#this got in-depth whoops

[megaman-r]

I am definitely going engine-first, generally speaking; a lot of those assets are UI bits and pieces. I'd say the majority even. I do have a fair amount of other sprites/tiles at least roughed out, but that's because I'm a visual artist so that's the fun part for me, and it all needs to happen at some point anyway, so I haven't tried to stop myself from working on the parts that sound fun at the moment. Especially since getting a cohesive 'look' across the whole game is a massive task, and having a really long time to think it over and refine things is only going to be of benefit.

A whole lot of what you've listed is just not possible to implement easily, if at all, in the engine I'm using. Total playtime per file, items used, enemies killed, the basics that make the game work at all (Robot Masters defeated and the like)—sure, that's all doable and largely done even, but lifelong stats across multiple files aren't supported in any reasonable way because save files simply don't interact with each other. If I load one to reference a variable, I have nowhere to store said variable to add it to another from a different save, because referencing that save will lose the first variable entirely no matter what I do with it or where I put it. Cumulative totals simply cannot be a thing with this engine, essentially, which isn't the end of the world. After all I'm basically doing an NES-like with a few modern bells and whistles, so being somewhat less detailed in save data than other modern games isn't going to make or break it.

I have no idea what is actually in each save file as far as data. They're all in JSON and they're not particularly human-readable, because everything is obfuscated. If this were actually something I was coding from scratch in a real language, yeah, I could worry about individual bits and bytes, but I picked an oddball engine off the strength of its being easy to learn (...and having already been in my Steam library from a sale...)—I know exactly zero programming languages, unless you count Pixel Game Maker MV's visual scripting system. So that hampers a lot of things; it's state-based, not object-oriented, and things like menus and UI absolutely suffer for it. The degree of tedium it takes to set up a basic foundation is...yeeegh. I do understand the concepts better, and I will probably switch to Godot or something with a lot more fine control if I do another project, but as it stands... the bit/byte count is all very interesting but I have no access to the save file structure beyond, "Keep these switches and variables, allow these others to reset to default." (Also I don't know how to do math in hex much beyond being able to generally count from 0 to 15, which is all I need to use Famitracker effectively, lol.)

I kinda just started on a whim to see if I could do it, so the order of operations has been whatever I'm confident will actually allow me to keep making progress. Things like doing the music first happened because I didn't want to get years deep into making a game only to discover that I have no ability to compose, so I completed a fair amount of it first to make sure it happened at all. (It turns out I'm okay at it, fortunately.)

But yeah, I'm sure there's a lot of nontraditional stuff happening, because I have no idea what a traditional workflow even would be. I'm emphatically not a programmer, even if I do seem to be programming. My entire background is making dumb things in RPG Maker 2000 back in high school. The fact that I've organized myself enough to get this far is a testament to the combined power of ADHD medication and sheer stubbornness.

But believe me when I say that I am painfully aware the save system should be X, Y, and Z things. It just is what it is, though, and what it is is extremely limited and very, very prone to producing errors if things aren't laid out just so. Even trying to save two files too quickly will cause at least one of them, if not both, to simply not output at all. So for even just this basic functionality I feel pretty accomplished and while I do want to add some more miscellaneous stats plus some way to view them, which is a whole other UI setup that I'll need to do, there is no way to add much beyond that.

But again, I think that won't horribly impact anyone's enjoyment, in the end. People still have plenty of fun with much less. I almost didn't even include saves, but my dev Discord voted down a classic NES style password grid system. Would have been relatively very easy to implement, but alas. The people have spoken.

I should add that there is one way that would technically work for multiple save files with lifetime play stats and you could support any sort of cumulative save data you could imagine with it, but I'm not doing it, because it would involve emulating multiple save files within one save file...meaning that for every single time a saved variable or switch is changed, I would need a bunch of branching logic to disambiguate exactly which "save file" I'm changing, and I would rather eat my own teeth than deal with the bugs that would invariably produce if anything at all in the entire game was set up even slightly wrong.

@megaman-r, @afniel

I should probably clarify what I meant.

When I say "backward", I mean that when work actually begins on a game, there's typically kind of an… order… to how things should logically go: make the game engine and all the conceptualized bits and bobs, test to satisfaction, and then make all the assets. A lot of people do it the other way, though. I used to, back when I dabbled. Realistically, though, making the entire engine first with all it entails just makes more sense to me, these days.

As for the save system? Here's what I expect from a Mega Man save:

Save Game Slot

Stages beaten and/or weapons collected (2 to 4 bits?*)

Lives, Tanks, collectable inventory (1 byte** each)

Permanent inventory (Energy Balancer, et cetera) (1 bit)

Score, if enabled (4 bytes)

Game difficulty, if enabled (1 byte)

Character, if applicable (1 byte)

New game or replay, if applicable (1 byte) - These three can probably be combined into one bit

Time played in hh:mm:ss format (3 or 4 bytes)

Deaths, if applicable (1 byte)

Other stats (E-Tanks chugged, enemies destroyed, and so on) (1 byte each)

Overall Save Stats

Games played, beaten, et cetera (1 byte each)

Features unlocked (1 or 2 bits, number of unlocks depending)

Overall time played in dd:hh:mm:ss format (1 and 4 bytes?)

(* Bits in "hex format" 8 possible "hard values" per bit: $01, $02, $04, $08, $10, $20, $40, $80 Use bit math for combinations.

Examples: - Stage 1 and Stage 3 beaten = $05 - Stages 2, 5, and 8 beaten = $92 - Stages 1 through 8 beaten = $FF

** Bytes are just standard hex bytes: $00 - $FF 10 = $0A, 99 = $63, et cetera. Multi-byte values stored in reverse order.) —

... I've put a lot of thought into this. (,:

[willowser]

angsty to begin with bc i love to talk about fighting with bakugou LOL but it gets lighter, i promise 💕✨️

you can track katsuki's heated discovery through his footsteps.

the front door closes harshly enough that the house trembles, echoing down your spine at his arrival; it feels sudden, now, though—looking at the clock—you've been waiting for hours. his day has no doubt been just as tumultuous as yours, but his resounding frustration—both new and old—bleeds through the walls all too well.

it means something that he doesn't take off his boots; what's always been regarded as a criminal offense now bares his impatience, reveals how full his mind is of the things he needs to say. underneath the comforter, your toes curl, heart thudding heavy as his heels as he lumbers for the bedroom.

—only to come up empty.

an indistinguishable curse shoots from his mouth, across the house. first murmured and then chanted over and over again as he tears down the hall and back into the living room. you've left your shoes out for this reason, as well as a plate in the sink and a candle burning on the end table beside the couch.

you're still here; you want him to know that.

it's silent long enough for you to realize you're holding your breath, straining to hear his every move. your cheeks are salted with tears—both new and old—and you wipe at them cautiously, as if such a movement could give you away; it's not that you want to stay hidden, but you're nervous for what will unfold, when he finds you.

not because you're afraid of him, never of him, but—you just don't want to fight anymore.

the door to the guest room is thrown open suddenly, with an urgency that makes your heart pound and your eyes snap shut.

katsuki smells like work, strongly; sweet and musky like sweat; a once-roaring campfire; evidence of the city—smog and fried food and some amalgamation of strangers—soaked into the fabric of his hero clothes. you sniff once, wet and distracted, and it gives you away instantly.

the sound makes him sigh, though from relief or annoyance, you can't tell. maybe both. a weight he's placed on your chest dares to lighten as he shuffles closer, no doubt dragging mud across the carpet, and the warmth of his body so close is all too alluring; you peek up at him once he sits at your side, but he's just leaning his elbows onto his knees, staring at the wall.

"guess you're sleepin' in here, then."

this bed lacks the indentation you've worn into katsuki's mattress, but the comfort of it wouldn't help you to sleep anyway. not after today. after all that's been said.

your voice is very small when you speak, tip-toeing. "yeah, i think i will."

he shakes his head like you're being ridiculous, and you try not to let the action prod your still tender wounds. a harsh hand runs over his face and through his hair, tugging off the mask that had been buried there. it dangles loosely between his fingers as he fiddles with it, keeping his eyes from you as long as he can.

"y'want me to stay in here too?"

you don't. it's the whole reason you moved your pillow into the guestroom to begin with and you think he should know that, but he's still—trying. a fresh frog develops in your throat at the sentiment; it's always the softer side or katsuki that packs the heavier punch.

a weighted silence settles in the space between you, the words sour in your mouth. for a brief and tense moment, you wonder if you can get away with not saying it, without having to reject him—but then he peeks at you over his shoulder, all smoldering embers. waiting.

"that's okay," you offer a weak smile in an attempt to soften the blow. "you can have the room tonight."

katsuki rears, resisting with a huff. "well, i don't have to. and you—we can—y'don't have to sleep alone."

still trying; you can hear it in his voice, well-hidden beneath his exasperation, a slight tremble born from the fear that you'll leave him in an empty bed. so far removed from the tone used with you this morning.

you can still see his face when you close your eyes: how red it gets, the vein in his neck that swells with blood when he's yelling, lips curled like he's so angry he could spit. the argument hadn't started on any serious note, but you had something to say and so did he, and it went on and on until you were fighting less about the subject matter and more about each other. rights and wrongs that had been left unattended for too long, that had begun to fester.

it's not like you were particularly soft-spoken either, but—like most things, with katsuki—you didn't stand a chance against him.

"i know, but," you bite your lip and lose your words, settling for a shrug that only serves to annoy him further.

"fine," he grumbles, shooting up from the mattress to storm out of the room. "whatever. goodnight."

the door follows closely behind him, banging against the frame with less force than it could have, though the silence he leaves behind feels just as painful. you roll onto your back to wipe at the fresh wave of tears that pool in your eyes, groaning quietly into the emptiness.

fighting with katsuki isn't the hardest part. making up is.

it took long enough for him to place his heart comfortably in your hands, to reach the point where he felt safe enough to share his feelings with you, but his trepidations lie in wait; any sort of rejection when he's already so vulnerable is liable to have him locking his every last door.

and you know he doesn't mean it; it's instinctual, a defense mechanism he's kept in place all his life. retreating away to hide, when he's sorry and asking for absolution, is the safest route for him.

when you're finally done pawing at your eyes, the shower sounds from down the hall and you imagine him in there, head bowed under the violently hot water, trying to wash his frustrations away. his skin is always so pink and tender when he gets out, and you feel a pang of loneliness at what you'll miss in a bed without him. for tonight, all you have to hold is the idea of him, and you listen closely to the stream as if it will offer something more.

it runs for long enough that you begin to forge an excuse to go in and check on him, but just as you start to justify it, the water shuts off. you feel thwarted—though it was a silly plan—and the hope of getting to see him for one final time tonight crashes, has tears welling up again.

but before they can spill over, a soft knock sounds at the door.

you turn away despite wanting for him, and answer. "yeah?"

the door creaks, room warming with him in it. katsuki doesn't say anything until you finally roll over to look at him, his hair damp and flat, forehead resting against the wood as he watches you from the corner of his eye. head bowed, like a scolded child.

"'ve got...shit to do with my old man tomorrow." he murmurs. "but i should be back by lunch."

even if you are at odds, another bout of loneliness grows at the thought of waiting, sitting in the house without him. "okay, thank you for letting me know."

just barely are you able to make out the shift of his eyes down to the carpet, the growing frown on his face before he groans quietly to himself. when he stands properly, you admire the soft curve of his muscles, his shoulders, as he crosses his arms over his bare chest.

"goodnight," he tells you again, nicer this time. you whisper it in return and there's some finality, for the night; his jaw cocks and his head shakes again, like he can't stand this shit. you know he can't. katsuki squeezes his eyes shut tight and when he fixes them on you, they are full and sad, but he doesn't look away. not this time. "y'know...that i love you, right?"

your restraint buckles, nearly slipping through your hands, and you sit up to catch it. more than anything, you want to open your arms and allow him into this bed with you, the way you always do, but your sore heart stops the words from forming.

instead you tell him, quietly, seriously, "and i love you too, katsuki."

his frown only deepens and he turns with a heavy sigh, dragging the door gently behind him.

katsuki's all might mug is waiting on the edge of the counter the next morning, still steaming.

for you, because he doesn't drink coffee, and when you step up to it, you can tell by the color that he's added too much cream. the gesture makes you smile regardless, softening aches and pains from the night before.

he doesn't say anything when you sit at the bar counter, doesn't look up either, just continues putting away whatever he's used to make his protein shake. you can see the tension still lining his every move, the bob of his adam's apple as he swallows hard and ducks his head and acts like you don't exist here at the end of the kitchen, waiting.

twice he walks by without saying anything, busying himself with a backpack sitting by the couch. he spends a few minutes staring into the hall closet before grabbing a jacket you haven't seen him wear in months, and then he sets it with his other things and strides back to the kitchen and—has to face you.

the shadows under his eyes are dark and heavy, like he didn't get much more sleep than you did.

"shouldn't take me all morning," he speaks softly, like he would to a newborn. so, so far from how he spoke to you yesterday. "if y'need somethin' while i'm out, just—" call him, he means, though he trails off with a shrug.

"okay," you nod and sip your coffee, accepting his olive branch. "i will, thank you."

katsuki chews on his lip before finally returning to the living room to gather his things, and he waits until your back is to him before speaking again. "unless you don't want me to go." he huffs, like he's already frustrated. "i can stay and we can...figure all this shit out."

"no," you shake your head and swivel around to frown at him. "no, you should go spend time with your dad. we can talk later."

"'s not a big deal if i cancel, i can call him right now if you want me to stay."

"no, katsuki, i wouldn't want you to do that." your brow furrows and the knot that gets stuck in his throat is almost visible, as his gaze shifts to the wall beside you, avoidant. "i think it'd be good if we—"

"fuck, if you want me to get out, just say so."

"no, that's not—" the irritation you felt yesterday wakes once more and your stomach twists at the fear that this will devolve into another screaming match. your already thin patience snaps, echoes like the ceramic of your mug against the counter when you set it down. "i'm not saying that. at all. i just don't think you should cancel on your dad if you've already made plans. you said yourself it's not gonna take all morning, so we'll talk after."

"well," he scoffs, indignant, throwing his arms up in the air like he's exasperated—but you don't miss the slight wobble of his chin, how long it takes him to sound out his own words. "you even gonna be here when i get back?"

"well, yeah, honey, where else would i—"

"'m not gonna come home 'n—" he waves a hand, clearing his throat as he forces himself to stare at the ceiling. "'n all your shit's gonna be gone?"

you deflate instantly, watching the sharp work of his jaw until he's having to blink rapidly, over and over again as his eyes gleam. the bar stool scrapes across the floor with an ugly sound as you slip out of it, and katsuki only throws you one brief, bloodshot glance before you bury your face into his chest.

still on guard, his arms don't move, don't come to wrap around you—but you can feel the small huff that leaves his chest. the tip of his nose as it dips into your hair.

with your cheek to his chest like this, all you can hear is the rapid-fire beat of his heavy heart. "i would never just leave you like that." all you get is a half-shrug in response, voice to fragile to sound. "i'm—we had a fight, but i still love you, katsuki."

he shrugs again and shakes his head, staring glassy-eyed at his cabinets when you look up at him. "well...'m sorry."

"i know," you murmur, nuzzling your cheek into him again. in your hands, his heart is heavy, and your own mirrors its ache; has he always been like this, expecting the worst? or is this a wound suffered from another? you squeeze him a little tighter, until his breath hitches. "and i forgive you, but my feelings are still a hurt and i just need...some time, you know?"

now his walls crumble, as he finally wraps an arm around your neck so that he can press his face into your hair. "...how much time?"

you want to laugh at his impatience, the little brat that's still at his core, but you can't fault him. not when you're just as eager to leave this fight behind. to wrap him up in all the warmth you can offer. "i don't know, half a morning, maybe."

and he doesn’t say anything for a long time, as he waits for his voice to stand on its own again. even then, it's quiet, small. "...okay."

"i'm going to love you forever and ever and ever." you promise, offering him your loveliest smile when he swallows hard. "even when you don't want me to." the longer his eyes linger on your cheeks, the pinker his own get, and you can't help yourself; you stand on your tip-toes, happily, now, and wrap your arms around his neck. "can i have a kiss, please?"

katsuki scoffs, though it's lighter now, before pressing his lips to yours, softer than you expected. even though it's chaste and simple, he stays there with his eyes shut tight, like he doesn't want to ever leave. you have to pull back, because your lips start to curl and you want to laugh at him, so pliable and sweet, but he chases you, plants two more before frowning at your giggling.

"y'r a dumbass," he murmurs, and when you gasp, he throws his arm around your neck and yanks you into his chest again. the heat on his face is palpable, as he tries to tuck his vulnerability in your hair. "'m always..." katsuki tries, cutting himself off with a sharp sigh. "g'nna want this, so don't be thinkin' otherwise. ever."

you hum into him, pliable, too. melted down to his same temperature; warm, tender. you pull away to place a kiss on his cheek, more on his lips until they quirk up the slightest bit. satisfied. "i won't if you won't."

[blueberry-blast]

Post GrandFest, someone got a lil too silly & forgot their sunscreen in all the excitement

[telesodalite]

Another rambling thought, sort of stemming from the last thing, but what if Misfire gets so upset about Krok believing he's contacting his old squad, and pretending or implying that they're still alive, because he's harboring some sort of repressed grief over Thundersaur?

Thundersaur's dying request being to free Flyhigh before he ends up in jail for a dozen counts of "accidental" murder implies a certain kind of closeness or something felt towards Misfire. Yet, we don't really see anything returned from Misfire's side? Outside of the "-You're just jealous because you've never had someone look out for you." comment he makes in response to Spinister's disbelief towards him being the type to end up on someone's "dying wish list".

