that was unexplainable.

“We gotta work on your English wording.”

Wally out of his hero suit who was munching on cookies was standing by his best friend who had a presentation with a pointer. Ready to teach the certain alien on social media language.

“Double…whammy?” You questioned slowly as you looked at the two boys in front of you. “Yes, it’s like when two things go wrong in one setting.” Robin says with a smile. You start to think about it before smiling.

“Oh! So like when you both ran into each other when trying the capture of the flag? You both failed as I succeed.” The two boys looked embarrassed at the memory before Robin got back to business.

“Okay, now fire, what does this say?”

You looked at the word, “alpha.” Smiling you pointed at it with confidence. “Alpha! Like the ones I see winning the battle to the death!” Wally and robin look at each other worriedly.

“Okay next up.” Wally says, pointing a word saying “bet.” You looked confused as you just tilted your head like a confused puppy. “This word ‘bet.’ Is used when someone is like saying ‘confirmed’ or whatever…y’know?”

“I do not know Wally.” You say with a frown. Now Robin facepalms, leaving a big sigh con out of his mouth. “Ight then.” Wally says with a frown. Yeah it was getting confusing by the minute, but you soon were learning a little slow but quickly.

“Okay. Fire, show me what you got” Wally says as Robin just watches the two converse. “Bet.” “Good start.” Robin says smiling. “Why thank you!” You said happily. “I shall now speak the ways of your kind!” You zoom off flying with a fire trail of your hair leaving.

Wally and Robin just stand there, smiling before Robin spoke the truth. “They’ll forget tomorrow morning.” “Yep.”

[bunny-jpeg]

the music sounds better with you

max verstappen - team principal au

cw: smut/pwp, team principal!max, driver!reader, power dynamic, age gap (20s/40s), jealous!max, drunk!reader, drinking & recreational drug use, stern!max, spanking/punishments, dirty talk & degradation

a/n: the hotline is open for requests in this universe, i'd love to hear your thoughts & feelings <3

the thump of the club had you a little dizzy. it was hard to get around on heels. you were used to the sneakers you wore around the track. you never never a "girls-girl" in the sense that you dressed in restrictive clothing. but, since you were out at the club with a few of the other drivers, you had to put a little more effort into your appearance.

you and your teammate managed to sneak in the new driver from ferrari. he was the son of charles leclerc and turning eighteen in two months. your teammate nudged you to show off a little more of your skin to get the new driver in. as you pouted at the bouncer you said, "c'mon, sir. let us in." and who was about to say no to the number one driver in the world.

it wasn't long before your night was filled with recreational substance abuse. you kept feeling the young leclerc drinks and laughing when the younger boy sputtered from the intense taste of hard liquor. even when your teammate went home, you were still drinking with the rookie.

and without thinking, you texted your boss, max verstappen.

you explained, "don't worry, he's really cool. like really, really cool. you know he let me drive his boat a little!".

the boy looked at you and nodded dumbly, 'that's crazy, what the fuck." then rested his head back against the bar counter. you sent a text to max and gave your location.

"please come pick me up sir! i'm really drunk!!!! i need you to come here like now!! take me home pleaseeeeeee <33333"

max was home alone when he got the message, he was watching a movie after dinner. you sent a few more messages with horrible spelling errors, and max knew that he couldn't leave you to your devices to find an uber. so he was quickly dressed and out the door.

he soon pulled up to the club, he quickly got out of the car to wait for you. you sounded painfully drunk in your initial text and the ones that followed after. as he rested against the car he looked over to see if he could find you. instead he saw an unlikely face.

"charles?"

the other man turned to look at him and broke into a grin, "max, how are you, mate?" he went over to hug the other man, "what are you doing here?"

"here to pick up my driver."

"the girl?"

"yeah."

charles nodded, "the one who got my son drunk." he gave max a look when the other man's expression fell.

"she did what?" max felt something in his chest. while your teammate he had little reason to care for what he did (he was a one year contract), he had higher expectations for you. and to find out that you got the new driver of formula one, who was underage, drunk. it didn't sit well with the older man.

charles leaned up against max's car, "i get a text message from him that he's at a bar that your driver snuck him into... and now he's sick."

max made a face, "i'll speak to her about that." then gave his best smile to his long time rival and friend.

charles made a snide remark, "well if the press is right, you'll be doing a lot more than just talking to her." he looked forward towards the bar, "just be careful, max."

max nodded. he sensed no judgement from charles and rolled his shoulders, "always am, mate." then saw you stumble out of the bar. you had charle's son's arm draped over your shoulders.

you were both painfully drunk, while you kept the young man steady you also had to keep yourself steady. "alright, alright. we're almost there." you looked out and saw max standing there. you made a slight face, "hey, mister verstappen! and... friend!" from the distance you couldn't tell who it was.

charles laughed, "does she call you that in bed too."

max felt his ears burn, "shut up." then pulled away from the car to go help you. charles did the same. the team principal got a hold of you while charles did his son. max held you steady to make you look at the other pair, "what do you say to charles?" max's arm was around you and your hand was in his t-shirt, swaying a little.

you pouted a little, there was a slight sway to your stance, "i'm sorry, mister leclerc... sorry for getting your son plastered." you look like you were going to cry. charles understood why max kept you around. a wobbly bottom lip and doe eyes can go a long way.

charles smiled, "well, if he throws up in the car. i'll just send the cleaning bill to your lovely boss." max made another face and watched his friend leave with his son in tow.

the older dutchman got a hold of you better and got you into the car. he got a good look at your panties when the skirt of your dress lifted. he buckled you in and roughly patted your cheek. he said, "you've been a bad girl."

you whined when he closed the door like an unruly little girl. max knew he a stern talking to wasn't going to do much. so when he got into the driver's seat and started the car. he put it into drive and placed a hand on your thigh.

"i have no words."

"oh like you've never gotten anyone drunk." you tried to defend yourself.

max's grip on your thigh tightened, "well, i didn't get the son of a famous driver drunk when he was underage. then have to go crying to my team principal because i had one too many drinks."

you pouted, "who else was i going to call? it's not like i have a boyfriend! you won't let me date." you crossed your arms.

"you'll lose focus. plus, there's no man in monaco worthy of you." in reality max wanted you all to himself. he was selfish that way, he let too many women throughout the years get lost because of his drive to race. so why not find a woman who was in racing so max could have his cake and eat it too. it also didn't help that max was pulled to you.

his little protege. drunk in his car while he held onto you tightly. you weren't getting away that easily. back at his apartment, he helped you inside and you so easily held onto him.

"i'm sorry, mister verstappen." you said as you gripped the front of his t-shirt. you could feel the muscle under your fingers. your cheek pressed against him while he held you.

"a little too late to say sorry. what if someone got the wrong idea. city's full of bad men who would do horrible things to you. they'd hurt you. and i don't want you to get hurt." he said with a sense of tenderness, "so i need to teach you how to be good for me. you want to be number one, right?"

you nodded, "i do."

he took you out of the elevator and into his home. you kicked off your heels, only to put them nicely by the door when max gave you a look. you weren't going to make a mess of his home. he soon got a hold of you and lifted you. you kicked out your legs. you weren't the skinniest or smallest thing on the track, but max grabbed you with ease and got you over the arm of the couch, you kicked out your legs as he started to undress you.

"mister verstappen!" you cried out.

"good girls get to luxury of clothes. you seem to have forgotten that." he said, his voice almost cold as his large hands palmed your exposed ass cheeks. he groped them in the hopes of bruising them.

"i'm sorry."

"sorry is not going to cut it, my little driver."

you pouted with your face pressed against the leather, it felt cool for a brief moment under your skin, but soon warmed because of the heat in your body. "you don't do this to him."

your teammate. the snobby brit who always tried to get the upper hand with you, to steal max's attention away from you. you yelped when you felt max's hand across your ass in a hard smack that echoed through the living room.

"why would i? he behaves. he listens both on the radio and out in public. he doesn't need to be trained like you." your teammate came from a family that could flash a little money max's way to get him onto the team.

max didn't care, the british driver wasn't who max wanted to make into the perfect driver. he was a seat filler. you on the other hand clawed our way from your small town in the middle of nowhere to become the best. so max felt inclined to make that dream of yours a reality. your teammate would be gone by the end of the season while you'll have the championship with pride.

max laid down the law with you. smacks across your round ass left you whining and wet. he could see the hint of your wetness smeared across your pussy lips from the angle he had you at. you were always a glutton for punishment. someone didn't have a good relationship with their daddy. you yelped once more while your short nails dug into the fabric of the couch.

"you need to be good. you know there are cameras everywhere." he said before he smacked your ass once more. he could feel himself strained in his jeans. he was certain someone took some kind of video of you at the club, "if you want to act like a whore on camera, then i can easily make a tape with you." he leaned over you as he grabbed at the heated, bruised skin, "would you like that? having my camera in your face while i make you finish over and over again."

he heard your moaned and he chuckled. he shook his head before he was upright with his clothed cock against your bare cunt, "you'd love that, dirty girl. imagine if that got leaked? imagine if the whole world saw how you take me. they'd think i was a monster for taking advantage of such a sweet thing. little do they know." he started to undo his belt and grabbed you by the arms. it forced your face first onto the couch as he bound your wrists behind your back, "that you're just a little whore. begging for your team principal's cock."

"m..max." you whimpered. it felt weird saying his name. you were painfully drunk. both off of too many cranberry/vodka's and lust. max knew how to get in your head. that's why you two made a good team, he could reinforce you when you were hesitant on the track. but, he could also use it to his sick sexual advantage.

you were bound over the couch, your hips in the air. perfect for max to get his cock out of his expensive calvin klein jeans and rubbed up against your slick, hot pussy. he watched you squirm a little and it made him run warm. always so responsive.

he sank his cock into you without much introduction. he watched your squirm from the stretch. by now, with how many times max had fucked you, you should've been able to take him easier. he chalked it up to you needing more training in that department. maybe at the next event for the team, he'd keep you nice and full of a toy so at the end of the night you wouldn't be causing a scene with how much he stretched your poor pussy out.

he held onto the belt that was secured around your wrist and fucked you without much softness. he needed to get into your drunk little head that you needed to behave. you had to be good for him. for the team. he can't have a source of controversy on his team, as much as he loved fucking you.

it would be a real shame to have to cut your contract short and you probably won't find another seat on the grid (max would make sure of that), but max wouldn't send you back to your little town. you'd just be in a different role. someone a little more exclusive. mrs. max verstappen. the little lick of pleasure in the back of his head. the fantasy that coursed through his head while he was deep inside of you.

"please, sir." you arched your back a little further and whined into the covers. you felt the heat of pleasure i the back of your head. you wanted to claw into the couch, but he kept your wrists pinned. even with the stretch of the muscles, you were forced to be bound. you felt the heat pool in your gut the more he fucked you.

he thrusts were dominating, there was little way for you to gain the upper hand. even if your squirmed or cried, big fat tears down your face, it wouldn't make a difference. this was punishment. max set guidelines for what he expected from a protege, and if you didn't follow them. then, well, there was consequences. he knew you were young and a little dumb, but you weren't the stupidest thing on the grid. you had promise and max wanted to expose that to the world.

but you'd only expose your cunt to him. your contract and the metaphorical leash to your collar were in his hands. was he not the best? you could see some of the trophies in the room where he was fucking you. your bruised ass bounced against his hips. he was a rich champion, he had a legacy that blew most out the water.

he was your boss and mentor, and you had the audacity to not listen to him. thankfully max wasn't one to give up. he could never give up on you. maybe it was love, or max's idea of love. a bound little driver getting her poor cervix bruised as punishment for getting so drunk.

he leaned over you, the angle got deeper and you gasped, he kissed your sweaty temple, "see, this is how you should be."

