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quietwings-fics · 1 year ago

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Spin That Record, Babe

Rating: General Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Fandom: Supernatural Ship: Gen (Gabriel & Lucifer & Michael & Raphael) Additional Tags: Dancing Lessons, Waltzing, Fluff without Plot, Shippy Gen, Gabriel and Raphael are Twins (Supernatural), in an odd angel-y sense. i just feel it deserves a mention., Alternate Universe, Agender Raphael (Supernatural), Angels Becoming Humans, Raphael-centric (Supernatural), Depowered Raphael (Supernatural), Depowered Gabriel (Supernatural), Depowered Lucifer (Supernatural), Depowered Michael (Supernatural), Gift Fic Wordcount: 3070 Summary:

A brief interlude where we find out how many angels can danceon the head of a pinin the middle of Gabriel's kitchen.

The universal experience of having a little brother is that when they find anything that piques their interest, they’re going to run to you and put it in your hands. This is true whether that brother was actually born after you or if he was created in the exact same moment as you were by your Father. This is true whether it is a handful of helium atoms he fished out of a star before Lucifer managed to shoo him away, or a particularly bumpy looking toad he picked up in the garden and is now frightened for its life, or an important discovery on the laptop he found at the thrift store. Raphael is well-accustomed to being the pair of hands that most often received Gabriel’s ‘gifts’. Gabriel waves them over, and Raphael sets down their coloring book and goes. At least, if it’s on the computer, it’s nothing they’ll have to put back where he found it when he loses interest.

“Lesson eight on the good parts of humanity,” Gabriel begins. Raphael does not point out that he’s forgotten lessons three through seven, or that lesson two was a month and a half ago. “The internet.”

“I know about the internet, Gabriel.” He smirks. Raphael thinks about the half-finished bluebird in their book. They shake their head and watch the screen over his shoulder.

“But did you know that they’ve put every piece of music they’ve ever made on there?”

“Every piece,” Raphael repeats with deadpan disbelief.

“Would I lie to you?” Gabriel says. He’s typing in a link. The computer autocompletes it for him. After a minute, the page loads, and after a minute more, it shows a compilation of ‘Recommended Videos’. The vast majority of them announce themselves to be hair braiding tutorials. Absently, Raphael touches one of their own braids. Gabriel’s typing away again, and in a moment, those videos all vanish and are replaced with new ones. He clicks one, and it takes up a larger part of the screen, a spiral of dots in the middle. So far, Raphael is pretty unimpressed.

Abruptly, music blares out of the computer. Raphael jumps back. Gabriel jolts, too, and he scrambles to make it quieter. When it’s bearable, Raphael steps close to him again and listens. It’s the exact same song they heard on the radio yesterday. It sounds different through the computer than it did through the minivan’s speakers, but that’s the only difference. The singer asks for someone to scratch their back and apologizes for any skipping tracks, and Gabriel looks up at Raphael with a very familiar expectant expression on his face. It’s been a long time since they’ve encountered it, and their reaction must be lacking. “I really thought you’d be more impressed by that. Remember when they used to have to crowd around some local bard to hear a tune or two? And now, on demand!”

“I haven’t paid attention to music in a while. How am I supposed to know if it’s any good?” That’s an acceptable enough answer and wipes away the dejected look in Gabriel’s eyes.

“When was the last time you took a vessel? The nineteen eighties?”

“The eighteen eighties. Maybe.” Gabriel looks shocked.

“Raphael,” he says, “I love you, but you have got to get out of the house more often.” He twirls his finger in a loose circle, and then he snaps. “I know a guy. Let’s see if they have some of his work and jog your memory.” Raphael should tell him that they hardly stopped and listened to the music of the times, even back then, but he’s trying so hard to help them connect to this and so they stay quiet. “C-H-A-I- No, there’s a T in there somewhere.” Gabriel wrestles with spelling until the computer gives him what he wants. “Here he is.”

The volume has been lowered to a tolerable level now. Raphael listens. It’s a different kind of song that Gabriel now presents to them. Intense when it begins, and the instrumentation is wholly unlike anything Raphael's heard by chance on the radio. Raphael leans closer, intrigued, and as the song quiets and then races again, they begin to understand. Their heart seems to speed with music, as though any part of them could leave their vessel again and take to the skies. Their chest aches with the reminder of their loss, and the song grows soft again as though in tune with their thoughts before it lifts back up. Raphael wants to follow it.

"It's beautiful," they say. When they look at Gabriel, they realize he's been watching their expression this entire time. Their hand flutters restlessly in time with the spinning chords, a growing desire to do... something with their limbs that they can't put into words. Gabriel takes their hand as he stands.

"Only one thing to do with a waltz," he comments.

And Raphael, as ever, listens to what their little brother wants to share.

"It's simple once you get the hang of it," he says. "There's a rhythm to it. One, two, three, hear it?" Raphael can't pick it out, but Gabriel puts their hand on his shoulder and rests his other hand against their waist. "Step back." When they do, he comes forward. "And to the side, and forwards, and there it is." Gabriel leads them through it, again and again, slow at first and completely out of time with the music. When the song draws to a close, he pauses. Raphael aborts a step forward before they end up tripping them both up. Before Gabriel can even go over to the computer to check, however, it begins to play a new song. "Huh. Convenient. Where were we?" It gets easier with repetition, and as Gabriel brings them in time with the music, Raphael can hear the rhythm he was talking about. One-two-three, in time with their steps, one-two-three, and Gabriel laughs. "You're a natural, Raph."

"When did you learn to do this?" Gabriel is setting the pace, but Raphael is as important to the dance as him. Their movements complete what he starts. It is achingly familiar again.

"I've had a lot of time and a lot of hobbies. Taxidermy, dish-washing, and a dozen different styles of dancing. It's all about finding the right partner." Raphael sweeps left with him. All that Gabriel doesn't say is clear in how surely he grips their hand, in the mixed surprise and gratitude that crosses his face when Raphael moves in tandem with him. They don't have to wonder how long he spent searching. The answer was one gaping wound in the body of Heaven and one empty chair at Sunday dinner. Raphael sat with his absence for so long that they forgot how vibrant Gabriel was. Now, he guides them both around the table all four of them ate breakfast at this morning, and if Raphael had the choice, the music would never stop.

Behind them, they hear the door to the apartment shut loudly. They don't need to turn around to know who it is. They read it easily in Gabriel's expression, the slight tilt of his head and smirk at the corner of his lips.