So, there's that. What can be gleaned from just that? Not much ig, at least nothing concrete. But taking into account Misfire's relationship with Grimlock, and Grimlock's later view of Connie, perhaps something can be assumed about his relationship with Thundersaur.

Whether I'm reading into it too much or not, there is a theme of a sometimes rough but well intended trickle down kindness when it comes to the Scavengers and their story.

A favor or act of kindness is shown to one, and they return it back or onto another, sometimes unintentionally. There's emphasized acts of selflessness with them, even though we know them to be quite selfish, which, really only emphasizes those moments more. If they were written as less of a joking break between the drama of the Lost Light cast, perhaps this theme would've played a deeper more defined role. But anyways, my subjective character favoritism aside.

The point here is Misfire cared for Grimlock, and in turn, Grimlock chooses to care for Connie because it's "his turn" to look after someone. One act of empathy leads to another. There's a time to decide when it's your turn.

So it's possible it goes further back because of that. Thundersaur cared for Misfire, then it was Misfire's "turn" and he cared for Grimlock, and Grimlock cared for Connie.

So why doesn't Misfire say or mention anything about Thundersaur? Grimlock cares a lot for Misfire, wouldn't Misfire have cared a lot for Thundersaur?

Well, in a way, there's a possible answer for that. Misfire is shown to be uncomfortable when faced with admitting he cares for people, or needs people. He's uncomfortable with vulnerability. He gets defensive and snappy when pressed about it, or he deflects it away from himself, which is somewhat of a stark change to his more casual dramatics and honest friendliness. So he doesn't like talking about how he feels, how he really feels.

But he also admits to Grimlock he understands missing the people you cared about. He admits this in connection to Grimlock recalling the last time he was with his "Dino-Buddies", just before Grimlock was taken to Garrus 9. Misfire "gets it", even though it's hard, he gets it.

With all that possibly pointless evidence, we can guess that yeah, Misfire did care for Thundersaur. It's just that he, like the rest of the Scavengers, has his own repressed and poorly managed issues relating to his past and his own negative emotions.

Also, the death thing. He's real casual about dead stuff. He exsanguinates and cannibalizes corpses as a job/hobby, and enjoys it. There's an implied acceptance that he's okay with the fact that the Scavs will eat each other as soon as someone happens to keel over, which includes him also being dead and eaten. He's cool with that, ig. Or at least, he's cool with eating the others if the situation presents itself.

So he's got a weird relationship with life and death. When you're alive, you're a friend. When you're dead? Well, it's not really you anymore, is it? It's not someone you care about anymore, it's just a corpse, not a person, it's just resources in an empty vessel, not a friend. Nothing worth getting emotional or upset about. Perfect for being comfortably detached.

Because this is getting way too long tho, here's the point I'm trying to get to.

Why does Misfire lose his shit a little when Krok starts panicking and trying to call for his squad? Here's my theory, I guess.

Thundersaur is dead. He died, and he's gone, and Misfire knows this. He wasn't there. He didn't get to say goodbye. He didn't get to return the favor or repay the debt. He didn't get to show Thundersaur that he cared for others too, that he passed that on.

But while he accepts it, he doesn't want to think about it. Doesn't want to dwell on it, doesn't want to acknowledge that he misses Thundersaur. He's dead, he's gone. So it doesn't matter. Misfire can't need him anymore, and he doesn't want to admit he needs anyone anymore, because someone he relied on is dead, and he wasn't there for them to rely on in turn.

So he doesn't think about it. But Krok does. Krok thinks about it, and talks about it, and still admits to needing his dead. Even if he won't acknowledge the fact that they're dead, and gone, and never coming back, no matter how much he wants or needs them anymore.

And it feels unfair, and Krok keeps unintentionally poking at that repressed grief Misfire won't touch. A reminder with every click of that dismembered finger, that you can't always just will away the grief of loss, of death. There's going to be reminders everywhere. Even close to you. And so, faced with reminder after reminder, the repression breaks, and Misfire snaps because-

They're all dead.

Krok's squad is dead. Thundersaur is dead. Why can't they accept that and just move on to never talking about it, never mentioning it, never thinking about it again?

Because, in their own ways, neither of them have ever truly moved on.

[swaglexander-the-great]

Had a dream last night that I turned into a video game character and killed Elon Musk by dropping a rocket ship on him via shooting its fastenings tactically, and i’m thinking if we get a choice about how he goes out, well

[mechahero]

@outofthiisworld asked- ⚠️ - If Lambda came with a warning sign, what would it be? aaaaaaaand !!! 🍪 - What are his favorite scents? emoji ask game (accepting!)

[⚠️]- I feel like it would be pretty hard to boil everything with him down to a single warning sign? But still, I think it'd be a very simple WARNING: BITES, SCRATCHES, AND LASHES OUT OFTEN!

[🍪]- When it comes to scents, he gravitates more towards vanilla, citrus, and baked good kinds of scents! If he doesn't smell like oranges or like a birthday cake threw up on him, he's not going to want it or like it very much. Although on the rare occasion (or during the summer time), he veers towards more tropical scented sprays. (Think like Hawaiian Tropic. Specifically their Aloha Coco spray!)

[orcelito]

I always find it kind of funny what some other ppl consider "slow burn". Like I've been reading a fic that the writer repeatedly said was slow burn, but some 40k words in and they've had their first kiss...

I'm not complaining, but that just doesn't feel like that slow of a burn to me lmao. But Then Again, this is coming from the person who writes some of the slowest of burns... not the slowest, mind you, but like. In discacc, I'm pretty sure their first kiss happened around... what, 400k words in? Something like that. And they hadn't even officially Met (in person) until like some 70k words in.

And Then there's ITNL. Currently 74k words, and Wolfwood hasn't even officially entered the story yet.

We're in for the long haul, y'all :]

[journey-to-the-attic]

Reading the new comet event (spoilers sort of?) and I could've sworn I'd read it before, but no!! I realised that it was because MC going to Satan after he shut himself in his room reminded me of that scene in the Minecraft chapter where IK finds him on the iceberg! Just a cool thing I thought I'd share

oo funky!! i haven't done the new event myself (planning on speedrunning at some point before it ends), but it looks interesting! i like that they're trying something new, and focusing each pop quiz around particular characters should definitely make them more interesting, esp if they go for actual mini-arcs with them like it sounds like they are

[godzexperiment]

Taking an life was generally not meant to be an easy thing; he very much had sworn to never take it lightly. Ever be the reason for it. Given his history and yet it wasn't his first severing of life. Just the first direct one- feeling his blade sink into them and then ripping it back out. Warmth of the blood. Smell of it, and the sound of it. Was not fun but he sure didn't immediately cry over it. Given they deserved it, one thought provided meanwhile another said who was he to say so. Listening to the sound of the droplets onto the ground off his blade. His fingers adjusting grip on the handle. Finding himself just sort of frozen as his thoughts raced. Arguing, clashing emotions and yet he felt more of the rush than shame or apathy. Trying to decipher if it was from the action or the circumstances that led to it. Self defense. Yet that changed when realized wasn't alone. Flipping the knife closed and palmed. Not that he was quite ashamed but people did get weird about such things. Letting his sleeves cover his hands. "Was dead when I got here."

[queenpiranhadon]

HII you commented on my post :’) 🎀

can I request pro hero bakugou x pro hero reader where reader usually pick up their kid(s) from daycare alone since BK is busy and usually gets home late:( and that kinda made their kid(s) upset and ignore their dad at home and cry really loud in front of reader secretly. So like reader came up with an idea to surprise the kid(s) and told BK to change his schedule or else reader will whoop his ass. So like the next day BK and reader went to daycare together and instead of reader standing behind the glass door it’s BK and that made their kid(s) go crazy and jumpy 🥺 thank you 💗

Idk I was watching this reel and got a lil inspired ~ https://www.instagram.com/jaxon.trevor/reel/CsTuZLUofpg/?igsh=MTNuZHY3ZDEwMnNoZA==

A/N: HIII SORRY THIS TOOK ME A WHILE AHAHAH BUT I LOVED WRITING THIS IT WAS SO CUTEEE Here's the masterlist!

Warning(s): Mild cursing, f!reader, your kids love you, pre-established relationship (you two are married), you have twins, Katsuki loves you, just fluffy fluff with like the mildest angst if you squint really hard.

Pairing(s): Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

•─────•°•❀•°•──── ᴅᴀʏᴄᴀʀᴇ ────•°•☁︎•°•────•

It's late. You were in the kitchen, cleaning up from dinner, as your husband finally relaxes in your shared bedroom after a long patrol. It was always like this, Katsuki getting home late, and you were left to take care of your two children in the meantime.

You didn't blame him, of course, you knew how hard he worked, given that he was the number 2 pro hero and with that came a lot of responsibilities. You yourself were number 5, which meant you also had a lot of missions, but thankfully since you ran your own agency, you could manage your schedules easier to be able to pick up your kids from daycare every day.

However, your twins, Kasumi and Akio, weren't as understanding as you were when it came to your husband's attendance at home.

You understood their pain, but tried to keep an open mind for the sake of your family. However, after a two month long mission that Katsuki was sent on, he had consequently missed your birthday, something that might've upset you slightly, but you didn't think it was a big deal.

The twins, however did. They were furious at this point, sobbing as they clung onto your shirt, snot and tears soaking the fabric, but you didn't mind, rubbing their backs comfortingly. You thought it was sweet, how much they cared, but they little voice in the back of your head agreed with them, if only a little. Katsuki was never at home anymore, and to be honest, you missed him.

When he came back, you welcomed him with open arms, but the twins had just peaked their heads out of their rooms before retreating back, as if this was a normal occurrence.

You sigh, and look back at Katsuki, who had a heartbroken expression on his face.

Grabbing his hand, you lead him to your shared bedroom, squeezing his hand softly and getting ready for bed.

Katsuki gets changed but only sits on the bed, and you lie down next to him.

"What's on your mind, love?"

He grunts and looks away, conflicted before looking back at you.

"Do...do the twins hate me?" he mutters, and you frown softly.

"No...they don't hate you Kats, they just...wish you were around more."

Your husband frowns, and you can see the guilt swimming in the depths of his vermillion eyes.

"Maybe you can pick them up from daycare tomorrow?" You suggest, as Katsuki still hasn't said a word.

Katsuki frowns. "But my schedule-"

"Katsuki Bakugou if you do not pick up your children from school tomorrow then I'm sleeping on the couch for a month." You retort back before he can finish.

Your husband's eyes widen, realizing that you've got him stuck. If it really came down to it, he would gladly sleep on the couch if you wanted him to - but you knew he loved you too much to subject you to the same fate.

"Damn it, fine. Don't you dare threaten me like that again, woman." he grumbles and you smile up at him victoriously.

"Awww you love me." you coo, and you kiss his arm softly before tugging him gently to join you under the covers.

Katsuki watches you drift away to sleep, cheek half smushed against his bare chest and he can't help the dorky smile that stretched across his face.

He loved you so, so much. More than you would ever know.

Encircling his strong arms around you, he hold you close, making a mental note to take you out for a nice date tomorrow as well, before drifting off to sleep as well.

When he wakes, you're gone, with a note on the fridge that says that you left to drop the kids off and that you'd be back after work. He chuckles, and decides to clean up the house in the meantime.

He can't remember the last time he had a day off, it felt weird, to be honest. He felt restless, and so he did everything and anything to keep himself occupied while taking a majority of the burden you had off your shoulders.

Once the house was clean, he rifled through your closet, picking out the sundress he loved - accentuating your curves while the color brought out everything he loved about you, which was well, everything.

When you return home, Katsuki's getting changed into some nice clothes, surprising you as he tells you to go shower and get ready while he picks up the kids.

You're most definitely surprised, wondering where all of this is coming from, but you can't say you're upset about him, giggling softly and deciding to play along, feeling your heart warm as you hear the car door shut.

Katsuki parks the car in the parking lot, and approaches the building, giddy but slightly nervous at the same time. What if the kids still hated him? Would he be able to make things better?

However all his worried disappeared the moment he saw his kids' overjoyed faces at seeing him.

Their eyes brighten and they scream excitedly, bolting towards him with speed that was almost inhuman, tackling him and almost knocking him down.

"DADDY!!!!!" Kasumi squealing, leaping up and attaching herself to his leg.

Akio looks up at him, agape. "You-you're actually here?!"

Katsuki chuckles and ruffles his son's hair lovingly."Yeah, I am, bud. M'sorry I couldn't pick ya up sooner...Ya know how hero work is."

The kids nod, hugging him tightly as his hefts them up to sit on either of his hips.

"C'mon you two. We're gonna go surprise yer mama when he get home, got it? We'll take out her somewhere nice."

The twins look at each other micheviously and nod vigorously. "Daddy's in looooove" they sing, giggling uncontrollably.

Katsuki chuckles and can't help but feel his heart flutter at the thought of you.

"Yeah, Daddy's in love all right."

[inhumanheresy]

Food is a form of love.

This, Ajax has known for a long, long time. It can be found in the time spent kneading bread as stories told in the kitchen paint lofty adventures or cautionary tales or little romantic memories. It weaves through comfortable silence at the dinner table as much as it does raucous laughter. It shows in the knife cuts and fastidiously stirred sauces, the chill when bringing back a brace of rabbit and the old, familiar arguments about which herbs and spices should go in pickling brine.

It is found in the warmth of unexpected tea.

Ajax sees the almost-chuckle as Zhongli’s eyes crinkle at the outer corners, and he takes a long, savoring sip of his own tea as the god, rather than manifesting food right before them, sweeps off towards a kitchen that hadn’t been there before. He takes the opportunity of the quiet to simply drink his tea and watch as Zhongli takes the unnecessary time to make food for him.

He clears his throat and sets his cup down when the man returns, bringing along with him the scent of chili and sesame. “Thank you for the tea, by the way. I can’t say that I was expecting anything when I woke up, but if I was, hot lapsang at my bedside wouldn’t be on the list.”

This time, as Ajax picks up the bowl and chopsticks, his stomach does rumble. He pointedly ignores it in favor of getting his first mouthful of noodles, and oh is that good. He hums a happy tone of appreciation both for the taste and for Zhongli.

Morax watches from beside him, having seating himself with just as much elegance as his near-floating walk to the kitchen, and Ajax’s chopsticks pause to click against the bowl as he answers the question.

“Yeah. Usually I just sleep for a few hours more, pick up a heartier breakfast than normal before getting on with what needs done, add a fair amount to the other meals of the day. And the ache still hasn’t left by then, even if it only lingers.

“The aftereffects of transformation, that technique, shows differently than if I’d channeled my Delusion overlong.” Holding up his hand with the chopsticks, he tap-taps the wooden ends against each other with a measure of skill not only passable, but even decent. “If that were the case instead, I’d be asking for a fork.

“But not today. Right now there’s…” He pauses for a moment, and in the silence flexes his hand, tilts his neck, rolls his shoulders before meeting Zhongli’s eyes once more. “…the echo of an ache, but that’s all. It’s only ever just the pain, but even pain alone, without injury, can incapacitate the body by overwhelming the senses and mind.”

He breathes softly, then fishes up another clump of noodles and slurps them up while keeping the tail ends from flipping up into his face with the chopsticks — an essential skill that he’d picked up after nearly getting chili oil flicked in his eyes during his early time in Liyue. There’s chili oil here too, and the sesame he’d smelled, bright vinegar, and a hint of those tingly little peppercorns. Though thin, the sauce that coats the noodles lights his mouth up with a paradoxical chill-heat and sour-savory taste that feels positively divine.

While much of that thought probably comes direct from his empty stomach, the humor of it is not lost on him.

“Well, given that you’ve spent almost two days with this new knowledge, that question on how long I sleep after can’t be the foremost in your mind.” The slices of cucumber prove less slippery than he’d thought, perhaps thanks to their amusingly uneven cut, and he crunches down a crisp mouthful after very little wrangling from his chopsticks. As he finishes the bite, he aims the upper stick’s point at the man seated right next to him and eyes Zhongli with a little more of his typical attitude present than he'd had before the food arrived.

“If I don’t want to answer, I simply won’t, and you know it, so.” The chopsticks wiggle, goading him in. “Ask me.”

zhongli watches— silently pleased and perfectly relaxed— as ajax's gaze finally finds the small, clay rabbit he'd set to guard the tray while the man slept. and though he's already had at least one cup of his own, he still pauses and corrects himself without hesitation, offering a mouthful to the creature before— at last— handing a cup to zhongli, waiting politely and wearing a soft smile as the creature takes its first taste.

it is, of course, an appreciated gesture if an entirely unnecessary one. after all, such customs were likely entirely unknown to him before leaving snezhnaya. and though he would hardly take offense at the small bit of clay going ignored, he does find it particularly endearing. and he would remember to reciprocate— perhaps leave out a bit of bread out for his family's domovoy— if ever given the chance.

and as ajax winces at his suggestion of a proper meal, zhongli manages to hide most of his amusement, tucked just behind his teacup's lip. he still huffs a quiet laugh, though, as he replies—

" ah, i thought you might say that. "

and as soon as the words leave him, zhongli takes another, quick sip of his tea before setting the cup aside and rising from his seat with all of the usual, ethereal grace that suits him here, within his personal domain. ultimately, it would be easy-enough to simply imagine a meal to ajax's liking, the space itself bending to his will.

today, however— perhaps invigorated by his earlier light reading— such simplicity does not suit him. and so, instead, he sets about preparing something, his domain subtly adjusting to provide a proper cooking space, one still in earshot and in view via the wide door separating it from the main, open room.

he glances back at ajax as he steadily, delicately gathers what he needs from various drawers and cabinets, the man still nursing his teacup— and very clearly famished judging by the look of his tensed jaw and periodically vacant expression. " this won't take long. " he reassures him. and for once, the words seem less like a wish and more of an actual promise. and so, his focus shifts entirely to his task, the silence that follows pointedly comfortable, perfectly ordinary as though nothing at all had changed over the last day and a half.

as advertised, the dish he's chosen does not take him over-long. and he manages to catch ajax's pointed gesturing to.... well, all of himself as he carries a tray across the room. this one is set far-less ornately, only home to the dish itself— a heaping bowl of cold noodles, covered with intentionally-haphazardly-sliced cucumbers— and the necessary utensils.