"i thought i had to be mean on the track."

he kissed you once more, feeling your heated skin under his lips, "of course, my little driver. my treasure. you run them off the fucking track if you have to. but when you're with me, i like when you're gentle. a beautiful little thing under me." his pace picked up and it made you go dizzy for a moment.

"a good girl?"

"exactly." see you're already becoming behaved." he knew that your wrists were being rubbed raw to the point of bruising because of the belt around them. you looked so pretty in a state of bondage.

bound and submissive to him. this was what he yearned for. what he craved for at the sight of you. you were beyond beautiful, even when you drove his nerves up the wall. he pushed you further against the couch and fucked you with an intensity that left you loud.

while he couldn't indulge in his appreciation for your noises very often, when he could. he wanted to hear his little driver get loud. his heart raced as he felt close to his climax. you felt the same way, you tried to meet his pace, but it was bruising to the point where you felt nothing in between your ears.

your poor little brain had enough and left the building. rationality was a thing a few hours ago, but now you were panting like a hungry puppy against the hot leather of the couch. your tongue could taste the leather of the seat.

back arched, pussy ruined. you really did look like the model driver. you whimpered a little louder, unable to form many words. you could feel the race in your gut and the twist in the area.

"perfect." he said, one way to train you was to fuck you into a soft submission. to finish inside of you so many times that you couldn't think straight.

he continued to fuck you, losing the pace rather quickly as the need to climax started to overtake. you felt the heat in your gut bloom into your brain as you struggled against the binds. but your beloved boss kept you down onto the couch and continued to fuck you feverishly.

you were near brain dead by the time you felt the hold of orgasm clutch you. you moaned loudly and tensed up. you climaxed around his cock and arched your back a little more. your noises were pathetic, but music to max's ears. he pressed into your further, his hands on your hips for the best leverage.

the poor little drunk driver fucked to heaven and back by her intimidating boss. it was hot, max thought it would make a good porno plot (he knew it existed, he checked. the woman they got to play you couldn't hold a candle to your beauty). he shoved every last inch of his cock into you with a heavy groan. he came inside of you and felt the heat in his brain.

he stayed there for a moment, cock buried into you. not really caring that he just finished inside of you, completely bare. you made a few more noises before max pulled away and got his cock back into his jeans. your wetness stained the front of the denim.

he undid you wrists and got you upright. you whimpered and leaned against him. he kept a protective hold on you, "alright, my love." he said, "let's get you into bed before you cause any more trouble."

when he finally got you into bed, you remained naked. the alcohol and pleasure made you run hot. and max took it upon himself to snap a few pictures of your bruised behind and soft, sleepy expression. that would be saved for when he can't get his hands on you.

-

you woke up in the morning with a headache and a dry mouth. the sun that gleamed in through the blinds made everything hurt more. when you lifted your head, you noticed that max wasn't in bed with you. you were wrapped up in the sheets and whined loudly.

you heard footsteps and were soon greeted by your boss in the doorway. his arms crossed. you squinted at him and said, "everything hurts."

max replied, "you act like you've never been hungover before." he sat on the edge of the bed and pinched your cheek till you whined, "i hope you know that your punishment isn't over. we have all day to put you back on the right path. you're a driver, have some respect for yourself." you whined again.

"you're a meanie, mister verstappen."

"i know, but i told you i'd make you a superstar. and that means behaving. i'll make you some breakfast, but today you'll be learning how to behave. i'll even be nice and let you kneel on a pillow while we go over your recent driving blunders."

you squirmed a little in bed. you hated when he did that. made you sit there and watch your races, but it was only fair. mister verstappen promised you the wdc, and you weren't going to get that by getting black out drunk, were you? max verstappen, head of verstappen racing, may be mean to you. but you'd be his champion in no time at all. <3

[kkayyerr]

i sick too! maybe you could do something with daddy rafe looking after a sick reader? i got very clingy when i sick. i hopes you feels better soon!

Sickening

Summary: Pogues let little!reader get sick and daddy!Rafe is not happy about that.

Warnings: Age regression; none.

Authors note: For everyone who’s sick and especially for @marvelfanfics1 🫶🏻.

Rafe was cursing himself for letting you hang out with the pogues. He would never let that happen, if only that day he wouldn’t have to deal with something that he didn’t want your little mind to know. Sarah asks him to babysit you, promising that nothing bad will happen to you and that she and the Pogues will follow all his instructions. Of course they hadn’t. Because if they had, you wouldn’t have stood in front of him right now, looking awfully sick. 

 „Sarah, are you telling me that you let her go swimming? In the middle of October? And where is her jacket?”

 Rafe was trying so hard to control his emotions right now, so he wouldn’t scare you, but he was failing. Thoughts of Pogues letting you do things that were actually dangerous made him furious, and he didn’t even want to hear any of Sarah’s excuses.He was even more mad at himself, for thinking that those assholes would actually care about your well-being and not forget about everything that he had said to them. He was about to start yelling at his sister again as he heard your trembling voice.

 „Daddy"

 Rafe almost immediately turned to look at you, and what he saw almost made him even more angry. You were standing in front of him, your gaze unfocused and your limbs trembling. You were obviously struggling to stay still because of the exhaustion. He quickly approached you, touching your forehead with his palm.

 „Baby, you’re burning.”

 He knew that you probably had a fever and that he has to do something about that immediately, before you would get even more sick. His hands quickly grabbed your waist, helping you to stay on your feet, so you won’t fall and hurt yourself even more.

 „We need to get you inside, can you walk?”

 You didn’t say anything. Instead, you just shook your head and did the grabby hands, letting him know that you would like to get carry on inside. Rafe nodded, picking you up and giving you a kiss on the forehead, checking your temperature once again, with his lips this time.

It was definitely too high. 

He waited a few seconds, as you were getting comfortable in his arms, wrapping your hands around his neck and then Rafe headed to the house.

 „We’re not done with that conversation yet, Sarah."

 Rafe said, before closing the door and carrying you upstairs to your bedroom. You felt too dizzy to even say a word, even though you were feeling so guilty for going against his rules just because he wasn’t there at the moment. You also felt sorry for Sarah, you didn’t want him to yell at her like that. When you got to the bedroom he carefully put you in your bed, immediately covering you in your favorite blanket that he prepared earlier, waiting for you to come back from your little playdate with the Pogues.

The last play date, actually.

He wasn’t planning on letting you hang out with them anymore, not without his supervision at least. After you were fully covered, he smiled to you softly and stood up, heading to the small medicine cabinet that he kept there just in case you would catch a cold or something like that. He then came back with the small pill and let out a small chuckle as you gave him a pouty face. 

 „I know, I know, baby, it’s yucky. But we need to make you healthy again, right?”

 You kept your mouth closed, making him roll his eyes. You would always become so grumpy and bratty when you got sick, and even though it was hard to deal with you when you were like this, he would still find a way to make you do as he said.

Always.

 „Don’t wanna”

 You mumbled, looking at him with a small frown, that Rafe honestly was finding adorable, even though he won’t tell you that. He rolled his eyes, one of his hands approaching your tummy. He then started to slowly wiggle his fingers in a threatening manner, warning you about the consequences of not listening to him.

 „Are you going to be a good girl for Daddy, or do I need to tickle that grumpy attitude right out of you?” 

 Your mouth opened right away, finally letting him put that pill on your tongue. You then swallowed it, hating that icky bitter taste that now was all over your mouth.Rafe patted your head, informing you that he’s proud of you for taking your medication so well, even though it probably had an awful taste.

 „Good girl.”

 Rafe’s face expression changed to confusion as he saw that your reaction to his words was unusual. Instead of the happy smile, he saw a little hint of guilt on your face that disturbed him; you had never reacted to his words like that before.

Have those Pogues tell you something about him that changed your mind?

„Baby, is everything alright?”

 You shook your head, looking a little bit embarrassed. You head tilted down, and he could’ve swear that you even wanted to cry for a second, but then you quickly put yourself together, letting out a loud sigh. Rafe was looking even more worried right now, not understanding what was the deal.

 „I’m not a good girl; I’m a bad girl, Daddy. I didn’t listen to you and... and.”

 He saw that you were getting even more anxious with every word that had come out of your mouth, so he decided to quickly stop you by pressing a small kiss onto your forehead, letting you know that everything is okay.

 "It’s okay. It’s my fault actually; I shouldn’t have left you with those... Pogues.”

 Rafe pulled you closer, holding your trembling body in his arms and placing his head on your shoulder, smiling softly to you. He wanted you to know that he’s not going to punish you for the mistakes that other people made—the other idiots, actually. 

 „But don’t scream at Sarah, otay?"

 He laughed at your ask, considering what he would have to say to his sister, so she would understand what problems she had caused this time. Maybe you were right; no amount of screaming will help her little brain understand that sometimes she has to take some responsibility.

 „Alright, alright.”

 Rafe didn’t want you to think about Sarah right now, because your body and your mind needed peace and comfort right now, not some stupid thoughts about his not less stupid sister. Not some stupid thoughts about Pogues.

 „But you still earned yourself a punishment, you know?”

 And the next minute, both his hands started to restlessly tickle your poor tummy. Well, at least you clearly didn’t think about stupid worries anymore.

Taglist: @marvelfanfics1 @rafecameronsloverrrrr @aew-regression-cove

[moraxine]

Fragments of Us [Ekko]

pairing: ekko x reader

words: 2k

summary: ekko wakes up in an alternate universe where you’re alive and everything feels right—but it’s not his world. torn between love and duty, he must leave to save his reality.

ARCANE SPOILERS!

i.

“Powder. Ugh, she’s so annoying sometimes. I told her that the graffiti on Sevika’s stupid bar wasn’t even that good—like, come on, who even uses pink for a skull?—and she just flipped out ! Called me a ‘wannabe artist.’ Like, okay?”

Ekko’s chest burns as he violently jolts awake, aware , coughing as if he’s been drowning moments before. His head is pounding, all memories flooding his mind and spinning round and round. It takes a few moments for his vision to stabilise and start clearing up.

What the hell happened?

“Hey, are you okay?”

Hearing your voice, familiar yet a voice he never thought his ears would detect ever again, he freezes. His eyes snap open, adjusting to the dim glow of the neon streetlamp. After a while of simply blinking, right hand on his forehead, he dares to turn your way, only to face you in utter shock.

There you are, right beside him, nervously fiddling with a small gadget in your hand while waiting for his answer.

Ekko’s breath gets caught in his throat.

His gaze desperately darts around, taking in the distorted version of Zaun. The buildings look eerily familiar but cleaner, more polished. And then there is you —alive, bright-eyed, rambling as if nothing in the world could ever go wrong.

This isn’t real. This can’t be real.

“You’re staring at me like I’ve got two heads or something. All good in there?” You ask, leaning closer as you gently tap his head.

No, no, no.

This must be some kind of twisted joke, a dream soon to turn into a nightmare, like the ones he experienced after your passing.

A strong wave of dizziness takes over and he loses balance. You’re not fast enough to catch him and he collapses on the floor, tears gleaming in his eyes.