"Care to join us, Luci?" In a few more steps, Gabriel has turned them enough that they can see their brother. Lucifer looks aggravated, which is why they usually don't let him go to the store (or anywhere he's expected to interact with humans for more than five seconds) alone. His gaze drifts over the two of them, and some of that frustration melts away. He sets down a bag on the counter. Inside, Raphael can see pasta. That's reassuring. If no one supplies him with the materials, then none of them will have to live through Gabriel's more experimental cooking again. (Gabriel claims that casseroles are perfectly acceptable human dishes, but they're borderline inedible to Raphael. Likewise, he regards the fact that they tend to combine food according to complimentary colors to be abhorrent.) The music continues on as Lucifer makes his choice. The computer has an endless supply to play for them. Finally, their brother steps forward. Gabriel might have his head cocked confidently like this was all a master plan coming together, but he squeezes Raphael's hand excitedly when Lucifer looks like he'll come dance. He's fooling no one.

"What do you say? Dance with the devil?" It takes Raphael a moment to realize the question is directed at them. Gabriel tips his head at Lucifer, who is kicking his shoes off to the corner of the kitchen. Raphael was expecting him to go instruct Lucifer the same way he did them, but when offers this option, they find themselves stepping away from one brother towards another. Gabriel holds onto their hand for as long as he can before he has to let them go. He circles them, favoring a hands-on teaching method as he places Lucifer's hand at Raphael's waist where his was before. Raphael closes their eyes and listens to the music instead of Gabriel telling Lucifer the steps. They find the rhythm again.

One-two-three.

One-two-"Raphael?" They open their eyes. Lucifer is waiting.

A dance with Lucifer is more difficult. He is not, or should not be, a part of them any longer. Where moving in tune with Gabriel still came as naturally as a heartbeat, it becomes arrhythmic when Lucifer takes his place. And yet, the disconnect isn't wholly in them, but in their vessels, imperfect conduits through which they must interact. These muscles were not trained to fight together, and for as light on their feet as it makes them feel, dancing isn't much like flying at all. Perhaps Raphael could match Lucifer in flight through the rings of a solar flare with ease, but a waltz leaves them both clumsy. Raphael moves to the rhythm that Lucifer hasn't picked up yet, and Lucifer steps too wide for them. Gabriel's hands land softly on their back or Lucifer's arm to offer corrections. It is, to be blunt, a mess.

Raphael hasn't had this much fun since-

Well. Since their light and laughter left Heaven.

They can see the strain his missteps put on Lucifer's pride, and for that, they keep their mouth shut. Gabriel does not, teasing him for his flat-footedness, but then Gabriel was always Lucifer's favorite. All he gets in return is a glower and an easily dodged bump. He comes around Raphael's other side and puts his hand over where the two of theirs are joined. "And lift," he says. All three hands go up. Gabriel nudges Raphael forward until they go under the arch they've formed. They didn't lift them high enough, and Raphael can feel Lucifer's wrist brush the top of their head before he corrects it. Around they go until they're back where they started.

"I want to do that again," they say. Obligingly, Lucifer lifts their hands to let Raphael under them again. It's simple, but it's delightful. They settle back into their previous positions, and the dance continues.

Raphael's not sure when Michael gets home. One moment, it's only the three of them, Gabriel now off to the sidelines as they and Lucifer have gotten better at dancing, and the next, they turn and see Michael standing near the entrance, watching them. They miss a step, and Lucifer's foot bumps into theirs. He follows their gaze back over his shoulder.

"I didn't want to interrupt," Michael says when what he means is that he knows he shouldn’t. It might be guilt or it might be pride, but either way, Michael will lament that he can never let himself be a part of them the way he desperately wants. Perhaps, if he was only faced with Gabriel and Lucifer, they would let him pull away and feel sorry for himself while he does it, but Raphael has spent lifetimes wrangling Michael.

“Come dance, brother.” Michael is hesitant, but he comes.

To kill Lucifer required Michael to be closer to God than to them. Son to absence, rather than sibling to what remained.

It is very hard for Raphael to see Michael as above them, by age or experience or their Father’s blessing. Lucifer can treat Michael like His surrogate on his worst days, and Gabriel looks at Michael like he should have been wise enough to protect them all. Raphael is the one who stayed long enough to comb broken feathers from Michael’s wings when he stopped doing it himself. They would have followed him until the end and cared for him in the aftermath of Lucifer's death, which would, even if neither of them ever acknowledged it, destroy him as much as falling on the battlefield himself.

Raphael rests their left palm against Michael’s right and guides his other hand to rest against their shoulder. They place their right in the middle of his back.

“I’m leading,” Raphael says firmly. Michael’s eyes drop to where they’ve positioned his hand but they draw back to Raphael a second later. He opens his mouth to say something, but he decides against it. Raphael closes their eyes, focuses on trying to find the rhythm Gabriel pointed out earlier. It lies hidden beneath the rest of the musical flourishes, but as steady as ever goes the one-two-three. They exhale, and they step back. Michael takes a moment too long to step with them and breaks the rhythm.

On the next cycle, Raphael tries again, and Michael, expecting it now, goes. They grow more bold, guiding him with the hand at his back. They prompt him to turn slightly with their next steps, and they manage a slow circle. It brings Gabriel and Lucifer back within Raphael’s view. Lucifer’s hand is on Gabriel’s waist, but it’s clear from the way they move that Gabriel isn’t waiting for him to decide the steps. Gabriel catches their eye. He winks, and Raphael can’t hide a smile in return.

With another rotation, they lift their arm for a spin. Michael’s hand doesn’t follow, caught off-guard again, and Raphael realizes Gabriel didn’t show him how to do this. They grip Michael’s hand and lift it for him, using their other hand to make him turn. They have to lift onto their tiptoes to get both their arms over his head.

When he’s stopped twirling, they’re still holding hands. Michael lets his grip falter, but Raphael only holds on tighter in response.

The music ends abruptly. Gabriel goes over at the computer. Raphael’s hand falls from Michael’s back. They’re expecting another waltz, another familiar rhythm. Instead, the computer starts singing again, a woman’s voice, a soulful swing to her words.

“Gabriel?” they ask. It’s a small sensory overload compared to the music they were dancing to. They can’t pick out the one-two-three. How are they supposed to dance to this?

”There’s more to this than following the steps.” Gabriel holds out a hand. “Any takers?” To go to him, Raphael has to reluctantly let go of Michael, who looks like the sudden change in tempo has sent him into shock. Gabriel takes both of Raphael’s hands in his. “Freestyle, Raph!” Raphael has no idea what that means or even where to start. Luckily, Gabriel sees. He tugs them into something similar to a waltz, the same circle, but with steps that aren’t nearly as organized. They spin together, and it can only loosely be described as ‘in time’ with the music. Gabriel looks delighted.

There's a scuffle and a thump from the couch that has them all turning. Fen's woken up from his midday nap and barrels across the checkered floor into the middle of their little gathering. Fen always moves like a dog that has not yet realized it is quite small, and as such, is constantly bumping into chairs and legs like he expects them to be pushed aside. He hits Michael's leg this time, yapping excitedly. He recovers, shakes, and circles Raphael and Gabriel, still barking.