" hmm... well, if you find this unsatisfactory, i am certain that could be arranged. " he comments as he sets gently scoots the tea tray toward his side of the table and sets the new one down in front of him. he returns to his seat with just as much elegance as he'd left it.

curious, he then decides to test the waters with a question, gentle and already half-answered. and this time, he nurses his tea cup as his bright, golden eyes follow his companion. " a day and a half is long, then? "

[darkstaria]

Yandere Superfam - Happy Father's Day!

It was Father's day semi recently, so I wrote this. Note: it is very important to me that every one who reads this understands that I didn't actually write this on Father's Day. I swear!

Oh, and I updated the soul animal au Taglist again, so hopefully I got everyone!

----

"Rise and shine, sleepyhead!" A voice sung to you, dragging you from the depths of oblivion you found solace in. The sound of opening curtains cut into you like a knife.

"Mmmghhh..." You attempted, keeping your eyes firmly closed against the rising sun blaring into your eyeballs. Couldn't he just go away? You stared blearily. Clark Kent, or rather, Superman was smiling, a beaming ray that burnt into you.

"Come on now, Sunshine. It's Father's Day! Aren't you excited to spend it with your dad?"

No, is what you wanted to say. But you bit the comment down as you often did. It never helped, not with Bruce, not with Clark. How unfair.

"You couldn't have let me sleep for a little longer?" You tried, almost whining. First they use ‘medicine’ to get you to sleep, then they force you to wake up early.

"Sorry but that won't be happening. We only have limited time with you today! We have to enjoy as much time together as we can before you go to Bruce's." He looked apologetic, but you doubted it. He never truly was.

Your life with Superman was an endless spiral of apologies, a litany of white lies hidden by a brilliant smile. A sun that shone so brightly, you almost forgot the burns.

You gave a little sigh, but acknowledged the futility of your actions. A few years of this and you let go of resisting the little things. It made things easier.

You got out of your bed, doing your best to ignore the fervent eyes that traced your every movement. You reached under your bed, pulling out his present from under your bed. It wasn't much of a hiding space, given that it was known by every person that lived in the house, but you appreciated that they let you have little things like this. Or pretended to, anyways.

“Here you go.” You thrust the present towards him, wanting to get it over with.

“That’s Bruce’s present.” He replied, with a slight smirk.

“Eh.. how?” You mumbled, looking down. “You peaked, didn't you!”

“No I didn't not. I just know the difference between your wrapping, and Alfred’s wrapping.”

You glanced down, noticing the immaculately decorated and wrapped present in your grasp. Whoops.

With a swift movement, you reached under your bed and grasped the other present, exchanging the two with a quick action. There was a visible difference in the two, Clark’s being much more shoddily wrapped.

“Forget about that.” You demanded. Trying to get him to ignore it, you pushed his actual present in his direction.

“Woah, hold on there.” He smiled. “Jon’s been waiting downstairs to give me his present too, you two have to do it together, remember.” He patted you on the back. “Come on!”

With your frustrated affirmation, the two of you went downstairs, immediately meeting the excited gazes of both Lois and Jon. Jon in particular was bouncing in his seat, clutching onto a bunch of gifts.

“Happy Father’s day!” He shouted, a beaming smile on his face. Clark chucked, patting Jon’s hair.

“Thank you Jon.” The two began a conversation about Jon’s gifts, and you swiftly became bored. Your eyes strayed away from the table, until you accidentally locked eyes with Lois. She smiled at you, a soft image of happiness. She was definitely the most subtle of the family. It even took you a few escape attempts before you realised she wasn't your ally. After that it became difficult to see her the same way.

“And what about you, sunshine?” A hand ruffled your hair, Clark interrupting your musings with a single gesture. You bit back a flinch.

“Ah yeah, this is my present… Dad.” You attempted to sound jovial. Judging by the smile on his face it had worked, but you weren't entirely sure if that was a result of your actions skills or his delusions.

“Thank you! Let’s see what you've made this year.” Clark took no time in unwrapping the gift. “Ah, another mug, and just look at this drawing, you get more creative every time.” He beamed. You felt like living in this household half the time entitled you to sunglasses.

Your gift wasn't anything fancy, just a simple mug with a terribly drawn face on it. The words ‘happy dad’ were written under the face, in sloppy handwriting.

Clark walked over to a cabinet, opening it up. In the cabinet lay another mug, this one lacking any drawing at all. Instead, it had the name Clark written on and drawn out, and the word Dad swiftly smudged on instead.

That mug was actually one of Clark’s old mugs, you had just stolen it upon learning that they had actually expected a gift from you on Father’s Day. You originally wrote Clark down, but soon realised that would be a mistake, crossing it out and writing Dad. Somehow, he loved it.

In all honesty, you couldn't complain. If you set the bar this low, you could easily up it the next year without having to put in much effort. As long as you were ‘creative’ Clark accepted anything, if it was from you. Maybe next year your mug drawing would be two drawings, instead of one. You dreaded the time when you'd eventually have to put actual effort into gifts. Surely, you'd have escaped before then.

“Come on kids!” Clark called out, drawing your attention back to him. “Let’s enjoy today as much as we can, before Sunshine has to go to Wayne Manor later.”

Jon pouted. “Do they really have to go? They went last year too. They already spent half their time at Wayne Manor as is.” He grumbled. Jon was more obvious in his possessiveness, something that occasionally ruffled the feathers of the Batfam. The tug of war between Jon and Damian was far too frequent, the memory of it making your shoulders ache a little.

“Now now Jon. Bruce is Sunshine’s father just as much as I am.”

Considering neither of them were your father, his statement was a little infuriating.

“What game are we going to play this time?” Your question was both an act of masochism and genuine interest. Feigning injuries never worked against two superhumans who could look into your very bone structure. Instead, you had come to find some enjoyment in watching Clark and Jon bumble about, trying to play fair in a competitive game wherein they viewed you as both weaker and fragile. It was actually a great method for venting your anger, as long as you weren't too overt about it.

If you accidentally hit them with a hockey stick a few times, or aimed a basketball to their face a little too much, it wasn't your fault! It's not like they could feel it anyway.

“It'll be tennis today.” Clark declared, receiving an excited Ooh in response from Jon.

Ah, tennis. A little harder to use, but very much still workable. If it was golf you'd be screwed.

Oh, wait but..

“How are we playing tennis with three people?” You questioned. Lois tended to stay out of your games, preferring to watch.

“I'll play against you and Jon. If any of Bruce’s family show up early again, then one of them can join in too.” Clark spoke cheerfully, but you knew it always bothered him a bit when they arrived too soon.

Clark and Bruce’s ‘shared custody’ of you wasn't always so amicable. At one point it was downright violent. Honestly if it weren't for the effects their efforts were having on you they'd have probably escalated into a war. They had come to an agreement since, but it always bothered them whenever it was infringed on in some form.

“Time to get going Sunshine! Jon’s already waiting for you!” An abrupt push to your back jolted you forward, giving you a small jump of shock. Ugh. You glared at Superman as he responded to your surprise with good natured laughter.

You slowly walked out into the field, Jon handing you a tennis racket, his smile gleaming like the sun.

You could only hope that Batman was a little calmer on Father’s Day.

[hoseoksluna]

BLUR | myg ft. jjk

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

genre: smut

word count: 17k

summary: one encounter with both of the males heals you enough that you don't become anything but joy.

pinterest board: blur

warnings: dom/sub dynamics, marking, oral sex (f. receiving), fingering, cuckold kink, toying with the idea of polyamory, daddy kink, punishment, nipple play, oc gets triggered, face riding, ass play, male masturbation, multiple orgasms, use of butt plug, raw sex, cum eating, clit rubbing

note: i want to thank oc. i've always wanted to pinch jungkook's nose and i got to do that through her. LMFAOFSJLDKFS ANYWAYS—this is the LAST part of the steam series, whoop whoop. finally. this took me so fucking long to write and idk if it even makes sense, which is why i need you guys to let me know everything that you're thinking, feeling, hating, loving. I NEED IT. so pls, send me asks. spam me. thank you. ENJOY READINGGGGG. ₊˚⊹♡

A thin layer of sweat coats your hairline. And inside your skull, momentarily, there aren’t any thoughts—none, whatsoever. They have been swept aside as the feverish evening wind carries your boyfriend’s words through the aroused energy pulsating around your naked form. Around Jungkook’s, too. 

Yoongi is still the only one fully dressed. And, adamantly, he’s taken the role of a watcher, shifting the dynamic in such a frantic way that the sole impulse that you find opening within you like buds of tree flowers is to obey. To submit to the role, externalize one that will fit it. To play along like he did, when he caught onto your scheme. 

Even though you don’t know how to particularly go about it. 

And when Yoongi walks over to the armchair in his living room, plops down on it, angles his head slightly to look at you and waves a hand towards the couch across from him, inviting you to sit, your nescience claws at you. Brutally. 

You don’t know if there are any shadows thickening in his headspace because you deem there must be a reason behind his sudden decision to turn things around. He’s been okay with every practice done so far in the playtime—he validated all of them, was in charge the whole time until he gave that control over to Jungkook. You can’t help but worry if there perhaps isn’t a catch. 

And the lower your disquiet sinks inside your gut, the higher your distrust of yourself springs, lodging in your throat. You’re not sure anymore if you’re right about anything. What if there is something you’ve done that you completely overlooked in the middle of your pleasure? In the middle of Jungkook’s pleasure? 

Once you exchange a heavily-charged look with the puppy, you hope to find a hint in the tenderness of his eyes that would help you figure it out. Though, the more you deepen the scrutiny, the more you’re met with absolute blankness. 

He’s as clueless as you. 

Bewildered, mostly, that Yoongi let him have the upper hand. 

Your finger itches to hook around his, but you only angle your head in the direction of the living room, dubious to listen to your body, intentionally wary. You make the first move and you don’t sit down on the couch like Yoongi motioned you. No, you sink your knees into the space beside his on the armchair, the leather creaking beneath you. Wrap your arms around his shoulders. Study the depth of his gaze as he focuses it on your face, looking for the hint, for anything that would lead you to it. Bury your fingers into his night-tinged hair the way he likes it, the way you like to do it, too. Pull it a little to make known to him that you’re bubbling with uncertainty. 

Yoongi merely watches you, borrowing his friend’s stoicism. 

You click your tongue, disliking it. “Yoongi,” you drawl out, cupping the sides of his neck, willing his attention to be more of an intimate sort. Just you and him. You need to talk to him about this. Need a peace of mind in order for you to enjoy this. In order to please him in the process as well. 

He turns his head behind him, though. To check the whereabouts of his friend. And when you follow the same direction, you discover that his dining space is empty. 

You don’t detect any panic in you. Perhaps it’s due to the fact Jungkook never abandoned you before. Or perhaps you’ve healed to the point that it doesn’t bother you anymore, no matter who does it. And what’s more, you think he probably went to pee. 

With two fingers on his jaw, you turn his attention back to you. Leave them there. His lips curl up as he tries to purse them, his stoicism fragmenting. Eyes gentle, moonbeams swimming. The sight is so endearing to you that your own mouth mirrors his, butterflies awoken, fluttering their wings in your tummy. This is the man you love. This is the man that’s yours. Yours, only. And you’re alone, intimately, cordially. Just like before. 

“Is something the matter, honey?” He tips his chin, irises dilated and looking up at you. Latches his hands onto the fleshiness of your thighs, just below your hip bones. 

With your inhale of breath, you muster as much courage as you can. “Have I done something wrong?” 

Perplexity writes itself on his softened face. Could it be—

“No, why do you think that, hm?” He narrows his eyes at you playfully, tapping his fingers on the side of your hips. You exhale a breath that loosens your worry a little bit and your mouth rounds. He leans in to peck it. “You’ve been perfect.” 

Have you? You’re not so sure—on the contrary, what you’re sure of is the fact you can better yourself. You have to, in order to make your worries dissipate all the way. 

And you can fulfill that if you know what role to play. 

“Tell me what to do.” 

One corner of his mouth tugs ever so slightly to the side and one brow quirks in confusion. “You’re about to get eaten up. Enjoy it—that’s what you are to do.” 

You sigh, realizing you should’ve worded it better. That’s precisely what you want to do—enjoy it, but you can’t risk getting lost again. Can’t risk getting submerged. You need him to tell you who you are to be in this new dynamic he established and you don’t want to hear that you should be yourself. If you relax your boundaries, you’ll step into a dangerous territory—and you’ve been there before. 

So has he. 

“Yoongi, no, I meant—”

He squeezes your muscles. “Don’t be afraid. I’m here, you hear me?” he murmurs, one hand coming up to your hair and curling it behind your ear. And it’s these words that unwittingly, little by little, drive you to drop your own hand, your guard and your worries. The fact that he doesn’t even want to hear your better wording, too, because he understood you the first time. It guides you to think it’s not worth speaking out, not when he evidently knows better. 

And it feels nice. To have someone intelligent enough that they know. To have someone care enough that they don’t let you immerse yourself in doubts because they know the type of shit your thoughts consist of sometimes. He remembers everything you unraveled during the therapy sessions. And that feels nice. More than nice. 

Your mouth rounds again and you repeat it after him. To acknowledge yourself with it. To swallow it so it streams down your body, where its meaning can unfurl. “You’re here.” Your voice is subdued, unsure, the words foreign on your tongue. You knit your brows while you taste them, unable to identify the flavor. That is until you realize it could offend him. You relax your features right away. 

But Yoongi merely watches you with a sympathetic look, one that makes you feel terrible for reacting the way you did.

Not for long, though. 

“I know I’ve made a mistake in the past, but that’s not happening again. I’m not leaving you on your own this time,” he says and you realize that is precisely what you needed to hear, what your body needed to consume first in order to recognize the flavor of his reassurance. You caress his face in deep emotion and you try again. 

“You’re here.” It’s a mere silken sound for only the both of you to hear, but it matters—it’s enough, it’s perfect. In the distance, you hear a shuffling of feet in the kitchen, the song of the wind gaining momentum, inclining to listen to the expression of love between you—to be a witness of the right thing being done at last. And you can taste the sweetest wine of the ripest of grapes, spiced with the most vibrant of roses. You can taste home; his stability you can lean on. 

Yoongi smiles in your grasp, noting the way the words sounded different—more secure. The moonbeams liquify in his waterline. “That’s right. And because I’m here, I’m not letting history repeat itself.” He pinches your cheek, knocking your head back and forth with the well-meaning, ferocious movement. Erases completely the lingering presence of the guard and fears you’ve dropped. You laugh, softly, relieved—so fucking relieved. Joy fills your empty body, energizing you, roses rising in you. Your roses, the ones you know, fraternizing with the unknown flowers that Jungkook planted in you. And you discern that it’s you who’s in your comfort zone, in your safety zone. The males have stepped inside theirs and now you have. You inhale fresh air in your new lungs, exhale your relief. “Say it. So I know you understand.” 

“You’re here and you’re not letting history repeat itself.” Beautiful, beautiful words—beautiful consolation and kindness. A pillar of the most exceptional magnificence. Mentally, you rest against it, rest your enfeebled, exhausted body of all your needless worries and false thoughts. 

You didn’t do anything wrong. Didn’t make a mistake. Though, if it weren’t for the weak moment, you wouldn’t be here. Wouldn’t have gotten the comfort you didn’t know you needed.  

So peculiar, the newness. It dawns on you that it should’ve been like this in the beginning. Healthy conversations, reassurance. Why hadn’t you done this? Why did you jump headlong, bringing along such darkness of—

You close your eyes fleetingly to shut down those thoughts. Forgetting is taking place. Newness is here. Old is gone. Like the verity that he’s here, you repeat it to yourself again and again in your heart. You can’t change what’s happened. You can only move on with the eternal perception that you’ve changed, that you’ve learned. And that’s enough. 

You brush your thumb upon the column of his neck. Back and forth, like he did with your cheek. Thankful for him. “You’re here and you’re not letting history repeat itself.” 

Yoongi isn’t puzzled you whispered it to yourself again. In fact, he embraces it. Kisses you tenderly, deeply to seal those words. They spread roots in you. Rake through the earth so the roses, the flowers can grow healthily, happily, luminously. You feel them lean into the satin touch of the butterflies that elongate their dusty wings before they curl the membranes around their radiant petals, forming a protection circle.  A dose of healing you didn’t expect to receive. Not from him, not now—not now when you’re about to be eaten out by his friend. 

It’s so surreal to you. To feel protected like that. To feel safe. Safe to now roam freely in your undiscovered sexuality because you have someone to look out for you, to possibly guide you back if you lose your way. The stability that envelopes you—you can’t bear it; it’s too good to be true. And when you take a deep breath and those roses tremble with excitement in you, in the circle, there’s nothing left for you to do but to accept it because it’s so strong, because it’s unyielding. You couldn’t move it even if you tried. It won’t let you—it’s here to stay. Here to be alongside your boyfriend, protecting you as you venture out on your perverted adventure. 

