#on my way home and now I have mixed feelings about this

[here2bbtstrash]

look down on me like that - 11 (explicit)

genre: slow burn enemies to lovers hatefucking coworkers au, smut, angst

pairing: yoongi x reader

summary: your asshole coworker min yoongi has made it his personal mission to ruin your life.

word count: 23.1k 🙇‍♀️🙇‍♀️🙇‍♀️

contains: mentions of suicidal ideation, depression, panic attacks, therapy. many scenes featuring alcohol (naturally) and a brief weed-smoking interlude. a whole lot of tears!!! but also everyone heals, yay!! we have a lot of conversations about trauma and family/childhood shit and accountability!! also the scammys are back (boooo) - plus a smidge of phone sex ft. reader masturbating.... as a lil treat 🤪

A/N: i told y'all i was gonna fuck it shibal this out and here we are!!! omg omg omg. i don't have the words, but thank you for being here. thank you for waiting TWO YEARS. thank you for even caring at all about this insane story that has been rotting in my brain since 2023. i am so, so proud to bring you this final chapter. neither it nor i would be here today if it weren't for a metric truckload of support from my incredible friends/beta team/personal peanut gallery: @sailorsoons @moni-logues @eoieopda @daechwitatamic @jihopesjoint @yoongukie-ff - i don't know what i did right in a past life to end up cared for by such incredible humans. y'all mean everything to me.

read on AO3!

chapter ten | masterlist

~*~

It’s quiet in Yoongi’s studio. He’s slipped his headphones off, frustrated, and now lets them clatter onto the desk as he slumps back in his chair. He stares at the track on his monitor like it’s a puzzle he can’t figure out.

It hits him all at once: he’s tired. Tired of looping this shitty song over and over, playing with the mix, adding new layers just to delete them again, unable to make it into anything worth anyone’s time. He’s tired of working until his contacts sting in his eyes and exhaustion feels like it’s sunk right down to the marrow of his bones.

If he’s honest, he’s fucking tired of living like this.

Yoongi exhales hard and the sound feels deafening in the quiet of the room. The soundproofing is decent in here, but he knows even if he flung the door open and screamed down the hallway, there’d be nothing else to hear except the echo of his own voice.

And no one to hear it. He’s the only one left in the building, has been for hours.

An issued key to the front door glimmers on its ring, next to his half-drunk coffee. Hasn’t even been long enough for the polish on it to dull.

His whole life is so much quieter, lately. In a way, that’s what he wanted.

Or at least what he asked for.

Yoongi reaches a hand back to rub at his shoulder, trying to work out the dull ache that’s blooming there, mouth twisting into a half-grimace. All of his joints feel stiff from sitting still for so long– he told himself he’d only put one more hour in tonight, and that was two hours ago. He really should leave, but he knows full well that when he packs up his things, shuts the studio door behind him and heads for the exit, he’ll walk by a desk that’s sat empty for weeks now. He’ll get into a car that’s too quiet, glance over at a passenger seat with no one in it, then drive home to a dark apartment.

All this empty space. It didn’t used to bother him.

The downturn of his mouth flattens out again as his gaze refocuses on the screen in front of him. He doesn’t want to think anymore, about that, or anything else. Introspection never leads him anywhere productive. He wants to work, to get this fucking track done so he can go home.

He straightens his spine, stifles a yawn, reaches for his headphones and steels himself for another listen through. Maybe all the issues have magically worked themselves out, he thinks dryly, and then the sudden buzz of his phone against his desk makes him start a little.

The noise drags out long enough for him to realize someone is calling him– who the fuck is calling him?

With a huff of frustration, he grabs for it, and then his headphones are dropping out of his hand, missing the desk entirely and plummeting straight down to the carpet under his feet. In the moment, he’s not even sure he notices.

Not when the name on his phone screen has just knocked all the breath out of his lungs. Because, well, it’s you.

He never did change your contact name.

But why are you– fuck, isn’t it late in California? Or early?

Yoongi’s head spins as he tries to remember the math, and then it occurs to him that his phone’s been ringing in his hand the whole time and he’s probably running out of chances to–

At what feels like the last possible second, he taps the button to answer the call. Taps again to put it on speaker. Doesn’t say anything. What the fuck is he supposed to say? Hi? How’s it going? Do you hate me?

There’s a long pause on the other end, enough to make him wonder if you’re already regretting the decision to call. Or maybe this was an accidental dial from the inside of your purse, or the back pocket of your jeans, while you’re out enjoying your warm, sunny, new life.

If he’s honest, he’s having a hard time trying to conjure up a reason why you’d want to talk to him at all.

And then you’re heaving a sigh and murmuring, “‘Course you don’t have a fucking voicemail message.” 

Or at least that’s what he thinks he hears. The words all sort of run together.

But that’s your voice, unmistakably so. Yoongi feels the sound of it kick through him.

“Asshole,” you punctuate, and he winces. He supposes he deserves that.

There’s a shifting sound on the other end of the phone, like you’re moving around a bit, wherever you are. Maybe in bed, maybe on the bathroom floor. They seem equally likely given your current state. 

“Alright, fuck it,” you say like you’ve finally decided on something, voice a little muffled, like maybe you’ve got your hands over your face. Maybe you’re exhausted, too.

“I guess,” you continue, “I‘m just gonna say what I wanna say, and then you can… fucking deal with it whenever you listen to this. And if you don’t like it you can just delete it. Or block me, or whatever. I guess it doesn’t matter.”

This is by far the drunkest he’s ever heard you. Which is saying something.

It takes a second for the reality of it to click into place, and then it dawns on him. You, apparently, have not realized that he actually answered his phone, probably aided by the fact that he hasn’t fucking said anything.

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to quickly figure out how to proceed here. Fuck, he’s not good at shit like this.

And then you start talking.

“My friends are all mad at me tonight,” you say, and Yoongi keeps his eyes closed. “I showed up so late to this party, when I promised them I would be here. I fell asleep at my desk, working late, after everyone else had left for the day. I work like, all the time now. I guess it’s a distraction. Tiff says I’m pushing everyone away to keep myself from getting hurt again. Which is like. Yeah, probably.”

Your breath hitches slightly, sticks on a self-pitying laugh. “When I finally got here, I was like hours late, so I tried to catch up to everyone. But nobody told me Vernon makes his Jello shots with fucking Everclear and now I’m just… way, way too fucked up. And it’s like I’m– I’m not even having fun. I don’t even remember how. How I used to.”

Yoongi tries to make his exhale as steady and as quiet as he can, tries to ignore the way he can feel his heartbeat in his throat.

“Fucking stupid.” He sees your voice in his mind’s eye, shaped like audio input on his monitor. A faint line wavering, unsteady, dropping in volume, shooting up again when you breathe in, a broken gasp. “This whole thing is so stupid. I’m so fucking angry, all the time. I don’t know what to do.”

The line stalls out– a long pause.

“You broke my heart.” The words come out all jagged-edged. “And now I’m just like you.”

And, well. That hits him like a truck.

“I threw my whole fucking life out and decided to come here, to get away from it all. And now I’m here and– it’s still everywhere. All over. I’m fucking miserable, and I wanna hate you for it, but I don’t. Not even close.”

Yoongi’s hand presses tight to his mouth, dry lips smudging over the lines of his palm, physically holding in this awful noise that threatens to tear out of the back of his throat.

“Half the time I wish I’d never fucking met you, and half the time I wish I’d never left. And I just… I don’t know. I don’t know what to do. About any of it. I don’t know how to stop being in love with you.”

The words hang there in the quiet of Yoongi’s studio, unfurling in his mind like ink in water. He can hear soft, tinny sounds through the phone speaker.

“So I guess you win,” you mutter, and it’s apparent in your voice now. You’re crying.

He scrubs his hands down his face, then shoves them through his hair. What the fuck is he doing, listening in on you like this? And why isn’t he saying anything?

In the empty space, you seem to come down from it a little bit; there’s a heavy shudder-sigh, then a sniff. A wet laugh. “Fuck. That was dramatic.” There’s noise on the line, like you’re dragging the phone closer. “God, how the fuck do you delete a voicemail?”

There’s a beep, then another, because you’ve started to aimlessly press buttons to try and delete a message that isn’t one, and if Yoongi’s going to say anything at all, it has to happen. Right fucking now.

So he swallows down the lump in his throat. And then he taps the button to end the call. Because he has no idea what to fucking say. How to make any of this better.

Yoongi pushes his chair back from his desk, lungs heaving air. He needs to take a fucking walk.

There are gaps in what comes next, like he is blinking in and out of reality. One minute he’s shouldering open the door to the lobby. Cars are rushing past in dizzying streams of light and sound. His face is wet, and he can’t quite catch his breath. He just keeps walking.

And then, all at once, there is the darkness of open water in front of him and a metal railing cool beneath his palms. Yoongi blinks out over the river, and it feels like he’s being unzipped, right down the middle. Like nothing has changed. Like everything has changed.

There’s footsteps, he hears them vaguely over the static in his brain. Steady rhythm, most likely a jogger, but then they start to slow before coming to a stop just past his shoulder.

So maybe it’s someone with worse intentions, he thinks, and it’s so unlikely, but there’s a fucked up kind of hope there. That it could be someone to flick open the line of a switchblade, find purchase right between his ribs, do for himself what he hasn’t figured out how to, hasn’t been brave enough to manage. Not even when he’s like this, on the precipice of it, close enough to taste it on his tongue: the allure of dreamless sleep.

He’s just so fucking tired.

When Yoongi turns back, he has to blink three times before he can process it. The figure standing a few feet behind him, in all-black athletic clothes, still breathing hard.

“Min Suga?”

“Jungkook?”

Yoongi is standing very still, but he wonders all the same if Jungkook can see it churning up inside of him. This dark, ugly violence.

“Is everything–?”

“I was just getting off work,” Yoongi answers simply, voice low. Jungkook’s head tilts a little.

“Walking home?”

Yoongi’s mouth pulls flat. “No.”

“Are you–?”

As if Yoongi is operating on a delay, the words he’s said finally catch up to him, shifting into place. Jungkook must track the way his eyes widen, because he loses his grip on whatever he was about to ask. Silence and warm night air hang in the space between them.

“The door,” Yoongi breathes. “Jungkook, I left the fucking door–”

He doesn’t finish the sentence before he starts running.

The city is a blur, just color and noise around him, useless, overwhelming. The only thing that matters is the thud of his sneakers on the concrete, underscoring the beat of his heart. Not again, not again, not again.

It isn’t until he’s jabbed the button for the elevator, and is standing there trying to take in air, that he realizes he’s not alone. Jungkook’s chest is heaving beside him. There’s a glisten of sweat at his temples.

“It’s okay,” Jungkook manages, and the words make Yoongi feel… insane. As if anything could possibly be o-fucking-kay right now. “Whatever happens. We’ll figure it out.”

The elevator chimes, and they step in together.

It’s quiet when they approach the glass doors. The lights are still on. No signs of obvious entry.

“I’ll go,” Jungkook says, and he’s pushing the unlocked door open before Yoongi can stop him. And Yoongi doesn’t stop him. He’s frozen where he stands, heart still hammering in his chest, hands shaking.

He is shaking all over, actually.

The minutes tick by, dreadfully slow, and then Jungkook is reappearing around the corner, Yoongi’s bag slung over his shoulder and the key in his hand. There’s no sound except the door easing closed behind him, and the click of the key in the lock.

Then Jungkook finally speaks. “Everything’s fine. Nobody took anything.”

Yoongi is still unraveling.

“It’s okay,” Jungkook stresses, and his brow is furrowed, like he’s really worried about something. “You made a mistake, you’re human. It’s okay.”

Yoongi doesn’t even think about it. All at once, his face is just– pressed to the smooth material of Jungkook’s shirt, leaving wet spots behind. There’s a split second where Jungkook stiffens, and then his arms are locking over the width of Yoongi’s back, and he’s pulling Yoongi that much tighter into his chest.

“You’re okay,” Jungkook says again, voice softer, and Yoongi fucking breaks down.

It’s a long time before Yoongi can get words in his mouth again. When he finally does, his voice is wrung-out.

“I– uh. Thanks. For that.”

Jungkook releases him, and Yoongi immediately puts space between them again, gaze skimming across the floor. He sniffs once, mouth drawn up tight.

“Did you eat, hyung?”

Yoongi glances up, not expecting the question, or how casually Jungkook asks it. Like nothing just happened. Like they’re old friends catching up.

Jungkook is already pressing the button for the elevator.

“Come on,” he says, turning back to meet Yoongi’s gaze again. “I want lamb skewers.”

Jungkook leads them out of the building and down a few blocks and Yoongi just follows, hands swiping at his cheeks, not really feeling like any part of this is real.

It’s nice, though. Just having somebody to follow.

It’s silent between them, and Yoongi can’t help but wonder if that’s for his benefit– quiet doesn’t seem to be Jungkook’s default state, not at work anyway. He’s always chattering on about some mobile game or the latest trend on TikTok– but he doesn’t seem uncomfortable with it, is the thing. Seems perfectly content to sit across from Yoongi and watch the skewers of meat turn over the coals and not talk.

Yoongi tips his head back, eyes closed as he chews, and feels himself coming down from it. Stepping back from the edge.

“You can head out if you want, Jungkook-ah,” he murmurs around his next bite. “Don’t let me keep you.”

“And what will you do?”

Yoongi hums a note, staring down at the table between them. “Go home. Probably get drunk.” Honesty comes easy to him in this moment. He doesn’t see a point in trying to act like he’s in a better headspace. Not after what Jungkook’s already seen tonight.

“Do you like Irish bombs?”

He blinks, surprised at the question, then looks up. “I– yeah. Do you?”

Jungkook’s eyes crease at the corners as a laugh floats out of him. “Why is everyone so shocked that I drink too?”

Yoongi’s mouth ticks up. “Hey, you’re allowed to, you know. Contain multitudes.”

“There’s a good place,” Jungkook nods toward the front door. “Around the corner.”

“I’m afraid I’m not much company tonight.”

Jungkook shrugs, like it doesn’t matter. “It’s fine, hyung. Come on.”

Yoongi doesn’t really know what he’s doing. But the beers go down easily enough, and so he orders a whiskey neat, even manages the ghost of a laugh when Jungkook sheepishly orders his with soda, then still does this throat-clearing hiss of a noise at the first taste.

He’s swirling his drink aggressively, in what Yoongi assumes is some misguided effort to better disguise the taste of liquor, when he says seemingly out of nowhere, “Can I ask you a question, hyung?”

Yoongi nods, takes another sip of his own drink.

Jungkook is now sliding his glass back and forth across the table, palm to palm. “Why Suga?”

It takes a second for the question to make sense, and then Yoongi sucks in air through his teeth when the realization clicks, shaking his head a little. “Come on, how long have we worked together? And you’ve never heard this story?”

There’s no way he hasn’t, but Jungkook shakes his head innocently, gaze still locked tight on his glass. “Nope.”

Yoongi’s fingers drum a steady beat against the dark wood of the bar. It’s easy, telling this story; makes him feel more like himself. “I loved basketball as a kid. To play, to watch. Still do. Though I haven’t played in years now. But when I did, I was the shooting guard. So when I needed a producer name– took the first syllable of each. Su-ga.” He huffs a self-deprecating breath that flutters his shoulders. “It’s really not that interesting.”

Jungkook hums, thoughtful. “Why not just use your real name?”

Yoongi makes a face. “Suga is more like… a facet of me. There’s a separation there. I wanted there to be.” Jungkook is slow-blinking, like he doesn’t quite follow, and the whiskey is starting to loosen Yoongi’s tongue, so he keeps going with it. “It’s all just different versions of me, right? Suga, Agust D, Min Yoongi.”

Jungkook’s gaze snaps up. “Wait, Agust D?”

Ah, fuck. “I didn’t–” Yoongi fumbles, trying to find the right words. “Let’s not go there. Just forget I said anything.”

It appears to be an impossible task for Jungkook, who is already shifting excitedly in his seat, retrieving his phone as if he immediately needs to scour the internet. “Hyung, do you have, like– secret music?!”

“No, no. Not yet.” Yoongi wishes he could think more clearly, but it’s all cotton-fuzz numb in his brain, more from easing out of an adrenaline rush than the liquor. His face is hot with embarrassment. “I don’t know. Probably never will.”

“But you want to?” Jungkook prompts, and he shrugs.

“I– it would be nice.”

This seems to stir something up in Jungkook, his spine straightening out, like the conversation is suddenly one of utmost importance. “You shouldn’t wait. To go after your dreams.”

At that, Yoongi outright laughs into his glass, shakes his head as he swallows a mouthful down. “Dreams are overrated, Jungkook-ah. I used to dream about being a professional basketball player.”

Jungkook’s eyes are shining. “And then you dreamed to make music.”

“And look at me now,” Yoongi quips, voice thick with sarcasm. “Living the dream, and still miserable.”

The ice cubes in Jungkook’s glass clink together as he rolls it between his palms. His voice is softer when he speaks again. “So maybe it’s time to try a new one.”

Yoongi sighs. “I don’t have time. I work too much as it is.”

Jungkook deflates a little, but he’s got this look on his face like he’s trying to work out the answer to a difficult question: brow furrowed, lips pursed, eyes sweeping over the bar.

“Are you doing it all on your own?” he finally asks, and Yoongi just gives another shrug.

“I guess that was the plan. You’re only the– second person I’ve said the idea out loud to, so.”

There’s a pang behind Yoongi’s ribs as the words hang in the air, and Jungkook nods, and Yoongi knows. Knows that Jungkook gets it. Knows that Jungkook’s not touching it.

“I have this friend,” Jungkook says instead. “You two should meet. His name is Chan and he is an amazing producer, seriously– I mean, nobody is in the same league as you, of course. But. Maybe it would be easier, right? If you weren’t trying to do it all by yourself?”

Yoongi takes another slow sip of his drink before he answers. “I’ll think about it.”

He’s surprised that Jungkook doesn’t push it, that all he does is nod his head along to the music playing low over the speakers, letting them lapse back into a silence that is somehow, just– comfortable.

When they’ve both finished off their drinks, Yoongi gets to his feet. “Come on, my car’s at the office. I’ll drive you home.”

They’re walking the few blocks back, the city humming steadily around them, when out of nowhere, Jungkook’s voice cuts through the sound. “Can I tell you something?”

“Go ahead.”

He sucks in this big breath of air, and Yoongi has no idea what to expect. But then he starts to talk. “You know, when I was a kid. In school, and stuff. I was bullied. Like, really badly, actually. It got to the point where I was having panic attacks every morning, just at the thought of going to school. Having to deal with it all. It felt so impossible sometimes.”

Yoongi doesn’t answer, because it seems like Jungkook needs to get this all out, like his brake line’s been cut. So he lets him go and just listens, the two of them walking side by side.

“And for a while,” Jungkook continues, “It just made me, like. Pull away. From everybody, from everything. I stopped talking in class, stopped hanging out with my friends. Didn’t go to Taekwondo. I just thought it would be easier if I lived… the smallest life possible. Like if I didn’t do anything to draw attention to myself, then everyone could, I don’t know.” Yoongi looks over in time to see his shoulders shrug. “Forget about me, I guess.”

“And how did that go?” Yoongi asks, even though he’s starting to feel like he already knows the answer.

The laugh that Jungkook breathes out doesn’t reach his eyes. “I was so, so lonely, hyung.”

There’s a lump in Yoongi’s throat, and he doesn’t try to speak around it.

Jungkook’s voice comes back again, stuttering, like he’s unsure. “I-I just want you to know that you don’t have to be like that. Lonely. If you don’t want to be.”

And, yeah, Yoongi thinks to himself. That is, actually, exactly what he fucking is.

“Hyung?” Jungkook murmurs, and there’s this urgency in the way he says it that makes Yoongi glance at him again. His eyes are a little red. “If we– if I hadn’t, uh. Seen you. Would you have...”

He trails off, and it takes Yoongi a second to finish the sentence in his head, to remember where he was when Jungkook found him, white-knuckle gripping on the edge of it all. “No,” he answers firmly, maybe a little too quick. “No, I promise.”

Jungkook swallows, nods once. “But you were– thinking about it?”

“A little bit, yeah.”

I always am, Yoongi thinks to himself, but he doesn’t say that part out loud. Jungkook doesn’t need to carry that around with him.

There’s a long, heavy pause between them, punctuated by a soft sniff from Jungkook. Then he finally manages another question.

“Do you want to know what I do, sometimes? When it’s all just, like… too much?”

It takes Yoongi a few more paces before he realizes that Jungkook has stopped walking. When he stops to turn over his shoulder with a questioning hum, he sees Jungkook behind him, tipping his head back and letting out this big, primal shout.

“You’re drunk,” Yoongi says with a laugh.

“Try it! Just like a….” He does it again, fists balled up at his sides, and it’s almost triumphant this time, a victory cry.

Yoongi feels it all buzzing through him, his nerves open-wound raw. But he’s smiling.

And then he’s closing his eyes and shouting up to the sky: a messy, ugly sound, echoing in the warm night air. But it’s honest.

He opens his eyes, and Jungkook is beaming, proud, painted in the glow of a streetlight. “Feels good, huh?”

Yoongi nods, because it does.

~*~

It’s a few weeks later that Jungkook asks if Yoongi wants to take a walk after work, and he agrees. He’s started doing that more and more lately. Saying yes. Mostly to little things: office lunches and happy hours, team meetings. Boxing classes, which he actually liked a lot more than he expected.

And really, it’s not so bad, getting outside the four walls of his lab. It’s a good distraction, at least.

Yoongi finds it a little suspicious that Jungkook is walking so purposefully as he leads them down a few blocks. Even more so when their destination just so happens to be a park with a basketball court.

And when the dark-haired guy leaning up against a car in the parking lot starts walking toward them, a ball tucked under his arm, Yoongi scoffs.

“Oh, I see. This is an ambush.”

Jungkook hums a questioning note, like he has no idea what Yoongi’s talking about. “Hyung, this is my friend Chan. He’s a producer too, did I ever mention him to you?”

Yoongi rolls his eyes, but still catches the ball when it’s tossed his way. “You’re full of shit, JK.”

Chan’s only greeting is a nod of his head, and Yoongi returns it. They both seem to be waiting on him, and he hisses out a dry laugh.

“I’m not playing. Not for real. I’m too old.”

Chan lifts his hands, palms out, like he’s not trying to fight. “Whatever you want. It’s cool.”

Yoongi keeps the ball, though– lets it drop onto the asphalt a few times, getting used to the feel of it under his palms. Shakes his wrists out, rolls his shoulders back, all his stiff places cracking. It’s been a long time. He lazily tosses it up a few times, knees flexing, just trying to get his form right.

“Chan said he’d be down to help you work on your mixtape,” Jungkook finally admits. When Yoongi glances over, he’s rocking back and forth on his heels, hands shoved into the pockets of his work slacks, mouth drawn up tight.

“I don’t have a mixtape,” Yoongi mutters, words almost lost under the steady sound of the dribbling ball.

“But you could,” Chan offers, circling him, not unlike a shark. “Hyung, if you want to make music, you should make music.”

“I do make music.”

Chan laughs a little, makes a face as if to concede that Yoongi’s not wrong. “Yeah, but like. Music that’s for you, you know? It’s different. You’re not trying to keep another artist’s brand in mind, you’re just… speaking from the heart. Saying what you wanna say.”

Yoongi shrugs the suggestion off. “I don’t have time.”

At this, Chan seems to brighten a little. “So let us help. If you’ve got rough ideas of what you want, just send them over. I can polish them up, then we can fine-tune or rework parts as needed. I can help mix and master. I’ve taught Jungkook a little bit, too. He helps me with my guides a lot.”

“He really is good, hyung,” Jungkook says softly, lips still pursed like he’s nervous. “I sent you some of his stuff.”

He did. Yoongi’s listened to it, and he knows Jungkook’s right. He keeps his gaze fixed tight on the ball in his hands, watching it bounce as he dribbles aimlessly. His thoughts feel like they’re going a mile a minute. 

“I’m not– I don’t want to waste your time.” Yoongi sighs as he lets himself get into it. “If we do all of that work, and I hate it, and I just want to scrap the whole thing. Or, or–” His chest starts to feel like it’s caving in, a little; he tries to breathe through it. “If we put it out there and nobody likes it. Or nobody cares. I can’t see why anyone would have interest in what I have to say, anyway.”

The ball thuds a heartbeat against the asphalt as Yoongi keeps going.

“‘Cause you know, who am I? Some producer? Some rich, out-of-touch, depressed asshole?” He shakes his head. “It’s just… probably not worth the hassle. I think some things are like that, you know. Better left as imagined ideals. Sometimes it’s better to just not try, ‘cause it’d be too painful to fuck it up. Reality is–”

“Hyung.”

Chan says the word forcefully enough that Yoongi glances up. Chan’s gaze is steely when their eyes meet, and Yoongi feels– a little ashamed, suddenly. Like maybe he’s overcomplicating this.

“Take the shot,” Chan directs, jutting his chin toward the net, and then Yoongi realizes that, yeah. He’s just been standing here dribbling all this time. Hasn’t even put it up once.

So he nods, drops the ball down one more time, then settles it between his palms. Brings it up, softens his knees. Gets out of his head, focuses on the thing in front of him, and for a few seconds, the rest of the world falls away. He sucks in a breath, and then he takes the shot.

It’s a pretty one, entirely silent, save for the swish of the net.

Chan’s voice comes back almost immediately, and Yoongi’s head jerks to take him in again. “Now in that moment– did you think about any of that shit?”

Yoongi’s mouth pulls flat, but it’s enough of an answer.

Chan’s already jogging up the court, retrieving the ball where it rolled to a stop against the perimeter fence. He keeps it tucked under his arm as he makes his way back, and there’s the ghost of a smile on his face as he steps in close to Yoongi.

“Sometimes, you just need to take the fucking shot.”

He passes the ball back, hard. Yoongi barely gets his hands on it before it knocks into his chest.

~*~

That Friday, in his studio, Yoongi tries not to think about it.

Jungkook is stretched out longways on the couch, scrolling aimlessly on his phone; he’d hung around as the rest of the office emptied out, and then Chan showed up with a bottle of whiskey– motivation, he’d quipped– and a devious grin. He’s made himself at home in Yoongi’s desk chair, getting the bones of a track ready, expanding off an idea Yoongi had sent over earlier in the week, the night he’d actually agreed to this.

Why the fuck did he agree to this?

They’ve had a few drinks– well, Yoongi and Jungkook have– but it hasn’t quite managed to get him calm. He drains the last of what’s in his cup now, trying to go back over the lyrics in his head, even though he knows he knows them.

He’s had this song written for years, actually.

“Alright,” Chan’s voice breaks Yoongi’s concentration, punctuated by the sound of him drumming his palms against the desk. “Should be ready for you.”

Yoongi’s mind is still racing as he gets situated, pulling on the headphones he’s had slung around his neck. He feels the muscle in his jaw tighten as he glances over at Chan and nods once, and then the track starts up in his ears.

He steadies himself. Gets out of his head, focuses on the thing in front of him, and for a few seconds, the rest of the world falls away. He sucks in a breath, and then he steps up to the mic.

~*~

“Thank you,” Yoongi keeps his eyes fixed on the table, diligently pouring soju into his glass. “For agreeing to meet with me. I know it’s been a long time.”

Just like that, the days have somehow slipped away into months. A few months now that he’s– they’ve been steadily working on this– well, project. This mixtape. His mixtape.

And the thing is, Yoongi’s starting to think that he actually likes what’s coming out of all those late nights in his studio. It’s not perfect, and certainly not finished. But when he listens to the rough drafts they’ve compiled, shuts his eyes, lets the music open up those places inside of him he usually keeps locked down and closed up tight, it just feels different this time. It feels like he’s onto something.

He lets that be enough, for now. Tries not to worry too much about what comes next.

There’s a scoff from across the table. “Yeah, well. I think my agent was doing cartwheels after getting a call from the producer Suga to set up a business meeting.”

Yoongi glances up to see a knowing glint in Jimin’s eyes, his expression all too familiar.

“Of course,” Jimin continues casually, “it was obvious to me that you purposefully planned your schedule so that our visits to New York would overlap, because you wanted to chase down the one that got away. The person that you’ve been in love with all this time, never able to move on from, even after a decade apart.”

Jimin holds Yoongi’s gaze for the longest three seconds of his life, and then he can’t keep his laughter in any longer. He nearly falls off the bench seat. Yoongi’s mouth twitches at the corner, but he’s never been one for big outbursts, the way Jimin is. In some ways, he’s a little envious of that.

“Jesus, Park. How did you get worse since we were teenagers?”

“Hey,” Jimin holds up a finger as if to make a counter-argument, still giggling a little. “At least I keep my clothes on now. Mostly.”

Yoongi realizes he’s smiling despite himself. He hadn’t expected it to be this comfortable, that they could just pick up where they left off. But Jimin is like that, he remembers now. Easy to talk to. He sips down the liquid in his glass, then sets it on the table again.

“I thought it was time we got back in touch, is all. And I appreciated the ticket to your show.”

Jimin cards a hand through his hair, mouth pulled into a smirk. “Figured you should see how much better I’ve gotten in ten years.”

“Ah,” Yoongi waves his words away. “I always knew you’d be good. You were good back then, too, and your work ethic was…” He sucks in a breath through his teeth, considering. “Insane, really. I remember you were always the last one to go home, always practicing so much harder than everyone else.”

There’s a distant look in Jimin’s eyes as he stares down at his own empty glass, running a fingertip around the rim, before he reaches for the bottle to top them both up. “Do you remember what you used to tell me?”

Yoongi makes a soft, low noise, gaze suddenly locked on the table again. Because yeah, he does remember. And he thinks he knows where this is going.

“‘You don’t have to work this hard.’”

A breath of a laugh punches out of Yoongi when he glances up to find Jimin looking at him, like he can see right through him. “Are you quoting me or telling me?”

Jimin’s eyebrow lifts, barely discernible. He doesn’t blink. “Just thought maybe you needed to hear it, hyung.”

The way Jimin emphasizes the last word and stares pointedly at Yoongi makes him hot all over, enough that he shifts a little in his seat, clearing his throat. He reaches for a skewered fishcake, if only for the distraction, then finally hums another wordless answer.

“I’d actually say my life improved drastically when I decided to stop making everything so hard all the time. Because it really doesn’t have to be.” Jimin flicks his bangs out of his eyes, like he’s satisfied with his own wisdom.

Yoongi’s fist smacks against the table, and as he fires back, he can hear the tone to his voice that only Jimin seems to be able to pull out of him– the other trainees used to say they fought like a married couple. “You are really just attacking me right now, huh, Jimin-ah? Like no time has passed?”

“Aish, it’s not an attack! Both of you! You and her, you’re so alike!” Jimin huffs, frustrated, his voice knife-edge sharp. The words hit Yoongi right in the center of his chest. “Taking everything so personally! And running circles around each other, for no reason. When it could all be easy if you let it.”

Fuck. Yoongi throws back the liquid in his glass, fills it up again, takes that one too. Breathes in deep as the rush of warmth pours into him. “I– she– that’s not actually what I wanted to talk about. Just so you know.”

His voice comes out low, a little uneven, and Jimin goes just as quiet. His gaze has softened when Yoongi finds it again, but Jimin doesn’t say anything. He folds his hands over each other on the table, almost like he’s waiting for Yoongi to continue.

A bolt of nerves travels up Yoongi’s spine. It’s a question he has to ask.

“But how is she?”

The corner of Jimin’s mouth just barely ticks up. “She’s good, hyung. Really good. I promise. She’s been… working on herself.”