Gabriel lets go of Raphael to pick him up, hoisting the little mutt into the air as he wiggles around and tries to lick at Gabriel's face. Gabriel spins and dips, leading to another round of barking. Some part of Raphael wonders if they shouldn't remind Gabriel about the noise complaints they've already got a collection of, but then Gabriel hugs Fen close and looks completely at peace. Their neighbors will simply have to live with a little barking and dancing.

It's Lucifer who steps forward first to take Gabriel's place. Raphael lets him. He's humming along to the chorus, and they join in, not thinking much of it until Lucifer stops all of a sudden, looking a little shaken. Raphael spares him a reaction, keeps humming, until he gathers himself and carries on like it's nothing. Like he hasn't been deprived of his siblings' voices for centuries. Some things are meant to be remedied, not talked through until the scabs are picked to bleeding.

Michael hesitates again. Of course he does. But not forever. On one twirl, (just as fun as the first time. Raphael is never going to get tired of this. Their vessel disagrees, slightly winded but it hasn't forced them to stop yet.) he steps in, and Raphael goes from Lucifer to him. There's a frustrated noise from Lucifer, quiet but clear, and Raphael takes Michael's hand and guides him until his back is to Lucifer. His focus is on them, and when they put their other hand on his chest and give him a gentle shove, he's not expecting it. He stumbles backwards into their brother.

Gabriel freezes. Fen tries to nip at his ear with a confused whine. Raphael holds their breath.

Michael hums. Lucifer is silent.

Michael's humming falters. He makes to step away. Lucifer catches the tune where he left off, wraps his arms around Michael's waist, and hooks his chin over his shoulder. For only a few moments, they sway. Michael raises a hand to lay over one of Lucifer's. Lucifer lets out a breath, releases Michael, and retreats. Michael stays frozen.

It's enough. Raphael takes pity on Michael and moves back into range to dance again. Behind him, Lucifer passes Gabriel's offered hand, but he doesn't leave. He watches them from a comfortable distance until the music ends, Michael and Raphael tire out, and Fen starts squirming to be put down.

(Enjoyed it? Any interaction is welcomed. You can even support me on Ko-Fi <3)

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keyh0use · 2 years ago

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only Barry and Rafe don't know they're dating

Pairing: Rafe x Barry

Swearing, brief jealousy, gross fluff.

This is really just an outline for a 2 chapter fic I haven't gotten around to properly writing yet. Enjoy!

Chapter 1, Part 1

♡ Barry and Rafe have been sorta friends since the first time they met. Back then, freshly eighteen, the kook was just starting to get heavy into coke. Having a cute dealer definitely contributed to how fast he gave in to the temptation.

♡ It becomes like Barry's third job to care for the boy, keeping track of how much shit he's putting in his system and stealing Rafe's bike keys when he's too fucked.

♡ Days after the first time Rafe clocked out on the porch couch from too much expensive cocktails over brunch with Topper and coke with Barry, the boy starts continuously running back to the trailer at the end of the day instead of Tanneyhill.

♡ They share a bed and every stupid secret they overhear. Everyone knows if you tell Rafe something, Barry will know about it too, and vice versa.

♡ Everyone can see how sickeningly into each other they are, affectionately poking fun at how inseparable and domestic they've become.

♡ Rafe starts picking up around the house when the man is at work or out doing a drop, disposing of empty beer bottles and old take-out containers.

♡ Since (non-explicitly) moving to the cut, Sarah conveniently finds her way to the trailer every damn time her brother is gone, trying to convince Barry to ask dumbass Rafe out. "If you don't, it's never going to happen! Don't you want a sister like me?"

♡ Wheezie feels left out being the only one stuck in Tanneyhill, making excuses to Rose about meeting with friends in order to bike all the way to the south side.

♡ The youngest Cameron sibling doesn't actually know where The Chateau or wherever the heck Rafe lives. So she pulls up alongside a fruit stand and asks for directions.

♡ Rafe, as expected, loses his fucking mind when there's a knock on the trailer door and he opens it to his thirteen year old baby sister, all on her own. But Barry is chill, hides the drugs with smooth ease and invites her in, telling the boy to calm the hell down.

♡ It turns out Wheezie and Barry have a lot of common interests, most of which she was never allowed to act on. Barry loves fishing and Wheezie wants to wade in the shallows to see tiny fishies, but that's deemed unladylike by her father.

♡ They both love action and psychological thriller movies, much to Rafe's bemusement, the kook only ever wanting to watch slasher films.

♡ "I wanna watch Texas Chainsaw Massacre...again," Rafe told the man. "Of course you fuckin' do," mumbled Barry, searching through the list for it.

♡ Meeting the parents is the last thing Barry ever thought he'd be doing, especially for someone he's not even dating. Yet here he is, pulling up alongside the manicured lawn of Tanneyhill with a present tucked safely underarm, neatly wrapped after watching four tutorials.

♡ "You came!" Wheezie exclaimed, hugging the older man around his waist.

♡ Barry had borrowed dress pants from his coworker, tucked his funeral shirt into it and ran a comb through his wet curls. Looking around at all the well-dressed guests he feels like he made a grave mistake coming, even as the little girl beams up at him.

♡ But then there's Rafe: pretty, perfect Rafe with his styled hair and wearing a suit tailored to fit him just right, nothing out of place. And he looks so happy when he spots Barry, instantly excusing himself from conversation to jog over.

♡ Rafe's hands grab for Barry's face as his instinctively latch onto the boy's waist, kook telling him with a sly grin how good he looks and suddenly his self-doubt slips away

♡ Barry catches sight of Sarah in the near distance watching the display of public affection. She mouths nut up to him, the very same words said to the girl when Barry taught her to gut a fish and she got blood on her fingers and wouldn't stop whispering ew, ew ,ew.

♡ Why should he, though? Nut up, that is. What the two of them have together right now is nice, admitting feelings might complicate it or ruin it altogether.

♡ Only fifteen minutes pass before Ward has found them, introducing himself and his wife to Barry like the woman can't speak for herself.

♡ Ward is shockingly nice to Barry, shakes his hand and starts conversation about an old car he wants looked at, something the dealer is well versed in. Which obviously the Cameron patriarch knows, making Barry spend the rest of the evening wondering how much Rafe talks about him.

♡ Other than in passing with no speaking, this is the first time Barry meets Rafe's friends too, who keep giving the boy these looks like there's some joke Barry wouldn't understand. It's only mildly aggravating, hard to find much to be pissed over when Rafe is leaning against his side.

♡ Rafe is so appreciative the man attended Wheezie's birthday, he attempts to make a thank you dinner the next evening.