“Shit, Ekko, I told you I’m fine walking home by myself! You need to focus on fixing that sleep schedule of yours. You work too much….”

You kneel down to check on him but as soon as you reach for his arm, he manages to pull himself up, wincing as his muscles protest. “I’m fine,” he mutters, his voice hoarse. “Just… where am I?”

Your brow furrows. “Zaun, duh. Did you hit your head?”

Zaun. But not his Zaun. This is different. Cleaner. Sharper. Brighter. Wrong.

You wave a hand in front of his face when he’s up on his feet again, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Seriously, you’re acting super weird.”

He shakes his head, trying to gather himself. “I’m… just tired.”

“Yeah, no shit,” you say, leaning back on your heels. “Well, you can sleep at my place if you want. It’s a bit of a mess, but it’s better than the middle of the street.”

“Why…Why are you helping me?”

I didn’t protect you. I let you die-

You scoff, crossing your arms. “You have to be kidding me, really.”

He stares at you, his chest tightening. You are so casual, so warm, so alive. This isn’t his world—it is someone else’s. Someone’s whom was able to keep you safe and happy.

You wave a hand in front of his face. “Helloooo? You good, or do I need to drag you there myself?”

He blinks, shaking himself out of his trance. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

“Finally,” you say grabbing his arm. “You’re lucky I’m such a good friend, y’know.”

As you lead him down the street, continuing your pointless rambling about Powder and some argument over graffiti, Ekko follows silently, his mind racing. He doesn’t belong here, but for the first time in years, being near you feels like he is home.

ii.

Ekko is standing in the corner of your cluttered workshop, his fingers trembling slightly as he tightens the final screws on a device he barely understands anymore. Weeks have been spent scavenging parts, tearing apart old tech, and sketching blueprints on scraps of paper. The machine is almost ready—his way out of this world is almost ready.

You, of course, don’t know. In fact, you seem to know nothing about Ekko lately. Ever since that incident outside the bar, he’s been acting strange in a way you can’t pinpoint.

“Hey, genius,” you call from across the room, pulling him out of his thoughts. You’re perched on a high stool, playing with a broken clock. “You’ve been staring at that thing for hours. What is it, anyway?”

He stiffens at your question, keeping his face carefully neutral. “Just… something to help me get around. It’s nothing.”

You narrow your eyes, unconvinced. “Since when do you get all secretive about your projects? You used to brag about your tech every chance you got.”

“Since now,” he mutters, avoiding your gaze.

It’s been this way for quite some time now—Ekko growing quieter, more distant, all while you try to bridge the gap with your usual chatter. You’ve noticed the way he avoids your eyes, the way he flinches whenever you stand too close. It’s not like him.

And it hurts.

“You’re acting weird, Ekko,” you admit, setting the clock down and leaning back on your hands. “Like, even weirder than usual. Did I do something?”

“No,” he says quickly, but his voice sounds strained, and the single word only makes you more assured that there is indeed something going on.

“Then what?” you press, leaning forward slightly. “You’ve been avoiding me for days. Is this about Powder? Because if so, she’s the one being difficult, not me.”

Ekko clenches his jaw, his hands tightening around the tool in his grip. He can’t tell you. You wouldn’t understand—not fully. How could he possibly explain that you’re not even supposed to be here? That this version of you isn’t his you? That in his world, you’re just a memory he carries like a scar?

“It’s nothing,” he says finally, his voice low. “Just… drop it, okay?”

You flinch at the coldness in his tone, but you force a laugh, trying to mask the sting. “Fine. Be mysterious, then. See if I care.”

Turning away, you pretend to focus on the clock again, but your heart isn’t in it. You want to push him, demand answers, but something in his expression stops you. There’s a pain in his eyes that you can’t quite place, and for the first time, you wonder if this is bigger than any conflict he might have had with people in the past.

Ekko exhales slowly, his shoulders sagging. He hates doing this—pushing you away. But if he lets you in, it’ll only make leaving harder.

Because he is leaving. As much as he wants to stay, to pretend this is his life, he knows it isn’t real. He doesn’t belong here. And the longer he stays, the harder it’ll be to say goodbye. Especially to you.

“Hey,” you say suddenly, breaking the silence. “For what it’s worth, you’re still my favorite nerd. Even if you’re being a jerk.”

He looks up at you, startled by the softness in your voice. For a moment, he wants to tell you everything—to explain why he can’t let himself get too close. To tell you he loves you. But that would be partially true as you’re not his. Instead, he just nods. “Thank you.”

You offer him a small yet warm smile and his resolve falters for a moment. But then his gaze falls on the machine again—his way out—and he reminds himself why he has to do this.

It’s almost done. Just a little longer.

iii.

Ekko stands in the middle of the workshop, his hand resting on the activation lever of the machine. The room hums faintly with power, the cobbled-together contraption sparking faintly as it waits for his final command. It’s ready. After days of work, this is it—it’s time to go back to the people who need him.

But his chest feels tight, and it’s not just from the lingering ache of exhaustion. It’s because of you.

The door creaks open, and his heart sinks. You’re standing there, your expression caught somewhere between confusion and anger. “What the hell is this?” you ask, stepping inside. “Ekko, what’s going on?”

He doesn’t look at you. He can’t. “It’s… nothing.”

“Nothing?” you snap, gesturing at the machine. “You’ve been shutting me out for God knows how long, and now I find you messing with… whatever this is you’ve made? Don’t lie to me, Ekko.”

He finally meets your eyes, and the raw emotion there almost makes him crumble. But he takes a deep breath and steadies himself. “I can’t explain it.”

You take a step closer, your frustration giving way to hurt. “Why? Why can’t you just tell me? I’m not mad—I just… I don’t understand why you’ve been acting like this.”

Ekko clenches his fists, his mind racing. He could tell you the truth—about the alternate universe, about the fact that you don’t even exist anymore in his world. But what good would it do?

“It’s better this way,” he replies quietly.

Your hands drop to your sides, and the look in your eyes nearly breaks him. “Better for who? For me? Or for you?”

“Y/n…” His voice cracks, but he quickly swallows it down. “I don’t belong here. I need to leave. That’s all I can say.”

You shake your head, your voice trembling. “You’re lying. You’ve been here all this fucking time, and now you’re just… leaving? Without a word?”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“Yes, you do!” you shout, stepping closer until you’re right in front of him. “Whatever this is, whoever you think you are—you’re my… friend, Ekko. You don’t just get to disappear without telling me why.”

His hands tremble as he reaches up to touch your shoulder, his gaze locked on yours. “You are—” His voice breaks, and he has to force himself to keep going. “You’re amazing. You’re… everything good about this place. You’re the reason I’m still alive. But I can’t stay.”

You stare at him, your heart pounding. His words feel final, and the weight of them crushes you completely. You fail to understand. Nothing makes sense, absolutely nothing. “Why?” you whisper, tears burning at the corners of your eyes. “Why can’t you stay? Is it something I did?”

“No!” he says, more forcefully than he means to. He takes your hands, holding them tightly. “It’s not you. It’s… me. It’s my world. I need to go back to where I came from.”

You can’t comprehend what he’s saying, but the desperation in his voice silences your questions. You nod, swallowing back the lump in your throat. “Fine,” you say, even though it’s anything but fine. “If you have to go… go.”

His hands linger on yours for a moment longer before he lets go. “I wish I could tell you how much you mean to me,” he says softly. “But I can’t. Not here.”

Tears spill over as you watch him turn back to the machine. “Will I ever see you again?” you ask, your voice barely audible.

He hesitates, his hand hovering over the lever. “I don’t know.”

That’s all he can give you.

With one last look at you, his expression filled with regret and longing, he pulls the lever. The machine sparks to life, and the air around him ripples with energy. You take a step back, shielding your eyes as the light grows blinding.

When the light fades, he’s there, his tired body slumped down on the ground. You immediately run to his side, kneeling down and pulling him to your lap. The room falls silent, the only sound the faint hum of the now blown up machine. You gently caress his cheek, tears running down your hot cheeks.

After a while, he wakes up.

And it doesn’t take you very long to realise.

You glance at the remains one last time.

And you hope that wherever he is, he’s doing what he set out to do—saving his people, his world, even if it meant leaving this one behind.

[taegularities]

you're okay | myg (m)

Summary: Let it hurt and burn. Let it out; and then let it fade away. Let it heal. Yoongi can't lift all your burdens, but he has taught you at least this much over the years.

➳ pairing: Yoongi x reader ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ genre: s2l/est. rel.; angst, fluff, smut ➳ warnings: this one's heavy :') pov switches, switching between past and present, reference to the d-day documentary, mental health issues, therapy, depression and anxiety, mentioned unaliving attempt, mentions of fainting, slight mention of SA, implied panic attack, lots of trauma, lots of sadness, healing journey/healing with yoongi, feelings of loneliness, feeling unworthy, oc is very unsure and thinks she's a burden, tears and crying; explicit sexual content: (brief) protected sex, oral (f. receiving), masturbation, kissing/making out. please heed the warnings <3 ➳ word count: 11.5k ➳ a/n: hi hi. not the average taegularities fic, i think. once again, please do note the warnings before reading. it's okay if it's too heavy and you need breaks – take care of yourself. it's a very very personal piece that i just needed to get out of my system. yoongi's snooze inspired it; i still cry when i listen to it – i'm thankful it saved me in so many ways, and i hope you feel the same way about this fic. i love you all; here's to healing and living 💕 ➳ listen to: snooze by agust d ft. ryuichi sakamoto & woosung 🤍

TAGLIST | MASTERLIST | WIPs

The weather changes at warp speed these days.

When you left just this morning, it was raining buckets. The shower barely allowed a glimpse at the sky, grey as smoke; ominous clouds were bursting, fast cars and busy passengers on the sidewalk rushing through the world.

You were one of them, not necessarily impressed by the downpour. But you smiled when someone halted, stretching an arm to force the doors of the bus open until you were inside.

The tender gesture lit up your gloomy morning, a proof of how the world isn’t all misery and ruin. For a couple minutes and hours, that stranger’s smile lifted the weight off your leather jacket clad shoulders. You were burdened by nothing but the bag hanging on your side.

But now, the same jacket is draped over your arm and feels much heavier than before; stripped off when the sun broke through the clouds around the afternoon. The additional weight gives you grief; you’re relieved when you hang it onto a rack, step out of your shoes and drag yourself to the bathroom.

God, all actions seem so passive these days.

Passive and automatic, just half-conscious. You’re fatigued and lost in your head. Frankly, you need your bed. You hate that you still need to shower. You wish you could skip that part and still keep your body healthy and clean.

And as you stand under the water, shifting your balance to the right leg and back, you realise that another work day is over and another one is coming. Interactions, productivity, the craving your bed. You need the weightlessness.

So much so that you soon feel the knot in your chest, intensifying, and the heat of the water combines with an uncomfortable breathlessness until your knees bend a little. Immediately, you plant your palms against the bathroom tiles, taking a seat on the shower floor.

You cross your legs; the thought of your father is immediate because he always taught you to take a seat wherever once you start feeling dizzy. Since that one adolescence day when you passed out and hurt your chin, you have followed this advice and prevented worse.

Your head spins for a moment, your chest tight; and you hear a dull thump. There’s an odd rustle in your ears, mixed with the sound of the dripping water; so you don’t notice the call of your name right away.

Keeping your answer absent for another moment, you only wrap your arms around your chest, just to keep yourself whole. You feel like your body might fracture into a dozen pieces.