Relief floods through Yoongi, and he leans back in his seat, exhaling a long stream of air. He reaches to pour himself another drink, and Jimin’s still quiet, like he’s letting Yoongi work out whatever he needs to work out.

“Did you know she called me?”

A flicker of surprise flashes over Jimin’s face as he takes the bottle back from Yoongi. “I didn’t.”

“Well, I wasn’t sure if she’d remember.” Yoongi’s chest is already tightening at the memory of that call, that night. “She was really drunk and, I don’t know. I picked up, but I think she thought it was a voicemail.” It’s all coming up now, undeniable, overwhelming, and he stares at Jimin across the table from him and just– says it.

“She, uh. Said she loved me.”

Jimin sucks a fishcake into his mouth, like it’s the least surprising thing in the world. “That makes two of you,” he says plainly, mouth full.

The words knock Yoongi off balance, and he blinks. “She– told you. About, uh. Me. That.”

“Of course she did.” Jimin chews, eyes narrowing, like he’s observing Yoongi carefully. “It really fucked her up, hyung. Everything that happened.”

“I know,” Yoongi answers. “It messed me up, too. In ways I’m still figuring out.”

Jimin nods, tongue prodding the inside of his cheek. “I guessed as much.” There’s a pause, and then he sighs. “Look, do you want my advice?”

All at once, Yoongi isn’t sure he’s ready for it. It’s too real and too much and he doesn’t think he’s had enough soju for any of this. He stutters for a second, then finally lands on, “I-I don’t know. Let’s just eat. Then, after. Maybe.”

Jimin makes a face as if to say, suit yourself.

Yoongi’s gaze sweeps over the table. “I’m working on an album, you know. Getting close to done now.”

“For who?”

“Uh, for me.” He swallows hard. “My first mixtape, I guess.”

Jimin’s eyes go wide, a smile playing at his lips, like he can’t quite believe it. “Wow, look at you. Finally doing it. Is it rap? Pop?”

“Some of both,” Yoongi shrugs, still uncomfortable with the attention. “Mostly rap, yeah.” He busies himself with eating as Jimin sips at his soju, and then a memory bubbles up. “Do you still rap?”

Jimin nearly spits his drink out. “Shut the fuck up,” he manages to cough, and Yoongi’s laughing too.

“I’m serious! It’s a real question!”

“Hyung,” Jimin groans. “I haven’t rapped in a decade. Please don’t remind me that I ever did.”

“Ahh, I always thought you were good!” It’s not not teasing. “You were!”

Yoongi’s still smiling at the picture of Jimin he can see so clearly in his mind: a decade younger, cheeks still full of baby fat, always with this put-on sneer, like he’d be quick to swing if you looked at him funny.

“I was such a try-hard back then,” Jimin mutters, and well, Yoongi can’t disagree with that. “Thought I had to be so tough.”

“You were cute,” Yoongi coos, and Jimin’s head hits the table with an audible thud. “Seems like you’ve grown into yourself, though. Like I’m not about to find you crying outside the bathroom anymore.”

“I can’t believe you remember that.”

“How could I forget?”

It was the first time he’d ever really seen Jimin break down, exhausted from the stress of it all, the demanding hours, and mostly the pressure he put on himself. Yoongi had found him like that: thick-framed dark glasses, swoop of an overgrown bowl cut casting a shadow over his tear-streaked face, balled-up fists smudging at the corners of his eyes.

Yoongi is having a hard time reconciling that Jimin of his past with the one sitting in front of him. “You’ve changed so much,” he says against the rim of his glass, and Jimin just shrugs as he straightens himself back out again.

“Everyone changes, hyung.”

Jimin says it so easily. It makes Yoongi wonder how he’s changed, too.

It takes him by surprise when Jimin continues the thread of that memory. “I was going to quit that night. I really was. I was so, so tired. So worn out.” He pauses, staring at a point over Yoongi’s shoulder, then laughs softly, like something’s just come back to him. “And then you sat down next to me, didn’t even look at me, and asked: ‘Do you like fried chicken?’”

“Oh,” Yoongi murmurs. “That’s right.”

The rest of it plays out in his mind as Jimin recounts that night, so many years ago now. He’d led Jimin down the street to a hole in the wall place; it was all either of them could afford at the time. They’d had to split the free soda, watering their halves down to make it enough for both of them.

“You didn’t say a word to me the whole time. We just ate and then walked back home, and the next day you acted like nothing had even happened.”

Yoongi nods. That much hasn’t changed; he’s never been good with his words. Not when it matters.

“But it always stuck with me. That you did that for me when you didn’t have to.”

There’s a long pause, because Yoongi doesn’t know what to do with that comment. It almost feels incongruent, trying to line it up next to the idea he has of himself in his mind. Like the two can’t coexist. “You seem a lot happier now,” he finally admits, and Jimin’s eyes draw up in a slight smile.

“I think I am,” he says with a nod, reaching to drain the last of the bottle of soju into his glass. Yoongi busies himself with cracking the lid of another. “And actually, I think it’s because I stopped mistaking emotion for weakness. You know? Life is… hard enough, without trying to fight everything I feel.”

And, well. That resonates, more than he’d like it to.

Yoongi grimaces as he pours his own drink. “There’s a lot I could learn from you, huh?”

“I’m wise as shit,” Jimin says, like it’s obvious. Their eyes meet over the rims of their glasses, and as soon as he swallows, Jimin keeps going. “So you tell me, why did we stop talking?”

Yoongi clicks his tongue, because he doesn’t have a good answer, except that that’s just the way he gets. How he operates. With everyone. “‘Cause we both gave up on our dreams?” he tries instead, but Jimin just shakes his head.

“Ah, we were kids. We didn’t even know what we wanted, not really. And dreams change. It’s not a failure.”

It’s not like Jimin’s said anything that intense– Yoongi doesn’t know why, all of a sudden, it’s like his chest is caving in. He clears his throat, rolls his shoulders back. Can’t quite look up to meet Jimin’s eyes, so he delivers the offer to his glass of soju instead. “Well, if you ever want to try it again. Rapping. I have this track that I think you’d be good on.”

“On your mixtape?” When he looks up, Jimin’s eyebrows are nearly at his hairline. “Hyung, that’s… like, a big fucking deal.”

“You don’t have to. Just putting it on the table.”

“This hyung,” Jimin mutters under his breath, and then he’s swallowing down his soju, like he needs it for strength. “I can’t believe I’m fucking saying this, but. Send it to me. I’ll see what I can do.”

Yoongi feels himself smile, really smile, big and broad. “Like you could ever say no to me.”

It’s somehow nearly two hours later by the time they stumble out of the restaurant, faces flushed from drinking, Jimin laughing hard enough that he can barely keep his feet under him as he breathlessly recalls the way Yoongi used to shove safety pins in the front of his beanies because he thought it made him look cooler. Yoongi’s got his arm slung around Jimin’s shoulders, half-holding him up, Manhattan blink-blinking around them, and he realizes: he’s missed this. Just having somebody who knows him like this. 

“Thanks again, for meeting up,” Yoongi mumbles, trying to unwrap himself from around Jimin, but before he can even manage it Jimin’s got both arms slung over his neck and is pulling him in for a real, proper hug, one palm smacking ruthlessly over the bend of Yoongi’s spine. 

“Don’t make it ten years before I see you again, you fucker.” Jimin’s words run together, like his tongue is heavy in his mouth, and Yoongi’s laughing when he finally extricates himself.

“Yeah, yeah, I won’t. Get some sleep.”

With a final smirk, Jimin starts off down the street, and in the split second before Yoongi turns to go his own way, he watches him pivot on his heel, like he’s thought of one more thing. He’s walking backwards now, hands in his pockets as he stares Yoongi down.

“Hyung!”

Yoongi raises his eyebrows, hums a little, and the corner of Jimin’s mouth tugs up.

“Stop making things hard! That’s my advice.”

Yoongi already knows exactly what Jimin means, but he clarifies himself anyway, the little shit. 

“Call her! It’s still early in California!”

“Goodnight, Jimin-ah!” Yoongi shouts in return, like he’s done discussing it, and the last thing he sees before he turns away is Jimin’s head thrown back, laughing up to the starless sky.

Before he even makes a conscious decision to do it, Yoongi finds himself walking the blocks between the restaurant and his hotel, long stretches of avenues, and he lets the white noise of the city streets buzz like static in his ears. New York is full of people, and he’s paying more attention to them now than he usually would. Standing outside of bars, hurrying down the street in the opposite direction, whizzing past on bicycles. Smoking, making phone calls, waving down cabs.

It’s like something unlocks in his brain, a key finally turning in a stubborn door. Good person, bad person. It’s all kind of… bullshit. All these people around him, they’ve all been hurt, and they’ve all hurt someone despite their best attempts. He knows it’s a banal fucking observation, and maybe it’s the soju talking, but somehow the thought has never quite hit him like this before. That people are just people. Trying and fucking up and trying again.

Everyone changes, hyung.

And yeah, maybe he’s changed too, in little ways. Maybe he still is.

Back at his hotel, Yoongi presses his keycard to the door, toes his shoes off in the entryway, and collapses down on the bed, phone in hand. He swipes to pull up his contacts, sees that familiar name, and feels everything swirl up inside of him all over again.

There’s so much he wants to say. And he’s so tired of not saying it.

He presses the Call button and breathes it all out as the line starts to ring.

~*~

It’s been a truly fucking terrible workday. Maybe not the all-time worst– you didn’t accidentally wipe an entire recording session’s worth of files, or not-accidentally fuck your nemesis in his studio– but it’s certainly up there.

The morning had started with an artist’s entire management team giving you grief for supposedly fucking up the studio scheduling, until you’d physically turned your computer screen around to show them that they had, in fact, booked time on the wrong day. It wasn’t even an hour later that you’d gotten a call about last-minute T&E costs that finance had forgotten to reconcile, which meant you had to work straight through your lunch hour to re-run all the quarterly reporting so the numbers wouldn’t be wrong. And just as you’d started packing up to leave for the day, an urgent call had come in from someone on the executive board, letting you know they wanted to “go in another direction” for tomorrow’s all-hands, and surely it wouldn’t take you too long to redo the ninety-minute presentation, right?

When you finally cross the threshold of your apartment, it feels like a miracle. You heave a sigh of relief, letting the door slam behind you a little harder than necessary, just to take the edge off.

“There she is!” Your roommate’s voice echoes down the hallway as you hang your keys on the hook and reach down to pull your heels off. “I thought you were done with your workaholic phase.”

“Yeah, well, the executives have no idea what they fucking want,” you mutter, and the words have hardly left your mouth when you feel your purse vibrate as your phone starts to ring. You’re positive it’s another one of them now, probably calling to ask about something that you’ve already clearly explained in an email sitting unread in their inbox.

Nearly toppling over as you shift your weight to pry your other shoe off, you drop your bag down onto the couch with an exasperated groan, then reach in to fish your phone out, anticipating the worst.

You take in the name staring back at you, and your heart instantly drops into the pit of your stomach.

The world tilts as your pulse starts to race, and all at once you lose your grip, like your brain is short-circuiting. Your phone slides out of your hand, clattering onto the floor beneath your feet, the impact enough to send it skidding right under the couch.

“Motherfucker,” you breathe.

You crouch down, hands and knees to the hardwood, and wriggle yourself halfway under the couch to retrieve it. The damn thing keeps buzz-buzz-buzzing, noise amplified by the floor beneath it until it feels deafening.

Distantly, you’re aware of the shuffle of Tiffany’s slippers.

“What’s up, buttercup?” she asks, voice drawing closer, and then she must turn the corner into the living room because her follow-up is much more direct: “What the hell are you doing?”

Just as you manage to close your grip around your phone, the ringing stops. Dread floods through you as you slowly drag it out, then turn over to sit right there on the floor, your back against the couch. You glance up at Tiffany, and even with a Hello Kitty sheet mask obscuring most of her expression, you can still see her eyebrows quirk up as something clicks into place.

“Oh no,” she breathes. “I know that face. You were making that face when I found you in the bathroom at the Jello shot party.”

“We agreed not to talk about the Jello shot party–”

“The point is!” she interjects, raising her voice to drown yours out. “That is your Yoongi face! Which means I need you to tell me right now: did he just fucking call you?!”

For a second, you can only nod dumbly up at her, and the words come out thin and reedy when you finally manage to say them. “Yeah. He did.” Tiffany drops down onto the floor next to you as you pull your knees into your chest. “What do I do?”

Her tone immediately softens. “What do you wanna do, baby? No wrong answers.”

You stare blankly at the dark screen of your phone, still clutched tight in your hand. It feels like staring into the depths of a black hole. “I have… no idea. I genuinely don’t know.”

“Okay,” she tries again. “Let’s start simpler. How are you feeling, right now, in this moment?”

With a steadying inhale, you let your eyes drop shut and try to find the answer. After all this time, and after a long, exhausting day, seeing Yoongi’s name flash up on your screen– it takes you back to months ago, when you were bordering blackout in the bathroom of this very house. The way everything rushed up inside you, a feeling so big you thought it might swallow you whole if you didn’t get it out.

“I think I’m… angry, Tiff. Like really, really fucking pissed off, actually.”

Her acrylics scritch gently at the back of your head, the sensation enough to bring you back to reality again. A muscle in your jaw tightens as you blink your eyes open.

“I think that makes perfect sense,” Tiffany says, nodding decisively. “I’d be hella angry too.”

A noise flutters out of you, halfway between a groan and a laugh. “Is it unhealed of me to want to call him back so I can just, like, fucking scream at him?”

Her head tilts, considering. “Um… it’s not super healed. But!” She raises a perfectly manicured nail for emphasis. “This does present an opportunity, if you want one, to share those feelings with him in a slightly more emotionally intelligent way. If you think it might help?”

Panic snakes up your spine; it’s an overwhelming idea. “Ugh, I don’t know. Like, I’m not– I don’t feel like I have to have closure from him, or even an apology.” Another self-pitying laugh. “I gave up on that dream after the fucking Jello shot party.”

“He never called you back, right?”

The memory is like a punch to the chest. You shake your head slowly. “Nothing.”

“Typical Pisces behavior.”

You sigh. “But at the same time, if we assume this wasn’t a butt dial, and that he for whatever fucking reason has suddenly decided to be open to conversation. Maybe it could be, I guess… cathartic? To hear what he has to say? And to communicate, like a calm, mature, rational adult who has had seven therapy sessions, that I’m still fucking pissed off and kind of want to kill him.”

Tiffany’s head tips back as she barks a laugh, aggressive enough that she has to reach up with both hands to keep her sheet mask in place. “You know what? I actually love that for you.”

Your pulse has already started to kick up at the thought. “Really? You don’t think it’s a bad idea?”

She shrugs. “I meant it when I said no wrong answers! The way I see it, if he pulls some asshole shit, you can officially block him and be done with it, knowing that you tried your best and that he’s gonna be his own worst enemy for probably at least another decade of his life. And then we can go get milkshakes or something.”

“Oh my god, In-N-Out actually sounds so good right now,” you murmur. “I worked through lunch.”

Tiffany gestures down the hall in the direction of your bedroom, as if to remind you of the task at hand. “Survive the phone call first! Go forth, girlie. Give him a piece of your mind!”

With a groan, you drag yourself to your feet, giving her a cursory glance over your shoulder. “Thanks, Tiff.”

“Love you, mean it!”

It’s only once you’ve closed the door behind you and dropped down onto the bed that it really sinks in. The gravity of this decision, the potential for everything to go horribly wrong all over again. All the memories spiraling up of moments you’d rather forget.

But it wasn’t all bad, either. That’s the hardest part.

You’ve never figured out exactly what to do with it. How to extinguish that glimmer, a pair of eyes in the dark that know you too well, that almost-something feeling. Or if you even want to.

As you wake the screen of your phone, you take in one long slow inhale. Min Yoongi’s name stares back at you. Thumb hovering over the Return Call button, you summon all the courage you can muster. Then you tap the screen and press the phone to your ear.

The line rings once, twice, a third time, but it feels like it’s happening too fast. Like there’s nowhere near enough time for you to collect yourself, remember to keep breathing, figure out what you want to say or what the fuck you’re even doing–

“Hello?”

Yoongi’s voice is– unmistakable. Smoke and gravel. It couldn’t be anyone else.

It takes you a second just to manage a response.

“Hi, Yoongi.” You try to keep your voice firm, even, try to hide how breathless you feel at the sound of him.

“Hey, uh. I hope it’s okay that I called you.”

You genuinely don’t know the answer to that, but you already feel yourself bristling, an instinctive defensiveness rising up faster than you can reign it in. “Can’t say I was expecting it,” you mutter, and you can hear the harsh edge in your voice.

“Right, yeah,” Yoongi answers, pausing to clear his throat before he continues. “I know it’s sudden. And also months overdue, I guess.”

There’s a heavy pause, and it hits you all at once– how much you don’t want to talk about it. That night, that drunk phone call, the embarrassing voicemail you left and couldn’t figure out how to delete. Your memories of that night are hazy at best, in part because you’ve tried not to think about it since, but you remember enough of your alcohol-soaked confession that a rush of shame heats up your face at the reminder of it.

Thankfully, Yoongi speaks again. “I saw Jimin tonight.”

It’s enough to snap you out of your own thoughts. Your eyes widen. “Really?”

He hums an affirming sound. “I’m in New York this week, and our schedules ended up overlapping here. So I got in touch to see if we could meet.” You double-blink, equally shocked by the notion of Yoongi reaching out to anyone. “He got me a ticket to his show, too. Madison Square Garden. He’s really doing it.”

The thought of your best friend performing to a sold-out arena, living his dream– it makes something draw up tight in your chest. “I miss him,” you breathe, before you can even consider if you should say it.

“I think I did too,” Yoongi answers. “More than I even realized.” He hisses out a half-laugh before continuing. “I feel like he has life so… figured out. At least, compared to me.”

The corner of your mouth just barely tugs up, because you know that feeling well.

“And we talked about a lot tonight, and it got me thinking. That there’s some things I’d like to say to you, if you’re open to hearing them.”

A weight drops into the pit of your stomach, and you squeeze your eyes shut, trying not to get your hopes up. The tension in your throat makes your voice come out thin. “I called you back, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

Another flash of anger flares up inside of you, knowing he can’t say the same. You spit out the words, acid-laced. “Just say what you want to say, Yoongi.”

“Right, okay.” The line goes quiet for a second, and it’s punctuated with a faint exhale, like he’s breathing out nervous energy. “Sorry. This is harder than I thought it would be,” he murmurs, but he keeps going before you can get another snide remark in. “I guess the main thing I keep thinking is that you were right. About… everything you said to me, really. Before you left.”

It takes a second for the reality of it to hit. That you’re actually hearing these words, even if they are months too late.

“I think at some point in my life, I got it in my head that I was a bad person: selfish, depressed, an asshole. Whatever you want to call it. And I think I used it as an excuse to, well. Act like an asshole. Hurt people, push them away– all the stuff I did to you. Because that’s what a bad person would do. And that’s what I told myself I was.”

Phone clutched tight to your ear, you turn over onto your side. When you blink your eyes open, your gaze finds the window and the sky beyond it, colored blush from the last fading rays of sunset, bleeding out to hues of dusk, violet-gray and deep blue.

That anger is still there, a hot coal glow in your stomach. But it’s muted now, like words muttered softly in another room, shapes you can’t quite make out. All at once, it doesn’t feel so important. Not with the things Yoongi is saying.

It’s enough to sweep the floor out from under you; suddenly, you’re in water too deep to touch the bottom of. Enough to drown in, if you’re not careful.

Yoongi’s voice pulls you up out of it. “But then, this person comes along who sees me at my absolute worst. And for some godforsaken reason, one that I will probably never understand, she keeps coming back anyway. Like she sees something worthwhile, where all I see is self-loathing. She doesn’t get scared when I tell her how I feel, how I really feel, even when it’s not fucking pretty. Or when I get reckless and stupid. If anything, it’s like she just… gets it. In this way where I don’t have to explain. Maybe she’s like that, too, in her own way.”

It’s suddenly hard to breathe. Because it felt the same for you, too. All of it. This terrifyingly perfect fit.

He huffs a dark, self-conscious laugh before he continues. “It made me fucking spiral, if I’m honest. Because it meant one of two things. Either that I was liable to seriously fuck up a good person with my own shit. Or, that I had been wrong about myself, all this time. Which, you know. That’s my whole sense of self just… gone. And I had no idea how to handle that.”

I didn’t either, you can’t help but think, and then the firm line of your mouth starts to tremble.

“So I panicked. And I did what I always do.”

There’s a lump in your throat, one you can’t swallow down or speak around. You thread an arm around your stomach, as if to physically hold yourself together.

Yoongi’s voice softens into something else, low and thick, a little hoarse. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m– really fucking sorry.”

And just like that, your resolve crumbles, like a sandcastle to a tidal wave.

“I know I’m saying it way too late. And this isn’t– I’m not expecting or asking anything of you. Forgiveness, or anything. Honestly, I’m not even sure that I deserve it. But when I saw Jimin tonight, and talked with him, and saw how much he’s changed, I don’t know. It made me realize that I’ve just been– stuck. For a long time. On a lot of bullshit that wasn’t even true.”

With a slow exhale, you try to listen, your eyes flitting around the room as he speaks. The sky has settled to blue-black now; the night breeze fluttering in through the open window is warm; you can faintly smell your fabric softener on the bedspread, sweet and floral.

You breathe it in as Yoongi keeps talking.

“I’m sorry that I hurt you. That I couldn’t get my shit together enough to even talk about it. That I made it all so complicated when it could’ve been easy. I don’t know if me saying this is worth anything to you now, but. I just wanted to say it anyway.”

When Yoongi falls silent, it occurs to you that he’s probably waiting on you to respond; it’s a struggle to find any words at all.

“I, um–” You have to reach a thumb up to swipe at a tear that threatens to streak down your face. “Sorry. Just… a lot to process. But I appreciate you being honest.”

He lets another pause linger before his voice comes back. “Jimin said you’re doing well, so. I hope that’s true. ‘Cause I don’t want you to hate yourself the way I did. You deserve to be happy. And I hope you’ve found that in LA.”

The sentiment retrieves a buried memory: Yoongi’s hand brushing yours at a going away party. The way he looked at you, how it felt for a moment like you were the only two people in the crowded, noisy break room. And the last thing he said before you ran right out of his life: I just want you to be happy.

You sniff. “Can I tell you something?”

Yoongi hums his answer, and you slowly sit up, lifting a hand to scrub at your face.

“The day after I– um. Called you. I think Tiffany could tell I wasn’t doing well, so she convinced us all to go for a drive up the coast. Said we’d walk along the beach, just make a day of it.”

The memory is so clear in your mind: the day had been oddly overcast for Los Angeles, and just a little too cold for swimming, but Tiffany had managed to talk your group into it nonetheless.

Matthew had rolled down the windows in his Jeep once you hit the PCH, and you remember the rush of cool air on your face, the way it soothed the dull hungover ache in your head and the emotions swirling in your chest. The wind whipping through Tiffany’s long black hair, the smell of salt rolling in off the ocean.

Vernon had gone quiet next to you in the backseat, dark sunglasses pulled down over his eyes, for long enough that everyone just assumed he was asleep, until an hour in he’d suddenly broken a stretch of silence to ask if Matthew could put on Charli XCX. Tiffany had been so startled that she’d screamed, and Matthew had nearly driven the car right off the road, he was laughing so hard.

“At some point,” you continue, “we pulled off at an overlook, where there were these steep cliffs, with the shore and the ocean way down below them. And everyone got out to see the view, and. I don’t know. I remember standing right there at the edge, and looking down, and thinking to myself. I could just… take another step. Go right over.”

All the way down, where the waves were cresting over the jagged edge of the coast. Where it could all finally be done.

The words are hard to shape, harder to say. “I didn’t even feel scared. I didn’t feel anything. A part of me wanted to do it, just because. It would be better than the… gray. The nothing. I was so exhausted of the nothing.”

You can’t keep the emotion out of your voice, not anymore, not with a truth this raw. It’s pulling apart now, splintering around the admission.

“That scared me so much, Yoongi. I’ve had highs and lows, but I had never really felt anything like that before. And when we got back in the car I just… broke down. I told them everything. I was so afraid to say it, thinking I was gonna fuck up these friendships.”

But that hadn’t happened.

Instead, Tiffany had crawled into the backseat, hugged you so tight you could scarcely breathe, then pulled away with her eyes wet and shining and murmured, “You don’t have to do this alone, okay?” Vernon had been the first one to gently bring up the subject of therapy, had texted you the links to a couple different websites to search for a provider. After a tedious month of waiting lists and insurance woes, Matthew had driven you to your first session, cranked up ‘All I Do is Win’ on his stereo when you’d walked out of the building ninety minutes later, face puffy from crying. First step taken.

They’d all shown up, in different ways.

“I had never thought of it like that before. Until I felt it. Wanting to push people away so they don’t see all the dark shit. Like you’re a liability.”

“Yeah.” Yoongi’s words sound a little stilted on the other end of the line. “That’s– yeah.”

“But they didn’t leave. They helped me. Got me into therapy.” The breath of a teary laugh slips out. “Turns out, I’m really fucked up over my dad dying. And even stuff from before that.”

“Trauma,” Yoongi murmurs softly, and something sticks in your throat. “Yeah. That’s exactly what it is, actually.” You smudge the back of your hand over your mouth, heaving a sigh against your skin. “I don’t know. It’s only been two months, so. I don’t have all the answers or anything. Jimin is maybe overselling it, but. I’m trying.”

“Better than me. I don’t have a therapist. Unless you count Jungkook.”

It’s so unexpected, you’re laughing before you can stop yourself, and the feeling washes through you like relief. Like a balm for all the ache in your chest, for all the fracture-lines threatening to crack right open.

“If Baby Goth pulled all of that insight out of your emotionally constipated ass, you should be paying him,” you deadpan, and Yoongi really laughs, too.

“It’s– not exactly like that. But he’s somehow talked me into working on music, and when I’m writing, that’s when I really… Take everything apart and look at it. See it for what it is. But he puts up with a lot.” He huffs another low note, amused. “Probably should pay him.”

You can’t bite back your curiosity. “When you say music, like–”

“A mixtape. My mixtape, yeah.”

You turn onto your stomach, propping up on your elbows, eyes wide. “Wow, Yoongi, that’s–”

“Ah, let’s just–” he interjects, and the tone of his voice is so familiar that it’s like you can see the expression on his face. One hand to the back of his neck, brow pinched with discomfort. Like he immediately regrets bringing it up. “It might not happen; it’s not a definite, so. I’m trying not to put too much stock in it. If I actually see it all the way through, then you can congratulate me. Right now it’s just me screwing around, wasting time.”

“Okay,” you answer. “Well. I hope I get to hear it. Someday.”

“We’ll see,” Yoongi says softly.

You decide to let it be enough.

~*~

It’s a couple weeks later that your phone starts to buzz on the kitchen counter while you’re halfway through cubing a block of tofu.

The last time you’d spoken to him, Yoongi had extended an offer, and you had agreed to it: that he’d call you when he could, and that you were welcome to do the same. Neither of you had used the word, but it felt suspiciously like a proposal of friendship.

Which is… you’re not sure how to feel about it.

You haven’t managed to convince yourself to call him yet; in fact, the words of the previous conversation are still whirling around in your brain, not having quite settled in as reality.

But when his name lights up on your phone, you maneuver a free pinky finger to accept the call and put it on speakerphone.

“Hi, Yoongi.” It’s still weird to say that, too.

“Hey– bad time?”

“No, no, you’re good,” you murmur, trying to speak up to be heard as you slide the tofu off your cutting board into the pot on the stovetop, careful not to splash. “I just, uh. Got home from therapy, actually. So I’m a little drained.”

“Sounds like maybe it’s a bad time, then.”

“I’m serious,” you reiterate, wiping your hands on the kitchen towel so you can properly pick your phone up, turn off the speakerphone, and cradle it to your ear. “I would tell you if it was. Or, you know. I wouldn’t have picked up. Coulda sent your ass to voicemail.”

He hums, like he’s considering the argument. “Therapy was… tough?”

Your hip nudges against the kitchen counter. “Um, not the worst it’s ever been. I don’t know. Just talking about family stuff can be a lot. Heavy. Made me miss home.”

“Yeah. I get that.”

“Do you visit Daegu much?” It’s funny, all the things you still don’t know. Never had a chance to ask.

Yoongi sucks in a breath. “No. I should. It’s been years; my parents are getting older. I always say I’m too busy with work. But maybe I could take some time off.”

“It’s hard sometimes,” you murmur. “Home is weird.” Yoongi doesn’t say anything, so you turn back to face your simmering dinner. “I miss it, and also I don’t, so. I’m making soup about my complicated trauma feelings. This is what my wild nights in Los Angeles look like.”

The soft tones of Yoongi’s laugh filter through the phone, and it’s like you can see his shoulders shaking with it. “I didn’t know you cooked.”

“That’s because I don’t,” you confirm. “Not historically. But, you know. Maybe I am becoming someone who does.”

“Cooking’s nice,” Yoongi muses. “Relaxing.” 

And, oh. For just a second, you’re standing in a borrowed t-shirt, in a kitchen that isn’t yours, imagining a future that never came to be. Your breath sticks at the memory. That morning, the night before it, Yoongi’s hands on your body, his mouth finding yours under the spray of the shower, and the way it all felt so–

“Right.” Yoongi’s voice stops you before you can spiral any further. “I actually, uh. Wanted to get your opinion on something. If you’ve got a second.”

It’s a little hard to talk, but you clear your throat and try. “Yeah, sure. What’s up?”

He pauses, and there’s a shifting sound, chased by the faint click of a mouse in the background. You don’t know why it didn’t occur to you that he was probably calling you from his studio, given it’s midday in Seoul.

“I have…” Yoongi finally speaks, his voice deep on the other end of the line. “Been assigned a deadline, by which I need to stop dicking around and actually finalize my tracklist. For the– you know.”

“Mixtape,” you offer, and you don’t miss his disgruntled grumble of a response, even though it’s muffled, like he’s breathed it into the back of his hand.

“I’m stuck on this song. Whether to keep it or not. Can I send it to you?”

The question catches you off-guard. “Uh, yeah. Yes, okay. Will be glad to share my opinions as a professional music industry fraud.”

Yoongi scoffs a little, underscored by the muted clacking of his keyboard. “I’m emailing it to you.”

“And will you kill me if I play it right now?” you ask, pulling the phone away to flip the speaker back on.

“Nah,” he answers, and you can hear him groan softly, like he’s rolling out sore muscles in his desk chair. “I’ve already heard it a hundred times, what’s one more?”

“Fair enough,” you respond as the file appears in your inbox, and you pull it up and click play. 

It’s clearly a demo, the production far from polished, but it’s still impressive. Yoongi’s flow is rapid-fire, his voice proud and dynamic– and, it occurs to you as the chorus hits, familiar. Everything about the artist on this track sounds exactly like the Min Yoongi you encountered on your first day of work. Unapologetic, pissed off, and maybe a little bit of an asshole.

“Wow,” you murmur as the final chorus repeats and fades out. “It’s good, really good. So different from your producer stuff.”

“Honestly, I think I hate it.”

“Well, you’re an idiot,” you retort automatically, smirking to yourself as you turn the heat down on the stove, then reach to take your phone off speaker again. You tuck it back up to your ear. “Why do you hate it?”

“That’s the thing,” Yoongi sighs, voice heavy with frustration. “I can’t figure out why. I just feel this disconnect.”

“I mean, the line about winning a Grammy is a little painful,” you admit, and he hums a note of agreement.