♡ One day Barry gets a panicked call from Wheezie, who speaks almost too fast to follow. Her father is away on a business trip and Rose won't answer, so she hasn't been picked up from her after-school program.

♡ When the beat up truck rolls alongside where Wheezie waits with a teacher, the girl turns and says, "That's my brothers boyfriend!" And no the fuck he isn't, but if Barry doesn't bother correcting the mistake then so fucking what?

♡ Nothing compares to the amount of shit Barry's own circle gives him, though.

♡ Rafe will often stop in the garage or the pawn shop, sit on rickety chairs and watch Barry work, usually with lunch for the two of them waiting to be eaten.

♡ All the guys will take jabs at how clingy Rafe is, but ignore the way Barry's arm goes around his waist the moment they're within reach of one another or the way he draws idle patterns on Rafe's thigh just at the cut-off of those sinful pastel shorts.

♡ "Wish my wife brought me lunch," one would joke. Barry would reach over and brush his oil-stained knuckles against the flush on Rafe's cheek with a golden grin.

♡ Despite the light-hearted jabs, Rafe is always invited to shit. The mechanic shop owner loves when the kook attends because he's good at keeping a couple business type cousins away from everyone else.

♡ "The day your man stops attending these things is the day I stop having them."

♡ Rafe is attractive. Anyone with eyes could fucking see that so it's not odd that Barry stares sometimes. The boy is just so damn pretty it hurts, makes his cock swell up until he's throbbing and suffering in the bathroom trying to think of something besides blue eyes and delicate hands and a snarky attitude.

♡ Barry agrees to go to the country club with Rafe for Kelce's birthday or something, rolling his eyes when the boy threatened to upset his friend by not attending if Barry wouldn't go.

♡ That's when the older man realises other people notice how hot Rafe is, too.

♡ Some bitch mixing drinks watches the boy all night, gives him this little smile anytime he goes over, like she wants to write her number in salt on the counter and hope he gets the hint. Or like she wants Rafe to meet her after shift change.

♡ Something visceral charges in Barry then.

♡ "You gon' stay right the fuck here, got it, country club?" "Got it," Rafe whispers, bottom lip sucked between rows of white teeth.

♡ Barry holds Rafe close all damn night, likely bordering on improper behaviour in such a classy place. But he doesn't give a fuck.

#barry obx #rafebarry #rafe x barry

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tyo-mimt · 2 years ago

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8/36. @tmnt-event-blog

Candy canes are somehow the only things Mikey can't make.

"It's just hard candy in a cane, how hard can it be?"

Oh, past Raph, that was a mistake. It was that moment Raph found out Mikey couldn't cook or bake every single food item on this green-blue planet, that included hard candy. It started with the ingredients first; corn syrup, water, and sugar. They were headed in the right direction, but the ratios were still off.

"You sure we're supposed to be putting that much sugar in there?" Mikey questioned, looking over Raph's shoulder. He poured out the whole bag, seeing as Mikey did set the full thing on the counter.

"I'm sure of it," He affirmed, "Besides, we're making a bunch for everyone, right?"

"Fair point," The box turtle nodded, hopping off Raph's back, "I think we have to cook it to boiling, so be careful when we start stirring."

"Raph's got it!"

Pouring in the corn syrup and water, the snapping turtle grabbed the closest spatula and got to stirring the mixture. He switched hands from time to time, feeling the heat from the end of the spatula grow more and more. He thought he was getting the hang of it, only to feel Mikey yank the utensil out of his hand. "Raph! Don't use the metal one!"

Raph put on a quizzical look, a wooden spatula pushed into his hand. This didn't feel right, but he trusted Mikey to know more about the kitchen than he did. A few minutes pass and the concoction began to bubble and boil over.

"Shouldn't we be adding some reds to this?"

"Hmm, that sounds right... I'll see if we still have food colouring left over," He heard the tapper of Mikey walking around the kitchen, rummaging through the cabinets for any food dye.

"Got it! Should I just dunk it in?"

"Think so." Before Raph could even react, a few drops of food colouring dripped into the mixture. It boiled over more, sizzling as he stirred. The colour darkened where they expected it to brighten and bloom into a more vibrant shade of red.

"Huh, do we have moulds or something for this?"

"I think we do, but they aren't really cane-shaped."

"Eh, easy, Raph'll bend them when they cool off."

"All righty!" Mikey once again looked through the cabinets to find the moulds. The mixture continued to boil and sizzle in the pot, and Raph could only watch to make sure something didn't catch on fire.

"If that's the case, should we let it cool off now?"

A pause. Raph turned the stove off, "Yes."

He side-eyed the mixture; it was still blackening a little, but he figured the colour would change later. That's usually what happened, right? Mikey walked over, setting the moulds onto the counter before hopping onto his shoulder.

"Ohmigosh, Raph, the sugar didn't even caramalise!"

The snapping turtle blinked, "Huh?"

Mikey took the wooden spatula and stirred it around a little, black globs sticking to the end.

"Wait, do you or do you not know how to make these things?"

The box turtle paused to turn toward Raph, "I didn't know how to make candy canes, why else did you think I asked you to help?"

"What? I thought you knew?"

"Huh?"

"I thought you just wanted us to bond!"

A brief pause, one where both of them wore that face of neutral displeasure, before they erupted in laughter. Mikey sighed, pulling the pot off the stove and pushing it into the sink.

"All right, let's get this whole mess all cleaned up and look up an actual tutorial."

#rottmnt #tmnt holiday bingo #peppermint lane #rottmnt raph #rottmnt mikey

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scamber · 2 months ago

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3D Modelling and Texturing 🧰💻

Brief 4: Model, sculpt, texture and render a design of a 3D box.

Created using Maya, ZBrush and 3D Substance Painter

I'm OBSESSED with this process, I just wish I managed my time better. I followed lecturer tutorials using his design of a treasure chest before I pulled myself together and created my own design. Well, it's not really my own design obviously, these types of boxes have long existed.

I had so much fun creating the base model in Maya, it's just squares and lines and corners and it's GREAT. I think I spent a bit tooo long perfecting it, I was putting off moving into ZBrush. We were only instructed to use ZBrushCoreMini as there's a very limited amount of licenses of ZBrush proper in the art school. However, we had to install a script to be able to export objects from Maya to ZBrushCoreMini and it was just too much faff for me. It was a good opportunity to try out ZBrush.

The interface of ZBrush is overwhelming, it was explained to me multiple times and I still can't wrap my head around it. Maybe I should get Blender and try messing about in there to decide if it would be worth investing in ZBrush and coming to grips with it?

So, we sculpt our models in ZBrush with a large amount of polygons. But that's too many polygons for Maya to handle for when we move it back, so we need to export a low-poly version as well. So we put a really shite looking model back into Maya.