You’ve worked hard to get to this point. And now you get to reap what you’ve sown. 

Yoongi grins after the long kiss, proudness emanating out of him and you feel like weeping. You’ve done the right thing, for the very first time. “That’s my good girl.” 

The praise does something to you. Stirs you violently, magnifies the intensity of the flapping of the butterfly wings in you. Sends back feeling to the ache between your legs, propped against the linen of Yoongi’s pants. Throbbing, slapping, memories of what has been done to your pussy—you’re a meadow of wildflowers and you’re ready to be pleasured again, however you register a matter that pulls you away from this notion for a moment. 

There’s no catch. 

Because Yoongi created a new realm for both you and Jungkook with his sense of safety and comfort, there’s nothing for you to fret about. There’s no role for you to play. And, furthermore, who you are meant to be upon this ground is who you’ve been throughout the whole trajectory of your relationship. 

A good girl. 

Only this time it’s entirely different. 

You didn’t want to be yourself because, if anything were to backfire, you thought you’d have the responsibility for it. In addition to that, you thought the normalcy of your sexual life was a no-gone zone for Jungkook, which is why you’ve been racking your brain, trying to come up with ways you could differ it, so Yoongi wouldn’t get jealous. 

But things changed so drastically that because Yoongi took control, now you don’t have to be in charge of that. You’re not the artist, you’re not choosing colors for the palette. Yoongi is. 

There’s still one more thing that doesn’t add up. And you voice it out. “If you’re not letting history repeat itself, though, why are you letting Jungkook be in control?” 

Yoongi grabs your hands and holds them. “I’m letting him be in control of how he does what I tell him to do. I’m in control of the whole situation, honey.” 

You suck in a breath. To protect himself, he won’t make the same mistake again; that’s just the person Yoongi is. He’s allowed Jungkook to have the freedom of a bird in the pleasure he wants you to receive from him, but he won’t hesitate to ensnare him if he runs up against something he doesn’t like.

You find that immensely, immensely attractive. 

Hot. 

The pillar of stability, the warmth of reassurance, the absolute fucking boss—that’s your man. You lid your eyes, swearing, leaning forward to suck onto his lip, kissing him with utter desperation and he lets you. Lets you kiss him. Lets you show him how much you liked that. Growls when your hand creeps to his neglected, clothed length and squeezes it. Hums when you feel him up until you find his tight balls. Responds to your touch—bucks his hips so you focus on them more and you go mad. Interminably, mad. 

And when you swirl your tongue around his, you feel a cold, wet hand on your back. 

The magnet to your madness. The healer stands by the side of the armchair with a dew-sprinkled face and there’s a feigned, playful jealousy that you feel when you regard him, for the only dew you want on his face is one that’s your own. He washed up in the bathroom—you reckon he did it to cool his desperation, to cool the sweat of arousal that lines his skin, much like yours. You note that it didn’t work, at least not fully, because when you roam your gaze down, you discover he’s still painfully hard. Much like your boyfriend. 

You wrap your hand around him and the forbidden, exhilarating feeling of having two cocks in your grasp is too brief for your liking because Jungkook pulls your hand away again. Holds it and leads you towards the couch. You frown at him with a puckish smile, but while he tugs you away, you steal a kiss from Yoongi. A hard, quick kiss that makes him twitch—something that you get to feel before Jungkook grabs you by your pits and throws you on the couch. 

You let out a string of giggles, loving the feeling of being manhandled; loving the feeling of Jungkook being in desperate need to eat you out. Your face heats up, your body following suit, the ache between your legs worsening. Yoongi smirks, validating your enjoyment and he adjusts in his seat, which you think is dismal. You don’t want him to be neglected. You want him to be pleasured, too.

The words tumble out of you before you can think them over. “Can you touch yourself for me, baby?” 

Yoongi licks his lips. Pauses before he responds. Tortures you like he tortured Jungkook. You spread your legs to provoke him, giving him a show of the shine on your folds. It’s enough for him to palm himself briefly, as if he lost control for a split second. He takes his hand away and places it back on the armrest. “I’ll consider it.” 

The boss at play. You swear, closing your legs to squeeze them, to give yourself some sort of relief from the ache you feel. Butterflies go rampant in your tummy, but despite the buzzing tension, you feel content, safe and utterly elated. Happy. 

You expect Jungkook to say something, though he merely props a knee on the leather of the couch and spreads your legs how he wants them. He doesn’t lift them, only parts them as far as they can go. You go to grab his length again because you feel a certain magnetic pulling to it, but he catches your hand in time. 

“Behave.” He presses your hand firmly to emphasize his scolding before he lets go. Such a stark contrast to the playtime of before. You remember how he wanted you to do the complete opposite. To misbehave. Your body heats up even more, the fire compulsing your hips to sway, asking for attention. 

Another set of words tumble out of you unwittingly and you place your hands under your thighs. “I’m sorry.” 

The surprise that floods Jungkook’s features is overwhelming to you and in response, you grin, coyly. He strokes the adorable fat of your cheek. “Good girl. That’s what I like to hear.” 

You purse your lips and before the fire of that praise can lick your whole body, Yoongi speaks up, too. “Good job, honey. You learned your lesson so well.” 

Shock comes first, then fire—vibrant blue fire that scorches you whole. You blush, deeply, squeezing the leather of the couch—the praise and the validation from both males so profuse, so profound that you can’t take it. You hide your widening grin beneath your palms. “Stop,” you drawl, the sound muffled and soft, even though you don’t want them to do anything of the sort. 

Jungkook coos, pulls your wrist away, uncovering your rosy, glowy face. Then, he pets your head, fingers sinking into your hair. He forces you to look at him, to see the smile of endearment that bathes his face in light, but he does it so gently that you purr, his hold so stimulating, so titillating—his countenance so lovely, so darkly angelic. Eyes crinkled but still round, still so tender. “Who taught you to have such good manners, huh?” 

You swipe your tongue along the top arc of your lip, his gaze flicks to it and and the answer thrums in your belly warmly like a sip of a good wine. It doesn’t unnerve you, doesn’t make you afraid. In fact, it’s so tranquil and so right that you relish every syllable. “Both of you did.” 

The rays from the light side penetrate the dark one and healing takes place. Healing that you never thought you’d ever be a witness to. You know that the act of forgetting was supposed to fully sink in all three of you, but your words diverged its path. You swallow warmth and you swallow relief, watch as Yoongi gets up from his seat and mirrors Jungkook’s position, one knee on the leather, hand under your jaw. A soft set of tears rush in at the attention and the realization of what’s actually happening, and when the healer sees them, he lets go of your hair and brushes his thumb across your brow, hand spread across the side of your face. You lean into his palm, so terribly emotional, and when Yoongi plants a delicate kiss on your cheek, your chin begins to quiver. He felt it, too. Felt the gravity of those words that now dulcify his intention to make things right this time. And he kisses you again, prolongs the peck, as if to thank you for your goodness. 

When Yoongi lifts his head and bores his mellow gaze into you, it is the same relief that you’ve swallowed that you see saturating his face in effulgence. At last, it has come for him, has come to live in him. At last, it’s here. 

You’ve done it, all three of you. Healed from the pain. 

Jungkook knits his brows at the sight of the first tear plopping down onto your skin as if it physically pained him to see you cry. And before you can register the movement, he swipes the liquid emotion away and kisses the residue of it, as if it were fate itself that wrote it was meant to pour down on the right side of your face—for Jungkook to collect, for it to seep into his fingerprint. 

So much love. The air is thick with it. Your lungs tremble as you take a deep breath. The wind billows in and out, but doesn’t carry it off—intertwines its translucent body with it instead, bringing in a fresh gust of briskness into the atmosphere. No more tears stream down your cheeks; you smile at both of the males—the healer and the boss. 

Yoongi remains standing beside you. Takes your hand in his. Says a myriad of silent words of great importance that you cannot decipher as he exchanges a look with Jungkook, who merely nods at them in plain understanding. You don’t have to wonder long what was behind it. Jungkook turns your jawline to him and kisses you softly. Doesn’t let go. Prolongs the kiss until he whimpers onto your mouth, softened, too, by the healing that occurred. No tongue, just the warmed silver of his lip ring, the smooth tenderness of his mouth and the most affectionate emotion exuded into the kiss. 

The pop of the withdrawal is all you hear. You keep your eyes closed. Feel him take that kiss onto your neck, your collarbone, to your sternum. Feel the tightening of your boyfriend’s grip around your hand as Jungkook drags his lips down your tummy, where the healing vibrates and he says hello to it with his tongue, makes it feel safe. Feel the tightening compulsion to watch him as he does it and you obey your body. 

Jungkook is kneeling before you. Brows furrowed, expression so terribly serious as he understands how significant this part of you is. Sinks his whimpers into your skin while he sucks it and it’s only when you run your fingers through his silky hair that he looks up at you. And the sight of his wet eyes breaks you. 

He’s as emotional as you. 

Your throat constricts. If it weren’t for him, none of this lively beauty would take place—and if it weren’t for Yoongi, too. It is their work of art and you’re the one doused in colors of most resplendence. And you tell them, your body urges you to, while you squeeze Yoongi’s hand and caress Jungkook’s hair. “I’m so grateful for you both.” 

The healer whimpers again, letting go of your skin, leaving behind a purple memory of this heartfelt loveliness. His tears don’t escape the confinement of his waterline—he blinks them away. Blinks them even more rapidly when Yoongi places a hand on Jungkook’s bare shoulder and he gapes at him in disbelief—in disbelief that his closest friend is touching him with such gentleness after everything. You don’t allow yourself to think of the past, of the last violent touch that you saw, but you can’t help the emotion rushing in your eyes. You let go of Yoongi’s hand to clasp the one on Jungkook’s shoulder, deepening the love. 

And you press a loud, exaggerated kiss on Jungkook’s forehead to make him laugh—like he did that one time by talking about his worm. To distract him, if there are perhaps any overbearing thoughts in his mind. 

Now his disbelief is directed towards you. Mouth parted, wrinkles between his brows. You burst into laughter and it triggers his. Yoongi’s, too. It’s your breasts that bounce now and none of the pairs of eyes flick to it, fixed still on the glamorous gracefulness that blossoms out from your face. Jungkook shakes his head, cheeks awash with redness, irises glinting with a spark you’ve never seen before, and you consider your job done. He tells you to lay back down, but his grin lingers. 

Yoongi takes your hand back in his and you perceive that he needs it, that he needs to hold you. You smile at him, fluttering your lashes, blowing him an air kiss, and he nudges his nose against yours to remind you to enjoy this. You begin to prepare yourself, taking a deep breath—

It hitches in your throat harshly. Jungkook kitten licks your clit with deep pressure, just once, lifting his head to watch your reaction. The reverberation of the pleasure causes you to moan and he smirks at you—what’s worse, he winks at you, so terribly smug that he coaxed such sound like that by one lick and it makes you tremble, needing more. He can see it, but he tortures you, keeping his hands on your thighs. 

And when Yoongi reaches behind himself and sinks your headband with yellow kitty ears into Jungkook’s hair, you’re done for. You must’ve left it there when you were doing your makeup. Jungkook doesn’t acknowledge it, however. Too drunk by his first proper taste of you to do so, glossy eyes transfixed by that flesh of yours. 

It suits him so well that you coo at him, grasping his neck to pull him back to your cunt, but he doesn’t let you. Your heart begins to thump with hard beats and you grow desperate, whining, looking at Yoongi to make him do something. 

He merely smiles at you. “Be patient.” 

At his words, Jungkook lifts your legs and begins to focus on the back of your thigh, marking it, groaning against your skin, inhaling your mango scent. He roams his tongue all over and you whine louder, finding it so unfair that you have to wait for it, that he reinforces your neediness by those hard kisses and sucks, by his sounds, breaths and control. You grind your hips, the ache between your legs made unbearable by your helplessness and Yoongi stops you by placing his hand on your lower belly. 

“Did I not tell you to be patient? Be good,” Yoongi scolds, lowly, rubbing the place in slow circles. Your whine is bratty, but you nod your head, pouting, halting all your movements, becoming still like the wind that has come to stay and observe the unfolding of your daydream. 

At your submission, Yoongi creeps a finger to your wet clit, testing you. Doesn’t do anything beyond that and once he sees you’re well-behaved, he plunges the same finger into your mouth, giving you a taste of Jungkook’s saliva. You mewl, sucking it. The healer watches the act in deep thought, your skin in his mouth, and you’re certain an idea flashes in his mind. 

Jungkook straightens to his full height, proving you right and the feeling is utterly gratifying. Reaches behind him and grabs the tall glass filled with water that you never noticed he put on the coffee table. Yoongi withdraws his digit and inspects his friend’s doing with curiosity. Jungkook takes a small sip of it without taking his gaze off of you, tips it to your mouth right after and you realize he did it more so it wouldn’t overflow, as you take a well-needed sip of your own, rather than to refresh himself. That is until he does something that completely shocks you, ripping away your delightful proudness of being proven right. 

It is something between a yelp and a moan when the coldness of the water drops onto the skin of your chest, scattering it with tiny, pellucid pearls that almost pool by your violent heart. The demo before the full game; your breathing gains as much speed as the throbbing in your clit. Jungkook inclines the glass again, holds it as a longer, thicker trail trickles down your body—from the middle of your breasts, across your tummy until it reaches your cunt. And the contact of the liquid with the hotness of your swollen seashell? You groan, rolling your body. So much that you slap your hands down on the leather, gripping it with all your might, needing something stable to hold onto, to release your pent-up desperation. 

Amused, Jungkook sets the glass down and kneels back down. Licks a long, torturous stripe from your clit up to those pearls, following the path he mapped out while zeroing his stare into yours. You part your mouth, your madness closing around you again, puffing out short breaths and subdued, desperate moans and when Jungkook closes his lips over your neck and begins to suck, you turn your head towards Yoongi and roll your eyes back. Struggle to keep them open as you feel that muscle of his tracing patterns on the sensitive skin and Yoongi knows. He knows how good it is for you and he kisses you like he means it, mimicking what his friend is doing around your tongue. 

Your sounds grow in volume. Your desperation, too, in intensity. 

“Please.” 

Jungkook emerges from your neck but wraps a hand around it, nonetheless. Is as close to you as your breath, his nose bumping into yours. He squeezes your column firmly before he curtly turns your jawline away from Yoongi. You wonder if he can feel your heartbeat under his forearm, if he can feel how desperate she is for him, too—in a way you don’t understand. “Please what?” 

He opens your mouth wider and spits. 

Shock comes first like a thunderbolt, spreading across your veins, paralyzing your body. Then it blurs into a tumultuous arousal that seizes you whole, that makes you beg for more. No one has ever spat in your mouth, not even Yoongi. You’ve never liked it in porn, but experiencing it first-hand gives it another meaning. The dominance, the absolute film of lustfulness caking his face, the estimable seriousness that wafts off of him. He’s turned you into a boneless putty, his putty, and you want him to do it again. 

“Spit in my mouth again, please—please.” 

Jungkook grunts. Shadows surround your vision as you narrow your eyes in sheer pleasure at his sound, biting your lip to cage in your worsening desire for him—but he saves your lip, pulls it away from your teeth and opens your mouth wide. You ogle him as he sloshes his saliva in his mouth above you before he taps your tongue, signalizing you to stick it out for him. Once you listen, he spits hard onto the muscle that waited for it. You moan, satisfied, swallowing it right away and showing him. 

He pokes his own tongue in his inner cheek, fire blazing in his as equally narrowed eyes, the act of spitting in your mouth making him beyond fucked out. You can sense it deep in your core and your obsession with it grows. 

“You’re filthy, but so good. It’s making me lose my fucking mind,” he says, hazily, fingers squeezing your throat for a heartbeat. The momentary lack of oxygen gives you a perfect demonstration of his words and the moans you let out are so breathy, so choked out that he takes your madness and makes it his own—loosening his grip and kissing you nastily, licking into your mouth, both hands traveling south to your breasts and kneading them harshly, pressing your nipples between his fingers. 

And when you utter the words rising vehemently in your throat, he takes the demonstration to otherworldly levels. “Thank you, Daddy.” 

Jungkook cocks his head at you and drags his teeth painfully across his bottom lip, swearing. His eyes darken, at last. Thrill sizzles beneath your skin and you feel an upsurge of adrenaline, the aftertaste of the title so sweet, so delicious on your tongue. “As if you didn’t deserve it already, I’m gonna take you to heaven for that.” 

You laugh softly, brushing your fingers through his hair, anticipation joining the adrenaline. “You like me calling you that?” 

He hums his agreement and you don’t feel Yoongi, you don’t even feel his hand; your vision, surroundings, persona blurring so rapidly. “Daddy’s gonna make you feel so good. All you have to do is come for him as many times as you can. Thank him that way. Is that clear?” 

You shiver at the use of third person. Never thought you’d find it as alluring as you do. Brush your thumb across his brow like he does it to you. He coos, kissing your hand, sinking his body lower. Touched by the gesture. “Yes, Daddy. That won’t be too difficult for me to do.”

Jungkook gives you a smile that envelops you in an aura, where it’s just you and him. You don’t have the brain cells, nor the will, the desire to stop it. “That’s a good girl. On her best behavior for us.” 

It wakes you up and the feeling of Yoongi’s grip on your hand returns, the circle of the aura withering. Disappointment descends in your gut, one that is soon forgotten when Jungkook sucks your clit into his mouth. 