“That too. Obviously I wrote this a while ago. Before.” Emotion-soaked memories lick at the edges of your mind, and you will them away, trying to focus. “And now, I don’t know, it’s just…” he trails off, unable to finish the thought.

“It’s not you anymore,” you offer, and Yoongi exhales. 

It takes you a second to realize it’s the breath of a laugh. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says. “It’s just. You’re good at that.”

“At what?”

There’s an extra beat of silence, like he’s hesitating. “I don’t know. Knowing me, I guess.”

It’s an overwhelming thing to hear, but Yoongi just keeps going.

“It’s not, no. When I listen to it I’m like, who is this kid? And why is he so angry?” 

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth at the wry smile in his voice. “I mean,” you start. “Okay, I’ve actually talked this to death in therapy. You felt that anger at one point. It’s not wrong, just because you don’t feel it anymore. Like, I was really angry at a lot of things, for a really long time. Including you.”

“Yeah?” You can hear the surprise in Yoongi’s question, the way his voice eases up.

“Yeah. Still am, sometimes.”

Another pause. “You can, you know. Be angry with me.”

Your hip thuds hard against the counter, like your knees are considering giving out all together. You can’t help but wonder when Min Yoongi is going to stop surprising you, if he ever will. 

“Okay,” you breathe. “Noted. And you can be angry on this song. Like, it’s not a bad thing.”

Yoongi makes a low noise, like he’s still not convinced. “I just sound like such a… try-hard.” It makes you wonder if he’s in one of those moods tonight, where every answer is the wrong one.

But he called you, didn’t he?

“Well,” you try, “is that really so bad, either? Music is by nature kind of a time capsule, right? Look at TXT. They’re not the absolute babies that they were when they did Cat & Dog–”

“That fucking song–”

“But,” you continue, unbothered. “It doesn’t mean it’s not still the greatest song that’s ever been written.”

“Christ,” Yoongi grumbles. “Why am I getting my advice from you?”

“We already covered that you’re an idiot,” you remind him, cradling the phone to your cheek as you turn to pop the lid of your rice cooker open. “All I’m saying is, I know firsthand that there are a lot of different versions of Min Yoongi. And this is only one of them, so. Maybe you just need some songs that showcase the others, too. Find a balance.”

There’s a long stretch of silence, like he’s considering this.

“‘Cause yeah,” you say, not quite able to hold in a giggle. “If your entire album was like this song, I’d be like, wow. This guy’s a real asshole.”

“Alright,” he says, like his jaw’s set firm. “Noted.”

~*~

“If I’m calling too often, you don’t have to pick up every time.”

You have to bite back your smile, doing your best to keep an office-appropriate expression as you click the button on your headset to turn up the volume of Yoongi’s voice.

“Workaholic producer doesn’t know what to do with himself with a whole week of freedom, huh?” you murmur, teasing, before turning back to your long list of scheduling requests.

Yoongi grunts an indignant sound. “I’m doing things.”

“Like sleeping?”

“Not as much as I’d like. My dog hogs the fucking bed.”

The mental image is enough to send a flutter of laughter through you: Yoongi relegated to the edge of the mattress, while a brown toy poodle– one whom you’ve received approximately 700 pictures of in the last seven days– sprawls comfortably in the middle.

“How is Daegu?”

It’s quiet on the other end of the line, save the chirp of early morning birds. A new picture replaces the old one: Yoongi pacing the back deck of his parents’ home, soaking up one of the last warm-weather days before autumn sets in. Barefoot, mug of coffee in hand, face still puffy from sleep.

With a hard swallow, you force yourself to refocus on work.

“It’s good,” Yoongi finally answers. “My last day here, so. I’ll cook them something before I go. Gotta finish up that woodworking thing for my dad.” He makes a soft, low groan, like he’s stretching himself out, or still waking up. It sends a shiver through you that you wish you could ignore.

“Are you glad you went?” you ask instead.

He hums, as if he’s mulling it over. “I think so. Brought up some stuff, but. It’s been good, too. Weird to think about it all. What’s changed. What hasn’t.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Just being with my family, my brother. Driving around streets that I know like the back of my hand. And there’s memories everywhere. That bus stop, where I didn’t have enough money but the driver let me on anyway because he felt bad for me. This restaurant, where I had a panic attack in the bathroom after I broke up with my first girlfriend. The kimbap from the GS25 across the street from my high school. I think that’s why I avoided coming back for so long.”

You can’t help yourself. “The kimbap?”

Yoongi hisses a half-laugh between his teeth. “Nah, I just. Knew it would all be a lot. ‘Cause I still feel like a kid whenever I’m home. That apparently doesn’t go away, even in my thirties.”

All at once, you find yourself holding your breath; Yoongi hasn’t talked much about his childhood, not even during this week spent in Daegu. You haven’t wanted to push the subject, but it feels like he’s on the edge of something, so you leave an empty space for him to get it out, in case he wants to.

He sighs softly, and then he keeps going. “I think a lot about that kid. How he didn’t get enough love.” A pause. “And how it fucked him up. But it’s like, I’m old enough now to know my parents were just people, too. They tried in their own way. So I just… don’t know what to do with it, I guess.”

“Yeah,” you murmur. In the weeks of sporadic phone calls that have drawn out between you, you’ve learned that Yoongi doesn’t always need all the answers. That sometimes he prefers not having them, and letting the reality of that settle into him. Learning to live with it.

“I’m serious, you can really tell me to fuck off if you need to work. I can monologue to the wind.”

You smirk, fingers hovering over your keyboard. “It’s fine. I’m just doing booking shit. I’d have put on a podcast anyway.” For a split second, you press your lips together, as if to keep the thought to yourself, and then you decide to just say it. “Or your mixtape.”

“Ah, there it is.”

It’s been a week since Yoongi drove out to visit his family– and seven long days since his album officially dropped on streaming platforms, the release done with minimal fanfare per his insistence. Seven excruciating days you’ve gone without saying a single word to him about it, despite the fact that he’s called you damn near daily.

“You lasted longer than I thought you would,” he admits, voice nearly teasing.

“I figured you’d tell me when you wanted to talk about it.”

“And now, what, you’re tired of waiting?”

You roll your eyes despite the way your mouth is tugging up at the corners. “Just curious. We can keep not talking about it.”

There’s a pause on his end, underscored by the clack of your keys as you resume typing. “I have nothing to say because I haven’t looked at anything,” he finally admits.

That makes you lose your focus. “Wait, seriously?”

“I call it delaying the inevitable,” he answers dryly.

You open your mouth, then close it again, not sure what to say. How much to reveal. “And I take it you… want to wait? Until you’re back in Seoul?”

Yoongi sucks in a long sigh, like he’s debating, and then he finally lets loose a groan of defeat. “Fuck it. I’ve got stuff to distract me today. Go ahead, deliver the blow.”

“Are you sure?” You’re suddenly aware of the way your heartbeat is hammering behind your ribs.

“God, not an encouraging answer,” he mutters, before clearing his throat and putting on a more determined tone. “Yeah, yeah. Come on. Get it over with, rip off the bandaid.”

“Okay,” you breathe, more to yourself than to him. Fumbling for the mouse, you navigate to the browser window you’ve had sitting minimized on your desktop for the last seven days, doing your best to ignore the tremor in your hands. “Do you just want me to, like, read them to you?”

“Just the most important parts. I don’t need the fluff.”

“Alright. Let’s see.” As quick as you can, you scan your eyes down the page, trying to pull quotes, trying to will your pulse to slow as you read off the screen. “‘Producer Suga releases his first mixtape under the stage name Agust D, proving that there truly can be 'no-skip' albums.’”

He exhales a laugh, and you keep going.

“‘Through compelling lyricism and cohesive storytelling, he presents a narrative of the hardship and spite that comes along with the art of existing.’” You flip to another tab, then another.

“‘Agust D's first masterpiece proves that the producer can do more than make songs. In his stunning mixtape, he sets a new standard for other artists and sets the stage for a new era of self-exploration as he navigates discovering his final form.’

“‘The album is a collection of introspective abstractions, exploring different personas to represent rage, desire, desperation and empathy. He remains lyrically candid from song-to-song, painting a raw picture of his inner self that packs a punch, emotionally and artistically.’

“‘The Grammys may have snubbed him under his producer pseudonym Suga, but make no mistake: there is no ignoring Agust D.’”

A heavy silence stretches out on the other end of the line, long enough that you’re halfway tempted to check your phone to confirm the call hasn’t dropped. Just as you find yourself reaching for it, your hand still shaking slightly in a way you can’t quite believe is solely from over-caffeination, there’s the sound of Yoongi breathing deep. Like he’s coming up for air.

“Thanks for that. And I appreciate you… editing out the less positive parts.”

It takes you a second to find your words. “I-I’m not, is the thing. It’s– they’re all like this.” Your admission of the truth is met with more silence, so you squeeze your eyes shut and continue. “Because it’s good, Yoongi. I believe I’d use the term critically acclaimed. You know. As a music industry professional.”

Another pause.

“Well, shit,” Yoongi finally murmurs, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

~*~

“God, you’re so lucky Los Angeles doesn’t have weather. It was cold as shit in Chicago,” Jimin mutters, tugging down the brim of his baseball cap to better shield his eyes from the morning sun.

“Hey!” Tiffany interjects, clearly offended on behalf of her city. Her baby pink sneakers kick up little clouds of dust as they crunch along the gravel path beneath your feet. “We have weather! Sometimes it rains.”

The weeks have, somehow, spilled over into months, and Jimin’s not wrong– late fall in Los Angeles is a far cry from the colder temperatures you’d be experiencing back in Seoul. It all makes time feel a little unreal, like it’s speeding up and slowing down, the days both long and short. You’ve slipped into a comfortable, steady routine now, doing your best to keep things more or less balanced: work, therapy, nights out with friends, FaceTime dates with Jimin.

And, well. Yoongi’s still calling. And you’re still answering.

“Look at her.” Your best friend’s unwavering sass brings you back to reality, and he scoffs, voice thready from the uphill climb, words punctuated by the scrape of his sneakers as the trail continues to steepen. “Off in her own world. Drag me out here on my one day off, make me go on a fucking hike because you’re ‘a person with healthy habits’ now, and what? You can’t even be bothered to make conversation?”

You shoot him the best death glare you can manage. “Mochi, I will throw you down this canyon.”

The laugh you huff out is more like a snort; you can hear Tiffany giggling, too, on your other side. There’s a glow on the apples of her cheeks when you glance over, the only indication she’s expending any effort at all, and then her mouth pulls up smug, and you already know what’s coming.

“Oh, I know what this is, she’s got that look. It’s her new Yoongi face,” she says helpfully, eyes narrowing along with her grin as she flicks her gaze back to Jimin. “The old one was like–” she frowns, brow pinched, mouth taking on a downturned slope, like she’s liable to burst into tears at any second.

“Very familiar,” Jimin confirms.

“But the new one is like–” Tiffany’s face immediately brightens, her eyes wide and lashes fluttering; she might as well have a cartoon heart floating over her head. She waves a hand in front of her as she drops the expression. “She’ll be back with us in five minutes, give or take.”

“That’s right,” Jimin continues before you can get a word in. “I forgot you two are having your regularly scheduled phone sex. I’m still trying to get Wonho to do that; he just gets so flustered saying things out loud.”

“Hate that,” Tiffany chimes in.

“Right? Like, just tell me you want to split me in half. It’s not that hard.”

This time you actually do shove Jimin, though he’s put on enough muscle from touring that the impact barely seems to register. “We are not having phone sex, Mochi.”

“They’re having deep, therapeutic conversations,” Tiffany supplies, and she shoots you a look when you whip your head back toward her. “What? Our walls are thin.” She shrugs. “It’s not my fault I can hear you two talking about your trauma all the time.”

Like she’s already bored with the discussion, she unzips the lilac fanny pack slung over her hips, retrieving her cell phone and beginning to tap gently at the screen with her nails.

“Yeah, trauma on that pus–”

“Jimin!”

“Okay, okay!” Jimin squirms just out of your reach, narrowly avoiding your attempt to tackle him to the ground. “I’m caught up now. It’s enemies to lovers to long distance boring-ass friends who aren’t even having phone sex.” He grimaces. “God, this narrative is all over the place.”

You roll your eyes so hard they threaten to fall out of your head entirely. “You need to stop trying to shove me and Yoongi into one of your 12-episode dramas. Life isn’t that simple, Park Jimin. Or that cliché.”

All at once, you must find a patch of cell service, because Tiffany’s phone starts buzzing in her hand, humming with so many notifications that for a moment you think it might just combust. When you glance back, she’s clearly processing something on the screen, because her eyes widen, and then she claps a hand over her mouth with a soft squeak.

“Oh, holy fuck,” she breathes into her palm.

“What?” Jimin asks. His brow creases with concern. As if on some kind of instinct, you feel the bottom of your stomach drop out. 

Tiffany grips her phone with two hands again so she can type faster, thumbs clack-clacking for a moment before she manages to answer. “Um, well. Grammy nominations just dropped. And girl.” She’s looking at you now, eyes still wide. “Guess who’s on here.”

“Wait,” Jimin interrupts before you’ve even had a second to think. “For the mixtape? I’m sorry, am I a Grammy-nominated featured vocalist right now?” He tucks a hand under his chin, posing cutely, as if he’s already prepared to give the acceptance speech for his award.

Tiffany’s already holding her phone up so you can see it for yourself, and there it is, at the bottom of a list of names: Agust D.

Your heartbeat flutters like butterfly wings as your eyes snap up to the category.

“Best New Artist?!”

“Uh-huh,” Tiffany says, and you tear your gaze away from the screen just in time to see her shoot a grimace at Jimin. “Sorry for your loss, babes.”

“Those fuckers,” he hisses, immediately indignant. “Can’t believe they would snub me like this. Whatever, everyone knows the Grammys are a scam anyway.”

The static in your brain is whirring too loud for you to keep up with any of it.

“But Tiff,” you say softly, fully aware you’re processing all of this in slow motion. “It’s– that means– if he’s–”

“Better get ready, girl,” she murmurs, tilting to the side until her hip bumps against yours. “‘Cause here comes your man.”

The rush of memories is so overwhelming, it’s all you can do to keep up with the conversation as Tiffany and Jimin unpack the rest of the nominees, then somehow spend most of the long drive home on a tangent about tragic red carpet fashion. You barely hear any of it; all you can think about is– Yoongi, in a hotel bed, hair mussed from sleep. Yoongi, in a suit and tie, one hand squeezing yours as they call out a name that isn’t his. Yoongi’s head dropping down on your shoulder in a cab ride home, tongue thick in his mouth as he mumbles out–

“God, you really do have a Yoongi face.” Jimin’s shoulder thuds into the doorframe of your room, and you glance up to find him scrubbing a towel through his still-damp hair.

His eyebrows lift as you blink back at him from the edge of your bed.

“Um, excuse me, I believe this is the part of the exchange where you scowl at me? Threaten my life? Call me that stupid nickname?”

That one finally pulls you out of your thoughts enough to laugh. “If you don’t want me to call you Mochi, you should try being less mochi-shaped.”

“I can’t help that I’m adorable and delicious,” Jimin deadpans. He launches his towel into the laundry hamper tucked in the corner of the room, and then his gaze finds yours again, still a little questioning. “Seriously though, you good?”

You nod. “Yeah. Just. A lot to think about, you know.”

He hums, like he understands. “Well, Tiff said she’s picking up food, so I think I’m gonna ride along. Figured we’d leave you to your thoughts.” His mouth is already tugging up at the corner. “And your phone sex.”

“Mochi!”

You’re immediately on your feet, but Jimin disappears from view just as quickly; you can hear his retreating footsteps thud down the hall. By the time you make it to the doorway, he’s slipping into his slides, face still pulled into a shit-eating grin as Tiffany flips the lock on the front door, then swings it wide.

“Be right back!” she sing-songs, and Jimin is right behind her, shooting you one last glance over his shoulder.

“Tell Yoongi hyung I’m proud of him! You know, before you tell him how much you want his big, fat–”

The door slams shut before he can finish the thought.

With a groan of a laugh, your pulse already starting to quicken, you cross back to your bed, then grab your phone and drop down onto the mattress. Yoongi answers on the second ring, and his greeting is a noise that doesn’t quite manage to be a discernible word.

“Fuck,” you say quickly, trying to do the timezone math in your head. “Did I just wake you up? I figured you’d still be awake, but if you–”

“Wasn’t sleeping,” Yoongi clarifies, voice rough like gravel. “Chan and Jungkook took me out. I just got back. Almost called you, but.” He heaves a sigh. “Took me three tries to get my door open.”

It’s with that admission that what you’re hearing finally locks into place, the messy slant to his words, and you can’t hide the laughter that flutters out of you. “Oh my god. You’re drunk.”

“We were celebrating,” he whines, but the fact that he doesn’t deny it tells you everything you need to know. A version of Yoongi, albeit one you only ever managed a small glimpse of, slots into place in your mind: face flushed, smile all gums and teeth, laughing and dancing and scream-singing into a noraebang microphone.

The memory kicks through you, a pang that echoes right behind your ribs.

“I hope you had fun,” you finally manage, your voice soft at the edges. “I was just calling to say congrats.”

“‘S fucking crazy,” he slurs, sounding as dazed as you feel. “I almost pulled the plug on this album. So many times.”

“I remember.”

Yoongi inhales deep, like he’s preparing some big, elaborate thought, but then you hear all that air rush back out of him again, chased with a weary groan. “Fuck. I’m so– fucked.”

“Fucked for the Grammys or fucked for the amount of alcohol you drank tonight?”

The phone rustles a little, like he’s shifting, but there’s the sound of breathy laughter underneath it. “Just. Yeah. Fucked all the way around.”

“Best New Artist,” you try the words out, which just makes Yoongi groan again. “That’s huge.”

“‘M trying not to think about it. Too many milkis shots.”

For a moment, you wonder if maybe that’s it, and it makes sense. He’s so overwhelmed with a new future to start preparing for, a whole new level of fame and attention, all of it about to crash over him like an unforgiving tidal wave. Why would that have anything to do with you?

But then he’s continuing, his voice so low that it’s barely audible. “Guess I’ll be coming back to Los Angeles soon.” And you swear your heart jumps into your throat.

“Guess so,” you answer, with more breath than sound. All at once, you’re aware of so many things between the two of you: the big things, like space and distance and time, but also– this thread. This something, a tether you don’t have a name for, built up again from next to nothing.

In this moment, it suddenly all feels very, very fragile. Liable to break apart on impact.

“Wish I was there now,” Yoongi murmurs, and your breath catches. “With you.”

“You’re drunk,” you repeat.

“I know.” He sighs again, heavier this time, and you can feel it too. The weight of everything between you. Past and present. “But it doesn’t mean I don’t mean it.”

Your mouth twists. “And you can understand why that might be hard for me to believe, right?”

“I can,” he answers softly. His voice has emotion threatening your waterline.

You’re not sure what else to say.

Yoongi huffs out a frustrated noise. “Shit. I don’t want to be that guy anymore. But I don’t wanna only ever say shit like this when I’m drunk either. ‘Sjust easier sometimes. When I’m not thinking so much.”

The irony isn’t lost on you. You’ve been there, on the bathroom floor.

“We’re both guilty of that,” you murmur.

“Yeah.”

A rush of words is coming up before you can stop it. You squeeze your eyes shut with enough force to push a tear past the border of your lashes. And then you just say it. “For the record. I did mean it. What I said that night.”

I don’t know how to stop being in love with you.

Yoongi pauses, and the silence of it stretches out long enough to make you wonder if he even knows what you’re talking about. Maybe he’s forgotten that voicemail entirely.

But then you hear him take in a breath. “I did too. When I said…” He trails off, like it’s a thought he can’t quite finish. “Yeah. Think you already knew that, though.”

You try to swallow around the lump stuck in your throat. “It’s nice to hear it anyway.”

“I’m sorry. That I fucked it all up.”

A few more tears streak down your face, and you swipe the back of your hand over your cheek. “It wasn’t just you, Yoongi.”

“Fucking hell,” he groans, like he’s exhausted with himself. “It’s not– I don’t–” There’s a muted thud on his end of the line, and you can’t help but wonder if it’s his fist making contact with something soft, given the way he can’t even get a sentence out, the way his voice has gone jagged-edged with frustration. “‘M just. Gonna say this. And you don’t have to do anything with it, okay?”

“Okay,” you breathe. You’re distantly aware of the sound of keys in the front door.

“It’s still true. For me. Didn’t stop. Hasn’t stopped.”

The words sweep your feet out from under you. All you can do is breathe.

“Okay.” You say it once, then again. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Yoongi echoes.

And then it’s quiet.

You finally speak first, punctuated with a sniff and a soft huff at your own dramatics. “I hate to ruin this moment, but my friends just came back with food.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Yoongi murmurs, pausing to clear his throat. “It’s– yeah. You should go. I should sleep.”

“I have to console Jimin,” you say, unable to keep your mouth from tugging up at the mention. “He’s really torn up about his feature being snubbed.”

“Well.” Yoongi gives a grunt of effort, like he’s forcing himself to sit upright. “Tell him the Grammys fucking suck anyway.”

That actually manages to pull a laugh out of you. “I will.”

Silence hangs heavy in the air after the call ends, when it’s just you again, alone in your bedroom. You collapse back against the sheets, head spinning, still coming down from it all.

Yoongi loved you. Yoongi loves you?

The thought alone feels like touching a live wire, one that lights up every cell in your body. It’s awful, wonderful, terrifying, magical, life-ruining. It’s a nightmare. It’s the easiest thing in the world.

To his credit, Jimin’s patience lasts longer than you would’ve expected. He and Tiffany crowd in on either side of you, cross-legged on the floor of your living room, styrofoam takeout boxes of tacos fighting for space on the coffee table. The three of you make it through most of the blender of Tiffany’s homemade frozen margaritas before you feel his shoulder knock into yours. You know what question is coming before he even asks it.

“Alright, quit holding out on us. How did it go?”

Your pulse starts to quicken, and you keep your gaze fixed on the table. “Well. I guess. There is a distinct possibility. That Yoongi and I… could be more than just friends.”

“And how does that make you feel?” Tiffany pipes up.

You press your fingers to your temples, but you can’t keep the smile from breaking out over your face, one that only brightens when Tiffany starts squealing.

“I don’t know!” you quickly continue, even as you feel her close both hands around one of yours, fingers squeezing tight with excitement. “I really don’t know. I am, we are, still… figuring it all out. But there’s. Yeah. There’s something, I think. And it’s not a bad thing.”

Jimin, surprisingly, is quiet. You watch him closely as he sets his half-eaten taco down, then reaches for a napkin to diligently wipe the juices from his hands. All the while saying nothing, his face an expressionless mask.

Just as you feel your stomach start to clench with nerves, he turns to fully face you, and then you’re suddenly laid flat on the carpet, Tiffany letting out a squawk of surprise and barely managing to get out of the line of fire in time. Jimin’s on top of you now, pinning you against the floor, his arms wrapped around your waist in a hug so firm you can scarcely breathe. He peppers your face with kisses as you try to squirm out of his grasp.

“I am so fucking proud of you,” he murmurs, face squished in the crook of your neck. More tears immediately threaten the line of your lashes.

“Thank you, Mochi,” you whisper. You’re barely able to get the words out; his full weight crushed against your ribcage certainly doesn’t help. “For telling me what I needed to hear. I’m sorry that it took me so long to get my shit together.”

A fat, wet, dramatic kiss is pressed to your cheek. “You have nothing to apologize for. I knew you’d figure it out. I was always on your side.”

“Thank you for being my best friend.”

“Always, babygirl.”

Before he even finishes the words, Jimin cuts himself off with an oof, and simultaneously, you feel a second weight drop down on top of you, pushing you that much flatter into the carpet. Tiffany’s head peeks over his shoulder.

“Hi.” She grins down at both of you. “I was feeling left out. Should I make more margs?”

“Please,” Jimin wheezes, and you can’t stop laughing.

~*~

With a mostly-smoked joint pinched between your fingertips, you suddenly find yourself halfway through a question, your words underscored by the old school hip-hop thudding softly through the speakers of Matthew's parked Jeep. The last rays of the setting sun cling to the horizon in front of you, coloring the world dusk pink.

“How do you know when you’re in love?”

You’re not sure you actually meant to ask it out loud, but Matthew nods, thoughtful, as he reaches to pluck the joint from your grasp. The crease in his brow deepens as he takes a hit, like he’s really considering his answer, and then he shrugs.

The words flutter out on his exhale. “Love is… easy. And I don’t mean like rainbows and butterflies, hell no. It’s more like, when you’re with that person, there’s that feeling. Where everything locks into place. It’s like, oh yeah. There you are. Like you just found something that you’ve been waiting on a long time, kinda thing.”

You take the joint back when he offers it, exchange it for another question. “Do you think it can ever be easy with two people who have really hurt each other?”

“Oh, for sure,” he answers with a nod, fingers drumming aimlessly against the steering wheel. “Take me and Tiff. We’ve been through it, most definitely. There was a long time when I didn’t want to say how I felt, ‘cause I didn’t want to show weakness, you know? And that girl is crazy, too. She’s made me jump through every hoop there is.”

You laugh, choking a little on smoke, because you know he’s not wrong. Tiffany has admitted as much herself.

“But,” Matthew continues, gaze distant through the windshield. “We’re trying. Taking baby steps with it. And every time we screw up, we get a little better at it, you know? And at the end of the day, there’s nobody else for me. Nobody else I want to be with, nobody who gets me, really knows me the way she does. For real. Like best friend type shit.”

The corner of your mouth turns up. “That’s really sweet.”

He shifts in his seat, crossing his arms behind his head with a smirk. “I got a soft heart hiding behind these rock-hard tiddies, I know.”

You cackle as you pass the last remains of the joint back across the center console. Matthew puffs on it a couple more times, then finally lets it drop out the open car window.

“I’m serious though,” he says, glancing over at you in the passenger seat. “If two people are both willing to put in the work, try to meet each other halfway, and be accountable about their own shit, then. Yeah. Some people think if you’re always struggling, and fighting, it means you really love each other. I don’t buy that. But I do think sometimes you have to go through hard to find easy.”

You let out a long, slow exhale. The thought of it feeling easy almost seems too good to be true. And yet that’s exactly how it’s been in this strange little bubble, just you and Yoongi. Spending hours on the phone, yet somehow never running out of things to say.

“It’s scary,” you finally manage, and Matthew nods, sympathetic.

“Fucking terrifying, for sure.”

A long, stoned silence stretches out between you, until Matthew finally breaks it.

“So, you in love with that asshole producer still? Or, again?”

The smile flits across your face before you can stop it, and your pulse thuds in your throat. It feels so real, to say it so casually like this. “I think I am, yeah. Still and again. Both.”

Matthew’s smiling too, when you look back at him. “That’s cute. Well, I’m rooting for y’all.”

“God, you’re such a sap, Matthew.”

You both startle at the sound of Tiffany’s voice. Matthew’s gaze flits to the rearview mirror while you turn over your shoulder to see her stretched lazily across the backseat, eyelids still heavy.

“Damn, girl,” Matthew huffs. “I thought you were comatose back there.”

“I was meditating,” Tiffany says, like it’s obvious. “Can we get Taco Bell? I would do some very fucked up things for a crunchwrap right now.”

Matthew outright salutes, which has Tiffany snorting with laughter as she manages to pull herself back up to sitting. “I gotchu, baby.” The car roars to life as he turns the key in the ignition, then cranks the stereo a good ten notches higher. “Seatbelts on, y’all!” He has to yell to be heard over the music, and you fumble for the metal buckle of yours. “Daddy’s about to pull an illegal U-turn!”

~*~

You wake up flushed all over, bedsheets kicked down to the edge of the mattress, an ache of desire thudding like a pulse between your hips. Remnants of sleep-soaked images stick to the edges of your thoughts, and you try to will them back into frame: the slide of rough hands down your body, the press of deft fingers working you to pieces. The scent of sandalwood and musk.

Your phone is in your hand like a reflex. It’s only once the line picks up and you hear an answer that it hits you, what you’re doing.

“Are you okay?” Yoongi’s voice is painted with concern. “Isn’t it late?”

The middle of the night, probably. “Yeah,” you reply, knowing full-well that your voice is thick with it, this want. “I just– I’m sorry.” You shake your head. “It’s nothing. I shouldn’t have called.”

“What is it?” He tries again, undeterred. You wonder if you’re imagining that his voice has softened slightly, dropped a little deeper in his chest. It radiates through you, liquid-hot.

“I just, uh.” The words feel heavy in your mouth. “I had this dream.”

There’s a silence on the other end of the phone, just long enough that you nearly falter, and then you hear Yoongi’s voice again.

“Tell me what you want.”

“You.” The answer comes before you can stop it, flutters out on an exhale so soft you’re not even sure it registers. “I want you, Yoongi.”

“Yeah?” The word is so familiar, you can see the smirk on his face with your eyes closed. Your body reacts automatically. “You want me to tell you what to do?”

“Please,” you breathe with your heart in your throat.

“What are you wearing?”

It’s insane, really, the way your nipples stiffen from a single question.

“Just, uh.” You swallow hard, suddenly self-conscious at what feels like an unsexy answer. “A t-shirt, shorts. I was sleeping–”

“Take the shorts off,” he instructs, voice dark, and it’s so easy, following his lead, slipping the thin cotton fabric over your hips. Easier still when he tells you to touch yourself, to tease your drenched folds apart, to moan for him as you press yourself open with a finger. And you do.

“How wet are you?”

“Soaked,” you tell him, working a second finger in, gasping at the stretch, curling them until you find the place that makes your breath catch.

Alone in your room, with thousands of miles between you, it still doesn’t matter. It’s like you can feel the heat of Yoongi’s breath on your skin. 

“Am I the only one you get this wet for?”

“Yes, Yoongi.” There couldn’t be anyone else.

“Tell me how it feels.”

Instinct takes over: you press the heel of your hand flat to your center and circle your hips, choking on another gasp at the friction-spark against your pulsing clit. “Fuck,” you hiss, head tipping back against the pillow. “It’s so good.”

“Just like that,” he breathes. “Keep going.”

“God,” you moan as your hips fall into a steady rhythm. The needy press of your fingers only serves to make you that much wetter, until you can feel it painting your thighs, soaking the sheets. “It feels so fucking good,” you say again.

“I bet you look so good right now, fucking yourself like this.” Yoongi sounds like he’s coming undone, too. There’s a pause, and then his voice comes back. “Do you wish it was me?”

“Yes,” you gasp, without hesitation. “I miss you.”

“Yeah, you miss the way I touch you? The way I fuck you?” You feel it all in the dark. The weight of Yoongi’s body above you, the brush of his mouth over yours, the slow drag of his cock fucking you all the way open. This unmistakable ache, right behind your ribs.

“Yes, Yoongi,” you murmur. It’s overwhelming, a flood of a thousand emotions at once as you work yourself to the edge, thinking only of him. “All of it. All of you.”

When he speaks again, it’s softer. “Wish I was there with you. To take care of you. Make you come until you can’t take it anymore.” A pause, and he breathes a laugh. “Make you squirt. God, that was hot.”

“Yoongi,” you whine. You’re drowning in it now.

“I know, baby. You’d take me so well, wouldn’t you? Squeeze so fucking tight around me?”

“Yes,” you moan. “Please, I’m close.”

“Love the way you look when you’re all fucked out.” The word flutters through your body like a wave. Love. “Fucking beautiful.”

“Yoongi.” It’s all you can say, all you can think.

“I’m right here. Come for me.”

And you do. With a shaky gasp, you pulse hard around your own fingers, wishing they were his instead.