It looked way better in ZBrush but I forgot to take screenshots and now I can't access ZBrush.

So then we need to UV unwrap this box. UV unwrapping is so odd and I don't think I can explain it. The box is the box, and its texture is like a sticker. UV unwrapping allows you to control how the sticker is placed on a surface, it can be stretched across the face or scaled to fit. If that makes any sense. I'll find a tutorial.

This then needs to be taken to 3D Substance Painter. Before throwing textures on this, we need the high-poly version to make sure the texturing is accurate. The high-poly version is too much data however, so the information from the high-poly model needs to be 'baked' into the low-poly version. This results in a low-poly model that looks high-poly. I honestly don't understand how it works, I'll learn one day.

Someone with far more knowledge is sobbing at my explanation 😭

I textured this box by finding a 'design' I looked and altering the colour, shine and damage on the texture. Not too hard. I then went in on brush mode to add little slivers of silver - just enough to make the box appear as though it's been scratched a few times.

I thought I was overzealous adding dents and scrapes in ZBrush but it wasn't even noticeable when I added in this texture.

All those black bits on the exterior were supposed to be silver and it turned black, but it stayed black in rendering so I'm not sure what I should've done.

Then I had to stage this all and render it. This part was really fun, I just wish I knew how to make lighting good. I played about with lighting for a bit, I used spotlights but had to widen up the cone shape to the max to make it look nice-ish. You really have to up the intensity of the lights to make it actually effective.

What version's better?! The final renders or these?!

Anyway, carry on.

#animation #3d model #3d modelling #digital art #autodesk maya #zbrush #substance painter #art #art school #art student #animation student #university #box #feedback is appreciated #level 2 #for you

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columbiafawn3 · 3 months ago

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It struck me for a brief moment today that being so obsessed with my externalities, like what I wear and how I look, is kinda a disservice to the greater purpose of my life. If I’m so worried about being appealing in terms of my aesthetic because I feel socially isolated, then maybe it’s time to remind myself that people don’t want to be friends with aesthetics— they want to be friends with real people.

And I think I forget about my internal worth because I’m so focused on looking like a supermodel and dressing like I know how to dress. What about cultivating other things? I’ve almost entirely forgotten my intellect. I hardly read nowadays. Instead I just mindlessly consume pictures of super skinny women and super built guys to remind me that I don’t fit into either gender’s beauty standard. Perfect. And I wonder why I would be insecure.

But I think it’s become a bit of an addiction. I’m addicted to the second-guessing and to the low self-esteem. If I couldn’t bully myself, then what would I do? Being nice to myself feels like such a dumb thing to do given my situation. I’m not where I want to be or where I thought I would be. I’m not free and I really haven’t broken out into the gay scene like I thought I would after high school. I pursue unavailable men in my head and have friends scattered around but no unified sense of a friend group or “landing pad”. I avoid mg family by working so much so I can save enough to move out, but moving out is such a financial drain that it makes more sense not to and just wait till I have enough to buy an apartment rather than rent.

I work for a tyrannical boss and I’ve sabotaged my career at Mecca. Uni feels like an obligation, something I’m moderately interested in and pursuing because it feels like the right thing to be doing. Yes I want to be a psychologist, but that’s the last thing on my list right now. I want to be free and wild and creative, not sit in a classroom looking at case studies of random people trying to match them to a dsm diagnosis (and that’s one of the more practical tutorial activités we do).

I look through my camera roll to find photos of myself to prove that I am living a fun life, at least when it’s seen from the outside. From the inside, it feels like I’m going through the motions. I really think the solution to all of this angst is to move out. Being at home isn’t helping me. And I know I’m going on exchange in six months, but that feels like a temporary solution. Idk maybe when I get back I’ll have some more clarity about what direction I want to take my life — I can only hope.

I’m just worried that I won’t be able to wear what I want because French people can be quite judgemental and they have a strict sense of ‘bon gout’ and ‘mauvais goût’ which exhausts me even living in Australia. I want to be free. I want to escape the confines of my north shore prison life and see that there are people like me out there. I want to feel like I have a group of friends I can trust.

That Katy lyric “so many new fair weather friends” is really hitting hard rn. I feel like my solid friendships are drifting a bit and everyone’s so busy we forget to catch up. I think classifying them as fair weather friends can help me manage my expectations and not feel so wounded when I realise I’m alone again. I’m quite happy on my own, but I do wish I had someone to talk to a bit more.

I’m stressing myself out writing this. Whenever I get this feeling of like existential, unsolvable problems, I feel like vomiting. As some kind of way to purge myself of the problem.

I think I’ll catch the train to Uni tomorrow. The bus is just becoming another boring part of my routine. Plus it’s stressful because it’s been late recently and I never make it to class on time. Let’s go back to the train and see how I feel.

I do need to sleep, because I’ve been having trouble sleeping for the past few nights

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sneakyscarab · 2 years ago

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alrighty, ive now caught up from my backlog of touhous that ive beaten, so the pace from now on is gonna slow down since i need to beat the games first before i write about them. who knows though, if they take as long as this one did maybe i can keep up this pace :P

nina's thoughts on Touhou 12 - Undefined Fantastic Object

so funny story, after Subterranean Animism took me like two weeks to finish, i went into UFO expecting a similar result, but i ended up clearing within a single day. twelve (12) attempts of UFO and i had already got my 1cc! im a bit impressed with myself tbh, but i think i was helped by the gameplay changes in UFO that make it a bit easier.

for starters, real bombs are back baby! no more trading attack power for survivability, full power bombs are here again as a seperate resource. life pieces stick around, but now boss fights only give one out when you defeat their last phase. you would think this makes life pieces incredibly scarce, but theres another entirely new source for them: the titular Undefined Fantastic Objects. some enemies now drop little ufos that fly around the screen that come in one of three colours. when you pick up a ufo it goes into a small tracker in the corner, and when you collect 3 in a row all of one colour, or 1 of each, then a Big UFO spawns on screen. the UFO sticks around for about 10 seconds, slurping up every collectible that shows up onscreen. for each item it grabs, a meter around the ufo fills up and at max it drops an item depending on the colour, and when destroyed it drops another item plus everything it picked up. rainbow ufos drop more small ufos, green gives you a bomb on full meter and a bomb-piece on kill, red gives you a life piece on both, and blue does… something? i don't know. i never saw any items pop out of a blue ufo, and i prioritized blue ufos the least. i can only assume they do something relating to points since those are blue, but i honestly have no idea cause i beat the game before i had to go look anything up about it. once i figured out red guys gave you life i basically hard-focused proc'ing red ufos as much as possible, going for rainbow or green when red wasnt possible. as weird as the ufos are, i have to say their mechanics are conveyed surprisingly well without any real tutorials or even words, just really solid ui design.