The squeak you let out would be embarrassing if you weren’t so out of your mind, but the confidence it came out with, the seductiveness and beauty—Jungkook shows you how much he liked the sound by humming against your sensitivity, the appreciation smothering every fiber and nerve ending of your body, hoisting you up towards the canopy of clouds. He swirls his tongue around the flesh, sucking deeper before he opens his mouth wider and licks you all over, closing his eyes and moaning, reveling in the feeling of you, the scent of you and the warmth of you. He toys with your lips, chuckling in delight when he acknowledges himself with them, burying his mouth completely in them, kissing them, caressing them with the puffiness of his pillows. 

He’s pussydrunk—and the sight of it intoxicates you just the same. 

And then he pauses. Kisses your clit. The peck so ardently earnest that he sucks it in the process. Does it again and again until he tinges your femininity in the faintest, daintiest, most dreamiest tone of red, prettier than any flowers you’ve ever seen—so akin to the wash of color scattering along his cheekbones. Then, he rubs his face in you, vigorously, moaning against you so intensely that your sounds become one. 

Raising his head, features drenched in your dew—just like you wanted it—his chain taps your cunt in long staccatos. The pleasure is so dizzying, along with his looks, that you feebly jump at every contact. It reminds you, vividly, of the spanks you like so much. “Pussy so fucking wet and pretty for me. I’m gonna destroy you.” 

It’s only at this time that you hear Yoongi smug but quietly laugh. He draws close to your ear and his hardened breath steals your attention from his friend’s praise. “He makes me wanna taste you, too, and make you come repeatedly on my tongue. Fuck, honey. I want that so bad.” 

You mewl, about to burst at the seams, unable to take the double relish given to you from both men. Yoongi latches his mouth onto your neck, causing your eyes to roll back, and it sparks up some kind of competition in Jungkook, for when he dives back in—you scream. 

The flicks of his tongue are so brutal that your lungs heave. You take many breaths but you can’t catch them, the heat from Yoongi’s kisses and the rapidness of Jungkook’s movement numbing your body to the point that you’re rendered powerless. 

Jungkook alternates between fast flicks and long swipes from your entrance to your bundle of nerves, parting your lips so he can have easy access. And being spread like that, attended to by two males that you have strong attachment to, the kitty ears bobbing up and down as Jungkook devours you—your orgasm chases you down, the knot in your lower belly pulled so taut that it takes a mere heartbeat for it to snap completely. 

And when you come, Jungkook laps you up, grunting in insatiable need for more. Your body violently shudders, but he keeps going, widening his swirls of tongue around your clit before he rubs it with the tip of his nose and—

He begins to fuck you with his tongue. 

You don’t feel anything. Not your heartbeat, not your struggling lungs—just the hard jabs of his tongue inside your hole, pushing you closer and closer to paradise. Not heaven, you’ve been there, but to something beyond. A paradise of the warmest color and sunlight, swaying trees and a pool of the most refreshing water. 

And Yoongi’s noise of joy is the bird that flies past in that place, dipping to its reflection. “Daddy’s so good he’s giving it to you better than I ever did.”

It’s those words that make you come again. 

He laughs, fondles your nipples, holds you steady as Jungkook prolongs your orgasm by strenuously sucking your clit and you sob hard, tingling all over, senses gone, everything gone. You feel so lightweight, so airy, dopamine and oxytocin making your head all fucked up. Happy, satisfied. 

Jungkook withdraws, kissing your clit one last time, licking it slowly. “You came so hard for Daddy, well done,” he praises, mouth wet, face as colorful as the meadow of flowers in you, gleaming iridescently. “But I’m not done with you.” 

You moan, wanting more, badly. Take him by the neck with both hands and draw him closer to you, the chain stimulating your breasts. You kiss him hungrily and the taste of your dew causes you to let out such obscene sound that Jungkook and Yoongi growl simultaneously. Dulciness, with a hint of piquancy that makes you even hornier—the slipperiness of his mouth making it worse. “I want to ride your face. Please, please, let me.” 

Jungkook smiles at you, pecking your lips, faintly. Cocks his brow at Yoongi. “You’re gonna give the princess what she wants?” 

Your eyes follow the sharp line of his jaw and you bite your lip. Don’t think twice about taking that skin into your mouth, licking it over, watching as Jungkook closes his eyes at the contact. Musk, the forest, wood—you carry your still lingering hunger and unravel it upon the spot beneath that strong jaw, devouring that scent of his, aware of how his breath lodges in his throat. You mimic what he did to your clit there, enjoying every second of it, enjoying his reaction as he hums and thumbs your clit, waiting for Yoongi’s approval. 

And you quicken it by begging for it, squeaking little sounds, beckoned by that slow motion of his digit. “Please, Yoongi. I want it so bad.” 

Badly enough that you force your head away and look at him. As much as you thought there would be puzzlement to his face, what you detect is far more sinister. His smirking mouth tells you that he is simply pleased with the way you’re begging, with the way he gets to torture you. And not just you, but Jungkook as well. Ego high—his control at full play. You don’t blame him, not at all. It must be delicious to him in the middle of all this healing. 

“Ride him well, make me proud.” 

The joy springs in you so fast, but you don’t have the time to take in it. Yoongi gets up from the couch and you apprehend that you were very, very wrong. 

You haven’t healed to the point that it doesn’t bother you when Yoongi leaves. 

Your panic is so enormous that you rise, your movement so rigid that Jungkook stumbles, his arm quick to wrap around your chest, pulling you back onto the leather beside him. And you don’t see the twist of his brows, the deep clefts of his dimples while he scowles. No, you watch your boyfriend’s back as he makes his way to the dining table, your heart expanding in your throat. 

“Tell her at least where the fuck you’re going,” Jungkook grumbles, ever the healer who senses your emotions and the fact he stood up for you like this makes you mouth merely round, your otherwise triggered trauma unsettling the rest of your feelings. 

Yoongi returns a moment later with the butt plug and lube in his hand and with a solemnly guilty face. Kisses the top of your head in apology, but it’s not enough. Not when you can’t hear your heartbeat. Not when you can’t swallow. Not when your mind is so numbed by the recurring panic that you cannot even hear your mind. 

“Don’t do that to me,” you whisper, but the words are firm, piercingly sharp, important and gravely, so much that Jungkook, with sticky hands by his sides, stills next to you. 

Yoongi cups your chin, a dominant gesture, but you glare at him—masculine strength being the last thing you need right now. You may have foolishly thought your healing was complete and as much as it knifes you to be proven wrong, it’s the fact you expected more from him that hurts the most, especially after he promised you he’d be here. But maybe it’s foolish altogether, to be in hidden demand of him to tell you of his whereabouts, notably when you never voiced it out for him, not once during the therapy sessions, not once during the course of this perverted adventure—the matter of the gravity of your abandonment issues. 

You point your anger at yourself and fall to a dark, dark abyss. 

And you pushed yourself there on your own because you were incapable of reminding yourself of Yoongi’s reassurance, mind too blurred, too fucked out to remember. 

“I’m sorry, honey. I’m still here. I never left you.” 

You nod because he’s right. “I know now. I didn’t remind myself. It’s my fault.” It’s as much of a surprise to your ears as it is to Yoongi’s. He widens his eyes at your honesty before tenderness swims past. “I’m really sensitive right now.” 

Jungkook rubs circles on your back with his thumb and you welcome his touch, his warm energy.  

Yoongi caresses your face. “It’s okay, it’s not your fault. What we’re doing here is pretty overwhelming. But I’m here. I got you.” His words hold the same firmness that yours did and it’s difficult for you to grasp how they’re mending you, how they’re swooping that darkness in their arms and flinging it away from your reach. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Not one thing. Let me make it better for you, hm? You want me to make you feel better?” 

Emptiness plummets down your body, in place of the darkness and the anger, and the moonbeams in his eyes engulf it, filling it with its pale light. All you can do is nod, too weak to express any other form of affirmation. 

Yoongi kisses the place on your cheek beside your ear, slipping inside his words. “Good girl. The best. I’ll make you feel better. I’ll make you happy again, my love.” You sob at the pet name, at the tenderness, at the comforting feeling of Jungkook’s hand on your arm, pulling you back so you lean against his chest, participating in your healing. The round valley of his tattooed bicep nudges you in your cheek as he cages you in and you nuzzle your face into it, hooking both of your hands on his forearm. Musk, forest and wood suffusing your senses, along with a strong dose of safety. “That’s it, lean against him like that. Daddy will help you forget, too. Spread your legs for us.” 

You do as he says, needing what he’s promising you—needing it from them both. Maybe then, when it’s from such a vast source, will you get your full healing. 

Yoongi squirts a good amount of lube on his fingers, smearing it on your pussy. The coldness of it enlivens you and you lean your head back against the hardness of Jungkook’s chest, pressing your lips against his bulging muscles. And when Yoongi begins to massage your clit in slow circles, the healer tightens his hold around you, hand gripping your shoulders, the other one gliding down your tummy and staying there. Nipples pebbled against his forearm, breasts full and squished, your form safe, tucked, pleasured in the whole enormity that he is—you relax, giving yourself over to the delight of your boyfriend’s fingers. 

He sinks two of them inside you, stuffing you to the brim and pausing there. Jungkook sneaks his towards your bundle of nerves, resuming the circles, breaths hot against your scalp, gaining pleasure from pleasuring you, especially so when your healing is the primary goal behind it. 

And when Yoongi begins to fuck you, his hand drops from your shoulder and settles over your tit, pinching your nipple between the knuckles of his thumb and forefinger. You cry out and it drives your boyfriend to pump his digits harder—to the point that you can’t see the in and out motion, the pace so fast it becomes a blur. 

“Let go, honey, come on, let it go for us,” Yoongi murmurs, putting his whole body into his intention; you would move along with him, too, if Jungkook weren’t holding you so tightly. “You feel so good around my fingers. So tight, so wet. Such a good girl, getting what you deserve.” 

Jungkook quickens his circles, gruff groans muffled against your scalp. “You can do it, sweetheart. I know it feels good when we touch you like this.” 

Your body drips in sweat and only when Yoongi agrees, pistons his fingers faster into you do you fully let go. Your anger, your trauma, your darkness leaves you in the form of your dew and Yoongi collects it in his hand. Doesn’t stop fucking you, in fact encourages another one and you spill until your wetness overflows from his hand. Eyes rolling back, hips lifting, legs spreading even further apart. Both men praise you, but you can’t hear them—your senses silent. 

They come back to you when Yoongi licks his digits clean, swallowing your pain. Doesn’t waste time and turns you around, your sore, sensitive body colliding into Jungkook’s. And like him, he dives into your pussy, licking you clean, not having enough of your darkened taste. 

You’re so out of it that you can only focus on the brush of Jungkook’s hand down your hair and the overstimulation that seizes you, that you can’t do anything about other than take it. “Coming so well, so many times for us. You feel better?” 

You can’t answer his question, not when Yoongi begins to trace your tiny, virgin hole with his tongue, giving you a new kind of pleasure that you’ve never felt before. Your eyes whisk to the back of your head and Jungkook cradles it, understanding whooshing past his eyes—understanding that you can’t speak, not when you’re experiencing something so extensive. He smiles down at you, squishing your cheeks. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Fuck, you look so pretty.” 

Your choked out moans are enough of an affirmation for him. He coos. Then, a squirt of lube. A finger slowly going in. A gasp, a warm breath that Jungkook inhales, feeling it with you. The uncertainty in your eyes that he instantly smooths out. “You can take it. You’re such a good girl, why wouldn’t you be able to take it? Just relax. I got you.” He kisses your nose and you want to weep in joy, so overcome with it all. 

Per his reassurance, your round muscle relaxes and sucks him in. And when he begins to fuck you, you can’t contain your sounds. So lewd, so dirty, and Jungkook emboldens you by scrunching up his features, groaning with you, taking breaths with you. You give in, entirely, feel another orgasm coming, but Yoongi rips it away. Wants you to come around the thicker toy. 

The coldness of it makes you tremble, although the hunger both of the males awakened in you for it drives you to move your hips back, helping Yoongi insert it in. It takes a few tries, a few ins and outs before you welcome in it, before the fullness enthralls you so much that you become even needier, even more confident and seductive. 

Yoongi presents you to his friend, but each movement you make causes you to be more desperate than you’ve been the entire sultry night. Everything is heightened—every touch, every enjoyment of praise, every sliver of attention and all you want is to be fucked. Brutally, ravagedly fucked. 

To absorb the sight of you as you’re positioned on your hands and knees, Jungkook begins to make love on the skin of your behind with his tongue. You feel every word of apology compressed into it. For every bruise, for every red splodge, for every acute pain caused, no matter how much you enjoyed it in the moment. It’s just between you and him, shielded by the premise of desire stirred by your adorned tiny hole. And you keep it that way, whimpering for him sweetly, validating it for him. Tucking it safely into every chamber of your heart. 

Then, he strokes the flesh, replacing the bad memories with good ones—replacing the past with the present time. Lies down between your legs and pushes your hips down onto your face. 

And you ride him. His tongue, his nose. Fondle the kitty ears askew on his head. Let his moans envelop around those chambers of your heart, protecting them. Let his eyes seal your scorching, enchanting femininity with all its spirited confidence. And once he pacifies the grinding movement of your hips and takes control, palming your breasts, lips sucking your clit, tongue toying with it, you come in seconds that are not pathetic in nature, but outright exhilarating. 

You lean back against Yoongi, out of breath. He wraps his hand around your throat. “What do you want now, honey? You want to get fucked?” 

You hum, the idea clutching your body in tight excitement. “Yes. Badly. Please.” 

At your words, Jungkook begins to tug at his length and the needy movement reverberates throughout your entire body. You coo at him, enjoying the view and you get on your knees in front of the couch to watch him, inhaling his sounds like he did yours. 

“You want us to take turns? He stops, as if he was seconds away from coming, and you wrap your lips around him, letting him know how much you like the idea—at which he trembles, pulling you away. You grin at him in pure joy. “Like the sound of that?” 

“Fuck yes. Please. Both holes.”

Jungkook hisses, round, dark eyes rolling back for a split moment, losing himself—thumb swiping across your mouth once he comes back. “Daddy’s so fucking needy for you. Come here.” 

He manhandles you. Like a child he carries you to the dining space and bends you over the table. You turn your head to see where Yoongi is and he slowly swaggers towards you and Jungkook, popping his button open and pulling out his length. Tip red and painfully swollen, length long and hard—longer than you’ve ever seen it—balls tight. And when Jungkook begins to fuck you sluggishly with the butt plug, you grip the wood of the table with all your strength, fingertips white, and watch as it drives Yoongi to fuck his fist. 

The same fist he cups under your chin when he reaches you. “Spit.” 

And you do—at the same time that Jungkook forces out the silver toy, tongue immediately coming to whirl around the stretched muscle. Like before, as Jungkook fucks you there, Yoongi fucks his fist. The sounds that spill out of all three mouths are simultaneous, creating a harmony fitting just right for the paradise you find yourself in. It’s such a vigor that he eats your ass with—he does it much differently than Yoongi. Hungry and feral, he again buries his face in your ass, squeezing the flesh, before he drills the muscle with fast, strong jabs. You can’t see anything, the pleasure so intense, so darkly intense and heavily pressured that your vision remains perpetually in the back of your head. Your orgasm closes down upon you swiftly, at once, when he rubs your clit with all four fingers, not expecting it at all as no flashes danced across that night-doused canopy of nothingness before your eyes, no body heat nor pressure rose. Jungkook secures your release by slipping the butt plug back in, smacking his mouth in delight. You slump against the table, boneless. 

Jungkook takes your arms and pins them behind your back, angling the hot tip of his cock at your entrance. “You ready for this?” 

Your yes is but a tweet. 

Jungkook hums, breaths hard. “You want this cock?” 

This time, your yes is a louder screech, vibrating through the whole apartment. 

“Hm, I’m gonna stretch you out for him. Make your hole nice and big for all the cum we’ll dump you with. You’re gonna take it all like the good girl you are, aren’t you?” 

Both of your holes, your muscles, your organs clench at his words and you can’t halt the litany of vulgar words and agreement from pouring out. His grip around your intertwined forearms is deathly and when he fills you to the brim, tip kissing your cervix, walls stretching around his thick girth little by little and gives you a singular, hard stroke that shakes the table, you scream so loud that the sound echoes around the room, carrying it out into the feverish night. 

Your words are jumbled, a perfect mess, and it takes more than a few tries for you to get them out coherently. “You’re—you’re giving me all of it?” you ask, because if there’s more inches for you to take, you’ll die.  

Jungkook chuckles, darkly, lips at your ear, his body heat enveloping yours like a chunky blanket. Sneaks a hand to your hip bone. Sinks a little deeper until his pelvis touches yours, his heat spreading into all of your pores. You gasp. “I’m giving you every.” Thrust. “Fucking.” Thrust. “Inch.” Thrust. “And it’s all yours, sweetheart.”

You’re breathless, weak, and it’s a slow crescendo, the way he begins to roll his hips, the way he straightens and the fresh wind goes for the imprint of sweat of your and his origin on your back, cooling it, though he rips the briskness away almost instantaneously, repeating his hard stroke, the table banging against the wall. Doesn’t give you the time to prepare. 

“Can you take it?” he asks, along with that dark chuckle again. Your hands begins to tingle due to the way he’s gripping your wrists, your blood at a standstill. “Can you take us both, huh?” 

Brutal thrust. Just what you wanted. He takes you by the throat and presses you against his chest, kissing you with such vulgarity that you moan into his mouth, the fullness you feel only heightening it. He grinds in response, hands descending to your breasts, kneading them, pinching both of your nipples between his knuckles and thumbs. “Pretty fucking girl.”

You whine. 

He withdraws, then. Motions over to Yoongi. The loss disappoints you. 