“Fuck, you are– unbelievable,” Yoongi says softly. You can barely hear him over the waves of pleasure rolling through you, dragging you under.

It’s a long time before either of you speaks again. 

“Thank you,” is all you can finally manage once your pulse starts to slow, and then it occurs to you how one-sided this has been. You’re not sure what the rules are. You’ve never done anything like this before. “Um, did you want me to–?”

“No,” Yoongi answers before you can finish asking. “It’s okay. That was probably more than I deserve anyway.”

“Yoongi–”

He cuts you off, insistent. “Really, I’m fine. And you should get some sleep.”

Even in the haze of post-orgasm glow, the feeling swells up again: you miss Yoongi. Desperately, terribly. You squeeze your eyes shut and try to feel him beside you, the weight of his body on the mattress. Sweat beading at his temples, pulse thudding in his throat, his dark eyes searching yours.

It crashes over you, undeniable. You love him. Of course you do.

But the words feel– too big to say. Too small to close the ocean of distance between you. Too much, and not enough.

“I wish you were here,” you whisper instead. Despite how badly you want to keep talking, exhaustion is already on you like a heavy weight, easing your eyelids shut. You can feel yourself starting to drift.

“I know,” Yoongi answers. “I will be soon.”

You don’t remember ending the call, just the dreams that come after: hot breath on your skin, a body pressed firmly into yours, and three little words, whispered over and over, like a prayer in the dark.

~*~

You try not to overthink things. But just like that, the near-daily occurrence of hearing from Yoongi starts tapering off. Three days between calls, then five. Then a week, sometimes two.

When you do hear from him, it’s usually just long enough for him to tell you how busy things are before he has to go again. You know there’s a lot going on, with his music, his work, his blossoming career as an artist. And you get it; your job keeps you plenty occupied as well.

But any free moment you manage, you can’t stop yourself from playing it all back, looking for answers. Wondering what you might have done to make him start pulling away.

Part of you wonders if he regrets that night, the phone sex. If you swung the pendulum too far back, in a direction he had no interest in revisiting. If it somehow made him think differently of you. But you can’t make sense of that– he was there. He told you as much himself, and you heard the truth in his voice. How much he wanted it, wanted you.

At least, you thought he did. But as the weeks stretch on, you’re not so sure.

The closer the Grammys loom, the tighter the anxiety spiral knits in your chest, until finally, you can’t take it anymore. The next time you hear from Yoongi, hardly a fortnight out from when he’s meant to touch down in Los Angeles, the dam breaks.

“Is something going on?”

There’s a heavy sigh on the other end of the line, but he doesn’t answer right away.

“Will you please just tell me, Yoongi?” You hate the way your voice sounds as you say it. “What– what did I do wrong?”

“Nothing,” he answers immediately. “At all. It’s me.”

Your stomach twists. “What does that mean?”

“It’s not–” he cuts himself off. “Things have been really hectic lately, and I’ve been trying, but.”

You steady yourself for the blow.

“I just don’t think there’s a way that I’m going to be able to see you. While I’m in town.”

“Oh.” It’s the only response you have.

He keeps going. “My schedule is… honestly, just fucking insane. Rolling Stone, Genius, Pitchfork. My calendar looks like I’m speed-dating the entire LA music industry. I’ll get maybe three hours of sleep a night if I’m lucky. So then I thought maybe I could extend the trip, stay for an extra day or two, but. I’m booked up for a solid month after this. I have to be on the first flight Monday morning just to make it back in time. As it turns out, I’ve somehow stumbled my way into working two full-time jobs.”

“It’s okay, Yoongi,” you finally manage, but you're not sure how convincing you sound. “I get it. I remember how busy it was last year, so. I can only imagine what it’s like for you now.”

But you can’t ignore the creeping sense of dread, a skull-numbing buzz that’s all at once too familiar. He really can’t make any time for you? You’re not worth even half an hour?

“I know it’s not fair to you,” he continues. “And I’ve been more distant because I was dreading having to tell you, and part of me was convinced that I could figure it out, that maybe there was a way I could make it work.”

He could make it work, your mind whispers. If he really wanted to.

“Right,” you answer wetly, a beat too late. “I get it.”

“I’m really sorry.” His voice has gone raw, like it’s hard for him to say these words. “I’ve looked at this from every angle. But I’m not… I’m not good at this. I don’t want the first time that we see each other to be when I’m– a wreck. Overwhelmed, anxious, jetlagged and running on nothing. You deserve better than that.”

A tear streaks down your face, quickly chased by a second. “Yeah.”

“None of this has anything to do with me not caring about you, or not wanting to see you. I need you to believe me when I say that.”

“Yeah,” you repeat dumbly, but you can feel it all building, until it threatens to choke you. The disappointment, the shame, the anger, a poison that stings in your veins. And with it, the urge to pick up your fears and your trauma, to wield them like weapons. To say things that can’t ever be unsaid. To hurt Yoongi the way he’s hurt you, over and over again.

Yoongi speaks before you have the chance to. “I know. I know I keep doing this, putting work above everything. It’s not fair to you. And I’m sorry for doing it then, and sorry for doing it now. But I just want to get this right. Being with you again, after everything– I want to do it right.”

“It makes sense,” you say softly, and then your facade crumbles. “It just hurts.”

“I know,” he says, like he really does. “It hurts me, too.”

A sob hitches in your throat. The thought of Yoongi being so close, so soon, and not being able to touch him, to even see him, after all this time. Loving him like this, from a distance. It’s devastating.

“I wish there was another way,” you breathe. “I just– I’m scared I’m never going to see you again.”

“I promise,” Yoongi says, and you’re not sure you’ve ever heard him more serious. “You will. Just let me get through this, and then I’ll come to you, and we can take our time. I’ll be all yours. No distractions.”

You swipe away a few more tears. As much as you want to blame him, hate him, a part of you understands that just as much of this is your fault. You were the one who ran away.

The words tumble out before you can shove them back down. “I wish you had stopped me. When I left. I kept hoping, I don’t know. That maybe you would show up at the last second and take it all back, or ask me to stay. And I just–” You try to swallow past the lump in your throat. “I know it was my choice. But I just really wish you had.”

Yoongi goes silent for a moment. His voice is barely a whisper when he speaks again. “I do, too,” he says. “Trust me.”

And, somehow, despite everything. You do.

As terrifying as it is, like free-falling with no safety net, you squeeze your eyes shut, and let your weapons drop. For the first time in your life, you make the choice to take Min Yoongi at his word. To trust him.

“Okay.”

~*~

“You know I'm fine, right?”

You turn to face Tiffany accusingly as you ask the question, and her eyes immediately snap away from your face. She does her best to act engrossed in the broadcast, as if you haven’t felt her gaze staring daggers into you the entire day.

Concerned, loving daggers, sure. But it’s driving you crazy all the same.

“I know!” she chirps, entirely unconvincing. “It’s just, like. We can always put something else on, if you want.”

“It’s really not a big deal,” you say for what easily has to be the fifth time.

“Tiff, seriously, drop it.” Matthew interjects through a mouthful of chips. The large serving bowl you’d set on the table for everyone to share has somehow ended up permanently in his lap. He reaches in for another handful. “Gotta admit though. Dude can for sure rock a suit.”

The four of you have been camped out in the living room for the better part of the afternoon, and you’ve just made it through the Grammys red carpet pre-show– well, at least three of you have. Vernon has been horizontal on the floor for at least an hour now, and you’re not positive if he’s sleeping, dead, or a secret third thing.

You’re appreciative to have the kind of friends that won’t let you go through a hard time alone, but it occurs to you now that maybe you actually would have preferred to be alone for this.

There’s no escaping the ache that blooms in your chest anytime Yoongi is onscreen. You find yourself holding your breath, just taking him in. The same dark eyes, same overwhelming gaze, his hair grown even longer in the year you’ve spent apart.

His fans have already made themselves known, and the reaction to him on the red carpet makes your heart flip. Even the interviewers are in on the “Yoongi Marry Me” jokes, and Yoongi does his best to force polite smiles that you can see straight through. It’s so strange to think how quickly everything has shifted; that only a year ago, no one knew who he was, or cared that he was at the Grammys.

And a year ago, you were there with him, too.

You swallow hard, trying to will those memories out of your mind, when Vernon sits up with a gasp.

“What day is it?”

“Sunday,” you answer slowly. “Why?”

Vernon’s brow is now creased with a panicked look, one you’ve frankly never seen before. “And tomorrow is Monday?”

“That’s how days work, yes.”

“Oh, then I’m fucked,” Vernon groans. His gaze flits from you to Tiffany to Matthew and back again. “I’m super fucked.”

“Vernon, baby, deep breaths,” Tiffany instructs. “What’s going on?”

“That big training on Monday,” he explains, expression twisting into a grimace. “I completely forgot, they wanted me to put the deck together, it was supposed to be like three hours of content.”

“Just do it now, dumbass,” Matthew says, and Vernon pauses, as if taking a moment to consider this.

The grimace quickly returns to his face. “I might, uh. Have left my laptop. At the office.”

“You’re telling me I gotta drive your ass all the way–”

“I can do it,” you interject quickly, before Matthew can spew any more chip crumbs out along with his complaints. A wave of relief rushes over you, because this is exactly what you need right now: the promise of an empty office and enough busy work to keep you occupied. “Seriously, I can build a deck in my sleep. I’ll just do it, and I’ll bring your laptop back in case you want to change anything.”

“Are you sure?” Vernon asks, awestruck.

But you’re already on your feet; a millisecond later, Tiffany is on hers, too. “I’m coming with you.”

“Tiff–” you shake your head, doing your best to shoot her a convincing smile, one that you’re sure doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Just, please. Let me handle this, okay?”

Her mouth pulls flat; you know her well enough to know it means reluctant acquiescence, and you don’t hesitate. You cross the room to the front door and slip into your shoes, then grab your keys off the hook.

“Vernon–” you turn back over your shoulder. “All your files are on the shared drive, right?”

His brows raise, like it’s his first time hearing the term. “The… what now?”

As if to express his disappointment, Matthew lobs a couch pillow across the room, missing Vernon by at least a foot. You do your best to bite back a smile– it’s not like you can exactly judge anyone for a lack of computer knowledge.

“Just text me your password and where your laptop is, okay?” you try instead.

Vernon nods, shooting you a double thumbs-up. “Thank you for saving my ass!”

When you step outside, the promise of rain sits cool and heavy in the air, and you let yourself breathe it in. You’d been wound so tightly, trying to hold it together in front of your friends. You can feel those threads starting to snap now, like you’re coming apart at the seams.

The lights of the city begin to blink on, one-by-one, as you make your way across town. What was once an overcast afternoon sky has begun to bruise darker into grey-black storm clouds, thick and ominous over the hills.

You’ve barely managed to lock the office door behind you when the sky opens up, giving way to sudden downpour.

Finding Vernon’s laptop is easy enough, as is actually getting the slides together, despite his questionable notes. And, well. You can’t help it. You prop your phone up on the desk, tuned into a livestream of the Grammys broadcast.

It’s a long show, and you manage to finish the deck before Yoongi’s category is called. It’s still pouring down rain, so you stay at your desk, eyes glued to your phone.

You remember the feeling of Yoongi’s hand slipping into yours, the tick of nerves in the line of his jaw. Selfish as it may be, you can’t help but wonder if you’re on his mind at all. If he wishes he was with you instead. If it hurts him just as much, being this close.

And then a pretty blonde country singer is stepping up to present the next award, and your heart leaps into your throat as the words leave her mouth: Best New Artist.

Flashes of performance footage are stitched together into a video montage introducing each artist. You see Yoongi sneering into the microphone, dark hair falling into his eyes as he stares down the camera like it’s the barrel of a gun.

It’s suddenly hard for you to get a breath in.

The presenter fumbles a little with the envelope, but eventually manages to get it open. She leans into the microphone for one long moment of suspense, and then she says it.

“Agust D.”

The room erupts, and your heart cracks, right down the center. He really did it.

There are tears in your eyes now, and as you try to blink them away, you realize the camera is swinging a little haphazardly. It almost looks like they’re trying to find Yoongi, which doesn’t make any sense, given that they know exactly where he’s sitting.

When the broadcast finally manages to zero in on the dark-haired man bounding towards the stage, you clap a hand over your mouth in disbelief.

It’s Jungkook.

He makes it up to the microphone, as wide-eyed as you’ve ever seen him, one hand raised in a shy wave. “Oh, wow. Um, hi everyone. Hi Grammys.”

There’s another pang in your chest. God, you miss this kid.

“My name is Jungkook. Agust D has asked me to accept this award on his behalf.” You can see the look of sheer terror on Jungkook’s face now; he stares into the camera like a deer in headlights. “He, uh, gave me a note to read. Hang on, let me get it.”

As Jungkook starts to pat down his pockets in search of the note, you catch a glint of silver at the edge of his mouth. Is that a… piercing? You lean in closer, squinting at your phone screen to try and make it out.

There’s a bang at the front door, so loud that it makes you jump. You glance up, startled, and then the bottom drops out of your stomach.

Min Yoongi is standing outside of your office, soaked to the skin, like something out of a dream.

None of it feels real. Not when you get up from your desk, not when you unlock and open the door. Not even when he steps inside in his all-black suit, clearly out of breath, raking back his wet hair.

“You’re here,” he says dumbly, and you just stand there, sure that you’re about to wake up. Any second now.

“Yoongi,” you finally manage to breathe. “What are you–”

“I love you.”

The words nearly knock you off balance. “Yoongi,” you try again. “You just–”

He shakes his head. “I have to say this first, and then you can tell me to fuck off forever. I love you. I’m sorry that I didn’t say it sooner, or that I took it back when I shouldn’t have. It’s like you said– I was scared.” His dark eyes threaten to burn right through you. “I just couldn’t sit at that stupid show anymore knowing I was so close to you. I had to come tell you myself.”

You press a hand to his face, feather-light, your fingertips swiping at an errant bead of rainwater trailing along his cheek. His arms close around your waist, pulling you closer as if on instinct. Heat blooms under your skin at every point where your bodies touch.

“You just won a Grammy,” you say softly.

The look on Yoongi’s face shifts from concern to confusion, and then his jaw goes slack beneath your palm. “I– what?”

All you can do is nod. You feel a tear streak down your face. “I was watching the broadcast. You won, Yoongi.”

“I–I didn’t think I had any real shot.” His eyes widen. “Oh my god, and I told Jungkook to give my speech.”

You manage a wet laugh, even as more tears start to fall. “He did it, I saw him. He was shaking like a leaf.”

“Oh, the fangirls are going to love him,” Yoongi mutters with a disbelieving grin, and then he shakes his head again, as if to refocus himself. “We’ll circle back to that. This is more important. Than the music, than the Grammy, all of it.”

It feels like your chest could cave in at any second. “But Yoongi, this is your dream.”

His arms tighten around you, and a shiver trails up your spine. “There’s this funny thing that happens when your dreams come true. It makes you realize what really matters. Because as it turns out, being there tonight meant fuck all without you beside me.” A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “As much as I love Jungkook.”

Yoongi’s eyes search yours as he keeps talking. “I’m sorry I didn’t go after you when you left. I wish I’d known that you wanted me to. But I figured maybe if I did it tonight, it might count for something. Like, better late than never.”

You’ve given up on trying to hold the tears back, and you feel Yoongi trace a thumb gently beneath your lash line as more spill down your cheeks, unrelenting now.

“I hate to see you cry,” he says hoarsely.

You look up at him through your wet lashes, wondering how on earth he hasn’t put it together by now. “I’m crying because I love you, you idiot.”

Recognition spreads slowly over Yoongi’s face, and then you’re both laughing, his hands moving to cup your jaw. He looks at you like you’re something precious, something he doesn’t want to lose twice. For a second, it’s impossible to breathe.

“Can I kiss you now?” he asks softly.

“Please,” you answer, and he does.

His mouth on yours blots out every other thought in your mind. It’s a long time before you finally pull away.

“Hang on,” you start, once you’ve regained the ability to string words together, every cell in your body still buzzing with electricity. “How did you even know I would be here?”

Yoongi shrugs, strands of damp hair falling into his eyes. He pushes them back again, and you swear there’s a tinge of mild embarrassment in his expression. It’s an emotion you didn’t know he was capable of. “I… didn’t? I just kind of ran out of there, and I knew your office was close, and it was raining, and– I don’t know. I guess I was hoping for one more of those cosmic coincidences.”

“We do have a lot of them,” you admit with a nod of your head. “But honestly, you could have just called.”

“I know, I know.” He winces, and you swear you can see his face reddening. “I was acting on impulse, okay?”

“Shocking,” you deadpan, and he really laughs. Your heart threatens to beat right out of your chest at the sound. Another tear slips down your face at the realization: you’ve missed it all. Every piece of him.

Yoongi’s still smiling, your face still cradled in his hands. “Alright, your turn. Why are you here?”

“It’s a long story,” you say with a shake of your head. “And we have better things to do.”

“You make an excellent point,” he replies, lips brushing close to your ear. You feel him hesitate, just for a second. “I really am sorry I can’t stay longer. But I’ll be back as soon as I can, if you’ll have me.”

“Of course,” you murmur. As if you haven’t missed him since the moment you set foot on California soil. As if you could ever want anyone else, anything but this.

Another kiss, this one pressed to your hairline. “I know it’s probably way too soon for me to talk about this,” Yoongi’s voice is soft against your skin.

“It’s okay, Yoongi,” you answer. “Whatever it is, you can say it.”

“I just– do you think you’ll ever come home? To Seoul?”

And, well. You can’t help yourself. There’s a small smile on your face as you tip your head back to gaze up at Yoongi, feigning as much innocence as you can muster. “You know, I’m not sure.” You blink, and there’s a flash of something all-too familiar in his dark eyes. It’s a look that makes your gut clench with anticipation. “I guess you’ll have to make me.”

His mouth finds yours again, and something tells you that you won’t need much convincing.

~*~

A/N: thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for reading. 🤍

chapter ten | masterlist

[rafedaddy01]

Y/n is rafes older boss (hes about 25shes about 40)

Y/n just caught him taking drug again on the job and well she is about to fire him

He begs" please I cant lose this job I have a family to feed . Isnt there anything I can do?"

So y/n (who has always dreamed about how his massive d she saw in his dress pants would feel inside of her) tells him:f me

So thats how he ends up lying on the table

His pants around his ankels

And his boss riding him

Guys I am so sorry! I got a new phone and lost the password and username to my tumblr 😭 I finally was able to remember it and I am back! I will try to be posting as much as I can and I know I have some requests in my inbox form a while back and I promise I will get to those too! 💕

Power Play

Summary: request

Warnings: explicit context, nsfw, smut

A/n: thank you for this request 🤭

You tangled your fingers in his hair, yanking just enough to make his head tilt back. His red, glossy eyes locked onto yours, dark and unreadable, a silent plea hidden beneath the haze.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Cameron?” you whisper-shouted, gripping his hair and pulling him into your private office. The door clicked shut behind you as you hurried to close the blinds, blocking out any prying eyes. Turning back to him, you gestured sharply to the chair. “Sit. Now.” He swallowed hard, obeying without question, his eyes flickering with something between defiance and anticipation.

He ran a nervous hand through his hair, disheveling it in a way that only added to his charm. “I-I’m so sorry, Miss.—” he began, but you cut him off, raising a finger to your lips, silencing him instantly. His eyes locked onto yours, unsure of what would come next, the tension hanging thick in the air.

“Don’t speak,” you said, your voice low but firm. “Listen.” The command hung in the air, sharp and undeniable, as his gaze remained fixed on you, waiting for whatever came next.

You eyed him carefully, your gaze unwavering as you leaned against your desk, arms crossed over your chest. The movement accentuated your posture, drawing his attention in a way that Rafe couldn’t help but notice. The air between you thickened with unspoken tension, a challenge hanging in the silence.

“What am I going to do with you?” you asked, your gaze unwavering, the intensity in your eyes enough to send a shiver through him. The weight of your words hung heavy in the air, an unspoken warning laced with authority.

“Please, you can’t fire me. I—I have kids at home to feed,” he stammered, desperation lacing his words. “It won’t happen again, I swear. I’ll do anything. Please…”His plea was so pitiful that a part of you almost felt a twinge of sympathy. Almost.

“Don’t worry, I won’t fire you,” you said coolly, stepping closer until you loomed above him. You couldn’t help but admire the pathetic look in his eyes as he gazed up at you, the mix of fear and pleading evident in every glance.

“Thank you—” he began, but you cut him off with a sharp look, silencing him before he could finish.

“Don’t thank me yet. There is something I need you to do if you wish to be forgiven Mr. Cameron” a sly smirk spread your lips. “Anything” he said desperately. Your smile widened, “undress and lie on the desk.”

Rafes eyes widened. But when he saw that you were serious his expression dropped and his throat bulged as he gulped. He slowly stood up and started following your instructions, unzipping his pants and letting them fall to the floor with the clink of his belt echoing in his ears he sat atop your desk. You licked your lips as you took him in. Imagining what it would be like to taste him. But that would have to be set aside for another day. You have other plans in mind for tonight.

“It’s simple really” you say nonchalantly as you unzip your dress and shimmy out of it. Leaving you in your matching black panties and bra. “I’m gonna fuck you, and you’re gonna take it” you slipped your panties off and climbed on top of him.

You couldn’t help the smirk that glazed your face as you saw his soft cock start to harden. You gripped the base of it and held it straight as you positioned your already dripping pussy on top of it and slipped down.

Both of your groans filled your office, you sat there for a moment getting used to his size before you placed both your palms onto his chest and began bouncing.

“Ah, shit” Rafe clenched his teeth as he basked in the glory of your pussy fluttering around him, he hated to admit it but in this moment he forgot about his wife, he forgot why he was even in your office in the first place, he just cared about you and your tight pussy, clenching around him and milking him for everything he’s got.

You locked eyes either him as you panted. Moving up and down, rocking back and forth. “We both know this won’t be the last time, Cameron”

Taglist

@f4ll-for-you @rafeysworldim19 @baby19sthings @sevenwivesofrafecameron @rxfecameronsslut @findapenny @r1vrsefx @spencerreidsrealgf @rafescokenostril @thievin-stealing @rafemotherfuckingcameron @starkeysheart @wearemadeofstardust0 @theoraekenslover @mema10 @writingroom21 @wtfdudesblog @akobx @obxrafeandjj @romantasyreader2024

[pushspacetocontinue]

"It sure can be," Bill said, "Although when a cyclist has just finished up or is still going, I find the blood flows a lot faster because it's still pumping through them."

And most telemarketers had to just sit and talk on the phone most of the day, which wasn't as optimal.

"Funnily enough, Lewis told us that too," Simon agreed, "And well, it is certainly true. As they say, you can either run from your mistakes or you can learn from them. More of us should choose the latter. I'm glad you still have your brothers. You all are certainly more than just that too."

"If only Ma or Gramps could have known that," Travis said, before he shrugged, "But hey, family is what you make it too, and they certainly didn't want to make us part of theirs and we're making our own again."

"Y-yeah," Russell agreed, before he then looked over at the tools Erica had pointed out, "Good, good idea. We, we don't know what, what they might do."

"Good shout," Travis said, "We got plenty of other things to wreck in here either way. Nice! You found the car keys. We'll make good use of those."

At least they hadn't been on Five's person when they dumped him into the void.

Russell eyed a set of apparatus that was most likely used to mix poisons or possibly make existing ones more potent. Those certainly had to go. So Russell moved forward and broke up the glass items with all of his might until nothing but shards remained. The crowbar made very quick work of it.

"Heh yeah, it, it does feel pretty good," Russell said, managing a small smile as he looked back at Lucien then.

Travis smacked at one of the tactical masks with the pipe he had found and grinned.

"You can say that again," Travis agreed.

Bill fell into silence as Rook spoke, not wanting to interrupt her while she was lightening the heavy weight she had been clearly carrying for a very long time now.

"I can imagine," Bill said, with a small nod, just to show that he was listening. Well, he could hardly imagine that sort of thinking, "That is frightening to think about."

And of course, seeing someone who did have a similar path and had chosen to do what Five had done was most likely a very harsh reminder of Rook could have turned out under worse circumstances.

"You have people who love and support you, Rook," Bill said, "And you know your principles. No one can take that away from you. Even when you have to do something that's not ideal, you don't take enjoyment from it like he did. I'm proud of you for what you did today. Well, I'm proud of you for a lot of things, but I am also very proud of you for today as well."

That sympathy returned to Bill's grey eyes as he heard that last part.

"Well, even if you end up resenting yourself. None of us resent you, and you can come talk to any of us, spend some time with us, or anything you need to help lighten that burden if you need it," Bill said, "I promise."

He could promise that.

Leofric still watched Frosty, just for any other signs of anything particularly urgent. But it seemed that both he and Veronica had come to same conclusion that he just needed some rest for the time being, and the rest would come later.

And there was also the problem the problem of why Frosty felt like he couldn't return home, and finding some sort of solution to that.

"That sounds like an optimal plan," Leofric said, with a nod of approval, "I'll check on my grimoire in the meantime and make a decision on the best concoctions to use to treat his injuries and the poisoning he endured."

Antonio then gave Veronica a nod.

"Yes, I can do that," Antonio said. With that, he fixed a new glowing green gaze on Frosty, the various shades in his irises swirling like paint but never truly blending, "Frosty, you are tired. You need to rest now. To sleep well. For as long you as need to. Rest and sleep."

It was more forceful than what he did when helping Rook sleep. But it just helped to speed up the process. Antonio then added one last thing as an afterthought more than anything else.

"Sweet dreams."

"Variety is good!" And Erica appreciated that she was being humored. Most people started questioning her logic and that was very much not the point.

"I have noticed that mistakes are sometimes necessary in order to learn." Willow replied, "I almost lost my brothers once and that served as a reminder that family can't simply be cast aside until your earliest convenience, or managed like another company asset."

It used to be easier to do so when it was still just the five of them. But even with the facility and the children to look after, they still tried to make time to be together even for just a meal.

The shadows were dispelled once the crane was gone, leaving Erica free to have a closer look at the scattered belongings in case there was something unsafe to handle. It turned out her hunch was right

"...Oh no." She raised her hands, motioning to keep a safe distance. "Don't touch these tools! There's Ratchet's smell on them."

It was only fair everybody would know. Erica then shoved some notes aside and snatched a car key off the table. Now they could steal Five's car in a funnier way than feeding it to the void.

Willow quietly retrieved a box to store the books they were taking. They were going to the same place as the car, but half of the entertainment for Rook was digging into the pile for anything of interest. Presentation did indeed matter.

Lucien gladly drew his baseball bat and joined Russell. He aimed for a row of vials still waiting to be filled, then took a moment to savor the feeling.

"I know he will buy another one, but this feels great."

He almost felt like he could breath a little better.

Rook made to climb off Bill's back once they reached the roof, moving carefully so her spikes would not ruin his outfit. She took a moment to check their surroundings, before looking back at him.

"It's not much. I just..." She let out a tired sigh, "I've always been worried of losing control and hurting those around me and it's been hard to even look at Five. He's all those things and he likes it. He made it too real."

Rook trailed off as the memories of her time under Five's influence threatened to resurface.

"...But at the same time, it made me feel better." she then added, "Because I know what went wrong with him and know what to watch out for and I... just needed to say it out loud. I might still not be nice to myself in the future, but I feel a bit better for now."

She didn't dare adding that she felt a bit bad for Five as well, not after everything he had done. For now, a promise that she would try not resenting herself for being what she was as much would suffice.

Veronica was glad to see Frosty wasn't trying to fight back as they tended to him. He didn't do as much as flinch when he was sprayed and raise a hand to shield his face. That alone was a struggle in his current state. The best he could hope for was to pass out and not have to endure for as long as he could whatever they were really planning for him.

"Well, a cup of my special tea is in order, but we should wait a few more hours for that. His abilities have been tampered with enough, we would risk causing permanent damage." Veronica replied, "The best we can do right now is tending to his physical injuries."

Toxins aside, Frosty was going to feel very sore from the beating he took before going berserk.

"For now, though, sleep is the best medicine for him. Would you mind tending to that, Antonio? Erika told me that's a specialty of yours."

[theshiftingdiariesofficial]

Waiting for that storytime babes <3

Ofc babes!

So I’m just going to go yap about my first shift, but if any of y’all want some more shifting stories, I got you 😘

So, I’d been trying to shift about like 2 months at that point. I used so many methods, like it was insane, because I wanted to get there one way or the other. I’d get symptoms like tingling, numbness, but then nothing. I’d wake up in my CR feeling like a failure and obsessively read shifting stories to convince myself it’s real. But that one night? It just clicked.

That night was literally like one of the worst nights I had had in a while. I was exhausted, I had cried earlier (not shift related, just about my job and finals stress) and after I cried it felt like something cracked in me and I had to get to my DR like right now. I stopped caring about controlling my shift, and just whispered affirmations like “I am already in Monaco” and stuff like that while lying down. No music, no subliminals.

I don’t remember falling asleep, but I must have idk, cause the next minute I opened my eyes I knew something was off. First of all, I wasn’t in my bedroom, I was lying on a white leather couch in a super sleek room with a Red Bull logo on the wall and a TV playing race footage. I could smell engine oil (low-key disgusting) mixed with like really strong espresso. I was wearing the custom team gear I scripted- black fitted top with tiny red and blue detailing, my name embroidered on it. There was tons more but this is like the main stuff I first noticed. I like slowly sat up, just taking in the sight when Max Verstappen walked in. And oh my freaking God, I forgot to breathe. He looked at me like he’d known me forever, gave me a slightly weird look like why is this girl acting like she’d never seen me before, and said “you ready to do your job, Dej (his nickname for me) or are you gonna nap all day?”

Oh and before I continue, i just want to tell you guys what my job was. So basically I scripted myself as part of the Red Bull comms/ media team. Like a mix of PR and digital strategist, since I wanted something to dip my foot in before I actually became a driver (I now don’t go to this DR as much as I used to since I have a formula one racing DR as a driver). Basically all I did was travel with the team, write press releases, hang out in the garage, meet other teams, go to post race parties, and flirt with some drivers…

I stayed for about 2 weeks, and I didn’t do any time ratios. I was there during practice, quali’s, and the races. Max even tried to teach me how to drive a race car during one of our off days, and honestly I’m surprised I didn’t do that bad (if we take out the part where I bumped into the racing track wall. I still haven’t gotten over that) And the after parties? ELITE. It was on a yacht, and I remember picking out this sparkly black slinky dress with a little slit up my thigh. Me and Lando talked, and he handed me a drink… someone took a photo of me and Max laughing about something, I can’t even remember what it was.

When I came back, I came back on my own terms. I was scared of shifting back during my sleep, so I didn’t sleep for like 2 days before I knocked out from exhaustion, but it was fine! I decided to shift back because I wanted to tell my sister all about it, and also I was low-key missing my home. So I said my code word, and went back to normal. I literally wrote everything about this experience down in a notebook, so I wouldn’t ever forget. Definitely the best moment I’ve experienced in my life, because I knew it was real. And if anyone says it was a dream, I don’t care. It was too real, too vivid, too emotional. I literally used to go to my messages to message Lewis about some drama (he loves gossip me and him used to literally yap about all the tea we’d picked up) but then realise I was in my CR. So I was eager to get back Asap, which I did a week later.

So yeah, that’s my first shifting story. If you needed a sign to keep trying, this is it. Trust me, this is real, all of it. So go out there and shift babes <3

Xoxo,

The version of you who made it 😘

[sequinsmile-x]

Birds of a Feather

Emily feels like she’s in two places at once. Like she was here with her daughter, the confession she’d clearly been mulling over for weeks filling the air around them, and she was back in Aaron’s old apartment almost 20 years ago when she told him the very same thing about herself. Everyone had always told her how similar she and Lucy were, and it turns out no one had any idea how right they were. 