The shampoo bottle that presumably caused the thump before rolls against you, and you gasp in uncomfortable surprise; immediately hear another slurred, “Hey! Are you okay? What’s going on?”

It's him; he’s always worried. Maybe that’s what you’ve been struggling with so much lately. The fact that you never suffer alone whenever the weight on your shoulder and brain drags you down too far.

A worried voice chimes again, breaking the sound of the shower jet, and you suddenly become hyper aware of his concern, rushing to finally get out. You exclaim a reassuring, “All good!” before the silence can prolong or betray you.

His calls stop, probably relieved when you add another, “Coming.”

You envelop your body in your towel; just a moment later, he knocks. You would’ve opened even if he hadn't.

Yoongi stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame, and breathes in the sauna-esque air. His mouth turns into a surprised circle, and he blinks before he blows out a breath and states, “You showered hot today, huh?”

“Mhh,” you hum, “the sun never keeps me from doing so. Feels good.”

He smiles, watches your lotioned hands hydrate your skin, very slowly and very delicately. When you sigh in something he interprets as fatigue, he asks, “Do you need help?”

Four simple words, but they soothe something in your wrinkly, grey brain. The knot of stress loosens just a little, and you sigh deeply, telling him, “Yes, please.”

He doesn’t hesitate to step behind you, picking up the pink, wooden brush lying on the laundry basket next to you to release the knots in your wet hair. For a couple of minutes, you indulge in the massage; and then wallow in the feeling of his hands on your face, taking over to do your skincare.

And then, gentle as he is, he helps you into your clothes. You feel somewhat pathetic, but most of all, thankful — anything to get through the night.

“You all set?” he asks once he’s done, palms on your shoulders. You touch the digits of his left hand, leading them to your lips to kiss them softly before you nod.

You follow him into the living room, detecting the still present sunrays protruding through the spots that the sheer curtains don’t filter. It’s not dark yet, but the light is slowly fading. The star is preparing to drown behind the horizon, dusk in motion.

The pretty hues give you a brief yet strange burst of motivation; often, you fear the night more despite its serene reputation. Too dark, too haunting.

Yoongi has already set the table; he starts to ladle the sundubu-jjigae into your bowl, rice in another smaller dish next to it. You sit; you feel endlessly indebted and silently terrified at once. The food looks amazing, so the taste isn’t the problem.

Your boyfriend is a good cook, and you thank the deities every day for his existence. It was much harder to get by and assemble a meal when you lived alone.

But your expression is still the opposite of what it’s supposed to be, and when he sees it, he asks, “You good? Have you eaten yet?”

“No.”

“Then eat a little, okay? As much as you can.”

You gulp, oblige. You know your body calls for it, so you listen to it, chewing a couple bites, even though it feels impossible to actually swallow. God; you need to stop your chest and stomach from trying to convince you that everything is heavy.

Your clothes, your heart, your thoughts.

You know it isn’t true. It drives you mad when your own brain proves this treacherous, attempting to lie to you like this.

Then again, energy dwindles faster these days. Your body knows; maybe that’s why you feel tired. You need to sleep — maybe that could help you feel a bit more feathery.

But shit, you wish there was a more efficient charger for human beings than sleep, so you could be productive. Your mind won’t let you sleep properly anyway.

“Is it good?” Yoongi asks, interrupting your thoughts. He’s always the first to notice when you’re overexerting yourself, even just at dinner.

“It’s very good,” you respond truthfully, even raising your voice to make yourself sound livelier, “as I’d expect from you.”

“Then I’m glad. Thought I’d make you something good, since you worked longer.”

“Always attentive, aren’t you?”

“I try to be.” His spoon drops in his bowl, and he reaches out, touching your cheek just long enough for your heart to stir. “How was work?”

Hm…

You don’t remember too well. You know you went there at least, and you know you did whatever you had to — but you can’t recall details. So all you say without dousing the atmosphere in negativity is, “As always.”

“Was Nayeon at work today?”

“Nope,” you tell him, sending wordless, good vibes towards your best work buddy. “Still sick. A stomach bug, I think. I really hope she feels better soon.”

“Sana again then?”

“Yeah, spent most of the day with her. She’s always so sweet, though… I should talk to her more often.”

You dig into your rice again, trying it with a bigger bite this time. Then, you shake your head in apology, looking back at Yoongi as you ask, “Ah, I’m sorry, baby… how was work for you?”

“As always,” he echoes, “thought of you a lot.”

“Mhm… obsessed much?” you jest, trying a little beam.

“You know me.”

That’s it. You nod; you understand the weakness of your smile, so you lower your head altogether. He sees; of course he does. Yet, he waits and watches you toy with your food. You know the question is approaching before it lands, “Another low?”

Another low…

You could cry. You could burst into tears immediately if you didn’t feel so… empty. A vacant soul, pieces coloured by nothing but him. Yoongi sparks the magic most of the time, even drilling through the numbness.

“Yeah,” you whisper, not crying yet, but the corners of your mouth drop. “It’s been a while.”

“Months, yes? Which is great, my love.” His voice is so mellow, deep, like an antidote. “You’re doing really well.”

“Yeah.”

You are. Because at one point in your life, you used to feel this way all the time. Ever since you found somebody to rely on, someone who listens, you’ve gotten a bit better. He puts you together as if he’s resolving a dispersed puzzle.

But certain phases at certain times still hit you unexpectedly, like a revved up truck.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Yoongi offers.

“There’s nothing really to talk about…”

“Okay. Do it if you need to, though, okay? Eat a little more?”

You do. Fuck, you feel so babied sometimes; you wonder if he discerns things like this, too. That he isn’t really taking care of and loving his girlfriend, but rather babysitting a broken child.

You whoosh the thought away with a blink, finishing more than half of your meal before you set the cutlery aside. You down the last bite with cold water, sauntering to the bathroom, and then meet Yoongi on your bed.

He probably already put the food in the fridge and the dishes in the dishwasher; he must’ve operated rapidly to be here already, awaiting you. The laptop is open and its screen bright, and you know without stepping onto the mattress that he’s opened YouTube.

Less for him, more for you.

If he wanted to spend the remaining minutes of the night scrolling through reels, he could easily do so on his phone. But no… this feels more like an invitation. A quick, sweet date before sleep, just to watch a few animal videos that rarely ever fail to make you smile.

As you crawl into him, watching cats protecting newborn babies or dogs jumping their owners affectionately, you do smile. You laugh, even. You feel somewhat at ease here with him, but you know you’ll go back to ground zero in the morning.

When you’ve left and he’s gone to work.

And you hate it. You hate that you’re dependent on him like this… Yoongi calls it finding comfort in somebody you love, and you don’t disagree. But adding to this, you think you’re limiting his options by shackling yourself to him.

By demanding that comfort.

You sigh in his arms, breathing calmer than before, but not enough to sleep. Yet, he asks, “Hey… sweetheart. Are you awake?”

“I am.”

“I’m just thinking… Do you want me to call the therapist tomorrow?”

Shit… why does the ball of guilt keep growing? How does he think of this and you don’t? Have you really sunk this deep again? You’re stupid.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“I… I should do it myself,” you mumble.

“I don’t mind.”

“No, I’ll just do it in the morning. I think I should… do things for myself, too, right?”

He pauses. Ponders your words; or at least, that’s what you surmise from the way he breathes and sighs and hums. And you’re proven right when he inquires, “Do you feel like I mind doing things for you?”

Yes. No.

No, you do not think so. But you sure as hell waste his time. Occupy it with this nonsense when he could be happier somewhere else, living his life, making plans for the future and rambling about the job he loves.

But no…

Fucking calling the therapist for you.

You break.

It always happens in the worst moments; you don’t know what it is, how it happens, but you break. Hard. Your motions stop, maybe even your breathing. But then you do sigh, so deeply that it burns, trying to keep your voice from shaking, to keep the tears at bay.

But this time, it doesn’t work. Emotions heightened when Yoongi utters something he’s provided as a reminder over the years, “Don’t hold back.”

So you don’t.

There were days when this lesson was necessary, a gentle nudge to release the weight, and today is one of them. You weep, starting with soft whimpers that grow louder steadily, and you press into his chest until you're suddenly sobbing.

You sniffle with an aching head, holding onto him for dear life, barely noticing when your sobs, once again, morph into absolute wailing.

He embraces you, tighter with each inhale and exhale. You’re so impossibly close to him, garbling something that he doesn’t understand. His voice is pain-struck and trembling when he encourages, “Come again, baby? Talk to me.”

It takes a while; it doesn’t work. And then, he chants, “God, baby. My baby… it’s okay. It’s okay.”

“No!” you cry out, slurring your words, “No… am a burden. Am fucking burdening you…”

This is a clear thought, isn’t it? Even in a moment like this, you think it’s true. And that maybe…

Maybe you should’ve never agreed to the lunch he offered you all those years ago. You would miss everything good in your life, lose the one thing you so cherish, but you’d at least rid him of you.

Those long six years ago, you should have just told him you were fine.

As a student, Yoongi always trod the same path from the second floor down to the entrance of the college, living into a routine — never really noticing much of significance. He’d see other students who’d be eating; talking; rushing to class.

And as a TA, Yoongi was used to another, different journey throughout the building, too; climbing down the same spiral staircase, hurrying through the scary, empty mezzanine, passing the same few rooms on the ground floor.

He’d prepare to go home or to the library after attending his favourite psychology professor’s classes, assisting him to his best abilities. But this was different from all the other familiar routes he’d grown accustomed to.

These Wednesday afternoons did offer something of significance. Someone of significance. 

Because every time he reached those rooms on the ground floor, you’d be there.

At first, he reckoned you always waited for your class to start, just at the time when his ended. But you were alone each time. The doors to the classrooms and lecture halls were all closed, and then there was you, a sole soul waiting for whatever miracle to appear.

It took a couple weeks for him to gather that you might not have been supposed to be there. He noticed it when he saw your eyes fixated on a spot, pupils never moving an inch, even when he walked past. At some point, he’d memorised just this expression on your face.

And then, bit by bit, he realised that your stance didn’t seem quite normal. Your eyes were dead, hands never flinching. You emanated a sense of loneliness and stupefaction that he couldn’t express in words.

Today, something in him stirred. Perhaps because he’d just covered social behaviour as a topic or perhaps because any proper human would recognise that something was wrong with you.

Your hands were holding a lidless cup that day, barely steaming anymore. You were blinking slowly, if at all. This time, he approached you with care, as if nearing a wounded deer; as if trying to keep it there and not frighten it away.

But when he leaned into you, a hand scarcely touching your shoulder, your head moved up to look at him slowly but surely. And your first reaction to him ever was a smile.

You remember that when you first looked at him, like really looked at him, his face seemed familiar to you. You were sure you’d seen him before, even if just in passing. He had this long, pretty, dark hair, covering his neck, a couple inches above his shoulders.

A kind face. A calm demeanour.

He stood there with pure relaxation between his eyebrows; one you hadn’t felt in a while despite your falling face. Flawless porcelain skin, free of dark circles, free of exhaustion. When did you last look like this?

You smiled at him instinctively, a curious expression; you couldn’t guess at all what he wanted or needed, but you were ready to listen. You’d always listen to people — listen, listen, listen. Perhaps that was the exact problem.

This very attention towards him, coming this easily, made your shoulders sink in new dejection; everything did. Every thought was intrusive, unwelcome, too stretched for your liking.