A man of his word, Jungkook stretched you enough for Yoongi to easily slip inside you to the hilt. You expect him to give you a few strokes before giving you over to his friend, and you prop your hands on the table to ready yourself for it, for Yoongi’s hunger as he’s the only one who hasn’t felt any pleasure over the course of the adventure. 

But Yoongi only grips himself and pulls out. 

A thicker length. To the brim. A slender one. And they repeat it until all you can hear is the madness of their aroused laughter, their grunts and their pants. Hands all over you. The feeling is so overwhelming that everything becomes a blur. You don’t know whose hand is touching you, whose mouth is kissing you, whose cock is drilling you, senses ascending to a place beyond the paradise—

And then you feel both of their tips toying with your abused hole, acting, feignedly—drawing in and out, never fully penetrating. 

A short-lived moment that causes you to forget who you are. 

“Oh, god,” you drawl, slumping against the wood, helpless. They continue to take turns in fucking you fluidly, the symphony of your slick so loud, so filthy to your ears. You’re numb to the point that you don’t peep a sound, disoriented and so adrift in the place beyond paradise that they took you to. 

Jungkook takes control once he hears your call for help. Begins to piston his length inside you rapidly until stars take shape across your vision, wrapping a forearm around your neck similarly to the way he did in the middle of your healing, digging crescent moons into your shoulder. Stops your head from knocking back and forth furiously. You feel his sweat drip down his pelvis—and with each hard thrust, its pearls jump over to your skin, trickling down your trembling legs. The pressure in your core is but a heartbeat away from bursting. You sense it—and you sense it vehemently. 

“Are you gonna come around my cock or around his, hm? Whose is it gonna be, sweetheart?” 

Your body answers him for you, your walls tightening around him so resolutely that Jungkook stills, whimpering onto your neck. You come so hard that there is absolutely nothing else that you hear but that whiny sound—and all you can see is the stars gaining vibrant colors to their pointed shapes, various, various colors that blind you. Colors that, like you, get dumped with hot, ivory, thick cum. 

Your orgasm triggered his. 

You mewl like a little kitty cat, so pleased that he came in you, so pleased that you felt it, that you felt the twitching of his cock. Pleased that when you gape at him, you can see how spent he is, content and illuminated like those stars. 

You want to lick him up. You want to taste that glow on your tongue. 

His cum drips out of you when you turn around. Jungkook collects it with two of his fingers and pumps it back inside you. The look you give him is almost predatory, so awfully fierce that he grows faintly timid, post-nut clarity cocooning him in a soft aura, bringing his puppy nature back to him. 

You sit back down on the table and spread your legs for your boyfriend, but your gaze remains fixed on him. Blindly, you reach for Yoongi’s hand, drawing him closer, and he happily obliges your silent command. Lines himself up at your entrance and pumps Jungkook’s cum deeper into you. 

You let the puppy see the exhilaration springing up your body, tugging the corners of your mouth to each side. The glint in your eyes. The pure joy that you feel. Then, the falling of that expression as it blends into a depiction of your pleasure—furrowed brows, pout, narrowed lids. You don’t take your eyes off of him. Not even for a second. 

In fact, you curl your fingers in beckoning. And when he comes to you, you lick a stripe of the sweat coating his defined abdomen, tongue rolling around the valley of his hard muscle. Kiss the skin before you suck it into your mouth, moaning when Yoongi goes all in—fucking you with all of his energy. The taste of his glow only betters the experience, but you don’t think you can come again. You enjoy it, nonetheless. 

And when you turn your attention to your boyfriend, deeming he deserves it—Jungkook steals it in typical fashion. “Feels good?” Light, much bigger than yours, covering his eyes. You nod, humming, girlishly so—the sound pitched. “You’re gonna come again? For him?” 

You consider it an impossible task, but for him you’ll do anything. “I’ll try.” 

Jungkook makes a sound of approval, leans in and kisses you gently. Yoongi turns your chin to him and as soon as your lips touch his, you feel his cock twitch. Unlike Jungkook, he fucks you through his orgasm, groaning loudly into your mouth and you reach to the place, where you’re connected and squeeze his balls, wanting his cum, needing it.

And when Yoongi emerges from his bliss, he smiles at you, breathing out a soft laugh. Features relaxed, drowsy. You give him a smile, too, the same tiredness engulfing you. 

Slinking out of you, you discover he came so vastly that his male essence trickles out of you. You graze a finger across your slit and you gather so much of it that as you take your hand towards your mouth, it plops onto your stomach. You giggle, high on the hormones released through your body, high on the happy males watching you, high on life—high on rightness. The joy doesn’t even let you wrap your lips around your finger, adamant on showing them how well they gratified you by keeping them stretched in a dopey grin. 

They’re so endeared by you that the same expression graces their faces. Exchanging a single glance, they start at once—picking you up like a child. Yoongi by your legs, Jungkook by your pits and it’s him, the healer, who leads the way to the bathroom, walking backwards hurriedly. 

Though promptly, when putting you down, your legs are so sore, so weakened that if it weren’t for their arms, you’d fall onto the tiles. Giggles and obscenities are swallowed by the crooning sound of the streaming hot water in the shower and you sigh so deeply once it touches your skin. It alleviates the ache of your muscles, alleviates the throbbing memory of the last time you were under that burning cascade—especially when Yoongi twists your body, making you face Jungkook; especially when he says the words that quicken your heartbeat. 

“Wash her clean.” 

Making things right. Erasing that afternoon that ended in blood and bruises. 

The wet, puppy eyes you give to Jungkook are enough for him to do as Yoongi says, mirroring your mien, greatly affected by the permission, by the act of something so forbidden untangling its inextricable knot. It happened so suddenly that he doesn’t truly believe he’s allowed to do it, hands shaking by his sides, clenched into fists. It is only when Yoongi begins to shampoo your hair that he’s spurred to do something. 

And you help him. With a thudding heart and tight emotion lodged in your throat, you hand him your favorite almond-scented body wash. He doesn’t tear his gaze away from you when he spreads the aroma on your sternum. Doesn’t blink once, doesn’t let his eyes wander south to your body—as if it was sacred, as if it was not meant to be looked at with lust in this intimate scenario. 

And you don’t feel fire when the heat of his hands glides down your neck, your shoulders and your arms. You feel something else entirely, something you can’t really pinpoint. Something holy, something so immensely heavenly. Maybe it’s brought about by the fact that he doesn’t touch your intimate parts—not your breasts, not your vulva. The only time he comes near to it is when he leads you into his chest and carefully, while peeking down, tries to pull out the forgotten toy. You sense Yoongi’s hands on your backside, watching over, and the feeling of being rid of it is so uncomfortable that you cringe against his pec, squeezing him hard, hugging him with everything in you. Jungkook makes gentle sounds for you, encouraging you and it relaxes your body enough that it lets go of the toy. 

Grabbing your shoulders, he studies your emotions. Sees only your same old tiredness and he pecks you, descending onto the tiled floor to cleanse you of your stickiness. Isn’t grossed out by the male essence that isn’t his. Kisses your trembling muscles on the apex of your thigh. Cradles your foot, massages it. The other one, too. 

And when Yoongi rinses out your shampoo and the bubbles of your almond body wash, Jungkook tells him, gravely, “Wash her where she needs it.”

You’re so touched by the fact he doesn’t dare to lay a hand there in a non-sexual environment that it doesn’t leave any space for shock to come through. Your finger itches to hook around his, but you take one step further—you slide your hand into his. And like a child, you let yourself be washed in between your legs as Jungkook, like a father, watches over it. 

Once you’re clean, the males take their turns. You observe the bubbles, the white foam, their veined hands gliding along their glistening bodies and, alternating, you touch them, helping them in a way. Touch the love bruise upon Jungkook’s abdomen; touch the indistinct happy trail on Yoongi’s. Rinse them off. 

Needing to be held, you guide Jungkook’s hands to your waist and fold your arms around Yoongi’s shoulders, but both males think differently. Squishing you in the middle of them, they hug each other, each head buried in each crook of your neck. You feel their hearts beat as one and it nearly lulls you to sleep, its healing beauty soothing you to the point that your lids become heavier. And the three of you stand there, in a cozy, homely embrace, until coldness wraps around you, too. 

They let you do your thing on your own. 

Once you come out of the shower, Yoongi kisses you and asks you if he should bring you any clothes. You merely shake your head and he leaves it at that, following Jungkook out of the bathroom. 

You lather your body in your mango butter in your aloneness. Blowdry your hair. Do your skincare. Note that there aren’t any thoughts in your brain, just deep, content silence swimming around with happy hormones. You’re so grateful for it that you could weep. 

To bed, you wear your newest purchase. A pink lacy camisole with matching bodycon shorts. You slide your feet into your fluffy slippers and as you make your way into the living room, you hope with all your heart that Jungkook hasn’t left. You haven’t exchanged many words after the sex and because of that, you knife yourself with the expectation to find only Yoongi lounging around in the sitting area. 

Midwalk, you bind it all into a loose braid. Don’t use a tie to seal it. Merely flip your hair back—with the futile wish it would untangle. 

And it does when you find the males smoking on the balcony with the door wide open. Jungkook, fully dressed in the outfit he came in. Yoongi, wearing his pants. You let out a quiet breath of relief, stooping to the ground to pick up your robe and the cheese ball, a dreadful twinge in your lower body alarming you. And then, you notice that someone folded your little sheer outfit neatly on the chair. 

“I wasn’t able to touch her after you,” you hear Yoongi say, the wholeness of the starry night plating his low pitch. You still your breathing, the perplexity from his words forcing you to whisk your head in his direction. “All I saw was my shortcomings… and—and I didn’t know how to please her anymore because you showed her new things. I felt less than. Unable to be the right person for her sexually.” 

Your heart shrinks so much it pains you. Yoongi never told you these things during the therapy sessions. He mainly spoke about the sexual moments at the cabin, but never about the ones after, never about what truly bothered him on his healing journey. He bottled it up. Your throat fills with bile. 

“Has what we did tonight changed that?” Jungkook asks, shoulders tense. “We practically did the same things and she was more than pleased.” 

Your heart grows back to its full size at the positive mention of you. You rise to your full form, flinging the cheese ball into its empty bowl before folding your robe. Your ears perk in waiting for his answer. 

“I think so.” The bile sinks back down, along with the pain coated with sadness. “I also think we should do this again.” 

Your mind doesn’t allow your body to exult, knowing the reason why he said it. 

He wants to either finish the hidden healing or… check if it has come to an end. 

The tension doesn’t ease in Jungkook’s shoulders. “Only if you work hard and focus on her. I’m not consenting to this if you only touch her with me being present.”

Silence in your heart—a skipped beat. You don’t want to hear any more of that conversation. You put away your robe and grab the dishes, washing them in the sink. 

No matter how much dish soap you use, you can’t scrub away the healer’s magic off of your hands. It pelts under your skin, to and fro, over and over as you repeat his words in your mind. Gives strength to your fingers as you hold the unusually heavy plates and bowls, the tiredness a hefty burden on your shoulders, weighing you down. 

Such a good man. You’re so grateful to know such an extraordinary being like him. A good friend, the best you could wish for Yoongi. A good lover, too—

“I think it’s way bigger and deeper, this relationship and how I feel about it. I can’t help it—” Jungkook’s voice no longer a far-off murmuring, he halts his words at the sight of you. Calls your name. “I thought you were asleep already.” 

You turn off the tap water, ignoring the question in your body about the incomplete sentence he uttered while being under the impression you were beyond hearing distance. Think you’ve learned and come about plenty enough of things tonight. You want to go to bed. With both of them. 

You don’t say your reasoning behind why you’re here. Deem it’s pointless. “Let’s go to bed.” 

You reach out your hand for him, but it is only the wind that encases your palm. You drop it. 

A chaos of shoulds and desires swarms in him. You can see it, vividly. “I should go home.” 

You’re having your way, you don’t care. “No. Stay.” 

Jungkook calls your name again. Yoongi licks his lips, smiling, fondly. Walks towards you and grabs your hand, leading you towards the bedroom. The puppy stays fixed on his feet, not comprehending that you want him to sleep in Yoongi’s bed and not on the couch. 

You raise your hand again for him. “Come, you’re sleeping with us.” 

Jungkook has gone commando under his jeans. You eye the sliver of minimal hair on his pelvis and before you can ogle his worm, he cups himself. 

Unabashedly, you click your tongue in disappointment, even though the recollection of your private decision to have his boxers as a keepsake, approved by him, suffuses your exhausted body in delight. 

You get under the sheets, right in the middle, watching as Yoongi hands him his gray sweatpants to wear, holding your breath when Jungkook turns around and you gain a perfect view of his round, toned ass. 

You’re certain that man will be the death of you. 

Yoongi crawls into the bed, nuzzling into the crooks of your body that he knows well, cuddling to your arm. You hear him inhale the scent of your shampoo. “You smell so good.” 

You stroke his forearm with your fingernails, transfixed by the way the waistband of the forbidden pants hangs low on Jungkook’s hips, by his slow, seductive walk that you don’t particularly think he’s doing on purpose. That’s just what makes him him, which worsens it all. 

In similar fashion, he lays down beside you, but he doesn’t turn to his side as your boyfriend has done. No, like you, he rests on his back, hands by his body, touching you without meaning to. His warmth environs you, but you notice that a good half of his body isn’t covered by the sheets. You fix it right away, tucking him in—tucking the fabric right under his chin. 

He gives you a strange look that makes you giggle. “You want me to burn?” 

Oh, men and their body heat. You’ll never grow tired of it—it’ll forevermore fascinate you. 

You shush him. “Sleep.” Pinch his nose, deepening his funny scowl. “Goodnight, sweet dreams.” 

Yoongi begins to purr beside you and you know he’s halfway on his journey to dreamland. You lay back down, hip to hip with both males, hands on your tummy, your eyes languidly fluttering closed.

A hand on your thigh. You open them fleetingly, surprised at the contact, before they close on their own.

“I’ve missed his purring,” Jungkook whispers, thumb brushing across your smooth skin. Just once. “Haven’t heard it in a while. It’s better than brown noise.” 

You laugh, softly, agreeing with him in your heart. Submit to the call of your own dreamland and you turn to your side, facing Yoongi, propping the back of your hand under your chin. 

But then Jungkook folds into your form. 

Mirrors your position. Arm around you, hand relaxed on the mattress an inch away from your tummy. 

It makes you feel funny. It makes you wild, your body gaining the tiniest tendril of energy. You curse him, mentally, although you don’t mean a single word. 

You feel his gentle breath fanning the nape of your neck. Along with it arrives the need for him to touch you. You purse your lips, burying your head deeper into the pillow in effort to shake that off and focus on relaxing your body—

“Hyung?” 

He hums in response. You curse him, too. 

“She didn’t come when you fucked her.” 

Your eyes fly open. The audacity this man has—

Tense, tense nothingness. It thrums uncomfortably under your skin. 

“Lemme make it right.” 

Radio silence in your heart, its profound waves shaking through your entire body, tearing off its drowsiness. 

“Okay, Jungkookie.” 

Your gasp is so minimal, yet Jungkook feels it. He presses his palm against your stomach, pulling you closer to him. Yoongi turns to his other side, as if giving you the privacy for what Jungkook wants to do to you. 

Reposing halfway on his back, halfway on his side, he maneuvers your form to mirror his position. And for the longest time, you both just lay there while Jungkook brushes his fingers along your clothed body. Back and forth, in circles, in peculiar patterns that soothe you. You thought you’d fall asleep this way, but the touches keep your body awake, promising it things in a silent language that it so evidently wants. 

And it isn’t until Yoongi begins to snore that you perceive Jungkook waited until he entered his deep slumber. The breath you let out is loud, absorbed by your boyfriend’s much bigger ones, but it makes Jungkook hold your jaw steady as he draws his lips close to your ear. 

“I didn’t like that he used you,” he whispers and his words fill your body with something foreign, something that drives your brows to knit, your muscles to clench, for butterflies to stir awake, although you disagree with him. Yoongi didn’t use you. You don’t really think he did. When you motioned him to take his turn, you expected to come again, but your body was so spent that it wasn’t able to do so, which is completely okay in your opinion. “If I fuck a girl and I come first before she does, I don’t stop until she creams all around me. Even if it hurts.” 

You remember him pushing you away when you wanted to keep going after he orgasmed. “You don’t like to be overstimulated, though.”

He snickers again, softly and lowly. “And yet I don’t stop.” Both hands on your tummy, he glides them down, towards your hips, towards your thighs before he drags them back up. Lifts up your camisole this time around, getting a feel of your skin. Rubs circles. “I want to make you come like you deserved to. Can I?”

“I came a lot of times. I don’t know if I can.” 

Jungkook caresses your bottom lip with his thumb, angling your jaw towards him. “We can try and see if you can.” 

We. He kisses your cheek and you pout in his hand. Brain turned off, too numb by all the orgasms, the attention and the affection you’ve received, you take the other one and slide it beneath your shorts. Feel an onrush of freshness in your lungs when he whimpers at the contact of your lips with the pads of his fingers and you move your hips back against him, gaining another sound of similar nature that willingly tempts your madness to return to you. 

He’s hard. 

You grind your backside against his thick imprint, loving the feeling of it, loving the soft noises he makes as if he was trying to stifle them, but you were making it awfully difficult for him to do so. 

“Don’t do that or I’ll cum in Yoongi’s pants.” 

Your laugh is feral. Quiet, gentle. An oxymoron that could only belong to his name. To his art. The idea of him coming in your boyfriend’s pants drenches you and he gasps once he discovers it, teasing your entrance. 