In which Emily and Aaron's daughter tells her mom something important.

-x-

Hi friends,

Happy Pride Month!!

This came from a couple of anons I had, and a comment over on Ao3 from ebble asking for a fic where Emily and Aaron's daughter comes out as bi to them.

Parts of this feel personal, as a bi woman myself (who only really came to terms with the fact she is bi in the last few years) I know this kind of thing is important. Bi-erasure is real, we are often seen as not enough from both sides and it makes it hard, so to all my bi friends out there - you are valid and I see you <3

Happy Pride to all of the LGBTQIA+ family. It feels more important than ever to be there for each other and lift each other up in a world that is getting crueller by the day.

I hope you enjoy this, and that if you need comfort of any kind it brings it to you.

As always, let me know what you think <3

-x-

Warnings: Coming out

Words: 3k

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

There was a time when she used to try to delay going home, when she’d gladly take on more work or jump at the chance of going out for dinner or a few drinks to delay the inevitable. To delay walking into an empty apartment, the silence as loud as it was suffocating, and spend hours by herself. When she was young, she’d revelled in being alone. She’d seek it out in a way she now knew was a defence mechanism, an attempt to protect herself that she’d learnt long before she really understood why, too used to moving, to always being the new girl, to ever allow herself to truly settle.  Now, she hated when she was late getting home. She’d sit in overrunning meetings with her jaw clenched and her eyes on the clock on the wall as she willed everyone else to shut the hell up so she could get home to her family. 

She sighs in relief as she steps into the house, her shoulders immediately relaxing as the smell of home and her favourite meal hang in the air around her. She follows the sound of her husband humming to himself in the kitchen. 

He turns to look at her and smiles, briefly drawing his attention away from making dinner, “Hi, sweetheart.” 

“Hi,” she replies as she walks over, stamping a kiss against his lips before she wraps her arms around him from behind, her cheek against his shoulder, “Sorry I’m late.” 

“It’s okay,” he says, placing his hand over her’s on his abdomen and squeezing, “I know what it’s like, and I delayed dinner so you could eat with us.” 

She hums contentedly and smiles when she hears laughter upstairs, the sound of her daughter’s laugh - the laugh she’d inherited from Aaron - mixing in with her best friends. “Is Charlotte here?” 

“Lucy asked if she could come over for dinner,” he says, “And I said of course.” he turns his head just enough to smile at her. “They told me they’d study until we eat, but I have a feeling they’re not.” 

She laughs as she thinks about her 16-year-old daughter, who was her through and through, and she nods, “Probably not. Is Issac out with Dylan?” 

“Dylan’s mom came to pick him up about 30 minutes ago, and I’m going to go get him later,” he raises his eyebrow as he looks at her. “He told me not to ‘be cringe’ in front of his friends. Whatever that means.” 

“I think it roughly translates as ‘don’t be embarrassing’ in 13-year-old speak,” she replies, pulling away from him to get plates out from the cabinet. 

“Don’t worry about that, sweetheart,” he says, winking at her, “I’ve got it. You’ve only just got home.” 

“At least let me help,” she says, and he shakes his head at her. She rolls her eyes lovingly and kisses his cheek, “I’ll go tell the girls dinner will be ready in five minutes,” she says, kissing him one more time before she heads upstairs. She knocks on Lucy’s door just before she opens it, “Hi, dinner is…”

She trails off, her eyes wide as she watches Lucy and Charlotte pull away from each other, clearly mid-kiss, hands slipping out of sweaters as they try and put a reasonable distance between them. She freezes, and no matter how much she screams at herself internally to move, or blink or just do anything, she can’t, the shock of seeing her daughter kissing her best friend briefly overwhelming everything else. 

“Mom.” 

Lucy’s furious voice breaks through Emily’s stupor, and she looks up, clearing her throat when she sees matching embarrassed expressions on the girls’ faces, and she forces a smile that she’s sure makes her look a little bit too much like her mother. 

“Dinner is almost ready,” she says, backing out of the room. “Your Dad said it will be five minutes.”

“Okay,” Lucy says, crossing her arms over her chest, “We’ll be down in a minute.” She makes eye contact with Emily, and she can see the mix of embarrassment and fear painted across her daughter’s face. Emily nods ever so slightly, letting her know silently that they could talk about this later, that she wouldn’t say anything about it. 

“See you downstairs.” 

She pulls the door closed behind her before she reopens it so it’s open just a sliver, and she gives herself a moment before she walks downstairs, doing her best to act as normally as she can, not wanting to give anything her daughter deemed a secret away to her husband. 

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” 

She looks up, startled by Aaron only being a few feet away from her, a casserole dish in hand, and she nods.

“I’m fine.” She grimaces, not sure she’d believe herself, and he furrows his brow. 

“Are you sure?” 

She nods and swallows thickly, “I’m fine,” she repeats, nodding towards the dining room, “You’d better get that in there. The girls are on their way down,” she says, pointing over her shoulder towards the kitchen, “I’ll get the wine.” She lets the smile drop off her face as she turns away from him, and as soon as he’s out of earshot, she mutters to herself. “Get it together, Emily. You used to literally be a spy for fucks sake.” 

___

She waits until Aaron goes to pick up Issac. 

He offers to drop Charlotte home too, and Emily distracts him in the kitchen so the girls can say goodbye to each other without an audience. As soon as Aaron is out of the house, Emily blows out a slow breath and goes to the kitchen, grabbing the leftover cake from dessert and two forks, and then she heads up to Lucy’s room. She knocks on the door and pauses, wanting to let Lucy take the lead. 

“You can come in, Mom,” she says, and when Emily opens the door, Lucy is sitting cross-legged in the middle of her bed, a nervous smile spreading across her face, “You know, if you’d waited earlier, we wouldn’t have to have this conversation now.”

“We don’t have to have a conversation now,” Emily says, holding up the cake. “I thought you’d just want to help me with the rest of the cake.” 

She nods, and Emily walks over, handing the cake over to Lucy before she joins her on the bed, passing over a fork once they are both comfortable. They sit in silence as they eat, and eventually Lucy clears her throat, her focus on running her fork through the cake’s frosting rather than on her mother. Eventually, her phone chimes, and she smiles as she picks it up, sending a quick reply before she places it back down on her bed. 

“Charlotte’s home.” 

“Good,” Emily replies, smiling when Lucy finally looks up at her, and she hopes it’s encouraging, hopes that she’s spent the last 16 years letting her daughter know that she can tell her everything just like she thought she had. 

“You know, after you walked in on us…” She clears her throat, her lips pressed together as her cheeks go red, “You kind of looked like Grandma when you smiled at us.” 

Emily grimaces, a half-laugh caught in her throat. “That’s not a fun note to get,” she quips, and Lucy smiles at her, her shoulders relaxing for a moment before she sucks in a slow breath, her chest visibly shuddering with it. 

“Charlotte…is my girlfriend.” 

Emily nods, smiling softly at what she now already knew, “How long have you been dating?” 

“A month,” Lucy admits, “We were just friends at first, but…she’s just the best, Mom,” she gushes just like she had about boys in the past, “She’s funny and smart and so pretty,” she abandons her fork on the plate on the bed and clasps her hands together, picking at her cuticles as she stares down at her hands, “You don’t…you don’t mind do you?” 

Emily places her own fork down and reaches out for Lucy’s hand, stopping her from picking her cuticles apart as she clasps their hands, “Of course I don’t.”

Lucy’s shoulders relax again, “Really?”

“Really. Although, we will have a strict open door policy going forward.”

Lucy rolls her eyes, “Mom. It’s not like we can get each other pregnant. 

“No, it isn’t,” she chuckles, “But rules are rules, and the same applies now as it did when you were dating Blake.” She says, and Lucy smiles, shaking her head but not arguing any further. “Is Charlotte your first girlfriend?” 

Lucy nods, “She is, but she’s not the first…” She presses her lips together, holding back what she knew she couldn’t pull back the moment she says it, “She’s not the first girl I’ve liked. I’m bi, Mom.” 

Emily feels like she’s in two places at once. Like she was here with her daughter, the confession she’d clearly been mulling over for weeks filling the air around them, and she was back in Aaron’s old apartment almost 20 years ago when she told him the very same thing about herself. Everyone had always told her how similar she and Lucy were, and it turns out no one had any idea how right they were. 

“Thank you for telling me, sweetie,” she says, squeezing Lucy’s hand and smiling when she looks up at her in relieved shock, “I know it’s not easy.” 

“You’re…you’re not mad?” 

Emily shakes her head, and she moves the plate between them. When she turns back barely a second later, Lucy has her favourite stuffed animal, a threadbare bear named Teddy, in her arms. Emily tugs her towards her, letting her rest her head on her shoulder as she strokes her hair like she did when she was little. 

“Lucy, you’re still the same person you were two minutes ago, nothing has changed. And nothing like this could ever make me mad at you.” 

“You don’t think Dad will mind, do you?” Lucy asks, her focus on the threadbare teddy bear in her arms, her grip on him tight just like it used to be when she was little and would wake up in the middle of the night after a nightmare. Emily could picture it now - her little girl afraid and crying as she climbed into bed between her and Aaron, one hand grasping her favourite toy and the other reaching out for her mother. “He won’t be mad?” 

“Honey,” she says, tucking some of Lucy’s hair behind her ear, something in her chest swelling as the teenager leans into the touch, “What would he be mad about?” 

She shrugs, briefly looking up at Emily again before she returns her attention to Teddy, “That I’m bi. That I like girls and might end up married to a woman.” 

“Well, talk of marriage to anyone at this stage might make him have a heart attack,” Emily says softly, hooking her finger under Lucy’s chin and makes her look at her, ”Lucy, sweetheart, your Dad and I love you. And nothing will ever change that, especially something as simple as you loving someone - no matter who they are,” she says, smiling when Lucy nods, and she wipes away a tear from her cheek, “Besides,” she says, feeling spurred on by her daughters bravery, “Your dad was nothing but supportive when I told him that I’m bi.” 

Lucy’s eyes go wide, and her mouth falls open, a sound somewhere between a disbelieving laugh and a sob, her face breaking out into a beautiful smile. “What?”

Emily smiles and wipes a tear from Lucy’s cheek, “It’s something I’ve known about myself for as long as I can remember, but it took me a couple more years than you to come to terms with it.” 

“And Dad knows?” 

Emily nods, “Yeah, we walked into an ex of mine one night after we’d gone on a date, she was at this ice cream spot we used to go to together with her family,” she smiles as she thinks about it, as she thinks about Cat, and she hopes she’s still as happy as she had seemed that night they bumped into each other. “At first, I told him that she was an old friend, but a few days later, I realised I wanted him to know. It’s up to you when you tell him,” she says, wiping another tear from Lucy’s cheek, “And you can do it alone, or I can be there. I’ll do whatever you want.” 

“Thanks, Mom. I’ll tell him soon,” she says, “Was everyone you dated as cool with it as Dad was?” Lucy asks curiously, and Emily sighs, wishing she could tell her daughter anything but the truth, but she’d promised her when she was just hours old that she’d never lie to her, so she shakes her head and reaches out for her hand. 

“For some people you won’t be gay enough,” she sighs sadly, “And for others, they’ll try to use it to their own advantage,” she scrunches her nose up, unsure how else to softly explain to her teenage daughter that an ex-boyfriend had once immediately asked for a threesome after she told him. She looks up at Lucy and sighs, not missing the disappointment shining in her eyes, “But that just means they aren’t the right person for you, honey. Whoever is lucky enough to end up with you, be that Charlotte or someone else, will love every part of you.” 

“Like how Dad loves you.” 

She nods, “And how I love him,” she says, turning her head to kiss Lucy’s forehead, “And how we both love you.” 

“I love you too,” Lucy says as she snuggles against her, Teddy squished between the two of them, and she sighs, a weight off her shoulders. She settles for a moment before another thought occurs to her, and she sits up just enough to look at Emily. “Did Grandma ever know?”

“She met a couple of my girlfriends, but I said we were just friends and she’s never been one to ask questions she didn’t want the answer to,” she says wryly, “Even if she had her suspicions, I’m sure because I’ve been happily married to a man for almost 20 years now that she thinks it was a phase.” 

Lucy frowns, fury on Emily’s behalf rolling through. “I’m sorry, Mom. You deserve better than that.” 

She nods, “Yeah,” she chokes out, “But I have that now, with you, your brothers and your dad.” 

Lucy smiles and snuggles against her again, “I’m so lucky to have you as a Mom.” 

Emily has to hold her breath to stop herself from crying, love and a dozen other things filling the space in her chest she thinks must have always been there for moments like these. 

“No, sweet girl, I’m the lucky one.” 

___

She’s just finished putting the last dish back in the cabinet when the front door opens and her blur of a 13-year-old son runs past the kitchen, barely casting her a glance as he goes. 

“Hi Mom. Night, Mom,” he says, and she shakes her head lovingly, wondering when he’d shifted from the little boy velcroed to her side to the teenager who barely had time for her these days. She loved watching her children grow, loved watching them become their own people, but she couldn’t help but miss when they were small and at their happiest, when they were wherever she was. 

She smiles as Aaron walks into the kitchen, “You timed that perfectly, I’ve just got done with the dishes.” 

He walks over and stamps a kiss against her lips, “I could have done it when I got home.” 

She shrugs and winks at him, letting him know she was kidding, “You cooked,” she says, turning away from him, hoping he couldn’t read her like a book like he usually could and realise she was keeping something from him, “Wine?” 

“Sounds great.” He leans against the counter and crosses his arms over her chest, looking her up and down as she grabs some glasses for them to have some wine. “Are you sure you’re okay, Em? You’ve been acting strangely all evening.” 

She pauses for a brief second before she pours the wine, “I’m fine.” 

He hums, “So this has nothing to do with Charlotte being Lucy’s girlfriend?” 

Her eyes go wide, and she spills some wine on the counter. “What? How could you possibly have guessed that?”

“They were trying to sneakily hold hands in the back of the car after I got them up from school,” he says, smiling at her as he gets a washcloth to clean the counter. “I saw them in the rearview mirror.” 

“That…is adorable,” she says, “She’s going to talk to you about it soon.” 

He nods and turns towards her, wrapping his arms around her waist, “I’ll wait her out. I thought she might tell you first.” 

She hums, “Well, I think she only told me because I walked in on them kissing earlier,” she says, smiling when his eyes go wide, “I made the open-door policy clear,” she assures him, “But she seemed relieved to get it out,” her smile turns shy, “I remember how that felt.” She keeps the rest of it to herself, knowing it was important for Lucy to tell Aaron everything else. Once she had, she’d tell Aaron that she’d told Lucy about her own sexuality, that she’d told her there was yet another thing they shared, but for now, she was happy to leave things as they were. 

“It’s just another thing she has in common with you,” he says, and she furrows her brow, wondering if he really could read her mind after all these years, and then he smiles, “You’re both the bravest people I know.” 

She smiles and leans in to kiss him, letting her nose rub against his for a moment before she pulls back, “Come on,” she says, linking her fingers through his. “Let's drink our wine.” 

As she sits on the couch and drinks wine with the love of her life, she hopes and prays that her daughter will one day do the same thing, unapologetic and proud of who she is and the way her life has turned out. 

[gatheringbones]

[“Kai Cheng: I have lots of thoughts on the future of trans kids. It’s funny you should ask this because I think about this all the time and I don’t get a ton of opportunities to talk about it these days but. Yeah, I have a day job but I still work in the non-profit sector in mental health, just not as a clinician, and my main function is supporting trans youth’s families these days, in a variety of different ways. And it’s really fascinating to see that there is a big sea change in trans class dynamics, I think really similar to something that happened around gay and lesbian and bisexual cis people’s class dynamics. Because it used to be much more common, it still is common in a lot of places, but it was sort of everyone’s story that if you came out, and were a gay man or a lesbian woman, then you would necessarily become, probably, at least a little bit, associated with working class folks, right, hustlers, sex workers, this kind of thing. And obviously there were exceptions to that but because the gay and lesbian and bisexual world had to be a hidden one and that was a world where classes mixed much more and where the downward class mobility was really kind of a main narrative.

And that remained true for trans people, and it still is true for trans people, it’s true for people all over the world, but there is this growing middle-class of mostly white gay and lesbians, cis people, that is. And what’s really fascinating about trans folks is that is kind of happening now too. There’s this class of liberal parents, mostly white, but not all white, who have some ideas, that are good ones about supporting trans people. So when their kids come out it’s sort of like, could be a little difficult, some stress, sadness, fear mostly, on the parts of the parents, but then they sort of buck up and get their kid a photo shoot for the next Christmas card now that the wardrobe is replaced. Then there’s appointments made at the hospital and you know, by and large, it’s worked into the process of a middle-class life. And simultaneously there are still the kids who are being kicked out of their homes or who don’t have access to medical care for reasons of class or racialized barriers, what’s really fascinating is you have this huge surge of transmasculine youth patients at gender clinics and not as many transfeminine people, and lots of questions about that.

So the future of trans kids, I mean unfortunately, I do see, like a lot of younger trans people may not have… I mean this is both fortunate and unfortunate, they might have stronger relationships with their families, which is good, but maybe less perspective on what it means to be a trans woman of color sex worker, those realities are coming further and further apart. And while I’m happy for the people who don’t have to suffer as much, I worry about what that means for our class solidarity in the trans community.

Tuck: Yeah, I think that is a really good point. That’s something I think about all the time because one of my main jobs is fundraising for trans people of color specifically and I have a really hard time just talking to straight, cis, white people a lot of the time because their idea of what constitutes wealth is so different, and that is something that I think comes out of transness. Like if you are trans, many of the people you know are going to be struggling so hard to find housing and healthcare and employment that you, I feel at least, I am so, I feel so acutely privileged just for having very basic needs met, and I think that perspective is really important, you know. But also, obviously, my ideal solution to that is not more people suffer (laughs). My ideal solution to that is actually less suffering.

Kai Cheng: Yes, exactly.

Tuck: But as long as there is suffering I want people to see it so, yeah. So, I want to make sure we get to talk about “Fierce Femmes and Notorious Liars.” The book is obviously very much focused around femmes, the concept, as a collective. And I try to ask every femme who comes on the show what femme means to them because it is always is a really different answer, so, what does femme mean to you and what were you trying to express about femmeness in this book?

Kai Cheng: Yeah, I felt this wave of sadness as I thought about it because it feels like what I was saying about femmes when I wrote “Fierce Femmes and Notorious Liars” is almost already no longer a thing. And in the really, really rapid swirl of queer culture and new culture today. When I was transitioning for the second time because I came out as a teenager and then I went back in, was like forced back in by my family, and it was bizarre. I came out and went back in and then I kinda forgot that I was trans. It is amazing what the mind does, I had a couple years where I was like “I guess I’m just cis” and then I had a near-death experience and was like “nope, I’m trans.” So I was in Montreal, Berlin, New York, perhaps some other places, San Francisco, these sort of Anglo Western queer culture was kind of having the femme-masc wars, right? 2012 and people were like “I’m a femme!” And it was popular for some reason at the time to say, among lesbians that femmes had straight-passing privilege and butches and…

Tuck: I remember this.

Kai Cheng: …were oppressed. Was a serious argument at the time. And at the same time femmes were noticing that femininity was being really devalued especially among lesbian and trans AFAB communities. We were just starting to use AFAB then I guess. And then among gay men and trans women, there was this kind of noticing that gay male culture was so obviously hypermasc in some ways and that the femininity of those time was also really denigrated. So there was this hot, shining second where all these people of different, feminine persuasions were coming together and being like “Femme, we’re into it!” And I loved that moment but there was always this question of are trans women femmes or shouldn’t trans women be a different category or whatever. And I loved being a femme, I loved, I mean this is going to sound really shallow, but I loved the heels and the makeup and the dress part of it. Not just because I wanted to be girly, although I really did that too, but I loved the power of that. Like the transgression, saying that femininity, for all of its stereotyping and problematicness, is also valuable. That the way towards a more feminist world was not to strip away these things like beauty, frivolity, gracefulness, these things that are stereotypically associated with the feminine but to celebrate care and beauty and ornamentation and all of this stuff. And I really wanted trans women to have a part in that. So when I wrote “Fierce Femmes” I substituted the word trans or transgender or trans woman, a lot of the time, with the word femme, because that was sort of how we were using it at the time and it was sort of an echo of the time when, I mean still today, when lesbian femmes would say things like “hey femme” to each other, where there was this mutual recognition of the femme sisterhood. I still have that with some of my older femme friends so, yeah, that is what femme is to me. It’s deep history and beauty and unfortunately or maybe fortunately, I don’t know, I see that politic has already gone away and there’s whole new politics. And then there’s critiques of the femme politic, what about the butch trans women, and what about that, and there’s just all this stuff about femme and masc that don’t quite work for everyone. So I like the critique but I do have nostalgia for the days of the High Femmes, Low Femmes, Glory Femmes, I do miss that.”]

[itsallhoney]

here are the highlights from the samia q&a sessions in chicago.

this is stuff from both nights all mixed together. i jotted down few notes after but this is mostly from memory.

starting with more casual/general questions:

what's your favorite color? "red. what's yours?" pink. "that's beautiful." she took the opportunity to ask a question back whenever she could. it was actually very sweet.

what's your letterboxd top 4? [i'm sorry to my followers but i forgot two of them] heavenly creatures (dir. peter jackson) and princess mononoke (dir. hayao miyazaki)

what's your big three? sagittarius sun / capricorn moon / leo rising she did ask for clarification about which placements were the big three before answering

favorite sad song, chill song, happy song, and dance song? she gave two answers combining sad/chill and happy/dance-y. sad/chill: gotta have you by the weepies happy/dance-y: houseplants by squid

what was the last song you liked [on streaming]? heartbreak to hate by angelfish. she said she heard it in a thrift store and at first the phrase 'heartbreak to hate' jumped out to her and reminded her of sacred ('ou you never loved me like you hate me now') and then the song started repeating 'how long? how long? how long' and "it felt like kismet"

have you seen the new season of yellowjackets? "yes" if you were to assign a bloodless song to any character what would it be? "all of them shauna." then after some prodding "ok maybe spine oil is natalie." north poles reminds me of shauna/lottie 'when you see yourself in someone how can you look at them?' "we'll talk later." (and i hope they did)

if bloodless were a movie what would it be? the blair witch project

also someone said they took in a stray cat and named it after her. samia asked, "is she a good girl?" mostly but she has her moments. "well, i mean —"

questions about writing, inspiration, and being on tour:

what helps you feel at home while on tour? the people she's with and constantly drinking tea

what gives you confidence when performing? "i started wearing swim suit bottoms as underwear an for some reasons that makes me feel like i can do it" (i couldn't make that one up if i tried)

someone brought up the wolves — which is a play that she originated a role in off-broadway (#14) — and asked, does your theater background influence the way you perform on stage? "isn't it obvious?" she said something about how you can't hide being a theater kid

this one came with some context but basically the question was, what were the artists you discovered around age 18 that changed the way you thought about music/songwriting? her list was longer than this but, father john misty, fiona apple, mitski, the national

what writers inspire you? father john misty, a few other musicians, then she said she "grew up on maya angelou and anne sexton"

who is someone in your life that inspires you? raffaella

how do you get over writer's block? "there's this joni mitchell quote 'you don't have writer's block, you're just afraid to tell the truth' so i try to lean into that, but sometimes i think that only works if you're joni mitchell" then she said she keeps a long list of thing that interest her and when she's feeling blocked she refers back to that note and tries to find inspiration there.

someone referenced the interview at the current where she says synonyms don't exist and that she thinks there's a perfect word for every sentiment and asked, do you feel that way because you used to have trouble articulating your thoughts? "yes." and then she added onto that and she said almost the exact same thing she had said the night before to a different question about writing. i can't quite recall the question, it might have been about inspiration or it might have been about writing advice. she said, "i'm really interested in streams of consciousness because we all think differently and view the world differently so i think it's more about finding a way to phrase things in a way that's completely unique to you"

questions that are specific to her work:

night one, someone asked about before the baby. i can't remember the exact question but it was something along the lines of which before the baby song would you add to the setlist if you were to perform any? "i still really like 21." that's the only one you like? she hid her face for a moment while everyone laughed. i think the asker brought up welcome to eden and samia said she still really liked welcome to eden as well.

night two, someone asked about before the baby. i think a more general would you perform anything from before the baby? she said people have expressed a lot of interest in her before the baby singles and she's considering doing a tour in between albums where she plays some of her older stuff. she asked if we'd be interested in that. everyone cheered. "alright i'll do it!"

someone asked about playing some of her heavier songs live, what that experience was like, and how she dealt with that emotionally as a performer. she said she just stopped playing them at a certain point. she also said she would consider touring them again but with more mental preparation.

what album was the most fun to record? "honey." she said with honey there was a looser approach to the songwriting and she was more willing to let things be while with the baby and bloodless she was pulling her hair out trying to make sure everything was perfect.

if you had to unrelease one song what would it be? "oh no, people are gonna get mad at me... someone tell the boys." she held out her hands "i'm not going to do it! i haven't unreleased it, but if i had to that would be the one"

what artists would you want on bloodless reimagined? she confirmed that bloodless reimagined is happening but wasn't sure if she could or should share any of the artists. she said there was a big name she can't share but blondshell, carter faith, and dora jar are confirmed.

i love spine oil but i have no idea what it's about. "understandable." she said it's largely inspired by into the wild but it's also about some christian guys she knew in nashville that were very judgy and basically she was tired of their comments.

what is dare about — without getting too specific? she said it's based on the painting the hands resist him by bill stoneham which is supposedly haunted. she described the hands pressed against the glass in the background and said that they represent fate. she said dare was an attempt to write about a situation in her life from the perspective of fate.

[c1phra]

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀─── ⠀𝐌ELODIES ⠀& ⠀𝐌EMORIA ✦ ⠀main post.

there's a cd in your hands. scrawled on the back of the case is a list of songs—seemingly handwritten. the selection is a mix of genres, but each seems to tell a story of its own. so what do you say? have someone you want to dedicate a song to? go ahead and press play.

mari's note : this is a songfic mini-event! please see below for the selection of prompts + characters i'm accepting this time. as of now, 10/10 slots have been filled. REQUESTS ARE CLOSED.

✦ ・ TRACK LIST ( 01 — 20 )

TRACK 01 : Blue Hair⠀ · ⠀TV Girl

“Nothing I could do to stop her from cutting... her beautiful blue hair off—”They’ve changed. You’ve changed too, no doubt. It was inevitable perhaps—knowing someone for that long, they’re bound to change at some point. But sometimes when you look at them, it’s hard to recognize who they are anymore.

TRACK 02 : Your Best Friend⠀ · ⠀Boyish

“We wasted nights, pretending not to kiss when we walk home—”Best friends. That’s all you’ve been, and all you will ever be. As much as you loathe to admit it, the stealthy kisses, the longing looks, the barely held back ‘I love you’s… they never made a difference at all.

TRACK 03 : The Exit⠀ · ⠀Conan Gray

“Feels like, we had matching wounds but, mine's still black and bruised and yours is perfectly fine now—” You share the same scars of the past. You're so alike, so perfectly matched. So why did you heal so perfectly, when they're stuck ten paces behind, trapped by a past that used to haunt you both? It isn't fair. Why do you get to move on? Why can't they? And why does seeing you like this—so happy—hurt so much?

TRACK 04 : Twilight⠀ · ⠀bôa

“You feel the same way that I do for you, about her—” Oh that look in their eyes, the lovestruck, soft look that makes your heart flutter... it's beautiful. It's breathtaking. And it's sickening, knowing that look will never fall onto you—not when it's so fixated on someone else.

TRACK 05 : Work Song⠀ · ⠀Hozier

“No grave can hold my body down, I’ll crawl home to her—”Longing is too simple a word for what they feel. It's an ache, buried deep between the bars of their rib-cage, a soothing pain that yearns for you. The thought of you is the sweetest relief; knowing they have you to come home to is the only thing keeping their head up and legs moving forward. They'll always come home to you.

TRACK 06 : Cruel Summer⠀ · ⠀Taylor Swift

“I love you, ain't that the worst thing you ever heard—” A summer fling, a whirlwind romance. It's temporary, it's fun; you knew it wouldn't last forever, but god does it feel good while it lasts. If only you could draw it out a little longer, hold back the farewells for just a few more weeks... but the end of summer is quickly approaching.

TRACK 07 : Sweet Talk⠀ · ⠀Saint Motel

“Everything you say, is sweet talk to my ears—”They're so head-over-heels in love that anything that comes out of your mouth makes them smile, no matter what it is. You could yell at them, laugh, or even ignore them entirely, but it doesn't matter—the fact that they're able to be in your presence is enough.

TRACK 08 : Out Of My League⠀ · ⠀Fitz and The Tantrums

“Yeah, you were more than just a dream—” Sometimes it feels like they're dreaming. They pinch themself, but it doesn't make it feel any less surreal; after all, how could they possibly end up with someone like you? Someone so perfect, and so unbelievably out of their league.

TRACK 09 : Memories⠀ · ⠀Conan Gray

“Can't be your friend; can't be your lover—” It would be a lot easier to move on from them if they didn’t keep showing up in your life, time and time again. And it would be a lot easier if you didn’t relent and let them creep back in, time and time again.

TRACK 10 : My Love Mine All Mine⠀ · ⠀Mitski

“Nothing in the world belongs to me but my love, mine all mine—”They're not used to having things to themself, things that won't break or be discarded, so this love—this tender, delicate sort of love, it's something new. But oh, they will treasure it. It's something for them—and you, of course... all for yourselves.

TRACK 11 : Waste⠀ · ⠀Oh Wonder

“Waste, what a waste... what a waste to be so alone—”It takes every ounce of self-control to not go crawling back. Maybe it was worse before, but maybe you had each other before, and maybe that helpless thought lingers, as much as you try to dismiss it. You'd give anything to rid yourself of this aching loneliness.

TRACK 12 : Casual⠀ · ⠀Chappell Roan

“I thought, you thought of me better... someone that you couldn't lose—” "Casual". One word that's been haunting your life for months. It's your own fault for agreeing so quickly when they brought it up, but you can't help but long for more. They have to know by now, just how deep your feelings run, but it'll never go any further. It's casual, it's always been just casual.

TRACK 13 : lacy⠀ · ⠀Olivia Rodrigo

“And I despise my jealous eyes, and how hard they fell for you—”You can't fathom it. It feels like every part of them is perfect; perfect looks, perfect poise, perfect charm. You're nothing standing next to them. And all that resentment and envy and admiration seems to cloud your gaze—do you want them, or want to be them?

TRACK 14 : The 30th⠀ · ⠀Billie Eilish

“You were scared... and so am I—” It still scares you sometimes, just how close it was. In a heartbeat you could have lost them—you almost did lose them. And it still hits you sometimes, that wave of panic, the sight of their face. You're alive, you're both alive; that's all that you can focus on, now.

TRACK 15 : Do I Wanna Know?⠀ · ⠀Arctic Monkeys

“The nights were mainly made for saying things you can't say tomorrow day—”You're stuck in a limbo; both of you know there's something there, just a little deeper, but neither of you are willing to dig for it. Instead, you save your unspoken words for late nights and chance encounters, always crawling back to the other no matter what.

TRACK 16 : Favorite⠀ · ⠀Isabel LaRosa

“Darling, can I be your favorite—”It almost hurts, how badly they want to be yours. Your favourite, your treasured one, the one you call your own. They'd give you the world, if only in exchange for those few simple words; "You're mine. I'm yours."