Whenever you had a normal thought or a bad one that’d at least pass immediately, you considered it a good day.

But you felt a tension around your temples by now; your head never felt at ease.

Yet, you asked, “Yes?”

And he wondered in return, “Are you okay? You looked distracted and I thought I might ask.”

“Oh… that’s nice,” you commented, your voice a bit too quiet yet surprised; you cleared your throat, spoke up, “but I’m okay. I just sit here sometimes after my classes.”

“You do?”

“Mhm. To take a little break after all the information dump, yeah. I’ll go home soon, though, no worries.”

“Hm… yeah. I just,” Yoongi started, hesitant — you now know he was trying to reveal something without appearing creepy. “I noticed you here a few times, so I wanted to ask just to be sure.”

He saw you here? You? And he came up to talk to you, just because he’d noticed you before? Baffling. You didn’t think you were visible to anybody. You thought you faded in front of others’ eyes.

“You’re honestly so nice,” is all you said, hoping your eyes didn’t reveal too much. How much his words affected you, and how they made you think you were just a little, a tiny bit perceptible.

“Sure,” he responded, nodding. And when you failed to come up with more appreciative words, he prepared to move, bidding you goodbye with a single, “Okay…”

Then, he was walking away; as grateful as you were, your energy-lacking body forced your eyes shut. You drew a deep breath. These few words you’d exchanged with him took everything out of you — that was the worst part of all this.

Interaction drained you. Loneliness drained you. The world and life were all draining, and you couldn’t figure out anymore how to feel… awake. Sober without ever drinking.

When your eyes closed, you felt your surroundings starting to spin. Or maybe, it was you; as if someone had gripped your shoulders and was turning you in circles. There were so many weird particles behind your eyelids.

The rotation was insane, but nothing new. Shut down most of your other senses and people’s voices; like the one that returned a second later, the same as before. Shit. Had he seen you struggle? Was he seeing something nobody else ever would?

You weren’t used to attention. You weren’t used to someone noticing.

“Hey, are you sure you’re okay?” the stranger with the familiar face asked, concern in his voice. “You don’t look like it.”

What was it? What was it about his gentle, low voice that lured you in? What was it about his attentive tone that made you want to tear up? Maybe because you’d bottled things up for so long.

But you held the liquid locked in your eyes. Proudly, barely.

“I’m…”

You considered lying. You considered pulling a lame excuse out of your ass. But something in you snapped, snapped hard, and the truth spilled just before you could think twice—

“If I’m being honest… I’m feeling pretty faint… I often do? I usually just need to sit down a bit or I’ll pass out.”

You hated using the word usually. As though your condition had become irreparable, like a chronic illness; and you were stating its treatment, only temporary.

“Hmm…” he hummed. “Have you eaten?”

“Not much…”

“Then that might be it,” he concluded, content with the deduction. In hindsight, you think he was hoping it was only that, nothing more. “Do you have something with you?” You shook your head. “Are you getting something?”

You shrugged.

You could’ve easily told the truth and said no; that the appetite was absent, that you were going to go home and hardly remember how you got there. That you’d throw your bag on the couch, take off all your clothes, not really bother for a shower and jump into your bed.

Then, you’d breathe. Survive.

You didn’t have the energy to eat, to shower, and right now, somehow not even to lie. The remainder of it had been used in today’s class and in this conversation.

He knew you couldn’t come up with any bad justification, so he offered, “Listen… I still have this sandwich with me that I was going to eat after class. You can have it if you want.”

What? That was…

“Oh, no,” you blurted, raising a hand to reject, “you should eat if you haven’t yet.”

“Look, I totally get being selfless, but you don’t look good and…” He sighed, tilting his head. Eyebrows raised and expression suddenly stricter. “If I can help anyhow, I’d rather have that than anyone else finding you unconscious here later. Please?”

How could you’ve resisted such a plea?

He was taking care of you and he didn’t even know you. And your body understood; your body heard him. Because your stomach grumbled at the mention of the meal; it didn’t mean anything to you, but it meant something to your hungry, craving body.

It often did that. Wishing to eat; then, not letting you swallow a bite.

You grabbed your bag and warily, carefully got to your feet. The man lifted a hand in caution, as if expecting for you to lose your balance. You did, just a little, swaying until you’d grounded yourself.

Goddamn it.

You nodded with a deep exhale and followed him as he suggested, “Let’s go to the courtyard. Get some fresh air. We can eat there and talk… or not talk if that's what you want.”

You kept moving your head up and down, fine with whatever. The fronts of it hurt due to the  lack of nutrition; it was past four pm and you’d only eaten a damn banana.

He found you a shadowy spot away from the sun; it was late spring, the summer steadily approaching. The shade protected your tired eyes, guarded you from further headaches.

As you plumped onto the grass next to him, your fingers grazed it for a moment — and it felt good against your skin. A pleasant combination, the wind and the scent of grass; nearly freed your chest of the stuffy pain.

You watched his soft fingers fish out the sandwich, and then some salted peanuts for himself. Urged you to eat before spilling a handful of the nuts into his palm. God, you felt horribly guilty, but you knew you wouldn’t be able to convince him to share the meal.

He… didn’t even seem to mind a bit.

Wiping his hand on his pants, he finally introduced, “I’m Min Yoongi. Psychology student and TA. Judging from your spot every single Wednesday afternoon, you take psychology classes, too?”

“I do… yeah.”

You took a bite enough for mouses, but then proceeded with a larger, human-appropriate one. Your stomach felt odd; Min Yoongi’s small talk helped you eat, but the nervous feeling in your chest that never really went away weighed heavily on your tummy.

You added, “Thinking of dropping it, though…”

“Why?”

“Because I might be failing anyway. Haven’t done much, and I still have a presentation on my paper left but have prepared nothing for it yet, either.”

“Have you asked the professor about a potential extension?”

Of course you’d thought about it. You always did. Which is why you despised having to answer, “No…”

No. Of course not. To most professors, mental health didn’t matter as an excuse.

You understood, though. They graded every paper they received, surrendering their free time, their summer and their winter breaks. To grant you special treatment was something you regarded as unnecessary; you didn’t think you were worth it.

“Do you feel like you could do better next term?” Yoongi asked.

“I don’t know.”

Your sandwich was done and gone. You were still hungry; you felt the appetite all of a sudden. You knew it often came and went in waves, but somehow, the sandwich left you more pining than anything these days.

Yoongi saw as you licked your fingers clean of the mayonnaise; offered you some peanuts that you politely declined, greedy for something proper. Maybe you’d eat an actual dinner tonight.

After a while, Yoongi spoke, “Okay, I know I’m a stranger to you and everything, but if you want, I could try to help you.”

Shit, but… that would’ve meant putting in the effort. To get up, to meet him, to focus and to study. You didn’t know if you’d be able to do all that. You didn’t know how to—

But his eyes were so sincere; a pure dark brown, sparkling in hope, for whatever noble reason. And you thought… you thought…

If there was any chance to pass this class and get over with it, wouldn’t you feel a gigantic wave of relief wash over you? After so damn long? Wouldn’t it be worth it? Maybe a spark of hope ignited in your chest after all… maybe you could turn things around.

“Yeah…” you finally obliged. “Yeah, that’s really nice.”

“Great. Are you free this Friday afternoon?”

After that, it became part of your routine to meet up with Yoongi every Thursday or Friday, depending on his own schedule. A couple weeks passed like a breeze; or at least, compared to the days you were used to.

Some time later, those meetings increased, and you found a profound liking in them. You still often struggled with leaving your apartment at all, sometimes deeming getting out of bed or brushing your teeth an impossible task.

But whenever Yoongi called, offering a nearby café — always a nearby café — you’d place all your energy into moving, throwing on clothes, leaving. You felt unworried with him; at least for a couple hours.

He wasn’t just smart to an admirable degree; he was humorous, too. Motivating. Praised you for your ideas and your sharp mind. You’d forgotten you still had it in you — you thought time had altered your brain chemistry, killed too many of its cells to still let your mind operate.

Today, he didn’t suggest a café but a place you hadn't been to before. Yoongi had never invited you anywhere that wasn’t a public space, careful with your feelings without ever mentioning the obvious issues you had.

He only really crawled out of his shell and gave you the address to this new spot once you’d invited him over, too — he couldn’t make it, helping out the professor he assisted. But you reckon it was telling enough for him to understand how comfortable you’d grown with him.

So you went where he told you to go, and once you arrived, you recognised it as an office. A small one, but elegantly decorated, furniture sparse. And it wasn’t just any office. A therapist’s office.

“This is my mom’s,” Yoongi explained as you inspected the books on the shelf and the overall soothing and fitting atmosphere, “she’s out of town, so I thought we could study here today.

“Oh…”

He had to have heard your hesitancy, your uncertainty. This is the place they usually suggest in guidance books and in conversation to people like you. You didn’t know how to feel; the emotions washing over you were an odd sensation. Not good, not bad.

But scary, somehow.

Yoongi put a soft hand on your shoulder, making you turn, and asked, “Is that okay for you?”

“Yeah… it’s just… I’ve only really thought and read about therapy, but never quite seen an actual room like this.” You shook your head, clicking your tongue. “It’s crazy. How have I never been in one despite studying psychology for so long?”

“Hmm, many students haven’t been.”

“Yeah.”

You stripped your bag off of you, taking a seat on the cosy patient’s couch. Pulled out your laptop and placed it on the table between you and where he seated himself on the therapist’s chair. 

Swallowing a strange lump, you cleared your throat, starting the study session with, “Okay, so… I was thinking about what you said about the research question last time.”

“Right…”

At this point, you couldn’t really fathom why, but he seemed reserved today, a little distracted. Still providing as much information and intellect as he could; but his thoughts were slower and his eyes gentler.

You think you studied barely forty-five minutes when Yoongi called for a break — unusual, because it was mostly you to announce a pause in thoughts, when your brain would demand a couple minutes of peace.

He sighed, hands touching his thighs and then got up to bring you something to drink. Came back with two cups of tea. You thought he’d be returning with a glass of water, but upon seeing the beverage, your eyes widened; you told him, “This is super nice of you, thanks.”

“Of course.” Pause. You slurped; then he did. A second later, he inquired, “Can I ask you something?” 

“Mhm.”

You waited. Nothing came. You took another sip of the fruity winter tea in the middle of summer, wiping away the thin sheen of sweat under your nose that the heat caused. Then you looked up, big eyes staring into his just in time to see his mouth open.

“You always seem so surprised when I’m nice to you.”

Ah…

He’d said he’d had a question, but the indication of an inquiry, the one lifting in tone at the end never came. His statement was his question. And you thought it wasn’t the first time you heard it; you just never noticed you were doing it again.

Yoongi left the conclusion there, and the question mark hung somewhere between the two of you. Unspoken, containing a silent, ”Why?”

So you answered, “I just… uhm. People don’t just do something like this for me without me asking. It’s new to me how attentive you are.”

Sad. Just sad. You hated having to actually echo your innermost thoughts; you knew this wasn’t normal.

He knew, too, because he said, “This… is not how things should be.”

“But this is how they ended up being. I mean it’s just tea. But I don’t think anybody else sees me sitting there and goes like, Okay, I’ll do this lil something for her, you know?”

“Which is insane. You deserve it all so much. More than anyone I know.”

If you’d still been drinking, you would’ve choked. Those words were rare, not often uttered to you; how were you supposed to respond to them? You’d long forgotten how to react to things at all — it didn’t come too naturally to you anymore.