the last new addition to the gameplay comes in the playable characters, Sanae is here now! wooo Sanae lets go! obviously Reimu and Marisa are here too, each of them get 2 weapon options so theres still only 6 total. i gave each one a shot, although some of them i literally only played once lol. Reimu has the standard homing shots and needles, Marisa has her illusion lasers but a new secondary weapon that shoots in sort of branching V-shapes, with a couple shots going behind her as well as in front, which i didnt find many uses for in my brief experience with it. illusion laser is the only one of these that i played more than once, as i put most of my focus into Sanae. both of Sanae's movesets are pretty neat, her first one was my weapon of choice for my 1cc attempt. based on Kanako, she shoots out snake beams that fly vertically, and then if they see an enemy to their left or right they take a 90 degree turn, making for an interesting type of homing. her other set, based on Suwako, shoots out frog beams in a wide fan angle, or straight ahead when focused, that explode into lingering AoE damage when they hit a target, which is great at clearing out huge swarms of enemies. i really like how her movesets sorta play off of Reimu's homing shots and Marisa's piercing lasers, but in very different ways compared to the two of them.

for the new characters, my favourite is probably Kogasa. this poor umbrella girl just wants to be scary, but shes inherently too silly-goofy and struggles to do what she as a youkai is Supposed to do. she's trying her best though, and looks adorable while doing it. i believe in you Kogasa!

i wasn't expecting to be a Ichirin & Unzan fan, but they surprised me. Ichirin is basically a stand user, a buddhist monk who controls her partner Unzan, a old man wind spirit with a powerful beard and even more powerful fists. the spell cards involving Unzan are great, seeing his huge angry face show up and throw hands is just hilarious. the best one by far though is their final attack, what i would call the absolute funniest spell card of the entire series so far: Thunderous Yell 「A Scolding from a Traditional Old Man」. if the name alone didn't convince you, the visuals are also hilarious, with two massive Unzan faces appearing on each side of the screen and shooting angry eye lasers at you. just look at it. perfection.

it's become a pattern in these posts that i talk about three new characters, but none of the others in UFO really stood out to me. if i had to pick one id go with Captain Murasa, just cause pirates are cool, but i don't have much more to say about her lol. sorry UFO crew!

anyways i think its about time to wrap this one up. thankfully i kept this one short so we dont have another SA essay situation lol. UFO is pretty fun, if a little bit Too easy with how much free stuff you can get from good ufo management. the story and characters really didn't stand out to me, and with how quickly i finished this one i don't expect it to really stick out much in my brain once i finish the series. if anything from UFO sticks it probably will just be Unzan's laser eyes. can we play that back one more time? thanks.

#grimoire of nina #touhou #touhou 12 #touhou UFO #undefined fantastic object #touhou project

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epimethcus · 2 years ago

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lorenzcvalentin·:

There was a squeak that came from his shoulder and Enzo smirked, “Yeah but I don’t think she loved that though.” Maybe he was wrong, Lorenzo didn’t speak hedgehog but Theus did. “What did she say?” Enzo was already pulling on the other’s dinosaur costume as he closed the little fascinators. Wow, it was super hot in here, no wonder Theus was sweaty. “But yes, ask away. Ask like, twenty-one questions at once I bet I can answer all of them. As long as they’re about me, I’m not great at tests.” Twenty-one questions were usually all personal, if Theus busted out the math then he was going to be in trouble and just look like an idiot in front of him.

“Okay Mila, hold on tight.” She seemed to be able to understand him to some degree because when Enzo put her on the thick den of curls she burrowed in and seemed to hang on for dear life. This would be so much cooler and way funnier in a dinosaur costume, with a running start, Lorenzo did a front handspring step out, round off back handspring step out, round off back handspring, into a full twisting layout. At least, that’s what the Youtube tutorial he’d watched said that he did. The centrifugal force had Mila hanging on for dear life but she was still in his hair, likely with spiral swirly eyes as he left her there to settle. Having a hedgehog on your head seemed normal when you were hanging out with Theus. “Cool, right?” He’d been a showoff for most of his life, someone told him once that all the best athletes always were, so Enzo just never stopped. He popped open the dino costume again to let some fresh air in.

Mila was being very vocal right now and he could only keep giving her a look because, well, Enzo was just...Enzo. There could be nothing that happened between them without the lycan actually being okay with it happening. Maybe they could hold hands or something. That would be nice. Friends did that, didn’t they? Maybe. He held hands with Nettelia sometimes. Oh, but he didn’t like the archdruid like that so it wasn’t the same. She was like a sister to him and Enzo absolutely was not. Maybe he shouldn’t have developed a crush on some heterosexual guy. He was very confused about the song, but he didn’t want to question the other until he wanted to say something else about it. Anyway, he took a brief look at the hedgehog and booped her on the nose. “She said you’re cute. That’s why she’s holding on so tightly,” he said with a slight chuckle as Enzo got into the dino costume. Well, now he couldn’t see the lycan’s face and that was just sad. But he pushed that thought to the side as he tried to come up with twenty-one questions to ask.

“Uh, okay. Let me think.” He didn’t do that often. Epi usually just acted and then thought about it afterwards. That was never a good idea, but he had friends that made sure he didn’t make any super grave errors. Wait, he was supposed to be thinking of questions. “Um...do you like animals? What about hedgehogs? Do you like cats? Do you like dogs? Do you like tegus? There’s also Asian water monitors. Do you like those? Do you like black rat snakes? Do you like cows? Do you like pigs? Do you like parakeets? Do you like sheep? Do you like goats? Do you like ducks? I really love dinosaurs. Do you like them, too? What about koalas? Oh, and red pandas, too. Do you like those? Do you like frogs? Do you like owls? Do you like sea turtles? Do you like foxes? Do you like deer? What about lions? Tigers? Bears? Raccoons? Elephants? Giraffes?” He had lost count of how many questions that was. Was that how he was supposed to play this game? He wasn’t even sure. Those questions would be about Enzo, right? Epimetheus could tell a lot about a person by the animals they liked. “Was that twenty-one? Oh, what’s your favorite movie? Do you like movies? I liked movies. They’re pretty cool.”

Hopefully Enzo would get through all of those questions, but Epi was more focused on watching what the lycan did next. He was always doing something cool so he was absolutely watching intently. Mila held on as Enzo did a bunch of flips...with the dino costume on. Wow, he was so cool. Of course Epi brought his hands together to clap. “That was so awesome. I would ask you to do it again, but Mila looks like she might pass out.” He looked at her swirling eyes and smiled. “You’re really good at flipping and stuff.” Why had that sounded so awkward?