TRACK 17 : Broken Waltz⠀ · ⠀Holden Laurence

“Bitter tears on a white dress; make-up stains on the sheets in protest—”'Love', as they called it, is not something the universe deigned to give you. Not the fairytale, flawless kind of love you saw in romances. The 'love' that you two shared was nothing but fool's gold, a perfect replication of a relationship with none of the affection attached. And you're trapped, dancing this broken waltz 'til the music cuts out.

TRACK 18 : Anything You Want⠀ · ⠀Eliza McLamb

“You could eat me alive, and I'd let you do it 'cause it's all I know... but you wanna do it right—” They aren't accustomed to love. They're not used to the feeling of being wanted. They don't understand why you look at them so adoringly, they don't understand why, out of anyone, you'd choose to love them. They don't deserve you, but if they could be a little less of themself for just a bit... they'd be anything for you.

TRACK 19 : The Other Side Of Paradise⠀ · ⠀Glass Animals

“Bye-bye baby blue, I wish you could see the wicked truth—” The lover you once knew has grown up now, and grown out of your love. Too busy chasing the stars, it seems they forgot all about you... it's too bad then, that your attachment didn't fade as easily. It's too bad, that even though you still try, they've already slipped away. You only know them in hindsight, now.

TRACK 20 : get him back!⠀ · ⠀Olivia Rodrigo

“Oh, I want sweet revenge, and I want him again—” Is it a bad idea, reconnecting with your ex? According to every one of your friends, undoubtedly yes. But oh, don't you miss those good times? Even with the rocky parts, they had a way of making everything so exciting... What's wrong with wanting that again?

✦ ・ VOLUME SETTINGS

for fem!reader, please select [volume: high]

for gn!reader, please select [volume: low]

✦ ・ DEDICATION

who's this track playing for? see below the selection of available characters to dedicate your song to. please note, this list is limited to characters i will definitely want to write for, so i don't lose motivation.

honkai star rail : anaxa. aventurine. boothill. cipher. jiaoqiu. kafka. moze. reca. robin. sunday.

genshin impact : alhaitham. chiori. furina. heizou. kaveh. kokomi. tighnari.

zenless zone zero : harumasa. hugo. lighter. seth. vivian.

mari's note : make sure to specify a track, volume, and dedication in your song request! i'm only planning on writing one drabble per prompt, so tracks that have been selected will be crossed out.

[lahbarsaglini]

haven’t shot your heart yet

pairing: matt sturniolo x oc!youtuber

summary: in a world curated for the screen, matt and kylie stumble into something real. their first encounter was something passed off as chemistry for the cameras. but there’s this new feeling going on, quieter, deeper—an off-script connection in an online world that rarely pauses for breath. this is how everything started.

notes: first one, don't really now how writing or editing here works, but i swear i'm trying my best. this turn out to be bigger than what i expected. slow burn, getting to know each other type of thing. maybe i'll end up doing a series for this plot, don't know. oh, idk how big the pictures turn out to be. i'm nervous af.

wc: 2.7k maybe?

It wasn’t supposed to be a date. Not officially, at least. 

Kylie Rose had 3.5 million subscribers on her channel now, more than when they first met. 

She was finally back in Boston after a weekend at her hometown. She had this quick modeling job with AllSaints that required her attention, a shoot drenched in dark layers and sharp eyeliner — her kind of thing.

He saw her Instagram Story, a blurry shot of the Boston skyline at dusk with the caption: “back in the city. hi again”. That was enough. He paused on it longer than he should have. 

Matt didn’t rush. He didn’t double-tap. He just thought — about how funny she was when they met each other on Cut The Camera, how sharp and honest she’d been in her answers, and how she never once tried to impress anyone. She just was. So he DMed her. 

“saw you’re in Boston. we can hang out if you have time, just us.”

That was something he almost regretted texting. No “me and my brothers”. Just us. No group thing. He second-guessed because maybe she wouldn’t be down to. But he just shook it off and tried not to think too much about it, occupying his mind with something else. 

See, tried is the key word. Because something shifted when they met.

When Kylie walked into the studio for the episode, Matt felt it in his chest first, a weird mix of calm and chaos. She had this quiet confidence. Like she knew herself and didn’t need anyone else to verify that. 

During filming, she’d answered a question about vulnerability, saying: “I’m not afraid to be real. If you’ve seen what I’ve been through, you’d know that pretending is way more exhausting.” 

Matt looked at her then — really looked. Not the public figure, not the curated YouTuber. Just her. 

It stuck with him. He noticed the way she would play with a specific ring on her finger, turning it around every now and then. Combined with the look on her face, it seemed like she was getting ready to fight someone. But if you blinked, maybe it was just a grounding technique. He noticed how she didn’t put her loose strands of hair behind her ear in a discreet way, but instead, switched her posture while placing the entirety of her hand on top of her head, fingers going in between her roots, pushing her hair out of the way and sliding it down. Like an effortless bold statement. 

After the podcast ended, he and his brothers went home talking about how easy she was to talk to, even when the subjects were not. He took a very quick minute to visualize her in front of his eyes when the traffic stopped because of a red light. 

It wasn’t about attraction alone — although, yeah, she was gorgeous. He didn’t really believe in love at first sight.

It was interest. Curiosity. That pull toward someone who feels like a mirror you didn’t know existed. 

So when he saw she was in Boston, 7 months later, he didn’t want to lose the chance. He’d been so busy in LA, going back home was a relief. And she was there as well. He wanted to meet her off-camera. Without edits. Without Nick and Chris. Just them. He felt like there was more to know.

Kylie accepted Matt’s invitation for one simple reason: she wanted to. No overthinking, no asking for anyone’s permission. No making a pro/con list like she normally would. When she saw the message, she read it twice, and then smiled. Because even though their first interaction on Cut The Camera was short, it stayed with her. 

Matt had really listened to her. He didn’t interrupt, he didn’t talk over her. Not that Chris or Nick had been disrespectful, but Matt really made space for her voice. 

Of course she caught the way he glanced at her sometimes, or whenever she said something gallant — not judgemental, not surprised, just… Intrigued. And his laugh? It wasn’t loud, it was real, honest. 

On the other hand, Kylie’s life was loud. Cameras, opinions, clickbait. 

But Matt? Matt was quiet intention. 

He wasn’t asking for a post or a collab. He wasn’t looking for clout. He just wanted to see her. That was kinda rare. Plus, she’d caught herself wondering what he was like without the other two, no triplet dynamic or shared punchlines. Just Matt. So when he reached out, her answer came naturally: 

“i’m down. you better like milkshakes.”

And that was it. She didn’t know what it would be, didn’t even expect anything big. She would go for a milkshake and hang out with someone she knew because of work. For her, it was about letting herself say yes without armor. 

And maybe — just maybe — because she wanted to know him too. 

“i can pick you up, if you want. i just thought i’d offer”. 

Kylie stared at it, amused. She could easily drive. I mean, she had her car with her right there, parked outside her place. It was really no problem. But something about the offer made her pause. 

It’s old school. Gentle. Hinting that he actually wants to spend time with her, not just meet up. So she typed back:

“bold of you to assume i trust anyone’s driving but my own 😎

but okay, come pick me up

let’s risk it.”

He showed up ten minutes early. 

Not that he told her that, of course. He waited outside, leaning against his car trying not to look like his mind had been pacing inside the vehicle. He stared at the floor, holding back a smile because of the situation back at his parents place.

“Why does Matt look like he's walking into a GQ shoot when we’re just ordering fucking pizza?” Nick even dropped down his phone when he saw his brother. “I’m going out for a bit,” he replied, grabbing the car keys.

When Kylie walked out in a dark denim jacket, boots, and her pretty dark hair pulled into a ponytail, he goes:

"Wow, you look like you're about to kill someone," he'd meant it as a compliment.

Her response, however, was pure Kylie—quick and witty. “Really? I haven’t shot your heart just yet.”

Matt's breath hitched, just for a second. Kylie's retort, delivered with that effortless, bold grin, landed oh, so precisely. He tried to play it cool, a casual shrug, a slight tilt of his head. But inside, a small, involuntary part of him was doing a backflip. 

He remembered her playing around with Nick, tossing out a pick-up line during the podcast. It had been funny then, a casual, performative flirtation. But this? This felt different. More direct. More... pointedly at him.

Matt forced a light laugh, trying to keep his composure. "Well, let's hope my heart survives this then," he quipped back, hoping his voice didn't betray the sudden flutter in his chest. He shoved his hands into his pockets, a subtle movement to ground himself. He told himself it was just Kylie being Kylie, just her natural charisma. But as she walked closer, the scent of something alluring, like vanilla, maybe something floral reaching him, he found himself thinking about that "just us" text again. And suddenly, the idea of hanging out with her felt a lot more significant than he'd anticipated.

Matt’s car pulled away from her street, the hum of the engine a low counterpoint to the quiet anticipation between them. "How was the photoshoot, by the way? I saw the behind the scenes that you posted yesterday" he asked, glancing at her. "AllSaints, right? Sounds intense."

Kylie leaned back, her hand resting on the window sill. "Yeah, it was... my kind of intense," she chuckled. "Very moody, you know? Felt less like modeling and more like acting out a vibe. The creative director was cool. We shot mostly around Beacon Hill and a few old brick alleys. Felt very 'Kylie Rose' before I even showed up." She paused, a small smile playing on her lips. "It's funny, sometimes I think I accidentally built a brand that just fits me, instead of the other way around."

Matt nodded, his eyes on the road. "I get that. Sometimes it feels like the content just... becomes who you are." He made a turn, heading towards the narrow, bustling streets of the North End. "Speaking of brands, I scouted a place. Hope it's moody enough for you."

They found a parking spot a few blocks away and walked, the afternoon air carrying the scent of Italian pastries and old brick. The café was called Thinking Cup on Hanover Street, precisely the kind of place Kylie imagined. Vintage wooden chairs and small, mismatched tables were bathed in the warm glow of Edison bulbs, while soft, jazzy lo-fi music drifted from unseen speakers. It was cozy, unpretentious, and immediately inviting.

"Perfect," Kylie murmured, taking in the vibe.

They approached the counter, the menu board looming above them. Kylie scanned it, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Milkshake, please," she said, her voice clear. "Strawberry."

Matt blinked. He'd half-expected her to go for something complex and dark, like a double chocolate mocha or a salted caramel concoction – something that matched the depth of her online persona. But strawberry milkshake? It was simple, sweet, almost... innocent. He found himself smiling.

"You know," she commented, turning to him after placing her order, "Do people even drink coffee anymore?"

"Only people trying to prove something," Matt deadpanned, and they both laughed, the sound easy and genuine in the low hum of the café. "I'll take a vanilla milkshake, please," he told the barista, leaning in slightly. "I don’t drink coffee.”

“You kidding,” she turns, her ponytail spinning around in a dramatic way. “I hate coffee.”

They grabbed their frosty glasses, condensation already beading on the sides, and found a small table by the window. The clinking of ceramic mugs and hushed conversations formed a comfortable backdrop. Kylie took a long sip of her vibrant pink drink, a satisfied sigh escaping her lips. "This is exactly what I needed."

Matt watched her, the simple pleasure on her face a stark contrast to the complexities he often perceived in her videos. They sat in a comfortable silence for a moment, letting the warmth of the café and the soft hum of conversation wrap around them like a blanket. Kylie leaned back in her chair, eyes scanning the view outside the window—graffiti-tagged walls, narrow alleyways, and weathered brick buildings soaked in late afternoon light while he asked her about how it was moving to Boston, her favorite places and all that jazz.

...grit,” she finished, swirling her straw lazily in her milkshake. “Like, it’s rough around the edges, but in a way that feels earned. Like a city with good stories.”

Matt nodded slowly, elbow resting on the table as he watched her. “That’s how you describe cities?” he asked, amused. “With character assessments?”

Kylie raised an eyebrow and leaned in slightly. “Would you rather I described it by square mileage and architectural stats?”

“No, I like your version better,” he admitted, chuckling. “Makes me wonder what you’d say about people.”

She paused, that familiar glint sparking behind her eyes again. “Well, you, for example,” she began, tracing a finger along the rim of her glass. “I think you’re like one of those old radios, you know? Quiet until someone tunes in just right. And when they do… there’s music. Unexpected, layered, kind of addictive. But not everyone takes the time to listen properly.”

Matt blinked, a little thrown off. “That’s… oddly poetic.”

“Poetic is my second language,” Kylie quipped with a small shrug, though there was something soft behind her tone, like she wasn’t just joking. She tilted her head. “What about me?”

He glanced down at his drink, swirling the melted rim with his straw as he considered. Then: “You’re like a fire alarm with lipstick on.”

Kylie snorted. “Wow.”

“Wait, hear me out,” he said, laughing along with her. “You’re bold. Sharp. You say what people don’t want to hear, even if it makes them flinch. But you’re also… deliberate. You know how you affect a room, and you don’t waste that.”

She looked at him for a moment longer than necessary. Not with amusement, but with intrigue. Maybe even appreciation. “Okay, that was good. I’ll allow it.”

They sat in a silence that wasn’t awkward, just full —the kind that held weight because both were thinking the same thing but neither wanted to break it too fast. Outside, people passed by the window, some rushing, some strolling. The city moved on without them, but neither of them seemed in any hurry to rejoin it.

“Hey,” Matt said suddenly, “can I ask something kinda random?”

“Always,” Kylie replied, sipping again.

“Do you ever just… wish you could shut it all off? Like, all of it. The comments, the posts, the numbers. Just go somewhere where no one knows your name?”

She leaned back, milkshake halfway to her lips. Her expression shifted. Not darker, but more grounded. Real.

“All the time,” she said quietly. “But then I remember... if no one knows my name, maybe I forget it too.”

Matt’s gaze didn’t leave her. “So what do you do instead?”

She gave a small, lopsided smile. “I try to find people who don’t care about the numbers. Who see me anyway. But try is exaggerating a bit. I don’t really chase people.”

Matt’s chest tightened just slightly. “I think that’s a pretty fair plan.”

Kylie looked down at her almost-empty glass and then back at him. “Good. ’Cause I think I just found one.”

Neither said anything after that. They didn’t have to. The milkshakes were almost gone. But the silence between them? Still sweet. Matt was the one who interrupted that break.

"So, what's next on the Boston agenda for you? Any more shoots, or are you free for a bit?" Matt asked, trying to sound casual, but hoping she was free.

Kylie smirked. "Nope, all done. Just chilling until tomorrow. Then I gotta start thinking about work again. Why, you got something in mind?"

Matt's smile widened. "Maybe. How about we just... drive?”

Kylie's eyes lit up. "Deal. But I'm DJ."

Minutes later, they were back in Matt's car, the windows cracked just enough to let the cool evening air flow in. 

Matt, a creature of habit when it came to his music, found himself surprised to hand over the aux cord without a second thought. Kylie, seizing the moment, queued up a mix that perfectly encapsulated her own eclectic taste: the raw energy of Arctic Monkeys flowed into the dreamy, lo-fi vibes of Hotel Ugly, before abruptly shifting to that one Doja Cat remix she remembered and swore "goes stupid in the car”.

He stole a few looks at her as she sang along, completely unfiltered. Her voice was pretty and free. She wasn't trying to impress him; she was just being. He liked that. More than liked it, he felt a pull towards that unapologetic authenticity.

The city lights eventually thinned, giving way to quieter, tree-lined streets. Matt navigated instinctively, pulling into what looked like a hidden entrance to a local park, like the kind only residents knew about, almost empty at this hour. The dusk was deepening into twilight, casting long, soft shadows across the open spaces. She read “Danehy Park”.

Kylie hopped out first, her boots hitting the gravel with a soft crunch.

"We're walking?" he asked, a hint of playful disbelief in his voice. He didn’t think she would like nature. 

"We're existing," she corrected, already moving towards a path that wound into the trees. "Just come on."

They walked, not rushing, just letting the conversation flow. The topics drifted far beyond the usual first-date pleasantries. They talked about childhood memories, the raw, unedited moments that shaped them. They spoke about what truly scared them, the anxieties and quiet fears that YouTube rarely saw. They even touched on who they were before the cameras, before the subscriber counts and the public gaze.

Matt found himself telling her about his favorite place to think, where the world felt vast and his problems small. Kylie, in turn, shared a more tender, poignant memory: the exact day she realized her childhood ended too early, a quiet admission that hung in the air, heavy with unspoken understanding. Matt didn't pry; he just listened, truly listened, the same way he did on the podcast.

Then, tucked away amidst some older trees, they stumbled upon it: a small, forgotten playground. Swings hung still, slides gleamed faintly in the dim light, and a merry-go-round sat patiently.

Kylie's eyes lit up, a spark of childlike mischief igniting within her. "Race you to the swings?" she challenged, already taking a step back, ready to sprint.

Matt laughed, a genuine, unrestrained sound. "That's not fair. You're in boots!"

"Exactly," she shot back, already halfway to a running start. "I'll still win."

And she did.

While he pushed himself on the swing, Kylie sat sideways so that she could see him. 

“Come on, Matt! You can do better than that, go higher!”

Matt laughed, a genuine, unburdened sound. She went behind him to give him a push and then stood in front of him from a safe distance. Looking at her, a profound sense of ease settled in. "You're something, you know that?" he said, the words coming out unbidden.

Kylie's smile softened, turning reflective. "Only when I let myself be," she replied, her gaze meeting him across the now small distance between his swing and her. "It's… quieter here. With you."

"Yeah," Matt agreed, the word barely a whisper. "It is." He felt it too. A rare peace, a sense of belonging that was both unexpected and deeply comforting. It wasn't about the cameras. In the quiet of the park, under the fading light, it was just them. The air between them hummed with an unspoken understanding, a gentle current of connection.

Eventually, Kylie’s laughter died down, replaced by a soft sigh. "Okay, Cinderella, playtime's over," she said, her voice tinged with a familiar, reluctant resignation. "I really should head back home."

Matt's heart sank a little at the mention of her leaving, but he nodded. "Right, reality calls."

They walked towards the edge of the playground, the silence comfortable between them. Just as they were about to leave, Kylie spotted the slide. With a sudden burst of energy, she climbed the short steps. "Wait, one more for the road," she announced, and instead of sliding down forward, she sat, faced the sky, and pushed off to slide backwards.

"Kylie, don't—" Matt started, but it was too late. Her boots caught on the edge, and she wobbled precariously as she reached the bottom. With a small yelp, she almost toppled over. In an instant, Matt was there. His hand shot out, catching her arm just as she lost her balance at the end of the freaking slide. 

“Are you good?” he asked, kinda preoccupied, but she was too busy laughing her ass off to answer the question. Her head was thrown back, a bright, uninhibited sound bubbling out of her that echoed through the quiet park. He couldn't help but crack a smile, then a full-blown laugh himself, caught by the sheer absurdity and her contagious joy.

"I'm okay, it’s okay!" she finally gasped between giggles, pushing herself upright with his help. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes, sparkling with mirth, met his. She straightened her denim jacket, adjusting her hair.

“Really? I just had to save you from yourself,” Matt retorted, a playful smirk tugging at his lips as he released her arm.

Kylie rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “Thanks, hero. My pride is slightly bruised.”

They ambled back to his car, the previous comfortable silence now replaced by a lighter, more animated hum. The near-tumble on the slide, instead of being an awkward moment, had simply become another shared laugh, solidifying the easy camaraderie that had blossomed between them.

Once they were settled back in the car, the engine a soft purr, Matt took control of the music. "Alright, since you nearly broke your neck on my watch, I'm taking back DJ duties for moral support," he announced, scrolling through his phone.

Kylie scoffed playfully. "Fine, but if it's country, I'm calling an Uber."

He grinned, selecting a Mac Miller track, its “chill but cool” beats filling the space. "Relax, I know your vibe. We're going with something that screams 'I just narrowly avoided a playground injury, but I'm still cool enough.'"

The drive back to her apartment was easy. The earlier, deeper discussions about fears and childhoods had laid a powerful foundation, but now, it was simply the joy of sharing a quiet moment, of existing together without pressure. The city lights began to brighten again as they approached her neighborhood, and the unspoken realization that their time together was nearing its end hung gently in the air.

The mellow notes faded as Matt pulled up to the curb outside Kylie’s place. The city, though still awake, felt hushed, as if in deference to the quiet understanding that had grown between them. He cut the engine, and the sudden silence in the car felt both profound and entirely comfortable.

Neither of them made an immediate move to get out. The vibe between them was thick with a new, unspoken awareness, a delicate tension that was both exhilarating and just a little bit daunting. It wasn't the kind of tension that needed breaking, but one that promised something more.

Finally, Kylie unbuckled her seatbelt. "Well, this was... not what I expected," she said, a small smile playing on her lips as she turned to face him. "But in the best way." She paused, her gaze steady. "It was actually really nice to see you without your brothers, I wasn't expecting that."

Matt's smile softened, a genuine warmth spreading across his face. "Good unexpected, I hope?"

"The best kind," she confirmed, her eyes twinkling. She opened the car door, but didn't immediately step out. Instead, she paused, a genuine softness in her expression. "Thanks for not being weird," she offered, the words sincere.

Matt chuckled, a warm sound in the cool night. "Thanks for not being… Hollywood," he replied, a playful jab at the work community they were used to.

They shared a smile, a silent acknowledgment of the authenticity they'd found in each other, away from the glare of cameras and expectations. It was a shared secret, a small victory in a world that often felt performative.

"Next time," Matt said, his voice a low rumble, the words holding a weight that transcended a casual suggestion. "You're picking me up. I see your car."

Kylie's smile widened into a full grin, a flash of her inherent confidence returning. "Bet," she nodded, her eyes bright with a challenge he was more than willing to accept. "But I’m still picking the music."

He didn’t mind one bit.

tagging: @sturns-mermaid @a103-chris-mm @zenithsturniolo @cayleeuhithinknott

[marvelmaven]

Broken But Brave Pt. 8

This is my first attempt at a fic, so encouragement and kind advice are welcome. Let me know what you think!

Bucky Barnes/Original Fem! Character

Set in an AU where Tony DOESN'T die after End Game and Steve is actually with Bucky till the end of the line.

Summary: Bucky is going through therapy, consulting with the Avengers, but not interested in living under Stark's roof, for reasons he thought should be obvious to everyone. On his way home to his Brooklyn apartment, he bumps into his new neighbor, a petite, self-proclaimed cat lady. But he notices something about her that will have him keeping his eye out.

Trigger warning: References to Domestic Abuse (Not Bucky)

Part 8/?

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7

Lori was finishing up some final notes for the day before calling it quits when Amanda, the receptionist, popped her head into her office. “Your man is here, where on earth did you find a guy like that?” 

Lori’s stomach sank, thinking of her ex, “I don’t have a man, who’s here?”

“The guy that walked you here this morning,” the twenty-something seemed completely oblivious to Lori’s anxiety, “are you telling me that snack is single?”

“Oh, James? He’s my neighbor, not my boyfriend,” Lori laughed in relief, although a tendril of jealousy seemed to sprout, curling in her stomach, “would you tell him that I’ll be done in just a minute?”

“Yup,” Amanda replied, popping the “p” and hurried away. Lori shook her head, trying to focus on finalizing the exam notes for Mr. Pickles, a slightly-overweight lab mix she’d seen earlier that afternoon, but she was having trouble focusing with Amanda’s high fake laugh sounding from the front desk. Mr. Pickles could wait until tomorrow. Rolling back from the desk, she quickly shut her laptop, stowing it in her purse and grabbing her jacket and coat. She walked into the waiting room to find a slightly uncomfortable James on the receiving end of Amanda’s pointed questions about his workout routine. 

“I’m just saying, you gotta do more than just run, I can see those guns,” the receptionists flirted, “so…”

James noticed Lori behind her and his face lit up in relief, “Ready to go, doll?”. He looked at the receptionist, “real nice to meet you…Amy.” 

“Amanda,” she responded dryly. Lori felt tension she didn’t even know she was holding, leaving her shoulders. 

“Right,” He met Lori and led her out of the door, hand in the small of her back. Only when they were halfway down the block did he exhale. “Why does everyone ask about my workout routine? Is that like talking about the weather or something now?” 

Lori stopped, looking up at him, disbelieving. “Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously,” James looked down at her confused as she laughed. 

She shook her head, “she was flirting with you, silly.”

“That’s considered flirting now?” he looked bemused, “this whole world’s gone to hell.” 

“Okay, grandpa, what do you consider flirting?” Lori looked up at him, putting on a cheesy old-Hollywood accent, “I’d love to kiss you, but I just washed my hair.”

“Betty Davis, she was a real dame.” James laughed, looking down at her with twinkling eyes, “Nah, I can hardly remember at this point, seems like a lifetime ago. How was your day?” He seemed like he was eager to change the subject, ears red with embarrassment. Lori smiled and fell into easy conversation about her patients, including the pudgy Mr. Pickles. As they walked by the sushi place, she paused. 

“You hungry?” She smiled up at James who had stopped when she had, “I feel like I owe you dinner as thanks for walking me home.” 

He scoffed, “Let’s eat, but I’m paying. I don’t mind walking you home.” He opened the door for her, ushering her through.

“We’ll split it.” Lori insisted instead, taking a seat at the sushi bar. 

“Not a chance, Steve told me about that whole ‘dutch’ thing.” James sat beside her, “like I said, whole world’s gone to shit.” 

“Hmmm, maybe, but I do enjoy being able to open my own bank account.” Lori nudged him slightly and he chuckled looking down at her. 

“Fair point, it wasn’t all sunshine and roses, huh? But most guys don’t know how to treat a lady on a date anymore it seems.” Their eyes met and Lori felt her stomach do somersaults. She looked at her chopsticks, breaking them apart and arranging them. 

“Oh, is this a date then?” She joked, giggling. 

James smiled at her, “I’m just being a gentleman, like my Ma raised me to be. Our first date? I’ll knock your socks off.”  

Lori’s lips parted, a pink tinge painting her cheeks and nose. He didn’t treat it like a joke, but like it was a certainty. This confidence and banter made her head swim. “Sounds like a plan to me.” 

He leaned closer, about to say more when his pocket began buzzing. Frowning, he pulled out his ancient flip phone, “Damn, this is Steve. I’ll just be a moment.” 

He stood and stepped outside to take the call.  The waitress took the opportunity to come back over with two beers, placing them in front of Lori and in James’s empty spot. 

“Well, he seems to be into you.” The waitress said coolly, her eyes on where he stood outside. Lori followed her gaze. James was in a serious discussion, jaw tense, and his left hand, the vibranium one he kept gloved in public was flexing, a nervous tick Lori had noticed a few times before. 

She turned back to the waitress, ignoring the sinking feeling in her stomach. What had him so anxious? “Oh, we’re not like…like that. We’re just good friends.” She felt the need to remind herself as much as tell the waitress. He couldn’t possibly be into her.

The waitress scoffed, “he’s friends with Yori too, but he doesn’t look at him like that.” Lori rolled her eyes, but the waitress continued, “He’s looking at you like you hung the moon and stars or something. Trust me, dating is rough, you could do a lot worse.” With that she went away to a group at the other end of the bar, leaving Lori feeling off kilter. She glanced back at James who met her eyes and gave her a small smile, mouthing “sorry”. Lori couldn’t help smiling back at him, softly mouthing, “take your time.” 

She turned back, picking absently at the label of her beer as she thought about the recent flips and butterflies her stomach had made whenever their eyes met. James was obviously an attractive man, tall, chiseled, with ice blue eyes and a jawline that could cut a girl if they weren’t too careful. She’d found herself admiring the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled and how rather than be bothered by her chatterbox ways, he simply seemed content to listen. Daniel hadn’t been her first relationship, just her worst, but despite all of the heartbreak and tears she’d endured, Lori knew deep down she was a hopeless romantic. She just assumed there were no real romances left in the world. Dinner dates where you went your separate ways with butterflies in your stomach and sweeping a girl off their feet with romantic gestures had been replaced by endless swiping, “You up?” texts,  and unsolicited dick pics. Most of all when she thought of James, she thought of how entirely and effortlessly comfortable and safe she felt around him. It might be selfish of her, but safe was feeling that she’d not felt in far, far too long. Even yesterday, instead of seeing a mess of a woman with an overwhelming past, he saw a person who had fought hard to rid themselves of the shackles of a toxic man. 

She knew he had a dark past, but it made her feel angry for James, not at him. The people who had tortured him, brainwashed him, made him do those terrible things, they were the real monsters. Not the kind man who had had all of his bodily autonomy stripped away, forced to kill and hurt people that he would otherwise have wanted to protect and help. She saw it in the way he deescalated Yori and Unique at the trash cans almost every week or the way he never failed to bring Mrs. Garcia roses. 

“Sorry about that, doll.” James startled her, making her jump slightly, “Steve was just giving me an update on a project I asked him about, we were making some contingency plans. What are you thinking for dinner?” 

Lori looked at him and smiled at her menu, “I mean, I’m always down for a spicy combo, but the house platter also looks really good.” 

“Let’s get both and split it then,” James took a sip of beer and looked down at her, a relaxed smile on his face. 

“Sounds good to me,” Lori knocked her beer bottle against his, smiling as she took another drink. It would be nice if the waitress was right, James was pretty easy to fall for. 

James ordered for her, of course, and they fell into easy conversation about everything and nothing while they ate, Lori giggling madly at the face of discomfort he made and the shade of red he turned after a bit too much wasabi. 

“I gotta tell you, food is a lot better nowadays,” he managed after wiping a wasabi-induced tear out of his eye, “we just used to boil everything.” When the bill finally came, she made a mad dash for it, but James held the bill out of her reach (easily) refusing to let her pay. 

“I’ll venmo you then,” Lori laughed. 

“What the hell is venmo?” James extended a hand helping her to her feet. 

“I keep forgetting you don’t have a smartphone,” Lori looked at him as she slipped into her coat, “it’s this app that lets you send money to people so you can split stuff.” 

“Huh, remind me never to get a smartphone.” James opened the door and led her back towards their building. “You cold?”

Lori nodded, teeth chattering, “y-yeah, I still am a wimp in cold weather. Seattle and California are n-no match for the N-Northeast.”

James leaned down looping her arm in his, “Can’t have you freezing to death.” he paused for a moment, “I don’t like the cold, reminds me of when I was him.” 

“The Winter Soldier?” Lori nodded, leaving space for him to continue. When he didn’t seem to want to speak anymore, she said softly, “I’m sorry, for what they did, for what happened to you. You’re sweet and kind.” She leaned into his side, “A real gentleman, yah know? And when I look at you I don’t think of those things. I think of my very tall neighbor who sits with me while I talk through movies and knit.” 

A silence lay between them for another long few beats, she wondered if she’d overstepped somehow. 

“Thanks, Lori,” his voice was deeper, a bit hoarse, “That…that means a lot.” 

He only released her arm, comfortably nestled in his, when they arrived at their building, opening the door and waiting until she walked through. Lori was looking around them, worried she’d see Daniel or his car somewhere nearby. But there was nothing. That seemed to unsettle her more. He’d always kept his promises, especially the worst ones. She shook her head and led the way back to her apartment, pausing when she got to her door. In large, red letters across her door, someone had spray painted “SLUT”. The door was cracked, someone had kicked it in, and hung broken on its hinges. Panic flooded her senses. 

“MARVIN?!” Her voice came out in a desperate cry that tore at her throat. Panic flooding her senses, James arms were around her waist in an instant, holding her back from entering the apartment, gentle but firm, and she clawed desperately at him to let her go. 