“You want me to come like this?” he asks and you hum your agreement, his fingers ascending to your clit, stroking it in slow, slow circles. His breath hardens in tandem with yours and he swears. “But I don’t and you will listen to me.” 

He pulls out his hand and you whine, catching his wrist, bringing it back where it belongs. On your clothed, now swollen clit. You grind your hips with more fervor, just to work him up, just because you enjoy it and he fists the material of your shorts, stimulating you with the seam, dominating you through and through. 

You merely beam at him, illuminating the room, fisting his cock. “Don’t stretch out my new shorts.”

“Don’t provoke me and we’ll reach an understanding,” he retorts, swirling his tongue around the bone of your jaw before he kisses it. Responding to it, you grind your pelvis back, angling your hips so his cock fits just right in between your cheeks. He tuts in disapproval, shifts a little bit more to his side nonetheless, pulling you flush to his body. “No, other way sweetheart. Grind your pussy against it.” You try it, placing your hand on top of his, unsure and he helps you, guiding your hips with his, grinding upwards, as if he was fucking you. You mewl at the pleasure permeating your veins and with his free hand, he clamps your mouth shut. “Yes, that’s it.” He tightens his hold on your shorts, hoisting it higher. “Feels so good like this, doesn’t it?” You nod, your noises loud, only slightly muffled by his clammy hand. He shushes you, breath hot against your ear. “You gotta be quiet. We don’t wanna wake Yoongi up, do we?” You shake your head ‘no’, squeezing your hold on his hand. Jungkook lets go of your shorts and slides beneath them again, fingers spreading your new arousal on your clit. You squeak again, terribly sensitive and turned on, bound in his arms. “I told you to be quiet. Do you know what happens to girls who don’t listen?” 

You’re glad to hear he didn’t add “to me”, for some deranged reason and for that, you don’t peep a sound. 

“They get punished,” he answers for you and you can’t stop the moan from escaping your throat, the idea of getting punished by him again making you utterly, utterly delirious. 

He strains his fingers around your mouth until it hurts, but that’s not the reason why you draw it away. You do it so you can speak. “Teach me a lesson, please. I need it.” 

You wish you could see his reaction, but the darkness keeps it to itself. You can only hear the sharp inhale of breath he takes—and you can feel the twitch of his cock against you that divulges to you that he’s gone mad just the same. 

While silence takes place, he drags your shorts down to your thighs, the tight cotton preventing you from spreading your legs. He moves you so you lay on your back and from this position, you sense Yoongi’s body heat and the lift and fall of his chest, though he still remains facing you with his back. Jungkook lifts your camisole until your breasts are exposed. And then, he props the back of your head on his bicep, clamping your mouth back shut. He looks down at you and you can only slightly make out his features. The glint of his lip ring irradiates him. Mercifully. 

You want to kiss him so bad. 

“How does Yoongi punish you, hm?” 

The question shocks you, coaxes out a string of your arousal to drop down your clenched thighs. Whilst he waits for your answer, he grazes his palm down your sternum, your stomach, your mound. Leaves it there. 

It’s your body that responds out of its own will, not your brain. You can’t, for the life of you, think. He allows you to speak. “With his words. His cock. And… with pussy spanks.” 

Jungkook hums. Puts the covers out, revealing you to himself. “Show me how he spanks you.” Your hand trembles as he lifts it. He brushes his thumb across your knuckles while he places it on your cunt, taking control of that expression of nerves. Wraps the other hand around your throat. 

When your fingers collide with your clit, you hiss in sensitivity. Decide you will only show him this way. You can’t take any more. “Like this. Gently, but firmly. So it doesn’t hurt. He doesn’t like to cause me pain.” 

He exchanges your hand with his and spanks you. With bigger firmness than Yoongi ever used. You arch your back, not expecting it with your dumb brain. He pinches your right nipple between his knuckle and thumb, making you moan softly, not having enough and enveloping it with his mouth, sucking briefly before he swirls his tongue around the nub. Your wetness rushes out, along with your noises that you’re just so incapable of stopping. You grip his hair on the back of his head and in response he flicks the muscle. Your hips buck, asking for attention. 

Jungkook withdraws, stares you dead in the eye. “I’m punishing you for making a sound and yet you do as you please?” 

You swear, eyes wide. “I’m sorry.” 

He spanks your clit. “Sorry what?” 

Remembrance flashes through your mind. “I’m sorry, Daddy.” 

“Hm, that’s right.” He rubs your clit rapidly. Spanks it again. Your moans come out in strained breaths. “That was for the curse word. Say you’re sorry.”

But then, you can’t help but mewl at his fatherliness. “I’m sorry, Daddy.” 

He pecks you, deeply. For the title, for your good manners or perhaps to silence you—you don’t know. “How sorry?” 

His fingers find your clit again, strumming it, lips moving against you in a passionate kiss. Your brain malfunctions. “So sorry,” you whisper onto his mouth, gripping his hair.  

He spanks you, softly, for pleasure, then continues. “You won’t say it again?” 

“No.”

A sound of approval. “Good girl.” He sinks his middle finger inside you as far as your restrain allows him, fucking you slowly. The pressure of delight begins to build in you. “One more?” 

“Yes, please, Daddy.” 

Ring finger joins in, instantly. “Such a good girl. I love hearing you say that.” He jackhammers into you a few times before he stills, thumbing your clit. The fullness, the stimulation on your most needy part—it’s enough to make you come and you feel it chasing you again, nearing and nearing. “I want to fuck you like this with my fingers and have that toy on your clit. The one we used the last time. Keep the setting low, so it wouldn’t wake him up.” 

A curse word rises on your tongue, but with the last brain cell you have—you swallow it down. You’re tiptoeing before the edge, knot tight in your tummy, pressure so enormous, and you tell him. “I’m gonna come.” 

He lifts his thumb. “Hold it.” 

You panic, faintly, standing still before the edge, face to face with your orgasm, close, terribly close. “I can’t.” 

Jungkook shifts. “You will.” Bends you in half while keeping his fingers inside you, mouth latching onto your soaked cunt. 

Takes control of your orgasm as he begins to toy with it, building it little by little with sluggish circles on your clit with the tip of his tongue. Then, he wraps his lips around it, nibbling on it and resumes the movement of his fingers, fucking you steadily. 

The pleasure is so new, so different that you feel as though you’re levitating in heavenly places. You grind your hips against him, meeting him, but briefly. When he sucks your clit, he stills your motions and spreads shakes across your entire body. “Come for Daddy, sweetheart.” 

He flicks his tongue—and you do. You come so violently for him that you grip his hair with all your might, surprised that he isn’t wincing in pain. And he doesn’t stop. 

He keeps going until all that’s left of you is nothing but the cordiality of your high and those shudders, licking you up, devouring all that you’re giving him, wet fingers spread on the back of your thighs. 

Then, he sets your legs down, straddles you and kisses you nastily. Makes you taste yourself on his lips, on his tongue and he enjoys the principle of it all. Enjoys giving back to you what you leaked for him. “I could have you come on my tongue all night.” He pecks you, swirls his tongue around yours. “You kept quiet through it all. Good girl. You learn so well.” 

You’re speechless, satisfied, sensing something approaching you that you fail to understand. Something bigger than attachment, but smaller than feelings. Connected to his healing gift or perhaps invented from it. Something that’s smack dab in the middle, growing in you, and you submit to it, unafraid of it. 

A certain desire fraternizes with it. You push at his shoulder, wanting him on his back. As if he senses what it is, he stays put. Solid as a rock. In both ways. 

But you’ll have your own. 

You tug the waistband of Yoongi’s sweats down his hips and grasp him in your hand, spreading his thick arousal down his length. Jungkook’s breath shakes, but his words don’t. “When did I tell you you could do that?”

You grab him with both hands, squeezing him. He hisses, muscles bulging along his arms on either side of you. “I’m sorry, Daddy. Can I?”

He coos. “Only because you’re so well-mannered.” Nods at you. “Keep going. Make your Daddy feel good.” Your Daddy. The fire it sparks in you, you put its wholeness into your movement—jerking him off, twisting your wrists, using all of your strength. “Hands off.” He spits on his head, the trail long and delicious to your eyes and you’re quick, you’re desperate, to resume and make him come, ache pressing down on your pussy all over again. 

The slickness, his stifled noises, the snug warmth—you understand all of a sudden how he’s able to feel your pleasure because you’re experiencing it. You are pleasured because you’re pleasuring him. But still, you want more. You press him against your clit. “Fuck my hands like this, please.” 

He repositions your hands. Slides them lower on his length, so his tip can stimulate your bundle of nerves. And when he begins to thrust, you’re transfixed. 

By the roll of his hips, the clenching of his abdominal muscles, the evident delight overwhelming his body. You can’t take your eyes off of him. Especially not when he lets his guttural vocality loose. 

You smile. “You should be quiet.” 

He laughs down at you, softly. It vibrates in your core. He kisses you, humming into your mouth. “You’re right, but it feels so good like this. Doesn’t it feel good on your pussy?” 

You nod, biting his lip, angling your head and devouring his mouth, plagued by his arousal, by his pleasure, by his response to your little slyness. He fucks your hands faster, gliding across your clit, not lasting for a moment longer. He shoots out his hot cum onto your tummy, cock twitching in your hands, his noises muffled by your mouth. 

And he remains there. Even as he fingers you so fast that you come in seconds. Even as he takes those drenched digits, collects his male essence and plunges them into your mouth. “‘Atta girl. So good for me.” 

He cleans your folds and thighs with his tongue. Dresses you, like a child. Fixes your camisole. Puts the covers back on you and spoons you. 

Yoongi remains soundly asleep. You succumb to slumber faster than you came but before you do, it’s Jungkook’s words that lead you to that dreamland. “Goodnight, sweetheart. Sweet dreams.”

In the morning, you wake up first. And the sight you see is so profoundly beautiful that you take a moment to gape at it, folding it into your heart. 

Jungkook drools in his sleep. Celestial countenance, tousled hair in all directions, broad chest lifting and falling in absolute tranquility. He twists his features for a split second, as if he was dreaming about something uncomfortable and you’re so affected by it that you look away. 

Turn your gaze to your boyfriend instead. 

Still snoring, mouth parted. Ebony hair brushed back, exposing his forehead. The corners of his lips tug up and stay and you think angels must be playing with him in his dreams. You kiss his arm, crawling back, painfully, until your feet hit the floor. 

You take a long, long shower. Practice your gratitude, recollecting last night’s events and words spoken by Jungkook that weren’t as private as he thought. Hearing them, they were too fresh to be consumed, but now that you think about them—your own smile finds your lips and you agree with him in your heart. You can’t let him walk away after this. Can’t let him return to his normal life that exists without you, not when you’re something along the lines of attached to him. Hell, you can’t return to your own normal life without him. Without his touch, without his celestiality. Without his attentiveness and healing gift. 

This has to be a continuous relationship. 

Jungkook was the one who called it that way and it feels right. Even as you taste it on your tongue, it’s the most delicious thing you’ve ever swallowed. It fills your body with verve, one that you deem is essential at this point. One that you will need every single day from now on. 

You have to talk about this with Yoongi. The idea doesn’t scare you, despite the fact you can’t really picture his reaction. Can’t imagine which way it will gravitate towards—whether to light or to dark. You don’t mind at all, in fact you look forward to it and you wash your body with greater care than you ever handled it with before. 

With a face mask on, you take your cosmetic bag and do your makeup in the living room. The sunlight spills in, kissing your ebullient mien, and you imprint its red marks with a touch of blush across your cheeks, its lovely color with glitter on your eyelids and you finish the job with a few brushes of mascara upon your lashes and a singular swipe of a glimmering lip gloss on your lips. 

It is only then that Jungkook appears in front of you. 

“He still sleeps like a bear.” 

You’re so happy to see him that it manifests on your face. 

“Don’t try to wake him up or you’ll get eaten.” 

Placing your cosmetic bag on his lap, he sits beside you. “I wouldn’t dare.” Examines your face for a good moment. “Why are you putting this on? You don’t need it.” 

 “I enjoy it,” you say, watching fondly as he takes out each makeup product and scans them. Once he comes across your tiny tubes of glitter of various shades, light flickers in his eyes. Your heart does the same thing. And a somersault right after.

“You wear glitter?” 

You nod, a precious, girlish smile stretching your glossy mouth. “I’m wearing it right now.” You close your eyes for him, letting him see the small sparkles, resplendent of the sun. He praises you, the word ‘pretty’ embracing you tightly in all its snug simplicity, forcing your eyes open. A brighter spark shines in his irises. You brim with the yearning to doll up his eyes to match it and, having your way as always, you steal the tubes from him. “Which one do you want?” 

He doesn’t even fight you. As a matter of fact, he’s already decided. Doesn’t waste a second to reply. “The silver one.” 

Excitedly, you quiver all over. Dab the applicator on the back of your hand and lift your sight to catch him smiling cutely at you like the puppy he is. Your hand itches to ruffle his hair. Grab his cheek and bite into it. Go for his nose next. 

Whirling the pad of your finger on the splatter of glitter, you hover it above his lids. “Close your eyes.” 

He listens, immediately. You pat the imitation of his glint across that soft skin, but you focus on that beautiful, pouty smile of his. Think you’ll save his lips for last and savor them as you eat them. 

You swipe your finger for more and adorn his other eye. Take the rest and speckle it on the highest points of his cheekbones—this time with his attention all on you. 

You lean back to observe your artwork and find that something is missing. You know right away what it is. 

You dab the applicator on his cupid’s bow and drag it down his collarbones. Take care of that first before you move over to his lips. You blend it there with utmost care and he lets you, zeroining his gaze into yours. Deep, but gentle. Loving. 

To finish it, you kiss him. And it’s not because you were driven by your emotions or by that stare of his. You do it because you want to. Kiss him again, so the highlight is perfectly blended. 

He’s puzzled when you draw away, but you’re not unnerved by it. You’re firm and stable in your decisions, happy in the outcome, any hints of repercussions or doubts far, far away from you. In another world, in another galaxy. It has long forgotten your name and you’re glad for it. 

“We shouldn’t do this.” 

There he goes with ‘we’ again. It makes you weak. 

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” you say, soothingness coating your voice, penetrating his negative emotion to the point that he relaxes. Before he can say anything, you continue. “I heard what you said last night. To Yoongi. That this relationship is way bigger and deeper.” Surprise and timidity bleeds into the glitter on his face and he’s unable to look you in the eye. You grab his palm, holding it with both of your hands in your lap. “I agree with you. I feel it, too. This wasn’t just a one time thing. I don’t think it was ever meant to be just for one night.”

There’s rawness to your words that make him reciprocate your eye contact. He gnaws at his lips, as if to eat away his nerves. You squeeze his hand harder and are about to continue, but the creak on the hardwood floors stops you. 

Yoongi. With his wrinkled face and puffy, but awake eyes. In a pair of boxers and nothing else. You stand up to your feet, dropping Jungkook’s hand, and you go to meet him halfway, but you don’t make it far. The soreness between your legs won’t let you.

He grins at you, wrapping his arms around you. “Can’t walk?” His taunt is loving and scrunch your face at him. “Good morning, honey.” 

You kiss his bare chest. “Good morning.”

Yoongi moves over to Jungkook and places a hand on his shoulder. “Sleep well?” 

Wet softness in his eyes. “The best sleep of my life.” 

“So, I want two boyfriends.” 

While Yoongi made coffee for all three of you, you were more than happy to make breakfast. Scrambled eggs on avocado toast—one that Jungkook chokes on upon hearing your words and one that flings out of Yoongi’s mouth because he bursts into a violent laughter. 

You laugh along with him—so hard that tears well in your eyes, slapping your palm down repeatedly on the round wooden table. Yoongi mirrors your movement on Jungkook’s back as he fights for his life, red in the face, eyes wide. 

“What did you say?” the puppy croaks out, bewildered, letting go of his bread and you feel terribly bad for him, for shocking him so enormously. 

The decision came upon you suddenly while you cooked. Easy, smooth. Appeared on your heart that sprang it up to your mind. Gave it pros and cons—good friendship, good sex, good time; Yoongi might get jealous and/or possessive, nothing else. It made sense to you, grazed your attachment ever so sweetly. How else would you keep last night continuous? Even Yoongi went around the matter when he talked Jungkook’s head off, asking him if he’d been with other people after you. 

Boyfriend simply means that. No other people—just you and Yoongi. 

You weren’t going to keep it to yourself. Even if there was a risk of it going downhill. 

It’s not relief that you feel upon hearing Yoongi laugh—it’s a river of liberation, concocted with absolute joy, coursing in your bloodstream. He woke up in a good mood. Woke up happy. And you fold that fact into your heart, hoping it stays for a long time. 

“Eat your toast, silly,” you say, smiling, eyes crinkled. Take a bite of your own. Happy that Yoongi is happy, happy that you’re eating your favorite fruit, sitting again at the table with your two favorite people. “You heard me.”

“Oh, fuck,” is all Jungkook says, whisking his eyes to Yoongi, who’s chuckling, bending down to pick up the piece of toast he was in the middle of chewing. 

You look at him, too, waiting for his response. 

Yoongi brushes his hair back, a lazy smile on his mouth. “I think it’s a fantastic idea.” 

You grin so hard that your cheeks hurt. The river in you speeds its stream. “Thank you,” you exclaim, rubbing his arm, quivering with excitement. “I say we mess around and have a good time. We can go on dates.” 

Jungkook relaxes a little bit, furrowing his brows as he chews on his toast. 

“She wanted two cocks, don’t tell me you didn’t expect this,” Yoongi says to his friend, patting your thigh. “I did.” 

Perhaps that’s why he had such a hard time in all of this. He knew it was inevitable—and he worked his way through it until he ended here. Fine with it. Healed. 