#d. lorenzcvalentin #dialogue.#all. lorenzo valentin #e. midsommar night's dream

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mauvaise-reputation · 5 years ago

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your picture of your outer worlds character looks great!! i saw in your tags about the font, and was wondering what font it is? i've been looking for it too!

Thank you dear! You can find it on Dafont here: https://www.dafont.com/evolve-2.font

Go and make beautiful things ♥

#Mauvaise babble #The Outer Worlds #I thought about making a really brief tutorial on how to get that look on ps in case anyone needs it #Anonymous

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the-hydroxian-artblog · 3 years ago

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How do you go about designing robots? They all look so cool

TL;DR If you want to design a robot, that means you probably have ideas as to what a "cool" robot is. Find out what you think is cool, think of any backstory you think makes sense, then use existing robot designs as inspiration to figure out the visuals.

I wrote up something really long and rambly, and I'm gonna leave those extended thoughts below anyway; I apologize if this gets too dense and wordy, but to be frank I still gloss over way too much in it, as it's a really big question to answer without being reductive and frustratingly vague, or on the flipside making entire-ass tutorials/process essays on how I made all of my robot characters. I also made a guide for designing ruppets before that sort of answers your question, but I warn you that it's purely text, in-case you were hoping for some visual tutorial.

In any case, on with the ranting.

Honestly I'm more of a worldbuilder, so when I get this question I immediately jump to answering it from a storytelling perspective, not a simple "how to design a badnik" tutorial kinda thing. Robots are made for specific purposes. If they lack purpose, this can be a glaring issue, or a great trait towards your robot's backstory. Figuring out the backstory is pretty crucial, and the sooner you know that, the sooner you'll be able to ride your intuition and figure everything else out.

There's a LOT that can go into it, but there's two aspects, visual and descriptive, both of which are kinda the same thing but kinda not.

Descriptively, good robot design depends on the setting and the story told through text, and depends mostly on whatever one's heart wants above all else.

I come up with a premise I really like/want, and then ask questions to rationalize/reason backward to justify it. What do I want? Why, in its own universe, does it exist?

With these answers, you can figure out how to answer the visual question: How would this thing look like, then?

Possibly my most popular design, Splats, can answer these questions with both a visual and brief-enough flavor text to supplement her. Hopefully.

1. What did I want? A modern version of Splats, a scrapped Sonic 1 badnik. I thought it'd be cool. People apparently agree.

2. Why, in-universe? Why was Splats upgraded? She was meant to be scrapped in-universe, but didn't get the memo. Used abandoned eggman factories to repair and upgrade herself.

3. How, visually? How would she look like, then? I took elements like her thighs and tails and eyes, and made them more mechanical, taking some inspiration from P-Body from Portal 2, badniks in Sonic Colors, and toys with springs in their torsos. Also, of course, I took inspiration from artwork of Splats as well. Bash these together, and you'll likely get something like this. I wanted to stay somewhat faithful to the distinct shape language of the original, while adding something new and refining it as well as I could manage.

Another example, this time in my own OC canon: K-55, a one-off design I whipped up for fun.

1. What did I want? I wanted to draw a funny bird robot that had a serious/morally messy profession. The concept is funny to me.

2. Why does he exist in-universe? He wasn't built to look like this specifically. He was more of a standard robot for basic tasks that modified itself to look this way due to an eccentric personality. He has an eccentric personality because having certain quirks in robots can lead to them being creative problem solvers. This has a side-effect of them often dressing themselves up in different ways, whether alienating or appealing. That basically gives me the excuse to make him look as weird as I want.

3. How would he look like? A mess. Visually, he has a bunch of noticeable funny shapes working together to create a distinct, odd outline. His face is a bit wall-eyed, and he has a strange "hair style", which imply strange tastes. With the clear implication that he wasn't designed purposefully like this by anyone else, the design sends clear messages about his personality, and how unhinged he is.

One last example: Kaita, my beloved.

I wanted a cute, strong, robot wolf woman with a very friendly personality. The idea of a robot wolf woman is absurd on many levels, but I reason she was made as a weapon of sorts, but got misused and now lives her own life. This answers What she is and Why she exists, so lastly, there's How she'd appear as. In her case, I basically just figured she'd look like a furry terminator with exposed internals in some parts, large claws, etc.

There's many different ways to go about that, but by answering the previous questions of What, Why, and How, I can at least not go in blind as I develop the visual aspect of her design, and see if I'm being faithful to the concept. "Nice Terminator Wolf Lady" is basic in premise, but with tons of room for experimentation in execution. I designed Kaita years ago, and only in the past two or three years did she really look consistent.

#FAQ #Character Design #nonsense

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mypoisonedvine · 4 years ago

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the martyrdom of st. valentine (and other romantic stories) || dark!Bucky & dark!(stepbrother?)Steve x reader

summary: you wanted to surprise your boyfriend on valentine's day, but he and your foster brother have a surprise of their own.

word count: 2.7k

warnings: smut (heavy dubcon to the point of pretty much noncon), kinda stepcest (as per summary, steve is the reader's foster brother), bondage, a lil touch of degradation

2/14 to-do list

get waxed

get Steve out of the apartment

pick up chocolate-covered strawberries from bakery on 6th

blindfold and handcuff myself to the bed

be waiting for Bucky naked when he gets here

You sighed as you looked down at the paper, crossing the first and third items off the list. The second was going to be a bit harder, unfortunately; your foster brother had a habit of hanging around and cramping your style as much as he could manage. He felt like a real brother in that way… okay, maybe he felt like a real brother in most ways, a consequence of knowing him for most of your life, but he was definitely not your real brother. You remembered that each time you caught yourself staring too long when he was shirtless, or returning from the gym all veiny and glistening with sweat.

But you also remembered that he was still the closest thing to a real brother you'd ever had, and you scolded yourself internally for ever acting differently.

It didn’t matter now— you had Bucky, and he was the most amazing guy you’d ever met. No, Steve was definitely not happy that introducing his best friend to his sister led to a relationship forming, but he couldn’t stop either of you in spite of his efforts to keep you apart.

Bucky had once expressed his suspicions that it was at least in part due to jealousy, if subliminal. But you denied it unilaterally— he’s basically my brother, you told him, though it was more of a reminder to yourself than anything.

Perverted concerns about Steve’s motivations aside, Bucky was a great guy. A bit of a sweet-talker for sure, and not exactly known for his ability to keep a long-term, serious relationship, but he was adamant that you had changed that and for once you were beginning to believe him. You’d said from the beginning that you didn’t need this to be the proverbial ‘it’ for either of you but that you didn’t do hook-ups— especially with your brother’s friends, and extra especially with your brother’s closest and longest friend. It only took a brief speech and two shots to convince you, now six months later and you were still going strong.