[ageingfangirl2]

Imagine Being Bonten's Receptionist (Bonten x F Reader) - Tokyo Revengers

PART 15: HANGOVERS SUCK

ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT NINE TEN ELEVEN TWELVE THIRTEEN FOURTEEN

Same Morning - Bonten HQ

The elevator dings, and you walk in, sunglasses on, hair in a claw clip, holding a giant iced coffee like it’s a lifeline. There’s something extra about you today. Still yourself, but with a little more gloss. A little more glow.

Sanzu’s the first to notice, because of course he is. He’s leaned against a wall like he’s been waiting all morning for drama to strike.

‘Look who made it home in one piece,’ he drawls with a crooked grin, ‘And not a single mugshot in sight. Disappointed.’

You lift your coffee in salute, ‘Give it time.’

Ran, nearby and smug, doesn’t even look up from his phone, ‘Told you I returned her in mint condition.’

You shoot him a look over your sunglasses, a mix of gratitude and please never repeat anything I said in that car again. He just smirks.

Koko, watching from across the room, taps away at his keyboard but says without looking up, ‘Glad to see you’re alive. My inbox had bets going both ways.’

‘Wait, there were bets?’ you ask, blinking.

‘Only friendly ones,’ Koko replies smoothly, ‘Though Rindou owes me lunch now.’

Rindou groans from his desk, spinning lazily in his chair, ‘You didn’t answer your phone for like an hour. I assumed the worst. Or karaoke.’

‘It was almost karaoke,’ Ran says under his breath, sipping his drink.

You point at him, ‘You said that was between us.’

Kakucho walks by holding a tablet, pausing just long enough to say softly, ‘Glad you're okay.’ His words are sincere — the quiet kind that land and linger.

Mochi grunts as he walks in from a side room, reading over a report. He pauses, eyes scanning you quickly, like he's checking for damage. Satisfied, he just nods, ‘Next time you go out, tell someone. Or bring backup.’

Takeomi trails in after him, sipping something strong and caffeinated, ‘Preferably backup who isn't Ran.’

You snort and hold up your hand like a Girl Scout, ‘Noted.’

You settle at your desk and the office slips back into its usual controlled chaos, but there’s something warmer in the air now. Ran occasionally glances your way and you catch him once, raising a brow. He just shrugs like, what?

Around mid morning you’re in the breakroom alone when Ran steps in, casually leaning against the counter like he’s not here on purpose, ‘You good?’ he asks, keeping it light.

You nod, then tilt your head, ‘Weirdly, yeah. I expected to feel worse. But...thanks for the rescue.’

Ran watches you for a beat, then reaches into his coat and pulls out something ridiculous: a tiny novelty first-aid kit shaped like a heart, ‘For future emotional emergencies,’ he says, deadpan.

You burst out laughing, ‘What—what is this?’

‘You’d be surprised how often people cry in my car. You’ve got good stats, though. Just jokes and weird confessions.’

You smile, warm and genuine, ‘Seriously though...I’m happy you had that meeting or drinks nearby otherwise I would have been lost.’

He shrugs, ‘You’re one of us now. Even if you don’t do crime.’

‘Only Minecraft crime,’ you remind him.

He taps the counter next to you, ‘Next time, I’m teaching you karaoke. Just in case.’

That a threat?’ you question.

‘It’s a promise,’ he states firmly.

You both laugh, and it’s easy. Simple. For once, Bonten doesn’t feel like crime lords and blood on their hands. Just...coworkers. Maybe friends. Definitely trouble.

You’re definitely feeling the effects of the night before. Your head is definitely floating a little too high above your shoulders. Every sip of your iced coffee is like a lifeline, but it doesn’t seem to be doing much more than keeping you from slumping face-first into your desk.

Koko eyes her from across the room as you silently struggle to open a new email. He leans back in his chair, clicking his pen a few times, ‘You still alive over there?’

You give him a thumbs up without looking up, ‘Just...fine. Living the dream. Sipping coffee that has enough caffeine to fuel a rocket. It’s great. I’m thriving.’

He snorts, clearly entertained by your half-hearted attempt at a joke, ‘We’re having a staff meeting in twenty. I’m sure you’ll be thriving by then.’

‘Perfect. I love pretending I’m not hungover while everyone else knows I am,’ you mutter, swiping your mouse across the desk.

Sanzu, who has been keeping an eye on you all morning, suddenly decides to test your ability to function while a little hungover. He casually strolls over to your desk, holding a small pen in one hand.

‘Hey,”’he says, dropping it just near your desk with deliberate slowness.

Without missing a beat, you reach out, fingers quick as lightning, and catch it mid-air. You hold it up, unphased, and give him a half-amused glance, ‘Seriously? That all you got?’ you quip, your reflexes still sharp despite the lingering effects of alcohol.

Sanzu grins, clearly impressed, ‘You make it look easy. I was expecting some flailing.’

You raise your eyebrows, shaking your head slightly, ‘If I flail, who’s going to do your paperwork when you mess something up?’

As the day drags on, you find yourself sinking into the rhythm of the office — small talk here, quick decisions there, and endless typing. The caffeine’s doing its job, but the exhaustion still lingers. By lunchtime, you’re already planning how to spend your evening: early bed, maybe watch a comfort show, and let your body fully recover.

But the Bonten members aren’t letting her slip away quietly.

Koko drops off a sandwich at your desk with a knowing look, ‘Eat something before you actually die.’

You look up at him, trying to seem grateful despite feeling like a zombie, ‘I’m fine. Really.’ But you can’t resist, ‘Thanks, Koko.’

He just gives you a pointed look, ‘Sure. But don’t expect me to save you from paperwork if you pass out in it.’

‘Noted,’ you mutter, unwrapping the sandwich and taking a bite.

As the afternoon wears on, you’re doing the best you can — taking care of the little tasks, answering phone calls, shuffling paperwork. Your usual upbeat demeanor is a little more muted today, but there’s still a spark of the old you underneath.

Finally, as the day winds down, Ran walks by your desk, pausing to look at you. His voice is low and steady, ‘You hanging in there? Don’t make me send you home early.’

You force a smile, ‘I’m fine. I’ll get through the rest of the day. Don’t worry.’

He watches you for a moment longer, then nods, ‘Alright. Just don’t push yourself too hard, okay?’

You meet his gaze, your smile softening, ‘Thanks, Ran. I’ll be okay. I appreciate it...and everything else.’

Ran gives a small, subtle smile, ‘Anytime.’

As the office empties out for the night and you finally pack up your things, you feel the weight of the day lifting, but also the sense of quiet appreciation that’s settled in your chest. This strange, bizarre family you’ve become a part of, they’ve got your back, and you’re finally realizing just how much that means.

The door closes behind you as you step out, the night air cool against your skin, and for the first time in a while, you let yourself breathe.

[emometalhead]

.

[sysig]

I got a new prescription (Patreon)

[tonycries]

Like An Animal - T.F.

Synopsis. Of course Toji doesn’t want any more kids. Of course he’s lying as he stuffs your pretty cúnt full of his cúm for the third time tonight.

Pairing. Toji Fushiguro x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, established relationship, unprotected, cúmplay, mating press, chóking, overstim, oral (female receiving), créampie, dirty talk, Toji really REALLY wants to get you pregnant, spitting, mentioned kids, absolutely filthy, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 4.5k

A/N. Need this man so bad you don’t even understand AAA.

Toji Fushiguro didn’t want any more kids. Why would he? They were messy, expensive, and it was a sheer miracle that Megumi wasn’t anything like the little demons he’s seen during drop-off at the kindergarten. He didn’t need another reason to watch Babyshark for five hours straight - and he wasn’t about to change his mind anytime soon. 

Or, so he thought.

“Hey doll, m’home- what the f-”

“Toji! Language!” you hiss, hastily covering the ears of a very oblivious Yuji, who was deeply engrossed in mixing icing. 

Oh? 

Now, there have only been three times in his life that Toji has been truly taken aback. The first being when he discovered that yes, Megumi’s hair really does stand up that way naturally. Second, when he realized that he was falling for you - and that oh shit maybe he does still have feelings somewhere in there after all. 

And finally, right now, the sight of you covered in flour and wrestling three giggly toddlers into some semblance of order in the kitchen. “Welcome home, handsome.”

Oh. 

It made something deep inside him lurch so strangely.

“Why…” Toji rasps, eyes flitting between the mixing bowls messily clinked together and the three toddlers happily stood on stools, flour in their hair and matching smiles on your faces. “Why have they multiplied?” 

“We’re baking cookies!” Yuji exclaims from the counter, swiping a thick wad of dough on Nobara’s hair. To which the latter responds with a swift smack on the head. 

You smirk at your dumbfounded boyfriend, “Well, Toji, it seems that when you leave me alone with a batch of cookies to bake, I have a tendency to summon reinforcements.” Gesturing at the chaos surrounding you, “Megs wanted to bake some cookies before his sleepover at Yuji’s so I had these three over because we have more than enough space.”

“I see…does insurance cover this kitchen?”

Rolling your eyes, “Oh c’mon, don’t be such a spoilsport.” You reach for the batch of freshly baked goods, “You’re just in time to taste-test our latest creation!”

And, well, how could he ever say no to you? Although - flour-dusted and disheveled - some strange part of himself thinks you look even more gorgeous than usual right now, as if that was even possible. His girl was so pretty, even when you’re wrangling three little gremlins. Too pretty. Toji just couldn’t get his head around that nagging little voice saying you looked so pretty especially when you’re wrangling three little gre-

“Ehh? Fushiguro is your dad blushing?”

“Gross.”

“You idiots he isn’t blushing, it’s called ‘swooning’. My mommy says it’s a grown-up thing.”

It was hard to not hear the (extremely loud) whispers from behind you, but it was even harder to ignore the slight red tinting Toji’s ears as he pointedly reached out for the tray you were holding. Fingers barely even brushing against the cookies before a tiny voice speaks up, “Mama, can I have one too?”

You freeze. Toji freezes. You think the whole world freezes except for Yuji and Nobara who stifle giggles behind their hands.

“Look Kugisaki, now he’s really swooning.”

“Yeah, my mommy says that’s also how you get babies. You swoon and pop! they appear.”

Toji raises a brow at Nobara, gritting out a strained, “Your mommy says a lot, huh?” That jolts you out of your reverie, and you flash a gentle smile at a very red-faced Megumi. Leaning down to reply, “Of course, sweetie.”

And as he mumbles a quick “Thank you”, hastily grabbing another cookie and retreating to a corner of the kitchen - hoping to disappear into the shadows - you risk a glance at Toji. Cheeks flushed hard enough to rival Megumi’s, ah, like father like son. 

“Anyway, don’t just stand there. Come help me n’ the kids, Yuji’s grandpa’s coming to pick them up soon!” you playfully swat at your boyfriend’s sculpted chest, going back to busying yourself with the icing. 

Toji, however, was having an epiphany that was altering his perception of reality, one that he’d probably been denying ever since he stepped in through that damn front door. You. The kids. You and the kids. You and his kids. 

“Mama.”

And Megumi’s little slip-up had been the final nail on his coffin to certify that oh Toji Fushiguro was utterly and irrevocably screwed. And he’d like to blame it all on you being such a goddamn wonder, but he’s got a nagging feeling that the three little gremlins currently decorating cookies share an equal part of the blame. 

What was it that girl had said? Swooning is how you get babies? Because, well, eyeing the way you scooped up a pouty Megumi in your arms, chatting animatedly with a tittering Nobara and Yuji, only one thought rings through his mind - damn right, kid.

---

“-and make sure to brush your teeth. No faking this time, okay? I’ve told Yuji’s grandpa to check. And-”

“No summoning demons, and no summoning the police. Though you’re probably too young for that.” Toji interrupts your little tirade, ruffling the hair of a very disgruntled Megumi. “Have fun, little man.”

You giggle at the usual father-son dynamic, but as you waved off Megumi and his friends, you couldn’t shake off the feeling that something in the air felt a bit different. Something a bit tense. A bit exciting.

Maybe it was the heavy silence that hung in the room after that door slammed shut, leaving just you and Toji all alone in the house. Forcing you to register the heat of his large frame looming behind yours. When did he get so close? Or maybe it was the prickly of his gaze on your back, a resounding slam! echoing in your ears as he cages you against the door. 

Or maybe - just maybe - it was the way he leaned down to whisper in your ear, husky and tinged with something so utterly dangerous. 

“So…mama, huh?” 

A thrill goes down your spine at his words. “Oh, stop.” you wave off, though you feel your cheeks flaring up in response. Especially as he plows on, “Why? I think you make a great mama.”

You scoff, casting a sidelong glance at the muscular arm just inches away from your head. “Don’t joke, Megs was so embarrassed after that.”

“I’m not joking.”

Your back hits the cool door before you can react. Toji’s hands almost painful on your shoulders, muscles rippling as he turns you to face him. You raise your eyes to meet his and oh-

Oh shit. 

Whatever retort on the tip of your tongue dies as you take in the man before you. His expression darkened, breaths slightly labored, eyes half-lidded and locked on you. You’d almost have been worried at the sudden flip of personality had it not been for the words that spill from his lips. 

“I’m not joking.” he repeats, voice strangled. 

Great, the man has finally lost it. Despite the traitorous throbbing in your cunt, you try to make sense of the situation. “Toji, this joke has-”

Your words get caught in your throat as he raises a hand to squish your cheeks together into an almost-embarrassing pout, looking down at you through dazed eyes. “Do I look like I’m joking, doll?” Leaning down to lick a stripe up a smudge of icing on your cheek. Lingering far too long, murmuring into your skin, “What do you think?” 

In the heat of it all, you manage to choke out, “W-what?”

“Don’t you think,” he mutters, as strained as if he were about to snap any second. Losing his sanity with each word that comes out of his mouth. “That you’d make the best mama?”

“I mean- yes-”

And then his lips are on yours, shutting you up - bruising. Such a sloppy mix of teeth and spit as he drinks you in with an aching desperation. Toji breathes in your gasp as you feel his cock, hard and throbbing against your front. 

“Fuck.” he hisses into your mouth. “Not enough, ma. Need you s’bad.”

The buttons hit the floor before you realize what’s happening. Toji’s fisting your shirt in one hand, too impatient - too starved - he pulls down, down, down. Ripping. Urgently moving down to your shorts- “Those are expensi-” you yelp. 

But it’s useless - the tattered fabric hits the ground faster than your jaw as he groans out a quick, “I’ll buy ya a new one when we shop for baby clothes.”

Pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, hands trailing up your thighs. He swiftly unclasps your bra, mouth dropping into a soft little oh! at the sight, immediately groping each and every inch of skin he could reach. Tweaking and rolling your swollen nipples on his fingers in wonder. “Oh, doll. These are gonna be s’full, huh? Wan’ taste how sweet you’ll be.”

“T-Toji hah-” you whine, as he takes one nipple in his mouth. Lips wrapped so prettily around your tit as he tugs lightly, sucking harshly like he was miraculously trying to draw milk out. Looking up at you so obscenely through his thick lashes. “Ngh- wan’ more.” you buck your hips, grinding against his thick cock. 

And, well, how could Toji ever deny the mother of his children?

Because he immediately drops to his knees, biting down on the thin fabric of your soaked panties. Tugging with his teeth, “This what you want, ma?” he slurs. Eyes rolling to the back of his head as he breathes in the scent of your dripping pussy, “Wan’ me to eat out your pretty lil’ cunt? Jus’ say the word.”

“Please, daddy.”

“Tha’s my girl.”

And then he’s pulling - tearing your drenched panties to shreds with his teeth. Flashing you a devilish grin at the sinful strings of slick that connect you to the flimsy fabric. Oh Toji had half the mind to tease you about how wet you were already, but no, he had no time to waste.

With a guttural, fucked-out little grunt, he’s surging forward, diving face first into your pretty pussy. Nose pressing against your throbbing clit, licking a long, languid stripe up your swollen folds. 

“Oh hngh- please.” you mewl, as he buries himself deeper into your dripping cunt. Tongue bullying its way past your folds to lap at your slick, not stopping till he’s had his fill of your sweet juices. “M-more.”

Two large hands dip into your waist as he wraps his glossy lips around your pulsing clit to suck harshly, both keeping you still and supporting your weight as your knees weaken. Toji can’t have his pretty girl hurt herself right before he fills her up n’ gets her pregnant, right?

“Sure ya can handle more, ma?” Electricity runs up your spine as your boyfriend rolls his tongue across your clit just the way he knew you liked. “Y’should be thanking me for not jus’ stuffing you full of my cock like I want to right now.” 

“Then hah- why don’t you?”

Toji pulls away ever-so-slightly, relishing in the delirious little whine of disappointment that leaves you. One that quickly turns into a surprised squeal as he spit a steady stream of spit into your quivering cunt, spreading it across your pussy with his thumb.

Sloppy - it was so fucking sloppy. He looked at you like you were his favorite meal and ate you out just as much. 

Your juices decorating his lips like a badge of honor. Smearing across the bottom half of his face and trickling down his jaw. One which moves as he utters, “Can’t break the mother of my kids, doll.” 

But oh how you’d beg to differ as he brings his face to your sloppy pussy once more, tongue darting out to catch the obscene little drip! drip! drip! of your slick. “Gon’ be the best fucking dad to all three of ‘em.”

“T-three?”

And with that, he’s squeezing his soft tongue into your tight pussy. Throwing your left leg over his sculpted shoulder to make out deeper with your cunt. You tug on his hair pathetically, impatiently. Cute little whines of his name leaving you each time he drips into your sloppy pussy, stretching you out, swiping at your clit, thrusting in and out of your sloppy hole. Over and over-

“Yeah, three.” he mutters into your folds, “Gon’ give me two more beautiful babies? Gon’ be so round n’ pretty with my kids?” Tongue curling deftly against that one spot he knew would have you keening and rocking your pretty cunt into his mouth. 

“Ah- fuck fuck fuck- hngh- yes!” you moan, body jerking violently at the way he hit that spot over and over.  

He huffs out a laugh, hungry gaze taking in that cute, desperate expression on your face. Toji just couldn’t help but tease you a little bit. “Use your words, ma.”

“H-huh?”

“Tell me what you want.”

You gasp out a pathetic little sob, “Want to so badly. Wan’ you to hah- fill me up hngh- W-wan’ cum-”

“So demanding.” he titters teasingly into your cunt, vibrations making you drag your pussy more erratically on his mean mouth. Now, Toji could tease you with his tongue for hours until you’re crying and begging for his cock. But right now, he doesn’t think he has any more patience nor sanity. “I love that.”

Toji knows by the way your pretty pussy clenches around his tongue that you’re close, pulse urgent on his face as he greedily laps at your cunt. So he speeds up his movements, drinking you in like a madman. 

A hand snaking up to plunge knuckle-deep into your sloppy entrance. Pussy taking him so readily after being stretched out on his tongue. Your adorable, fucked-out little whines of his name going straight to his rock-hard dick as he fucks you with his fingers the way he wants to with his cock. Two fingers thrusting in and out while his thumb draws rapid little circles on your clit. Sinking his teeth gently into your swollen folds.

Bucking into his touch, “Hah! S’too much, daddy. Hngh, g-gonna cum ah! Gonna cum-”

“Then cum, doll.”

And you are - fast and violent. 

Plushy walls clamping down on Toji’s fingers as if your fluttering cunt was trying to suck him up. Mind hazy and your only thoughts being about Toji and his tongue and Toji-

“Mmm taste s’sweet, love you on m’tongue.” he grunts, breathing you in and letting your juices slide down his throat. Lewd squelches in time with your cute lil’ whines as you ride out your orgasm on his pretty face. Tongue fucking you through your high. 

“Had fun, ma?” Toji grins once you blink back your vision, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. Dangerous little smile only growing at your barely-lucid nod. 

Ah, but even the ever-confident Toji Fushiguro faltered as your shaky hands reached out to pet his achingly hard cock. Swollen and leaking a mouthwatering dark patch against his trousers. 

“Wan’ your cock now, daddy.” you murmur, watching the way his darkened eyes widen ever-so-slightly, breath hitching. “Wan’ you to fill me up over n’ over like you promised.”

Oh you little minx, with all your dirty tricks - you were going to be the death of him. 

With a dark little chuckle of disbelief, Toji rises to his full height. Lips capturing yours in a bruising kiss - tongue licking at the seam of your mouth and intertwining with yours. Forcing you to taste yourself on him. So sweet of sin and all his dreams of stuffing you till you were sure to have his kids - two of them, in fact. 

“Anything y’want, doll.” he whispers into your lips. 

And that’s all that is said before the clinking of a belt rings in the heady air. The realization that you were so naked and splayed out for him while he was still unfairly clothed finally hitting as Toji peels his shirt off. Your mouth waters at the chiseled front, hands immediately reaching to squeeze his large pecs. Running your hands along his body. 

“Ah, fuck.” he shudders, “Y’never change, huh?” 

Yet your greedy hands are momentarily stunned as he lets his pants fall to the floor with his boxers. Rock-hard cock springing up and hitting his stomach. 

He was so painfully hard that it made your cunt quiver in anticipation. Red and throbbing, soaked in precum and glistening in the dim lighting. Twitching at the sound of your voice as you say “Want you to fucking ruin me, daddy.” you blink up at Toji, all doe-eyed and teary after your last orgasm. 

And oh does that make him snap - maybe his sanity, maybe you by the end of this, because before you know it, Toji’s spreading your legs with his knee. Biting his bottom lip as your slick trails down your pretty cunt and onto your legs. 

“What m’girl wants.” he grits out, dragging his weeping tip across your swollen folds. Collecting your sweet juices on his head. “My girl- gets.”

You keen as Toji bullies his massive cock into your cunt on the last word. “Ngh- T-Toji.” you whine, vision flashing at the stretch. No matter how many times Toji stuffed you full of his cock - his size never failed to disappoint.

“Shhh, it’s okay. You can take it.” Trying to steady your breathing as he fucks into you in quick, mindless little jabs to fit himself inside your snug pussy. “I’ll make sure of it, doll. How else m’gonna breed your pretty lil’ cunt?”

Your dripping cunt rubs so deliciously against his abs, slick mixing with his precum and smearing across both your bodies. Filthy, and exactly what you wanted right now. 

“Shit, love when your pussy’s so messy. Now, legs.” he rasps, with a quick smack to your thighs. And that’s all that has to be said - your queue to wrap your legs around Toji’s waist, letting his strong arms lift you with ease. Splitting you apart deeper and deeper onto his cock, veins rubbing so deliciously against all the right spots. A maddening little bump! bump! bump! matching your heartbeat. 

“Ah! Hngh- Fuck fuck fuck, m’so full.” you keen, heels digging into his hips. 

Sliding down his cock far enough that his heavy balls meet your ass, already so wet with precum and slick. Ah, you were so full of him you almost felt like he was pushing against your lungs.

“Oh, yes.” Toji hisses, throwing his head back. “Fucking finally.” Finally he gets what he’s been aching for ever since those three gremlins stepped out the door. All the blood draining to his cock at the idea of fucking his cum into you till you couldn’t walk. Till you were so full of him that he was the only one you could think of. Hey, he needed to get some attention before the baby arrives, right?

“Need this s’bad. Fuck.” he gasps. Still pushing inside you despite bottoming out, shallow, desperate little grinds of his hips. “Gonna fuck a baby into you, you little slut. Fill you up with my seed till you can’t take it anymore.”

Neat little crescents of his fingernails on your ass as his thrusts get longer, more purposeful. Twitching balls smacking against your skin in such a lewd rhythm, matching the cute little ah! ah! ah! leaving your mouth each time his fat head hits your cervix. So deliciously painful. 

“C’mon, ma.” Toji moans, hips out of control now. Taking in the way your head was thrown back, body bouncing each time he rammed his cock into your tight cunt. But oh how he wanted to see the fucked-out expression on your face. “Look at me.”

So cockdrunk and delirious, you barely register the way Toji cradles your head to press his sweaty forehead against yours. Only looking up at him with delirious heart-eyes as he milked himself on your sloppy pussy. 

“Shit feel s’perfect split-apart on my cock. Really made for me, huh?” he gasps into your mouth. “Need to cum in this pretty pussy. Need to fill you up- ah- need this need this- fuck.”

“Shit shit shit, Toji m’so close. I’m hngh-”

A hand hurriedly unwraps from your waist to draw rapid, desperate little patterns on your cunt. Not even circles anymore because shit Toji couldn’t think of anything aside from the way your pussy was milking him so good- And how he was gonna fuck a baby into you and Megumi was gonna be the best big brother and-

“-you’ll bake with ‘em. And I’ll tuck ‘em to bed.” the words tumble out of his lips and into your parted mouth. Pussy drunk and babbling, “N’ we’re both taking those three to the park and try not to lose ‘em.”

Dragging himself inside you till his weeping tip kisses your sloppy hole. Fingers on your clit becoming more and more frantic. Fucking you so filthy, each word punctuated by quick, harsh thrusts, “Then at night m’gonna steal you all to myself, and y’know what, ma?”

At this point you can do nothing more than just take it as Toji bounces you on his cock in midair, sobbing out a strained, “W-what, daddy?”

Toji leans impossibly closer, thumb catching on your swollen lips, breath fanning your face as he mutters, “Gonna fuck another baby into you. Fill you with my cum all over again, doll. Give it all to you.”

Now, you’ve heard of orgasms that come out of nowhere and have you seeing stars. And this was no different - yet you see the pearly gates of heaven as you cream around his cock. “Ah! Hngh m’cumming m’cumming oh-”

He lets out a guttural groan as your nails rake his back, hips stuttering and sloppy now. Breathing out raggedly, “Yeah fuck jus’ like that use me like’ that- hngh squeezing me s’tight gonna cum. Gonna give my pretty baby my cum, fuck a baby into ya- oh-”

Body bowing into yours, teething latching onto the crook of your neck, biting down right over your pulse. Fingers digging and bruising on your hips, holding your filthy pussy to his cock as he cums with a strangled moan. Hard. almost painfully so. 

White-hot pleasure behind his eyes, pumping thick, hot ropes to fill your snug cunt. Just animalistic movements from such a carnal part of himself as he fucked his seed deeper and deeper into you. 

Not even thinking of stopping even as you keen at your poor overfilled pussy. Toji’s cum dripping down your legs and onto his quivering balls as he fucks you like an animal. Over and over and-

“Hey, who said we’re done, doll?” Toji tuts mockingly, snapping you out of the haze. “Don’t pass out on me just yet.”

And you don’t even realize it before he’s manhandling you onto the nearby couch. Pulling out only admire his seed gushing out of you, so white and hot and his. Cock twitching to life at the pool of cum and slick slowly forming on the cushion below. Fuck that, you’ll need a bigger couch for five people anyway.  

Ramming his throbbing cock into your poor, swollen pussy. Throwing your legs over his sculpted shoulders and bending down down down till your knees were at your tits. 

Not even bothering to let you adjust this time before he’s fucking you again and again and maybe he was whispering sweet nothings in your ear - probably it was just promises of how he was gonna fill your pretty lil’ cunt till Megumi gets home. Promises he fully intended to fulfill. 

“Fuck. One more. G-gotta make sure it takes, ma.” he swears into your mouth. Voice jagged, and you almost couldn’t recognize it as your boyfriend’s. Barely even lucid, just mindless motions of his hips as he watched your slutty cunt suck him up so good. “Yeah, who’s cum is that, doll? Who’s that painting your pretty pussy white?”

Drinking in the sobbed out little, “Y-you, Toji! Ah- Hngh-” as he starts ravaging your swollen clit again. Toji’s balls squeeze so painfully as he fucked you like his personal sextoy. And your pussy was so heavenly around him that you were basically asking for him to go harder. Begging. Begging him to ruin you. 

“Ah! Fuck I’m-” throat shot, you can’t even form a proper sentence before you’re seeing stars being your eyes. Walls milking Toji’s thick cock as you cum - almost painfully. Mouth dropping into a fucked-out little oh! tears streaking down your face. 

Ones that Toji can’t help but lick off, salty on his tongue as he cums again. And again and again. Voice stuck in his throat, eyes widening, the veins popping out on his arms as he pulls your hips closer to his. 

Hips burning now as he breeds you like some animal. Like he was ready to fill you up until he was shooting blanks and couldn’t anymore. Cum squelching out of your sloppy pussy and seeping into where you were joined. Ah, well, the couch was ruined - time for Plan B. 

Which is why Toji found himself wrestling you onto the cool floor, cock still twitching inside you, spreading you for him on whatever flat surface he could find. Milking his cock so he can cum more than he has his whole life. 

Both of you barely lucid at this point. He wasn’t even sure if he could cum again - but by God if he wasn’t going to try. He was drunk off of the feeling inside you, so warm and wet with him. So perfect to carry his child.

“Hngh- yes yes yes wan’ carry your child, daddy.” you whine. Oh shit, had he said that out loud? Ah, who gives a fuck at this point. The only thing he cared about now was the feeling of your sloppy lil’ pussy wrapped around him and whether Megumi would want a brother or a sister. 

“Hm, yeah? Like the idea huh, you little slut. Fuck s’perfect f’me- ngh-”

Running on just the sting of your nails down his back and your legs pulling him impossibly closer. Barely even thrusting at this point, just frantic shallow, grinds to milk his swollen cock. Trying to fuck out something delicious. It hurt, but it hurt so good. 

So good that Toji doesn’t even realize when he’s cumming again. Just faint little tingles before his cock is shooting thin, long wisps of cum, making you squeeze around him as he fills you up again and again.Your own orgasm just a small spike of euphoria before he starts moving inside you. Again.  

Ah, he wonders, vision hazy at the edges - but still perfectly capturing the white gushing out of your ravaged cunt. Taking in the messy floor, and your even messier pussy. Where to next, huh? He hasn’t even fucked you in the kitchen yet.

“N-next?” you repeat, eyes widening as much as they possibly could through the exhaustion and the urge to pass out. And oh he said that out loud too? Whoops.

“Of course.” he pools the cum trickling out of you on two fingers, shoving them in your mouth. Making your head spine as you choke and gag around his thick fingers, pressing the back of your tongue. Only two things ringing in your mind, Toji’s unforgiving cock - raw and hot, dragging against your ravaged walls again and again - and the words that spill from his lips.

“Besides, we gotta practice for the fourth one, too, ma.”

A/N. Fully believe this man will fuck you till both of you pass out. 

Plagiarism not authorized. 

[mggslover]

MORE TO LOVE

In which Spencer proves to you how much he loves your big breasts.

pairing spencer reid x gf!reader genre smut (18+) cw reader has big breasts and is insecure bc of porn standards, just 6k words of tit worship: tit play, tit sucking, tit fucking. lots of teasing, oral (f receiving), p in v, cum play, creampie, reader wears a dress and lingerie, spencer is clingy and horny, spencer and reader are slightly tipsy, soft!dom!spence wc 6,3k a/n for my big tit girls <3 i hope someone can relate to this, and if you don't, i hope you can still enjoy! thank u lovely @esote-rika for proofreading

Everyone who’s had the honor of meeting Spencer Reid in an informal setting is aware of the fact that he isn’t a drinker. You’d score an indefinite amount of points in his book if you have something besides alcohol to offer. And Spencer isn’t picky — some trail mix in a bowl works as a good enough replacement. 

So, being surprised was an understatement when Spencer suggested coming to the bar where you were having drinks with your friends. The case he was on got wrapped up quicker than anticipated. He was about to walk to your apartment to spend the night with you when he remembered you were out with friends. 