So all you did was laugh a little, as if replying to a joke. Genuinely, you wondered, “How can you say something like that?”

“Why not?”

“I mean, you probably know so many people.”

Yoongi blinked at you, as if waiting for your argument to proceed; but when it didn’t, he lifted a shoulder, steadfast with his opinion as he answered, “So? What do you think? That you feeling that way about yourself makes everyone else feel that way about you, too?”

You shrugged your shoulders just an inch, imitating his motions. Your gaze fell, as though catching yourself spewing pure gibberish. He continued, “You have a pure heart. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you being mean. And you’re strong, careful, and endure a shit ton.”

You looked up at him instantly. Let the last words reverberate in your mind, pushing them to the forefront between all your other messy thoughts. “Of course you knew,” you said.

“Of course. You’re so obviously hurt and I hate that you are.”

Well, you hated it, too. But… 

Your desperation came out in a whisper, “I don’t know what to do about it…”

You put the cup back onto the saucer; your fingers were warm when you pushed them into your hair, pressing your palms against your forehead, holding onto your mane. Elbows on your thighs. The world spun again until you felt his hand on your arm once more.

“Hey.” He sounded softer again. “Do you want to take a longer break? We could stop for today and talk?”

“I don’t know…”

“You don’t have to. But it feels to me like you’ve never done that before… people don’t want to listen.” His words hit you like bricks. Like heavy cement bricks. The pain was excruciating. “Is that it?”

You were still staring at your lap when he posed the question; your head whirred, so you didn’t know where to start. Which is why you held onto the first complaint — you knew they were valid worries, but you always called them complaints, like you were a burden — and said,

“I just… I listen to everyone. I let people vent, I let them feel hurt, and I try to be there and lend a shoulder and just,” the words cascaded out of you like a wild waterfall; your throat clogged up again, “to be a good person and a good friend.”

You exhaled a shaky breath, the pressure back in your chest. “But why do I not get any of it back? Why is it that everyone goes silent when I’m hurting? Do I deserve this somehow?”

You felt tears pricking and burning in your waterline, and you blinked them away. Took another quick sip just to help your dry throat. Then, “I hate that I sound selfish? Like I only do things for people to get love back, but… that’s not it. I just want to feel worthy of something, too.”

“You don’t sound selfish. It’s never wrong or inhumane to demand affection and care, and if it is, then… every person’s selfish. Whatever.”

Up until that point, you hadn’t known that someone could be this tender and direct at once. Yoongi lived in a reality that wasn’t sugarcoated, but he understood empathy and heartbreak, knew to dip his words in an ointment alleviating enough.

You wondered what he’d endured to become this type of person; sympathy and a mind this sage often stem from grief once encountered, and you so hoped he was an exception to this belief of yours.

You looked at him with delicate fondness, mixed with some lasting trouble. He reached out, tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. You didn’t know what came over you when you leaned into his palm, kept his gaze, and stayed in place when he moved in.

Kissed you.

And you didn’t know why, but the moment opened your heart as if it’d been locked before; he was the key, undoing the lock so easily. That was when the first tear rolled down your cheek, meeting his skin, and you started trembling as he moved his mouth against yours.

You couldn’t grasp why he was doing it; even if parts of you knew. Did he not care that you were broken? That you were still breaking? That the ache always consumed you, that you felt whatever your brain inflicted on you throughout your entire body?

Maybe not. He always said you were funny, sweet, never humorous at anybody’s expense.

It was different from the things you’d heard before.

Nobody will love you like this.

Stop acting like you’re traumatised.

I didn’t love you — I kept you because you were attractive. Because you let me.

You had always asked yourself: why had your feelings always been shoved aside when you voiced your opinion? Whenever it differed from the one in your family or your friend’s circle?

Why were you told to never open up about your childhood memories? When you were caged in; when somebody three times your age indulged in impudence when they shouldn’t have, long ago when you were a child; when you fell in love at a later age and were forced to let go?

Why were you told you were tainted, that you couldn’t get any affection like this, to keep your pain to yourself and forget about your past? And why was this sequence of nightmares plaguing you right now, like you were dying, just when he was kissing you…

Because you were scared. So scared.

If you told Yoongi any of this, would he bolt? Would you hurt yet another person? Would he see you as a shattered porcelain doll, distance himself from you? Because honestly, why would he stay at all; with someone who hasn’t healed, who’d pulled him underwater, too?

Yet, you didn’t say any of this. You sighed; leaned into him. Took residency in his heart, cried into him.

He kissed you for another second, and then backed away. Wiped your tears. You broke and broke until your voice broke, too, giving way to quiet sobs.

You weren’t used to attention. You weren’t used to someone noticing.

And somehow, the realisation hurt anew, deep in your core and beyond.

Your tears had mostly dried when he resumed his position, sitting in front of you. His fingers were entangled and he waited.

Yoongi knew you’d cry again, though. The patient’s couch had some magic to it, his mother always said. They’d always cry, but they’d heal at the same time. Recognise hidden parts of themselves.

He was uncomplaining and composed, and kept looking at you until you said, “It just feels… like I’ll never be enough. I can do as much as possible, but none of it is ever seen because I’m taken for granted.”

“Who takes you for granted?”

“Everyone. I’ve spent many nights awake for people, and they abandoned me. In a crowd, others will always be praised for one thing and I’ll be ignored for the same. It’s made me bitter.”

He nodded in true therapist fashion, but his expression wasn’t as neutral as one; he looked pain-struck for you. Said, “You’ve been hurt… I see that…”

“I’m… hurting,” you corrected, “and I don’t know what to do.”

Yoongi attempted a different approach; you were in a hopeless spiral, and the strategy he needed to try wasn’t just to dig out your trauma, but to make you familiar with the good parts of your life, too.

So he asked, sincerely hoping you had an answer to his question, “Who could you trust as you grew up?”

“I don’t know…” Yoongi’s chest deflated, motivation dropping — that is, until you muttered, “My brother.”

“Parents?”

“Part of the problem.”

Okay; your answers came more rapidly now. He took it as a good sign; as readiness to talk.

“Where’s your brother?” he wondered.

“In this town,” you answered, and Yoongi sighed in relief. “But I can’t bother him with all of my shit.”

Your symptoms were as typical as they could be; you regarded your self-worth as buried deep under the ground, never wanting to disturb those who still deemed you close and loved. You’d established this distance between you and the others; he didn’t blame you.

The symptoms were typical.

“Why do you think so?” Yoongi prodded, whispering your name when you didn’t answer.

“I’ve bothered them all enough…”

“How so?”

Maybe he was doing too much. But it seemed you were on board with it; you weren’t complaining, not sighing, not withdrawing. You were listening and talking. Nobody let you talk, and now that you were, you looked like you needed to let it out.

You spat, “Because they never seemed to want to hear anything.”

God…

It hurt to see you like this. Damp eyes, a heavily rising chest, as if you were close to panicking again, but desperately holding back. He knew it; he saw it in the way you drew your breaths and in the things you said.

He knew you’d braved multiple nights and many, many sleepless hours before, spending these dark moments clutching your chest, trying to get rid of the unbearably tight feeling in your chest.

He knew that torturous pressure. He’d been there before. The persistent feeling of fear and unease — like somebody had dropped a weight onto his ribcage and tied up his stomach. The shallow breathing and thumping heart would strip him off focus.

Thoughts circling and circling, around each other; absolute bullshit most of the time.

He couldn’t imagine how overwhelmed you felt, but then again, he could. Was the world louder to you, too? The way it used to be for him. Did you hear that constant screaming in your head?

Vulnerable, senses heightened, sensitive to the slightest change.

He hated the thought of a wall between you and your peace. Hated hearing the words you narrated; of your home, of your childhood, of the people you met. The disrespect you suffered and the dirt you were treated as.

You deserved none of it.

Maybe he felt that way because nobody ever deserved it; or maybe because he knew he’d fallen in love with you. Not because he needed to save you, or because he felt like falling for someone who he’d have to fix could be a welcoming challenge.

He knew people who treated depression like this; saviour complex in full effect, they needed to be the hero or heroine to stitch a broken heart.

No — he fell for you because you were you. Despite everything and every pain you endured, you were still you; and most of the you that you were before you got hurt this badly was still there, under the surface.

He saw those joyful parts of you reemerge sometimes, breaking through the waves. Sometimes, right before your head would fall again; your body weightless; drowning — he saw those parts on those days for a split moment.

But not right now.

In fact, the true parts of you that knew to feel happiness were absent now, and he knew — in that sense, he was prepared for you to utter what you said next. Was ready to hear it, no matter how little he actually wanted to hear it.

“And sometimes, when it got too much…” You gulped. Yoongi knew what you’d say; he knew. But— “I didn’t feel like being here anymore. It seems that was the only and last time I opened my family’s eyes.”

But when you still said it, it stabbed his heart like a dagger.

“Only, after that… it soon became irrelevant again,” you continued, “they told me I should be thankful for being alive and regret the mistake I made… what I tried.”

And you spoke on. Spoke on and on. He leaned back, allowing himself a better position to breathe. His heart felt like a sewing pin cushion, riddled with tiny holes. His eyebrows furrowed in agony, but he saw worse pain in your eyes.

Tears slowly reappeared.

“And when I was judged for this, too… I realised I didn’t regret ever trying to leave the world. I regretted that I’d failed to do so.”

Maybe he felt that way because nobody deserved it; maybe because he knew he’d fallen in love with you.

But your words split him in a million tiny shards, like glass, until his pieces became tiny enough to resemble dust.

”Am a burden… Am fucking burdening you…”

Yoongi’s voice defeats the others in your head just barely; as if you’re separated by a glass wall and hearing him from afar, only clearing when you hammer through it and break the surface. He’s quiet compared to your cries, a hand firmly on your back.

His grip around you wants to glue you together so desperately; he’s not letting go, even though you get restless soon, quivering and ruining his shirt.

“Hey, baby…” you hear him say, but you interrupt, obstinately shaking your head.

“No… I’m— I never should’ve let you this close and—”

“No.” It’s his turn to interject. And he does it with determination; tone suddenly so low, cold, so you silence. “Stop.”

You do, only now noticing that he’s imprisoning your wrists in his grasp. Not painfully, but still solidly enough for you to understand what he means. You confirm it for yourself when you look up.

You already know your eyes are bloodshot, cheeks thoroughly wet; but you still recognise the heavy breaths he draws. See something entirely different in his eyes than yours.

Pain.

You hurt him. And this time, you could once again lament your destructive behaviour, argue how you keep inflicting these shit ass feelings on him. But…

The ache in his expressions says something else entirely. Fills you with hope, fills you with guilt.

Shows you that he despises the thought of you possibly regretting this relationship. His gaze proves that he doesn’t. That if he could go back in time and meet you again, talk to you again, fall in love with you again — he would.

You know it because he’s said it before. You know.

But your brain is half melting, hurting, spitting all negative assumptions at you like nobody’s business.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” you stammer, pierced by the sorrow in his eyes.

“What?”

“I… shouldn’t have said that,” you start, gulping. Your crying ebbs down for a second as you register the growing agony in his heart, and you explain, “You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me, but I can’t stop thinking that…”

Break in conversation.

Then him again, “…That?”

“That you’d be better off without me. That you’re here so I stay alive and that you’d be less burdened with someone else…”

Another pause. 