“When did that happen?” you ask, sliding your hand down to his. 

“When I decided the first time I was gonna give it to you. Then, again when I promised you we were gonna make this work,” he says and you pout at him, so grateful, so touched. He squeezes your thigh, looking at Jungkook. “I can see your questions all over your face. Out with them.” 

Jungkook has finished his toast, brows still furrowed as he swallows. He leans back in his chair, manspreading, hands intertwining behind his head. Pokes a tongue in his cheek, smirking. “Don’t kill me for this, but,” he starts, showing his teeth. “Do I get to have her to myself? Without you? And vice versa?”

Your heart beats ferociously in your chest. Yoongi pauses for a moment, thinking about it. He let him do it last night, he let him have you to himself, though under different circumstances. You figure what Jungkook meant is whether he can fuck you without asking for permission and the idea exhilarates you. 

And the vice versa part. Jungkook is one sly—

“It won’t be instant, but we’ll work hard. Work our way through it until we’re all comfortable and happy,” Yoongi finally says and you kiss his hand.

You’re so overwhelmed with joy that your blood buzzes. 

Jungkook nods. “Of course, I understand.” 

“Is this something you want?” Yoongi directs the question at you and you nod. 

“Yes, once you’re ready.”

Silence settles like fine dust. You finish your toast quietly and as soon as you’re done, you deem Yoongi should know about what happened in the late hours. “We didn’t fuck last night. While you slept. It didn’t even cross my mind and I wouldn’t do it unless I had your… blessing.” 

Yoongi cackles at your choice of word. “Good girl,” he praises. “You’ll get your blessing soon. I promise.” 

You look at him for a long time and you wonder if there’s anything he wouldn’t do for you. 

“So, it’s settled, then,” Jungkook says and places a hand on the table, opens it for you. You grab it and he squeezes you. “Let’s celebrate.” 

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

BACK to masterlist / READ part one, READ part two, READ part three

[mechahero]

@idolsummons asked- What cologne / perfume do they use, if any? Morning / Evening Routine Headcanons ! (accepting!)

In terms of actual perfume? Unless he's made aware of a cupcake scented perfume that somehow exists, Lambda isn't likely going to be wearing perfume at all. (His preferences lean more toward body sprays anyway.)

Basically, he goes about perfume selection the same way he does for body sprays. If it's not orange or smelling like a bakery got dumped all over him, he's not going near it.

[solarmorrigan]

hallo! I saw the angsty prompt list thing, and the “don’t trust me.” One kind of stood out to me. You don’t have to write it, but you’re one of my favorite writers on here so I thought it might be cool :)

Hullo! So I did fill this prompt once already, but I'd had a bunch of ideas for it and I was in the mood for something a little softer, so I did another! Thanks for giving me the opening to write it (and for the compliment, you're so kind?? 😭)

[General warning for mention of Steve's shitty parents and their generally shitty parenting technique]

Angsty-ish Prompt List

-

“Why am I the one doing this?” Steve grouses, straining slightly as he struggles with the full box on the top shelf. “Instead of, y’know, you?”

“You’re stronger than me,” Eddie replies readily.

“Bullshit, I’ve seen you lugging amps and shit around during your shows,” Steve shoots back, grumbling as he works the box free from the high shelf.

“You got me.” Eddie grins, though Steve’s back is turned to him. “I just like watching you work, sweetheart.”

From the depths of the storage closet, Steve gives an audible snort of laughter, but he also stops arguing. Then, with a little noise of triumph, Steve finally manages to tug the box free, holding it aloft long enough to back out of the closet and then heaving it down onto the floor, where it lands in a clatter of plastic and jingling bells.

“Excellent.” Eddie falls upon the box, rubbing his hands together in anticipation before tugging at the tucked flaps. “There’s one more box, would you mind? It’s on the floor; long rectangle.”

“You said there was one box,” Steve says, eyes narrowed.

“Whoops, miscounted,” Eddie says breezily, smiling up at Steve with as much innocence as he can muster. “You know how bad I am at all that academic shit.”

“Says the guy who plays a math game for fun,” Steve drawls.

For the sake of time, Eddie leaves the bait where it is, instead batting his eyelashes up at Steve. “Pretty please, pretty boy? It’s definitely the last one.”

Steve holds out for exactly five more seconds before retreating into the closet with a roll of his eyes. “If you suddenly remember one more after this, I’m suddenly gonna remember something I have to do back at my house and leave you to do all the decorating on your own,” he calls back, muffled from behind the coats Eddie can hear him shoving aside to find the last box.

Eddie’s at least eighty percent sure he’s bluffing, but it’s no matter – he hadn’t been lying. Most of what he needs is in the box in front of him: strands of garland, wrapped tangles of lights, and the same ugly pinecone wreath with the world’s most annoying string of jingle bells attached that Wayne’s been hanging since Eddie was a kid. Everything else—the ornaments, more lights, and, of course, the tree—is in the hefty, rectangular box Steve is currently hauling out into the entryway.

Normally, Wayne would be there to help, but his and Eddie’s work schedules have fallen out of sync in the hectic holiday rush of extra shifts; if one has the day off, the other is too tired by the time they get home to entertain anything as energy-consuming as getting up on a ladder to hang lights. Eddie and Steve, however (somehow; miraculously), share at least one day off a week, which has seen Steve recruited as Eddie’s backup decorating partner.

“That it?” Steve breathes as releases the box and stands straight, tugging his sweater down from where it’s ridden up (Eddie can’t believe he’s dating someone who unironically wears ugly Christmas sweaters. He can’t believe Steve makes them look good).

“That’s it,” Eddie promises. He plucks two balled-up strings of lights from the box in front of him and stands up, one under each arm. “So here’s what I’m thinking: I’ll get started on the outside, while you,” Eddie puts a boot to the tree box and shoves it towards Steve with a grunt; even across the laminate flooring it doesn’t slide easy, practically cocooned in layers of packing tape from so many years of opening and resealing, “get the tree going.”

Already halfway wrapped up in how he’s going to string the lights (he’d always loved decorating the outside of the trailer, and now he gets to figure out a new configuration for the tiny porch on his and Wayne’s equally tiny new house; it ain’t much, as they say, but it’s home – or, at least, it’s starting to feel like it), Eddie nearly misses the look of confusion that crosses Steve’s face.

“Uh… how do you want it set up?” Steve asks.

Eddie cocks an eyebrow at him. “Stand goes on the floor, pointy end goes up. I have faith in you, Steve.”

Steve rolls his eyes again, but with his frown in place he looks like he might actually be irritated. “I mean, you have to tell me how you want it, like, decorated and shit. Where it’s supposed to go, that sort of thing.”

“I’m pretty sure you’ve decorated a tree before, man,” Eddie says. “I know I saw one at your house last time I was there.”

“Yeah, but that’s my house. This is yours. You have to tell me how you want it,” Steve says.

Once again for the sake of time, Eddie leaves the obvious opening for a joke where it lies. “Steve, it’s – y’know, lights, garland, ornaments, it’s not rocket science. I trust you to do a good job.”

“No, don’t trust me, just tell me how you want it decorated,” Steve insists. “If you don’t tell me, I’m going to do it wrong.”

“It’s… a Christmas tree, sweetheart,” Eddie says slowly. “You can’t do it wrong.”

“Oh, I assure you, I can,” Steve says with a laugh. “Seriously, like – people are super particular about how their trees are set up, I think. My mom always has been. I remember when I was, like, ten, she and my dad had been away for a while, and we were coming up on Christmas pretty fast, and none of the decorations were up, so I figured I’d at least put the tree up. Surprise them when they got home, right? Except my mom lost her shit when they got home and saw it.”

“Noooot in a good way, I take it,” Eddie hazards.

“Nah, I did it all wrong. The tinsel wasn’t spread out right, and there’s only supposed to be a certain number of ornaments on each branch, and she wanted the angel on top, not the star, so she made me take the whole thing down.” Steve shrugs. “So, seriously, even if you don’t think you have a certain way you want it done, I’ll probably manage to find the exact way you don’t want it, so you should just tell me.”

“Steve, I promise, that tree is, like, older than I am; you can’t make it worse. As long as you don’t set it on fire, I’ll be happy with it,” Eddie says.

“That’s not–” Steve cuts himself off, running one hand through his hair with a strained little laugh. “I don’t understand why you won’t just tell me how you want it done.”

Eddie shakes his head, dropping the bundles of lights back into their box; he hates when this happens – hates when he stumbles over some mundane thing that Steve’s parents have fucked up for him that Eddie only manages to poke like a kid with a sharp stick at a beehive because he didn’t even realize it could be an issue. Who the fuck gives their kid a complex over how the Christmas tree is decorated? Who does that?

(Then again, Eddie’s pretty sure it’s about more than just their expectations for the tree.)

“Okay, I need you to listen to me,” Eddie says, voice firm but hands gentle as he reaches for Steve’s own. “I swear I’m not trying to set you up for failure. I’m really not. The tree isn’t supposed to look perfect. It’s supposed to be kinda crooked and covered in dumb ornaments you can’t even remember the stories behind and only have, like, half a string of popcorn around it because you ate most of it when your uncle wasn’t looking and didn’t leave enough for the tree.”

Steve stares at him, brows furrowed, like he’s trying to piece what Eddie’s telling him into what he already knows about the world, like he needs both things to be true, even though they don’t fit together.

“Actually…” Eddie says slowly, deciding that it may be best to change tack, “come to think of it, there’s one thing about decorating the tree that I should’ve told you. Most important thing, really. Can’t believe I forgot.”

“What?” Steve asks, halfway between wary and eager for the instruction.

“You’re supposed to do it together. That’s what makes it good.” Eddie lets go of one of Steve’s hands to smack the heel of his own to the side of his forehead. “Duh. Silly me.”

Steve shakes his head, letting it hang forward with a little huff of a laugh as some of the tension leeches from his shoulders. “You’re such a dork, do you know that?”

“Mhm,” Eddie hums, grabbing Steve by the front of that stupid, ugly sweater (it has reindeer on it, how does it not look awful on him?) and pulling him up for a quick kiss. “So how about you help me do the outside lights, and then we’ll come back inside and do the tree together?”

One last flicker of uncertainty crosses Steve’s face. “What about Wayne?”

A flutter of fondness rolls through Eddie’s chest, the same as it always does when Steve doesn’t just consider Eddie, but the things and people important to him. “His favorite part is stringing the popcorn. We can do that when he gets home.”

“Oh.” Steve nods, as though he is considering this very seriously, then smirks at Eddie. “Should we make some to eat before he gets back, so you leave enough for the tree?”

Eddie smacks him on the shoulder, holding back a laugh. “Alright, Harrington, just for that, you’re the one untangling the lights.”

“What, like it’s a punishment?” Steve asks. “I’m great at untangling Christmas lights.”

“Oh, baby,” Eddie presses a hand to his heart and pretends to swoon over the box of decorations, “when you say things like that, it makes me want to keep you forever.”

And Steve’s answering grin at that is far brighter than anything they’re going to decorate with today, Eddie is certain.

[apollosgiftofprophecy]

I saw a couple of posts here and on ao3 where you talked about how TOA Apollo has a stilted view of romantic relationships. Would you be comfortable explaining that, it got me really interested!

OKAY

SO

gonna be putting this under a cut for length

Apollo and relationships. Specifically, ToA Apollo and relationships.

let's see if I can formulate the thoughts into words.

Right off the bat, Apollo does have a hard time avoiding those red flags (hello, Commodus), so much so that he can see them...he just ignores them.

This already tells us that he doesn't have the healthiest view on relationships, or what specifically a healthy partner would be like.

In RRverse canon, these are all of his confirmed, canon relationships/love interests;

Hyacinthus

Commodus

Naomi

Darren

Latricia

Cyrene

Daphne

Sibyl

(I probably missed some asdfhjk)

Anyway, I've noticed that in canon, Apollo's relationships tend to fall into two categories; Sweet or Sour, we'll call them.

Now the majority on the list are Sweet! They are fulfilling relationships with no indication of any bitter feelings- Apollo is not shy about telling us about his love life, and certainly doesn't keep it from us when a relationship went south.

What I find interesting is that all three of the Sours can help pinpoint Apollo's more jaded/stilted view on romance.

Let's kick off with Daphne.

First things first, Apollo is quite literally forced to fall in love with her. Like. That has GOT to screw with a guy. What's more, is that when Apollo explains to us how Eros's arrows work;

What people do not understand: Eros’s arrows can’t summon emotion from nothing. They can only cultivate potential that is already there. Daphne and I could have been a perfect pair. She was my true love. She could have loved me back. Yet thanks to Eros, my love-o-meter was cranked to one hundred percent, while Daphne’s feelings turned to pure hate (which is, of course, only the flip side of love). Nothing is more tragic than loving someone to the depths of your soul and knowing they cannot and will not ever love you back. The stories say I chased her on a whim, that she was just another pretty dress. The stories are wrong. - The Hidden Oracle

There's an implication that he and Daphne may have actually been...friends. Or at the very least acquaintances.

It's never stated in canon when Daphne happened, and the mythology itself is weird about the timeline, but it certainly happened earlier in Apollo's life.

Imagine being forced to fall madly in love with someone you know and they are made to despise you.

The self-confidence definitely took a blow here.

What's more...

When she begged Gaea to turn her into a laurel tree in order to escape me, part of my heart hardened into bark as well.

Apollo tells us plainly that what happened with Daphne shook his views on romantic endeavors. Though, it didn't keep him from engaging in romance, either.

Now, back to Commodus real quick. We already covered the No Red Flag Bell with him, and honestly, I won't spend too much time here because I got a whole meta list waiting to dissect these two XD

But Sibyl reveals something else about Apollo and romance- sometimes, he sees it as transactional.

The story of Apollo and Sibyl does differ from the mythology of them- in mythology, Sibyl tricks Apollo into granting her a long life, and he kinda just shrugs and says 'okay, but you didn't ask for eternal youth either so...whoops?'

In ToA, Rick switches it up a bit by having Apollo grant Sibyl a long life after she jokes about it, and when she further rebuffs him, he curses her with no eternal youth.

Alas, I knew what I’d been thinking—that she was a pretty young woman I wanted to get with, despite the fact that she was my Sibyl. Then she’d outsmarted me, and being the bad loser that I was, I had cursed her. - The Tyrant's Tomb

I promised you life, not youth. You can have your centuries of existence. You will remain my Sibyl. I cannot take those things away, once given. But you will grow old. You will wither. You will not be able to die.

Yeah, it sounds like Apollo more or less curses her with no eternal youth here.

(Daily disclaimer that mythology Apollo's love life is actually very good and you should read up on it :3)

Back to the transactional thing-

"You cannot refuse payment." “Payment?” She balled her hands into fists. “You dare think of me as a transaction?” “I didn’t mean—Obviously, I wasn’t—”

Now, do I think Apollo sees all relationships as transactional? No. But let's consider the Olympian influence for a moment here.

Olympus in the RRverse is rather fucked, no doubt about it. The gods do not help without first being given something, and that permeates through their whole lifestyles.

Apollo's not being transactional because ✨misogyny✨. He's being transactional because that's what he's been raised to believe. If he gives something, he gets something back. That goes for all the gods, male and female and everything in between.

Bacchus helps the demigods in Mark of Athena because they paid tribute to him. Whenever a god extends aid, burnt offerings are made in thanks- which is probably part of the reason why Hera got angry with Annabeth when she refused to give her burnt offerings in The Battle of the Labyrinth after she helped her on her quest.

Apollo doesn't seem to be as picky as some (ie, The Titan's Curse, where he helps out to help out. You can argue he got his sister back in exchange but that's not really typical godly exchange lol), but it's clear that mindset has somewhat transferred over into relationships.

Now, I also want to talk about how Hyacinthus affected him- because let's be real, he was the one that affected him the most without outside interference (looking at you, Eros).

Apollo has told us time and again that Hyacinthus was one of, if not his greatest, love. His death really left a mark on him, and I am of the firm belief that it's that mark that made him wary of forming too close of a relationship with others- even when he tries to convince them and himself they are his One True Love™️, it falls flat inside his own head.

Because let's face it- that spot is occupied by Hyacinthus, and the hole he left in Apollo's heart.

This isn't to say Apollo loves his other lovers less- heck no! Love is one of his defining qualities. He has much love in him!

It's just that Hyacinthus had a particular impact on him, and how he views relationships.

*vibrates in Hyapollo multific* I have...my own personal ideas...on what that entails...

And we see how touch-and-go Apollo is with other lovers! As soon as Commodus becomes emperor, he's gone. And only comes back in disguise, never revealing himself until he kills him.

Naomi, Darren, and Latricia are all obviously loving relationships from what we can gather, but it's clear it was never long-term.

Cyrene, really, is where I'd argue he got the closest to a long-term relationship with a mortal-ish person, but even so, they aren't in a permanent long-term relationship either.

Hyacinthus, however? I can see he and Apollo maintaining an everlasting romance.

...Also because that is exactly what happens according to the Spartans and who are we to deny what the Spartans declared about their national hero?

The only other exceptions to this I can see are his relationships with the Muses and (hello, fellow Apricity shippers) Boreas.

But even so...the Muses give off like, 'married co-workers' vibes, if that makes sense, and Boreas is more or less a winter fling (fandom forgive me, you know I am a shipper🫡)

Anyway. Hope this rambling makes sense or at least provides a platform for someone to put coherent thoughts together lmao

In conclusion: sometimes Apollo is transactional in relationships because of the culture he was raised in, and he has commit issues because of just how hard Hyacinthus's death hit him :)

have fun pondering :3