It was the plan to pick you up and walk you home, making some light conversation with your friends while he was at it (for the amount of months you’d been dating, he should invest more time in getting to know the people who are close to you). He hadn’t planned on drinking, even surprising himself when he downed the two shots of liquor that one of your friends handed him. But he had no choice. Not when he walked into the bar and noticed you dancing in the crowd. Not when you were wearing that tiny black dress that was on his mind ever since he’d found it in your closet. Not when you turned around, your eyes twinkling and a bright smile tugging at your lips when you noticed him. And certainly not when his gaze had lowered and landed on the cleavage that was close to spilling out of your dress. He truly needed the liquid courage to get through the night. 

Now, standing on the corner outside of the bar, waiting for an Uber, you didn’t even notice the cold of the night as your body buzzed with the warmth of alcohol in your system combined with Spencer’s touches. He stood close to you, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist and his chin resting on your shoulder as he pressed gentle kisses to the curve of your neck — acting uncharacteristically clingy now that there’s alcohol in his system. 

“So this is the real reason why you don’t drink, huh?” You ask Spencer in a chuckle, feigning annoyance while actually feeling very flattered by his sudden clinginess, which he rarely displays when sober. 

“You’re just so pretty.” He says in a lack of a better explanation. 

He had his palm placed flat on your stomach, the heat of him radiating through the thin fabric of your dress. He squeezed the soft skin before his hand moved up your body at a concerningly fast speed.

“Hey there, mister,” you say in a playful warning, placing your hand on top of his to stop him in his tracks. “We’re still in public. Remember?”

He grumbled some incoherent words as his fingers toyed with the underwire of your bra.  “I like this dress.”

You smile, a flush creeping up your neck, glad he can’t see how much you’re enjoying this. “Yeah?” 

He hums in confirmation. “I’d like it even better off of you.”

The flush has now found its way to your cheeks, heating your skin as your heartbeat raced.

He presses a kiss to your jawline. “Bet you’d look so pretty.”

Your cheeks were on fire at this point. The butterflies in your stomach set free. 

“Want to see you naked.”

Then, everything comes to a halt.

“N-naked?”

He nods against your neck, his soft curls nuzzling you. 

Spencer doesn’t notice the way you tense up. To be fair, he’s not noticing any of his surroundings, completely focused on the way you feel in his grasp. 

His statement wasn’t weird. It shouldn’t have thrown you off like it did. He’s been your boyfriend for over three months — nearing the four-month mark — and you’ve had sex a lot of times. Still, he has never seen you naked. At least, not completely. 

All the times you’d had sex, you kept your bra on. They were cute bras, sexy lingerie sets that had cost you a fortune — specifically because the bra sizes you were looking for were like trying to find a signed limited edition of Kafka’s Metamorphosis. (You spoke from experience, having fought everyone on the internet to get a copy for Spencer’s birthday). All this effort was to hide one thing, well, two things really: your breasts. And it worked. Spencer was always hypnotized the second you took your top off. He had asked before if he could take your bra off, but when you rationally responded with, “It was so expensive, it would be a waste to take it off,” he always agreed, cupping your tits through the lacy fabric and forgetting why he ever complained. 

This is a good example that shows how considerate Spencer is. He’d let the subject slide with every weak excuse you made, never asking any prying questions. You knew it didn’t make sense to think Spencer would be turned off by the way your breasts look without a bra. He is obsessed with them covered, let alone when they’re not, your friends had told you. Still, doubt gnawed at you. He was a man. Men watch porn. You knew of his exes, how they have a different body type from yours. You were just afraid you’d shatter the illusion — that he’d be disappointed when he found out that your breasts aren’t as perky without support, how your nipples aren't placed symmetrically in the middle, how stretch marks covered the skin. 

“Are you alright?”

Spencer’s voice rattles you out of your thoughts. You swallow. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

The knuckle of his index finger tilts your chin, coercing you to look at him. His eyes looked sweet — a little tired, very lustful, but sweet nonetheless. 

“I love you. You know that, right?”

Three simple words, and still it felt like a large weight fell off your shoulders, allowing you to breathe again. “I know,” you respond with a nod, reaching out to cup his jaw. Your thumb grazes his light stubble, then gently brushes against the hidden scar underneath his chin. 

“I love you,” you say back.

The intimate moment is of short duration. Spencer tilts his head, then raises his hand to signal to the Uber, who just drives into the street. 

You mumble a soft thanks as Spencer holds the door open for you. You crawl into the backseat, and he follows behind you, clicking his seatbelt on and giving the driver the address to your home.

“Driver, roll up the partition, please,” you sing under your breath as the Uber driver does so.

“Beyoncé?”

You gasp, placing a hand on your heart to emphasize your surprise. “Wow, I’ve taught you so much.”

“You teach me lots of things,” he says with a goofy grin. 

And he meant it. You did teach the all-knowing genius quite a lot. Whether you’d consider sharing your excessive pop-culture knowledge as impressive as the facts he rambled about was questionable. But the information was useful, nonetheless. 

His eyes flicker from the driver back to you, saying his next words just loud enough for you to hear. “I don’t think it would be a smart idea if you were to get on your knees, though.”

Your lips curl, taking your bottom lip in between your teeth. His comment is a reference to the song; still you could tell there was a slight invitation behind his words. 

“You don’t think so?” You tease.

He scootches forward in his seat. His eyes roam over your body, halting on your cleavage, then move up to your pouty lips.

“It’s a pretty cramped space,” he settles on saying, his voice hoarse. “Not even mentioning the fact that partitions are made of polycarbonate — which does absorb up to 34 decibels on average, but that’s not enough for you.” 

You raise an eyebrow. “Not enough for me?”

He places a hand on your bare knee, thumbing the skin. “You’re pretty loud,” he recalls, his eyes finding yours. 

You chuckle, your gaze falling down to his hand, which was slowly creeping its way up your thigh. His fingertips were digging into the muscle, massaging it with care. The act is enough to turn you on, though you were already turned on by the kisses that he had left on your neck earlier. The memory is still vivid in your mind. 

“It’s not fair to blame it on me,” you tell Spencer. “You’re the reason for making me scream.”

He breaks eye contact, but not before you could catch the sparkle in his dark irises. He was trying to hold himself together; you could tell. He licks his lips, tucking a loose curl of hair behind his ear, before leaning in. His shoulder brushes against yours, his hot breath leaving goosebumps as his mouth traces the shell of your ear.

“Will you scream again for me tonight?” 

-`♡´-

Spencer’s kisses were all tongue, holding your jaw as he claimed you. There was no fight for dominance — you had surrendered the second he had closed the front door behind you. You had kicked your heels off at the same speed as he had thrown his blazer and tie on the ground. 

Large palms grip your face, connecting his lips back to yours as you blindly stumble through the living room in search of your bedroom. You know you’ve reached your destination as the back of your knees hit the mattress. 

Spencer pulls back. A deep exhale leaves his lips, caressing your cheek with the knuckles of his hand. “So beautiful,” he whispers, taking you in. 

You pull him back in by his collar, kissing him fervently. The lace of your underwear is bundled up between your folds, the material completely soaked. You roll your hips, moaning against Spencer’s mouth because of the slight friction it causes. 

Spencer notices what you’re doing. What you need. He grabs your ass, pulling you flush against him in a swift motion. Another moan escapes your throat as he locks his leg in between yours. Your dress rides up and he sees it as an invitation, rubbing his knee against where you need him most.

You let out a cry, the first one of the night.  

Spencer’s hands make way under the thin straps of your dress, pulling them down your arms, making your skin ignite. He pulls the dress down lower in a slight struggle as he tugs the fabric over your chest. Finally he frees your breasts, still covered with the lacy bra you’re wearing, but visible enough for his mouth to water. 

He pinches your nipples between both of his thumbs and index fingers, making your eyes roll back. “So needy, aren’t you, angel?”

His question isn’t meant to sound condescending — quite the opposite, actually. Still, you feel like he’s enjoying the way you’re all glossy-eyed and fawn-legged, feeling like you can come undone by the slightest of his touches. 

He continues stripping you down, revealing you inch by inch until the dress you had so carefully picked out in the evening is now pooled at your feet. 

Spencer gently presses you on the mattress, pushing your knees open as he takes place on the ground in between your legs. 

He hooks his hands behind your knees, scooting you a bit forward. His hands trail to your inner thighs, making you gasp as his fingertips dance over your skin ever so slowly. 

His touch was a delicious tickle, not one that you wanted to scratch, but one that you wanted to last forever. The heat in your core builds with every swipe of his digits. Your chest is heaving, his fingers so close to your throbbing pussy. 

“These are so damp,” he observes, curving his finger around the string of your underwear. “Think we should take these off, hm?”

A breathy moan leaves your lips. 

Spencer looks up at you, head cocking. He’s waiting for you to answer. You nod your head, hands gripping the bed sheets. “Yes. Want them off.”

He’s satisfied with your response, propping the material to the side to reveal your glistening cunt.

“God, you’re perfect.” He praises in awe. 

Perfect. 

You blink the thought away. There was no room for your anxieties as his tongue made contact with your pussy. You gasp, clenching your stomach and squirming forward, hands immediately finding their way into his hair. 

He uses the flat of his tongue to lick stripes up your folds, then uses the tip of his tongue to add pressure with every swipe against your clit. 

“Tastes so sweet,” he says, letting go of your swollen clit with a pop. 

You’re balancing yourself on the palms of your hands, back arched and head thrown back, giving yourself over to the pleasure. A rough hand gripped your thigh, fingers digging into the flesh. His curls disappear between your legs again. Then that same rough hand… but now around your breast. 

You didn’t notice anything at first — too caught up in the buzz of his hands and mouth on you. That was until he pulled the cup of your bra down, your breast spilling free.

“Spence!” You squeal. 

The sound could pass as a moan to anyone else, but Spencer knows the way you sound. His hands drop from your body, mouth pulling away, leaving you empty but giving you enough time to quickly cover yourself up. His pretty face is etched with confusion. “What is it?” 

“You pulled my bra down.”

“Did I break it?”

You didn’t even think of that. You turn your head to your collarbone, then pull on the strap. “No. It’s fine.”

“Then what’s wrong?” He repeats, golden-speckled eyes blinking up at you. “I told you that I can buy you some new brassières. I don’t mind.”

“It’s not that, Spencer,” you sigh. 

It isn’t fair to get irritated by him. The first step to a good relationship is communication — it’s a sentence you’ve become sick of with the amount of times you hear it, but that doesn’t make it less true.

“Do you…” you’ve now started your sentence. There’s no going back. “You… You like my boobs. Right?”

It’s like watching a mime; the way his eyes widen in surprise, then the wheels in his mind seem to turn, his eyes narrow, and a frown line forms between them. 

“Of course I do,” he says, standing up from his spot in between your legs. 

You’re scared that you’ve ruined it. That the mood is gone now that he’s aware there’s something keeping your mind busy. 

“I thought it was clear how much I like your breasts,” he assures, gently helping you up by your wrists and pulling you into a hug. His arms make you feel more covered, less vulnerable, because he’s still wearing a button-up and pants, while you’re merely clothed in your flimsy lingerie, wetness still coating your inner thighs. 

He presses a kiss to your hair. “I’m sorry if I made you feel like I don’t like them.”

You still need to get used to being in a relationship with someone so emotionally mature. He truly had nothing to apologize for. It’s the voices in your head that tell you that he doesn’t like them. He’s never given you any reason to doubt yourself. 

“You haven’t, Spence. I swear. I’m just-“ you’re glad you’re talking to his chest right now, not having to face him as the next words leave your lips. “I’m scared you won’t like them anymore once you see them… bare. They don’t look the same as when I’m wearing a bra.” 

You can feel his slight chuckle reverberating from his chest. “I don’t look the same without clothes on either.”

Yes, he looks even better. His clothes hide the muscles in his arms, the thickness of his thighs, the soft flesh of his tummy. 

“They just… you know. Sag a bit.” You whisper the last words, feeling like you’ve just admitted to a foul crime. The room stays silent, and his hold on you lessens.

He pulls back enough to see your face, a playful glint still shimmering in his eyes. “I have three PhD's, one of them being in physics, and you don’t think I know how gravity works?”

Well, you weren’t expecting that answer.

“I know it’s natural and all,” you shrug. “They just don’t look like they do in porn. I felt like I needed to warn you.”

He cups your face, making you look at him; a sweet smile lingers on his lips. “If I wanted a pornstar,” the word sounded foreign on his lips, “I wouldn’t be here right now. I want you. All of you.”

You nuzzle your face into the warmth of his palm. Words were just words, but you’d never find out if he meant them if you didn’t give him a chance. You swallow, gathering courage as you take a step back, just enough room for him to fully observe you, his tall figure standing over you. 

Your fingers make their way to your back, trying to ignore their shaking as you reach the clasp of your bra. You maintain eye contact with Spencer, trying to see if he’d change his mind, but so far his hazel eyes are just filled with anticipation and need.

You take in a deep breath, then undo all three clasps at once, ripping the band-aid off. The relief is immediate, certain that there’d be marks on your skin because of the biting underwire. 

Spencer’s jaw slackens. His irises grow with every inch of skin that reveals as you pull the cups down. Then — in a quick move of your hand — you fully remove the bra from your body. 

“Jesus,” Spencer says breathlessly. 

Anxiety flashes through you like a sudden strike of lightning. Your hands reach out to cover yourself up. “I shouldn’t have-“

Warm hands lock around your wrists, gently pulling them away. “I didn’t even imagine you could look this beautiful.” 

His voice was tinged with complete adoration as he took you in. Your mind had to do a double take to signal to you that you’ve heard him properly. Beautiful. 

You play with your hands, squeezing the tips of your fingers to keep yourself from hiding the curves that were on display. “You don’t have to say that.”

He took a step forward, his fingers knitting through yours. “I’m not just saying it,” he guides your intertwined hands to his pants; your breath catches as you notice the outline of his cock bulging through the fabric. He places your hands on his cock, squeezing your fingers around his length. A breathy ah escapes his mouth, his head slightly thrown back as you start moving your hands on your own accord.

“This is all for you. This is what you do to me,” his voice rasps. 

Your thumb moves to his tip, circling the sensitive spot until you see a wet patch forming. Spencer’s hips stutter, bucking into your touch. “Let me prove to you how much I love you. Please, angel.”

His plea was one out of pure desperation. Not only was he dying to touch you, but it had been several hours since he’d first seen you in that dress. Several hours of fighting the urge to bury his cock deep inside of you. 

“I need you so bad, Spence,” you mumble back, nails grazing his clothed cock. 

A loud moan escapes from his throat. He doesn’t waste any time, holding you by your waist and letting the two of you fall onto the bed. You squeal, your tits bouncing from the effort. 

“God, look at you,” he groans, making way in between your legs as you lay down. Your breasts have fallen to the sides of your body, framing you deliciously. Spencer leans in, teasing you as he licks a wet stripe right up your breastbone, curls tickling your pillowy curves, but not yet touching them. 

He swallows your whiny moans by kissing you. His tongue hastily meets yours. He can’t help but grind himself against the softness of your inner thigh, seeking relief as his arousal continues to grow. 

Your mind is spinning. The contrast between his fully clothed body and your naked, vulnerable state is stark. His strong hands grip your delicate face as he kisses you deeper. 

With a catch for breath, Spencer pulls back. His dick twitches as he looks at you — eyes full of desire, pouty swollen lips, hard nipples begging to be touched, and your pussy glistening, ready for him to use. 

“You drive me absolutely crazy, sweetheart.”

You reach out to let your hands roam over his chest, pulling on the collar of his shirt. “Please, take it off.”

He nods, making a quick effort to take his shirt off, throwing it haphazardly to the ground. With slightly shaky legs, he gets to his knees on the bed, hands fumbling with his belt, too busy staring at you.

You can’t escape the moan that leaves your lips as you see the first dusty brown hairs appear on his pubic bone. He pulls his pants down lower, revealing the thick shaft of his throbbing cock. You’re not even aware of your own hand sliding down your body, gasping as your middle finger touches your swollen clit, the feeling electrifying.

“Getting yourself off just by looking at me? I thought that was my job.”

His slacks and boxers fall to his knees, his cock slapping up against his abdomen. You felt almost guilty for teasing him this long — his tip was just as red as his rosy lips, leaking shiny precum. And his cum-filled balls stood strained, like he could bust at any moment. Your middle finger slips into your warm pussy easily, eyes rolling back as you curve your knuckle, hitting that delicious spot hidden inside of you. 

Spencer takes his pants completely off, then grabs your wrist, pulling your finger out swiftly, the motion making a sloppy, wet sound. You whine, bucking your hips up in the air. He moves your hand to his mouth, connecting his lips around your wet finger as he sucks on the digit.

He swirled his tongue, collecting all of your sweet juices and moaning in appreciation. “You can wait a little longer,” he purrs as he pops your finger out of his mouth. 

All you want to do is touch yourself again, especially now that that finger has been in his pretty mouth, but he doesn’t give you the chance as he holds your wrists together, locking them above your head. 

“You can’t show me your beautiful body and then expect me not to worship it,” he softly breathes, leaning in, his lips ghosting your cheek. 

You wiggle in his grasp, making him squeeze his fingers around your wrist. “Be good for me and keep your hands up like this, okay?”

You could say no. Could decline his proposal and have his cock pounding into your aching pussy with just one word. But where would the fun be in that?

“Okay,” you nodded, anticipation bubbling in your core. 

Spencer let go of your hands, and as promised, you intertwined your own fingers, keeping them in place above your head. For a second he just looked at you, taking you in and not knowing where to start. Like a feast that looked delicious from head to toe. But he was the only guest, so he could take his sweet time savoring all of you.

He eventually made his decision. His thumbs and pointer fingers each cupped a breast from the side, then lifted them up so they pressed perfectly against each other.  

A groan left his throat as he bounced them, tongue darting out as he played with your tits in an adorable fascination. “Is this okay?”

You hum, a soft smile lingering on your face. “Yeah, you can be rougher; I won’t break.”

He displayed his fingers over your breasts, experimentally starting to massage the pillowy, plump skin like he’d do with your thighs. Your nipples hardened under his touch, inducing a moan from the both of you. 

His thumbs swiped over your buds synchronously, causing you to whimper. His brows rose lightly, the same look he’d have every time he’d have an epiphany; he then pinched your nipples, slightly turning them as he pulled. Your back arched on the bed, accompanied by a heavenly sounding moan. 

“So sensitive, aren’t you?” He muses. “My poor girl, depraved herself for so long.” 

You could only cry, begging for more. 

“That won’t happen again,” he gently reassures, thumbing your nipples, sending electrifying sparks to your clit. “I’ll make sure to give them all the attention they deserve, hm?”

You hastily nod in agreement, your voice a soft whimper. “Please.”

He leaned down, settling in between your legs, hissing when his cock grazed against your soft inner thigh. 

“Can’t wait to taste you,” he whispered, breath fanning your sensitive skin. He stuck his tongue out, and you couldn’t wait to experience how he’d feel lapping on your tits, if it were to feel just as incredible as having his tongue on your pussy.

Your question was quickly confirmed as he licked a wet stripe over the bud. The cool air that followed formed goosebumps on the skin. He cupped your breast tightly in his hand, leaning in again to repeat the motion, then again, until the bud glimmered under the bedroom light. He squeezed your other tit, making sure to give that one the same amount of attention as he swirled his tongue around the same bud. 

The only sounds that filled the space were your longing moans and the smooching of his kisses. You lay still, hands kept patiently up as you let him use you like a canvas, painting your skin with gentle strokes of his tongue.  

It was after a few more teasing licks that he closed his lips around the bud, cheeks hollowing as he sucked. You gasped, not being able to help yourself as your hands shot to his hair. He didn’t mind though, moaning around you as you tugged on the locks. He let go of your nipple, placing featherlight kisses and sucks on your chest before finding his way to your other breast, connecting his lips to it. The feeling was so dizzying, and you swore that you could come by just a single tap to your clit. 

He opened his eyes to look at you, blown wide pupils locking with yours as he continued to suck. His eyebrows were scrunched as if he was waiting for you to tell him that he was doing a good job, that he was pleasing you. 

“God, you look so beautiful,” you say in a moan. “Make me feel so good.” His eyes twinkled at the compliment, and he grinded his length against your leg as if to say the sentiment was mutual. 

He released your nipple from his mouth, hoisting himself up to press a kiss to your lips. His tongue moved around yours in the same way as it had done to your body just a moment ago. 

“Thank you for trusting me,” kiss, “can’t get enough of you,” another kiss, “need more.” 

An idea sparked in the back of your mind. It was something you’d never tried before, not with anyone, but you could imagine it feeling good. He has fucked your thighs before. Your mouth. Your pussy. The only thing that was missing was—

“Do you want to fuck my tits?”

“Oh God, yes,” Spencer instantly groaned in response. You giggled as he made quick work of moving up the bed, placing a knee on either side of your upper body. His hard cock was just inches away from you; a string of precum coated his tip, dripping onto you. You reached out, finger gathering the sticky essence before suckling on the digit.

Spencer’s hips twitched, releasing another thick drop of precum. “You have to stop doing that.”

“Why?” You teased, proudly showing your clean finger. 

He groaned, both in frustration and longing. “Because I will come all over you before I’ve even fucked you.”

You laugh, turning him on even more without it being on purpose. You placed your hands flat against your tits, squeezing them together invitingly. “Come on, then.”

Spencer grips himself by the base, tapping his tip against your soft cleavage before sliding himself in between your breasts. 

“Jesus, fuck,” he moans, throwing his head back. He’s too aroused to start out slow, instantly slamming his hips up in a steady rhythm. His upper thighs slap against your breasts, recreating the dirty sounds he'd make if he were actually fucking you.

“You feel so good like this,” he whimpers. “Always so good to me, angel.” 

He reaches out to pinch your nipples, making sure to bring you pleasure as well. Not like you weren’t enjoying this — Spencer was so, so pretty; you could stare at him for hours: his jaw slack, moans and groans spilling from his swollen lips like a song sung just for you, his chest and neck covered in red splotches from the heat of your bodies, his slick, pink tip rubbing against your chest, his veiny hands playing with your tits as he kept looking at you, his eyes filled with love and adoration… You couldn’t get enough. 

“I’m so close, baby,” he pants, his cock twitching, using the wetness that had gathered between your breasts as lube to move his hips faster against you. 

“That’s okay,” you encourage breathlessly, pressing your tits closer together, creating more friction for him. “Let go for me, Spence.”

You didn’t have to tell him twice. One of his hands clasps around your shoulder, the other kneading the soft flesh of your breast as he thrusts his hips forward once more. His muscles tense, and you catch that look on his face — the look that tells you he’s right on the edge. Your prediction gets confirmed as a throaty whine escapes his throat, followed by warm spurts of white shooting onto your neck and chest. You’re able to catch a few drops by sticking out your tongue, swallowing, and sticking it out again to show him the proof.

“You drive me absolutely crazy, angel,” he says awestruck, climbing off of your body and staying seated beside you. 

You hum as you take in the way he has painted your chest, tracing your skin with your index finger, creating small drawings. He looks at you mesmerized, then blinks. “We should clean you up.”

“I got it,” you announce, cupping your breast up to your face and licking a firm stripe across the skin. 

A gasp sounded beside you, and you couldn’t help the sly grin that formed on your face as Spencer looked at you in pure surprise.

“I didn’t know you could do that.”

You giggled, placing your lips around your nipple as you gave a gentle suck while focusing on your boyfriend, whose cock was hardening again. 

“Acting so needy when you’ve been pleasing yourself all this time,” he tsked. “Such a dirty girl.” 

He matched your smile, cupping your face and bending over to lightly caress your lips with his once again. You moan in satisfaction, licking his bottom lip to be invited in. Your lips acted in a familiar play, experimentally moving around each other until you figured out each other’s moves, able to feel the urgent need in the way his tongue stroked yours, signaling back to him that you’re feeling the same by biting down on his bottom lip.

He groaned in response, his hands sneaking around your waist to hoist you up. “You’ve done enough hard work; you deserve to lie down now,” you joke as he gently makes way onto the soft bed sheets, holding onto your even softer thighs as you straddle him. 

His cock feels heavy in your hands as you position it underneath your throbbing pussy, shuddering as you tease your walls with the slick head. 

“You look so beautiful,” he praises, moving his warm hands up and down your hips, easing the strain you feel when you slowly sink down onto his length. You gasp when his thick tip disappears between your folds, but his sweet moans calm you down. Oh, you’re so tight. Just a little more, just like that. You’re doing so good for me, angel. 

“Oh my God, Spence,” you moan as your hips make contact with his. The stinging has eased into a delicious sense of being full, placing your hands on top of his tummy to keep yourself steady as you start rocking your hips. Spencer gives a firm squeeze, fingertips digging into the curve of your ass, sure it’s going to leave marks. 

You move your body up and down, breasts swaying with every one of your movements, the act completely hypnotizing Spencer. His head feels fuzzy and his throat dry as he watches you, not being able to believe how lucky he got. 

You up your speed, moaning and whimpering as you use his cock as your personal toy, his voice and face working as porn as he shudders in pure bliss underneath you. 

“Taking me— fuck — so well, baby,” he whines. Spencer places the soles of his feet flat on the bed, holding you tightly by your waist as he lifts his body up.

“Spencer!” you cry as his cock drives deeper into you. 

“Hm, I’m sorry, baby,” he murmurs in apology. “Just want to help you out.”

You nod — because even though you’re very much enjoying taking the lead, you know how good it feels when Spencer helps you out by pounding into you. So that’s what you do: sinking down onto him, meeting each of his thrusts as he bucks his hips up.

“Is it painful?” he asks considerately, nodding toward the way your heavy breasts bounce with each push of his hips.

You shrug, “Just a bit.” To be fair, you’re way too focused on the way your core tightens every time he buries his cock in your pussy, hitting that sweet spot inside of you as the veins decorated around his shaft tease your inner walls — to even care.

His large hands find their place on your breasts, squeezing them once, then twice, then looking back in your eyes. “I can work as your personal brassière.”

You chuckle, rolling your eyes. “Ah, how civil.”

“Did you know brassières were only invented in 1893? It’s fascinating because technically the first brassières dated back to ancient Greece. Actually, in Book 14 of Homer’s Iliad, there’s a reference to Aphrodite’s embroidered girdle.”

You hum, leaning forward to catch his lips. “And did you know that you talk too much?” You tease as you press another kiss to his mouth. “And did you know that no one uses the word brassières anymore?”

“But it’s the correct term!”

There’s only one other way to shut him up. You cradle your hands underneath his head, bending while tilting his head up to press his face against your tits. 

“Hmpf,” he mouths against your breasts, before easily finding your nipple to latch on. 

You hold onto the headboard, relishing in his touch as you pick up your rhythm again. His cock hits even deeper inside of you in this position. There’s something so electrifying about the stimulation of your breasts in combination with the pleasure against your G-spot. A feeling so electrifying you doubt you can hold on much longer. 

“Getting close, Spence,” you cry as his hands cradle your ass, holding the cheeks open as he pumps his length in and out of you.

“Not yet, sweetheart. Wait on me.”

His hot breath fans against your wet nipples, and you cry loudly, gripping the headboard until your knuckles turn white.

“I can’t, Spence. I can’t — feels so fucking good.”

“Yes, you can. Just a little longer. Make me proud, angel; I know you can.”

You tighten your walls around him — maybe it can be considered as cheating — but it works. Spencer groans as he bites down on your breast, not enough to hurt, but enough to make you squeal.

Spencer holds you tight against him, chests pressing together as he moves his hips with force. “That’s it — Oh, I’m close. Let go for me.” 

With one more jolt of his hips, you come undone. You cry incoherent words in the crook of his shoulder. Your legs are shaking from the strain of holding them open for so long. Your pussy flutters around him repeatedly until Spencer’s legs quiver in the same way as yours, filling you up with his warmth.

He groans in satisfaction, pushing his hips up a few more times to make sure his release is buried deep inside of you. The round head of his cock slips out of your folds. You let out a sharp gasp, still feeling the print he had left inside of you. You can feel the way your pussy twitches as his cum drips out of you and dribbles onto his thighs.

Spencer pulls some hairs out of your face, pressing a sweet kiss to your temple as you settle your head down on his sweaty chest.

“It's okay,” he soothes you. “You did so good.”

You smile sheepishly, drawing figures on his chest. “Yeah?”

He mirrors your smile. “Yeah. You did perfectly.” Another kiss to your face. “My beautiful, brilliant girl.”

Your heart does a leap out of joy. It’s easy to say afterward, but you can’t believe how you were ever scared to show yourself to him. Now only regretting not having done it sooner as you see the physical proof of how enamored he is with you. Maybe you didn’t fit the ideal you’d been forced to fit in all of your life, but if anything, there’s only more to love.

[leyavo]

Ghost getting badly injured during a mission that they have to call his next of kin.

Next of kin?? What do you mean next of kin.

Mrs Riley?! He doesn’t wear a wedding band to protect you. Not even at home, worried there’ll be a mark to show he sometimes wears one.

It’s then that the TF 141 find out he’s married to you. They’re all wondering what you’re like, convinced you must be in the same line of work.

You’ve been married for six years, only to be called if it’s serious like now.

Soap’s jaw is on the floor as you walk into the infirmary, you don’t even glance their way as you rush to Simon’s bedside. Your hand on his chest as you lean down to kiss his forehead and brush back his hair.

You’re well put together, a lightweight robe layered over jeans and a simple vest. Pops of colour on your olive thick framed glasses and golden wedged heels. Hair pinned back with a pencil, leather bag overpacked with a book, filofax, purse and little cosmetic bag.

Price introduces himself, shaking your hand. A dainty diamond ring sparkling on your finger. Your silver bangles jingle as you greet each man, repeating their names and they know Ghost has not told you anything about them.

All he told you is that he likes working alone, but sometimes works with others.

You stay at the base for a while till he’s well enough to travel home. Eating with him and the guys in the canteen, they’re still staring at Simon like he’s grown another head. Watching you two squabble about little things.

“Do not put that shit on my plate,” Simon grumbled.

“It’s broccoli not a bomb.” You can’t help but roll your eyes, shoulder bumping into his arm as you try to move him along in the line.

The art director job you have takes you all around the world, sometimes you get to meet up with your husband. Simon treating it like a mission in itself, you playing along as you talk to him over the phone as you walk the cobbled streets to see him. “Target engaged, moving in,” you whisper as you spot him standing outside a coffee shop.

FaceTiming him whilst he’s at base so you can show him the little trinket you found in an antique store. He’s laying down in his bed, headphones on so no one hears.

“Nearly the same age as you luv.” Anything to see that little poutie face and brows furrowed. He loves teasing you that you are older than him, but it backfires whenever he complains at his body aching. “You’re supposed to be young and spry.”

Being a couple years older than Simon, you’ve got your shit together. Which drew Simon to you. Both no nonsense, say what you feel and work it out. No games, no silent treatment.

“Watch your tone Si, you’re not in the army here. You’re home so don’t give me that shit.”

“Watch my tone, luv. You just flooded the bathroom!”

“You distracted me!”

“Why don’t I get some towels and we both sort it out.”

Once Simon’s fully recovered, you invite his team to stay at your shared home together for the weekend.

A cottage in the countryside, there’s an eclectic mix of vintage furniture and textiles. That one rug Simon shipped back from Morocco in the living room. Paintings, pottery and sculptures scattered around the rooms. Rocky, a German Shepard trailing after you as you give them a tour of the place.

You make friends with Price’s wife who’s around the same age as you. Even try to set Gaz up with a client you think he’d get on with. Bond with Soap telling him you lived in Scotland as a late teen where you had your first art assistant job there.

Price’s wife scheduling a double date in five months time. Simon side eying John. She’s also invited you to come stay for a girls weekend at the Price house.

[wife/gf masterlist]