He stares at you, as if pondering his answer. Bites into his lower lip softly and releases it right away. Blinks, looks to your wrists, lets go of them and then whispers, “Do you want to know? What I’m thinking, do you want to know that, too?”

“…What are you thinking?”

“That it’s true that I’m burdened.”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck.

The pain is searing, a burning arrow shooting through your heart. It’s what you expected and what you feared and what still hurts so much upon hearing and—

Are you crying again? Are you tearing up? You don’t know.

You’re not sure, but it does seem like you’re breaking once more when he shushes you carefully, touching your cheek. He calms you, and then speaks again—

“Of course I’m burdened, too. Yeah, of course. I’d be lying if I said seeing you like this doesn’t make me feel helpless… but do you know what it means that I’m still here?”

Your voice trembles when you speak, “Because you’re scared of leaving me in this condition.”

“No. I learned early enough to prioritise myself when I need to. No, I’m not leaving because I don’t want to — simple. Because I’ll share your, mine and the world’s damn pain along with my heart. ‘Kay?”

Retrospectively, his words sound logical. He said it’s simple, and in some way, it is. If you didn’t have the brain that you have, it would be. If you weren’t so neck-deep in the quicksand pulling you into doubts, you’d be less surprised at the finality in his tone.

“Baby—” you start, but he squeezes your hand, eyes glistening.

“We have enough enemies in this world. Don’t regard me as one, too. Okay? Please…”

“No, you’re not,” you defend, moving your head and the palm on your cheek along with it, “you’re anything but that.”

He nods, sniffling; you know he’s holding back the same salty, pouring liquid as you. He’s always done that, providing a sense of strength and safety to make you feel just that.

“We’ll be okay one day, love. The world hurts us a shit ton, and life is difficult, but…” His voice cracks here, and he waits to regain control, sighing. “We only get one of it and… it’d be so unfair if we were destined to stay like this, right?”

You don’t believe in divine beliefs that seemingly predetermine how your life plays out. Fate or destiny or whatever synonyms to notions that Jung or Freud believed in. You’ve heard of this stuff plenty in your studies, but it never affected your curiosity much.

You know Yoongi isn’t necessarily a representative of it either; not one to dive too deep into things that suggest the potential absence of a free will.

But the thought provides hope when nothing else does. You know. The fact that you can’t leave this world without fixing things; that you’re here to contribute to much larger and more important things.

You cannot have been born to spend your days here without the joy you deserve.

You’ve felt much of it thanks to Yoongi, but you’ve had too many setbacks to call this a proper life. You don’t want to end it like this. You don’t want to grow old like this.

And you want to gift him the life he deserves, too.

Fuck…

You need to get better. You need to get better. You need to get better.

You need to help yourself. Even if it takes time; even if the non-linear process of healing irks you, stealing hope and leaving anguish in turn. And it’s as if Yoongi reads your mind when he says—

“It’s okay, you know? To feel that way. It takes time. It doesn’t matter how much, but it’s okay to fall back and have ups and downs, as long as you don’t give up. Yes?”

“I can’t, I know… I— I won’t give up. I just… need you to be here.” Your voice is unsteady, and your heart is, too; fickle as can be. But you’d rather hang onto the aspiration right now… nothing else. “Don’t ever leave me, okay? I’ll fix this for us, I will.”

“For yourself first. I’ll be here, no matter what.”

“…I love you.” Your breathing is staggered, leftover pain still keeping the anxiety in your chest. It’ll take a while. But there’s power in your admissions when you repeat, “I love you so much.”

You lean in carefully, and he mimes the movement, bending into your kiss. It’s a peck, soft and gentle and encouraging, and you murmur through your sniffles, “So, so much.”

And then you climb up, using all your strength. Half your body comes to a rest on his; the immediate proximity and warm touch evoke motivation and longing in your heart. For not only him, but every second of a possible serene future, too.

This very hope is often born and reborn at the end of your lowest lows. It’s what pulls you up again, keeps you going each time before the next valley can swallow you. Sometimes it takes longer, sometimes not.

But you so desperately want this. Want it to work now.

You want to be okay. Want to travel and soak in the sun. Want to dance in the rain and scream from the peak of a mountain; want to snorkel in clear, blue seas.

The life you picture for yourself, the one you follow in those healing vlogs on social media — it’s what you yearn for. It’s what you want to feel. With him on your side.

Sometime in the future, you see yourself beaming in genuine happiness, see yourself smiling. And you want to work towards it. You’ve always wanted to.

Ever since Yoongi first showed you what love, contentment and merriment felt like, you’ve craved this. Ever since that night he told you he loved you, despite everything.

Despite, despite, despite.

He was there to catch your fall when you couldn’t keep yourself upright anymore. When your knees weakened and the ground turned into clouds, and you plunged through them and towards the cemented earth that’d shatter you.

He aided you in staying whole. Let you lean against his shoulder, nodding off into a slumber there, allowing you to dream because until then, you didn’t dare to.

You thought dreaming was pointless; just a fabrication of the unconscious mind to distract you from the horrors of the world. To keep you occupied, to torture you even when asleep. As time passed, you started making these horrors your life, and the line between reality and fantasy thinned.

Until…

Until he turned those nightmares into daydreams. Blossoming, vibrant colours appeared where you’d perceived greys before. Somehow, you fell apart a lot less when Yoongi spent his time with you, taught you to love again.

You became less terrified by dreams then, because the content changed. And whenever you weren’t dreaming, away from sleep, you experienced the utopia you’d always sought.

The day Yoongi first told you he loved you, you’d long defeated the semester you’d so worried about; started and survived the one after; and were now already tackling your very last one.

Even after all these months, you never let him forget how grateful you were for passing the last summer semester eventually, and in return, he never let you forget that he’d stay even after.

You didn’t study all the time anymore either; now, your afternoons and nights were filled with gentle words, promising embraces, lips against lips. It took some time to truly open up. To stop feeling like you were making a mistake.

“Doing yourself to him,” you called it, as if you were about to hurl him into his very own mistake.

Even then, you wanted to get better for him; you knew it hadn’t and wouldn’t happen overnight. All of it was much easier said than done; healing sounds so doable for those who attempt to support those who need it, yet they cannot grasp the meaning of a broken heart and scared mind.

But there was something so wonderful about the simplicity between Yoongi and you. So simple that it called forth feelings so complex. 

They were tough to navigate, but never tough to admit.

That March night, the sentiments roamed your body the clearest, even though the skies were anything but that. The thunder sounded like the universe had cracked; the white and silver of the striking lightning illuminated your room.

It was the night you felt hope in all its glory, for the very first time in years.

“You keep hiding from me,” Yoongi said, legs crossed like yours, sitting vis-a-vis.

He was close enough for your knees to collide, and when they did for the umpteenth time, he put a careful hand on your fingers resting on your thigh. You didn’t protest, so he didn’t withdraw.

“I’m not hiding from you. I just…” you stalled, “I just want you to be sure.”

“About you?”

If it had been this easy, you wouldn’t have asked. Because you knew the answer to this. Yoongi didn’t need to explain it to you; he was already certain about you to an indisputable degree.

You shook your head. Elaborated, “About everything. I don’t just come with the few good times we had the last couple of weeks. I come with… everything I’ve ever experienced and that shaped me into this.” You gestured over yourself. “You’d notice soon.”

“I already do.”

His answers and arguments came promptly, as if he knew the script to this talk and had already thought out every response he’d be giving. This was so effortless to him; thinking about it today, you wouldn’t even have needed to say a word.

But it was important to you. You couldn’t permit him to grow this attached without making sure.

“You just take it, do you? All that I am,” you concluded delicately; wanting to inform him, but so terrified of scaring him away. “But if you fall for me, then you’re committing. And I want you to think about it because I don’t— I don’t want to ruin your life.”

When he spoke again, he seemed to finally deviate from the script he knew; because confused, he asked, “If?”

“What?”

“What do you mean, if I fall for you?”

Oh… oh.

You understood. It didn’t take the tiniest of nanoseconds for you to fathom what he meant. And you could’ve sobbed right there and then, but the storm distracted you a little; the thunder was growling, threatening to explode again.

Somehow, the chaos outside kept you at bay. But only for so long.

“…Yoongi.”

His fingers moved from yours to your entire palm, taking it in his with a whisper of your name. Then, he clarified, “The possibility of something happening is redundant if it’s already happened, you know? And I’m…”

You held your breath, but at the same time, you were nearly panting. Maybe one first, then the other? You can’t remember anymore. You felt dizzy. Teary-eyed and joyful at once when you saw him at a loss of words.

“You’re?” you encouraged.

“I’m just so… feet deep underwater and in love with you that you couldn’t stop me if you wanted to.”

“I—”

“I love you. You know I do.”

Fuck… fuck, you knew.

Of course you knew.

Your heart was vile at times, cooperating with this demon of a brain and feeding you wrong information. But this, you knew. You fought through the congested mess of thoughts and admitted this to yourself every day.

Isn’t this why you were having this conversation in the first place?

But to hear him say it…

I love you.

You know I do.

“Even if you try to deny it,” he continued, “you know I love you and that I’ll keep doing it.”

This is when your waterline gave up; lined with the liquid you’d always held back. But why? There was no reason to. You felt at peace; Yoongi knew your heart. There was no use in keeping you closed off anymore.

So you cried. Let the first tear roll that he caught with his hand, holding your face so firmly that you thought it was the only thing keeping your head upright. Optimistic.

“There’s… there’s a chance that I start doubting you,” you contended for whatever stupid reason, sniffling, “that I doubt myself and then regret pulling you down with me and— there’s a chance I forget that you’ll keep loving me, no matter what, you know—”

“I’ll keep reminding you.”

“I’m a handful.”

“My hands are big enough, baby.”

The endearment didn’t slip past you, but instead made your beating organ swell. You don’t think you’d ever heard your pulse pounding in your eardrums this loudly. And he kept inching closer; his forehead nearly touched yours until it did.

“Can you love me even if I fall, Yoongi?”

“I’ll pick you up. You know that.”

“…What if you feel like you’re not good enough?”

Stop asking questions. Stop stop stop.

But he kept answering.

“Remember what you told me a couple days ago?” Yoongi asked, his voice quiet, drowning in the storm. “That it’d been long since you’d felt happy like this.”

“I do right now… I just…”

“Yeah, and I— I think. If I’m able to stay by your side and make you smile anyhow? Then I think this… we… are good enough.”

That’s it. Your throat was dry, your mind out of questions. You could renounce doubts if he didn’t have any either. He seemed convinced enough; so you admitted your own convictions to him, too.

“I’m… I love you, too. I love you, I fucking do.”

Your last word was cut, merely a breath. Swallowed when you leaned in and kissed him, pulling him back with you onto the bed. Yoongi landed on top of you, draping the two of you under the thin, floral blanket.

The early spring rain tapped your window softly before the gentle noise turned into more aggressive knocking and hammering. This very storm they’d announced was the reason Yoongi had stayed tonight.

That’s what he’d told you at least; in truth, it was an excuse.

Before today, you rarely spent your nights together.

Whenever you did, he allowed you your space in order to not overwhelm you. He knew you were cautious, slow, took your time to trust. He’d sleep on the couch or crawl back to you when you approached him in the dead of the night.

Touching his elbow gently, shaking him awake, telling him so sweetly that it drove him insane, “I don’t want to be alone.”

So he’d cuddle in when you sought out his arms, dozing so peacefully. It delighted him because whenever he didn’t slumber next to you, he’d hear you from the other room. Woefully moaning in your sleep, as if crying, turning.

He never saw or heard any of that when you leaned into his embrace, held onto his shirt. Never did anything more than sleep; he was content with that.

But tonight was different, less chaste than that — and he was content with that, too. 

You said you’d wanted to talk. And you had. You’d trembled through the conversation, heart combusting in your chest like it wasn’t part of you anymore, that treacherous thing with its own, stupid will.

But it thumped differently now when he kissed you like this. You felt the change so clearly when he held you, pushing you into the mattress; stripping you naked bit by bit; asking over and over again if you were okay, if he should stop.

You lived differently, too, when he pecked your bare skin, up and down, from head to toe, to and fro. His tongue explored your waist and your thighs and the wetness between your quivering legs.

And you loved differently when he immersed himself in you. Sighing and moaning against you as his tongue lapped you up. You felt the chills everywhere. Felt your shoulders rise, your hand in his long hair, the oxygen running out.

You’d nearly forgotten how such a moment felt — then again, you’d never experienced it like this before. You could barely breathe, and for the first time, you loved it. For the first time, it wasn’t your usual reason.

But the picture of the man over you pumping himself, covering his cock in the condom you’d bought weeks ago, just in case. Back when he started hanging around at your place. He was surprised about your preparation; was delighted about it, too.

And God… God, when he kissed you, sheathing himself in you, every inch connected with every piece of you. Souls and hearts and bodies merging. Moving in and out slowly, then a little quicker, cradling your face and kissing your neck.

Between all that, he kept asking if you were doing okay, and you said you’d never felt better. And the best part was that you fucking meant it and that’s when you knew—

That Yoongi warmed your coldest, most frigid spots. Helped you find a sense of heat that you’d long forgotten, that not even summer could ever bring back. The spring was right inside you, in the middle of your chest despite the rain.

But at the same time, somewhere next to it, he was there, too, becoming the storm that raged outside.

All at once, you remembered again. Even if you might forget in your worst times; even if he’d really need to remind you again.

You remembered that you could be loved, and that you were deserving of love.

You remembered that love towards somebody is often subjective and it’s not entirely up to you who feels it for you, and that only because somebody else was unable to give it to you the right way… it doesn’t mean everyone would act the same.

Yoongi was the spring and the storm; the rainbow you saw the next morning as the sky cleared.

Your mother used to struggle with migraines. Back then, you’d see her tied to the bed for half a day, struggling to get up, sleeping for a couple hours after swallowing her sumatriptan.

The evening or the morning after, you’d ask her how she was doing, and she’d say the headache was gone, but that some of the pressure still lingered. She’d feel it in the heaviness of her head, like it was falling against her clavicles.

Back then, you were too young to understand; you still don’t suffer migraines, knock on wood. But you somehow get what she meant — you guess the same applies to any other part of your body.

Like the soul.

They say a body becomes lighter after death since the soul leaves; and the morning after bawling in Yoongi’s arms, you feel the opposite. Like your grief makes you weigh more than during your good days.

Like you’re heavier than a month ago, without gaining a single kilogram.

But at least that means you’re alive. A soul intact.

And, just like your mother’s medicine, the night alleviated at least some of your pain. Maybe it was the conversation with Yoongi. Maybe the reassurance that he didn’t perceive you as the task you thought you might be.

Many years ago, you refused to seek help in others; be it loved ones, a partner or a therapist. Yoongi taught you to own who you were and to admit the problems you faced; that they were as valid as anything else.

Living with him and loving him this profoundly showed you that it’s okay to confide in someone. That someone will care. But it also taught you that ultimately, nobody is responsible for your well-being as much as you are.

That to heal, you need to accept yourself. That to accept yourself, you need to acknowledge the issues you face.

And for that, you need to be ready to combat your demons, understand that they can be fought.

You’ve always known that. In that sense, it isn’t true that you’re fully dependent on Yoongi. You know deep down that you’ll be the one pulling you out of this.

But…

It’s never bad for someone to initiate that thought process, is it? Even when it’s you emerging from the grave you dug for yourself; it’s okay to grab the hand as the earth breaks, pulling you out of the dirt and darkness.

Yoongi is the rope helping you out; but you’re the one to walk on once the endless well ends and you spot the daylight. You can rely on him. You can rely on yourself.

You’ll be okay… you’ll be okay.

“Ready?” Yoongi asks as you slip into your shoes. You look up, and nod, your smile soft. “Just a few more days, right?”

Right. 

You’ll live day by day. Survive the hours, strive towards a better future. Count your blessings, find things to look forward to. It’s alright to fall sometimes, and whenever you do, you’ll remember you’re not alone.

That you’ll get up eventually. You hold onto this.

And onto those few last days until vacation calls. You booked it so long ago; it can be that one thing to grasp, to look forward to, right?

And… you laugh. Because you remember Yoongi telling you to get your nails done, that he’d even go with you. “But do not forget, because blue suits Greece and I’d love to see the colour on you.”

You act like you don’t know what his plea means. You act like you don’t know how much he loves you. How this very approaching plan of his proves that he couldn’t even let go of you if you gave him another reason to.

Isn’t this enough to understand that he never feels guilty of loving you?

Why are you so afraid…

Because.

Yoongi never viewed your pain as something you had control over or something you caused; whoever hurt you is at fault, not you. And Yoongi knows that; knows that you matter, with your past and present and future, however cruel they might be.

But despite the fact that your past made you who you are, and that your future will determine how you’ll further turn out to be, Yoongi always preaches to focus on the controllable.

We won’t ever be able to manage the future entirely; maybe you won’t even ever be faced with the fears you harbour, you know? The past is the past, the present is the present and the future is the future. They will torment us if we put too much meaning in them.

I know it’s hard. But it’ll be alright. One day, it will be — you’re okay.

It has to be…

You’ll be okay. You’re okay.

The weather might change at warp speed — but soon, it’ll be sunny again.

i know i said it's okay if you skip this one, but if you're reading this, you might not have, and i'm thankful for that <3 i needed these feelings out of my system, so it felt very cathartic to me. maybe it helped you a little, too? i hope so, at least – things will be okay 🤍

what do you think? since you're here, i'd love to know how you feel about this piece 💕

[kitashousewife]

“yes, rintaro?”

“hi-jesus, a warning next time would be nice,”

“you called me,” you huff, picking at the now dried mask on your face in the small reflection of the facetime. “what do you want, rin?”

suna is outside, walking rather quickly as the background is blurred around him. he lets out an airy laugh before looking at the screen.

“i’m drunk;” he smirks, continuing to walk but tripping a little, shaking the camera. you raise your eyebrows at him to continue. he sniffs. “and i’m coming over.”

“is your house broken or something?”

he giggles, then shakes his head. “nah, yours is closer though.”

you sigh and accept defeat. you knew your best friend was in the neighborhood from his social media posts, so it’s no surprise he’s deciding to drop in. it’s late though, well past midnight. you shuffle into your bathroom to rinse off the mask, setting your phone on the counter.

“when will you be here?”

he clears his throat and swallows. “i’m walking up the stairs, so 2 min-fuck-minutes,” he trips up the steps and groans.

“what? okay give me a minute, i’ll be right there,” you wash off your mask quickly and run to the door, realizing too late as you slide on your socked feet that you’re only in a t shirt, suna’s t shirt. you open the door to find a very intoxicated suna, leaning against your with heavy eyes and a smile, which turns to a frown when he sees you.

“hey, that’s mine,” he taps the collar of your shirt before pushing past you, slipping off his shoes and throwing his coat on the floor.

“you reek, rin. god, where were you?”

he smirks. now making himself comfy on the couch despite your protesting glares.

“the club a few blocks away, it was packed and-“ he hiccups. “y-yeah it was just busy. aran was there,”

“don’t fall asleep on my couch,” you tap his leg as you walk past, tidying up a little. he opens his eyes and sits up, slumped into the cushions. “how do you feel?”

suna doesn’t answer. he scrolls on his phone at full volume, completely ignoring you while chuckling at the different videos he comes across.

one of the worst things about your best friend was how stubborn he is normally, but that stubbornness triples when he’s had enough to drink.

you stand in front of him with your arms crossed for a few more seconds before you clear your throat. he finally looks up and waves.

“rin, why don’t you-“

“so yeah, aran was there and-“ he laughs at something on his phone, losing his train of thought.

“how about you take a shower?”

“no,” he pouts again. “why don’t you take a shower?”

you huff. “i’m calling aran to get y-“

“i think i’m going to take a shower,” he grunts, standing up and following you to the bathroom while you grab towels for him. when you finish turning the water, he begins to lift up his shirt.

“uh-uh,” you laugh to yourself and slip out the door, pulling it shut. “you can do that in private. take your time, i’m going to bed.”

“but what if i wanted you to see?”

you stutter. “y-you’re drunk, rin. just shower, please.”

you hear him clamber into the shower soon after and retreat to your bed. as you settle in, suna’s comment continues to nag at you. sure, he jokes around and has his fun with you. but in the many years being his best friend, he’s never made any sort of effort to make a move on you.

you feel dizzy, suddenly picturing suna in a way you had never before. it felt like jumping off the high dive and into water all at once.

“what am i supposed to wear?” a very wet suna waltzes into your room with a towel on his waist, and you wish you could jump into that pool right now. you can’t take your eyes off his torso, eyeing the defined muscle as they flex with every step.

“there’s s-some of your clothes here from last time, they’re clean i just forgot to give them to you,” you jump out of bed and rummage through your closet before handing him his belongings.

“oh cool,” he walks back to the bathroom, bumping into the wall on the way. you slink back to bed without another word.

just as you’re drifting off to sleep, your mattress dips.

“hi,” suna breathes, getting under your covers with you.

“what are you doing?” you hiss, voice a whisper. he stares back at you with an irritated look.

“painting a picture, what does it look like? i’m going to bed,” he huffs, pulling your covers over him and leaving your legs exposed to the cold air.

“rintaro,” you pull the covers back over you and he groans. “i don’t want to hear it! if you’re going to sleep in my bed at least share.”

he remains quiet, making himself comfortable on the other side of the bed. meanwhile, your heart is racing and your mind is fighting between being bothered and pining over your best friend.

“did you use my shampoo?”

“of course i did,” suna’s voice is tired as he finally settles in. “the extra stuff you gave me sucks. and you smell good so thought i’d use it,”

your heart skips a beat. you don’t say anything, though.

your eyes get a little heavy, mind finally relaxing as the heavy sounds of suna’s breathing lull you to sleep.

the next morning you wake up next to your best friend, blinking a few times before you get a good look at him. he’s resting against the pillow, your blanket pulled up to his bare chest while he scrolls on his phone.

“good morning rin,” you mumble, yawning and sitting up. “did you sleep okay? are you feeling today today?”

“slept great,” he mumbles, eyes not leaving his screen. “i feel okay. head hurts,”

you nod, handing him your water bottle and an aspirin from your bedside table which he happily takes.

“thanks for letting me stay here by he way,”

“of course,” you watch as he sits up, blankets falling to his hips and showcasing his muscles once more.

“i feel bad that you had to deal with me,” he looks you in your eyes and for some reason, it feels different from normal. you shrug.

“i don’t mind.”

he smirks and gets comfortable once more, but begins typing on his phone with a giggle.

“what’s so funny?”

“nothing,” he smirks at the screen. “i just told aran we slept together, though.

“rintaro!”