Days like this made you so happy you’d given in to his advances. But they also made you regret giving in to Steve’s idea to be roommates in college.

“Stevie!” you yelped as he walked in, stuffing the to-do list into your backpocket. “Just the man I wanted to see.”

“I doubt that,” he scoffed. “It’s Valentine’s Day, I bet you want to see Bucky. He’s coming over, right? And you want me to fuck off so my best friend can go to town on my sister?”

You frowned, crossing your arms. “I wanted to see you because I have a gift for you.”

“... you do?” His eyebrow raised and you hoped your smirk looked just as smug as it felt.

“So do you want your gift or do you want to be an asshole?”

“Do I have to pick just one?” he joked.

“Just come over here,” you instructed, waving him closer. He seemed hesitant, but eventually did as you’d asked. From your other back pocket you pulled out two tickets.

“Rangers, center ice,” you beamed. “For you and a date.”

“And this isn’t just an excuse to get me out of the house?”

“No, it’s a thank you for being such a great brother.”

“So, if I wanted to take Bucky…” he trailed off, already calling your bluff as you rolled your eyes.

“Okay, that’s just sad. There’s no reason you can’t find a girl to take— god knows Bucky hasn’t spent a Valentine’s Day alone since the fucking eighth grade. And you’re just as cute as he is!”

“Well, if you could alert the rest of the female population to that, that would be great,” he scoffed, “but until then I’ll take the tickets,” he decided as he took them from your hand. “A Rangers game might be the only thing distracting enough to keep me from thinking about what you and Buck are gonna do while I’m gone.”

You were hoping for a little more enthusiasm considering how much the tickets had cost you, but at least he was going to go and give you the apartment to yourself for the evening. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

After stripping and sprinkling rose petals on the comforter, you'd actually found a YouTube tutorial on how to blindfold and handcuff oneself, and it was a little odd that enough people had this problem to merit its existence but it was still very helpful: turns out the secret is to blindfold yourself first but keep it folded up with one eye able to see until you do the handcuffs, then use your arm to slide the blindfold down into place.

It was tricky, and a little bit extra awkward while naked, but you figured it out and smiled proudly to yourself as you completed your last task on your to-do list.

Now, for likely the most difficult task of all: waiting in darkness and silence for Bucky to arrive.

Apparently it is, in fact, possible to be slightly bored yet titillated. The thought of what Bucky would do to you when he got here was exciting, but it only made you crave his presence more which enhanced your quiet loneliness. It wasn't like you could read a book or listen to music to kill the time, so you settled for humming to yourself as you waited.

Don't go changing, to try and please me, something something before, hmmm

I just want someone that I can talk to, I want you just the way you are...

But that grew tiresome quickly and you resorted instead to planning exacty how angry you would be if Bucky was late when you were waiting for him in such a compromising and inconvenient state. For a moment you imagined he'd really gone to the Rangers game with Steve and became briefly livid over a hypothetical situation.

The crackling roar of Bucky's motorcycle outside was distant but undeniable, making you smile in anticipation. You worried for a moment that you might have locked the top lock of the front door by instinct, but thankfully Bucky and to make it inside alright since next thing you knew, your bedroom door was opening.

The rattle of the doorknob made your breath catch; you opened your legs slowly in time with the quiet creak of the hinges. “I’ve been waiting for you…” you purred.

“Hi there, babydoll,” Bucky’s voice answered back huskily.

The heavy steps of his boots made it clear he hadn't taken his shoes off at the door, a habit that had driven you crazy since he was your annoying brother's also-annoying best friend. Was this the real reason he'd chained you up, so he could freely irritate you? What next, was he gonna put a cold drink on your nightstand without a coaster?

"You really went all out for me, sweetheart," he noticed, his voice closer than you'd expected; it was fun to not know exactly where he would be, it made you squirm under the gaze you couldn't see but could somehow feel.

How weight joining yours on the bed was a good sign to his location though, along with his hands sliding up your legs.

“Look at this pretty pussy,” he cooed pridefully as he dove in suddenly and licked a thick stripe through your folds.

“Fuck,” you shivered, tugging on your handcuffs unintentionally.

“Feel good, babygirl?” he pressed, chuckling when you nodded. “You want more?”

“Please,” you whimpered.

He didn’t get back to it right away, the weight on the bed shifting slightly, and it made you fear that he planned to make you beg more before eating you out— but finally his lips returned to you as his tongue explored your sex.

“Oh god,” you moaned, your back arching of its own volition. It was a little different than he normally did this— less confident and measured, more cautious yet hungry. Typically he teased you a lot more, knowing exactly the spots that drove you wild and intentionally leaving them understimulated until you begged him to let you come, but now as soon as he found them he was targeting them— perhaps a rare show of mercy from the guy who was normally happy to leave you on edge for hours.

You could feel his moans vibrating into you when he slid his tongue inside and against your channel; it instantly made your back arch as the handcuffs quietly clinked above your head.

He stopped just a little too soon, pulling your hips up until the back of your legs were resting on the front of his. Being manhandled by him turned you on enough to make you bite your lip.

"Fuck, put your cock in me, wanna feel you," you moaned your plea as you heard the rustling of clothes; your mouth watered when you imagined Bucky stripping, with that insane body of his.

His thick head glided over your entrance and you were preparing to beg some more when he suddenly pushed in, giving you what you wanted so much faster than normal. Not that you were complaining!

He was also much quieter than normal, which you were actually willing to complain about but didn't.

"Oh god," you groaned at the feeling of him stretching you open, gasping when his cock brushed right over your spot— it made your body jolt each time he pulled back and hit it again.

"Feels good, huh?" Bucky asked and you nodded happily.

"So good," you whimpered.

"I wasn't asking you."

Before you could question it, Bucky’s calloused fingers pulled up your blindfold— but it was Steve’s face above you, Steve’s body on top of yours… and, much to your horror, Steve’s cock inside you.

“What the fuck?!” you yelped, trying to squirm away as you tugged at the cuffs but failing completely.

“Fuck,” Steve winced, “you get really tight when you struggle like that.”

“Don’t act so surprised, babygirl,” Bucky cooed playfully as you turned to stare at his devilish grin. “You wanted this… you just didn’t want to admit it to yourself. And Stevie here always wanted this, too, and aren’t you so glad he told me?”

You shuddered as Steve continued thrusting, pushing his cock so deep it made you feel a little nauseous. "Steve, you've gotta stop," you begged. "If you love me, you'll stop."

"That's the thing: I love you too much to stop."

He moved faster, paying no mind to your confused whimpers, holding your hips tight as his head fell back slightly which brandished his thick neck and bobbing Adam's apple.

"There's no point in pretending," Bucky reminded you coldly, watching the whole thing with crossed arms and an expression that almost looked… bemused? "You already showed us how much you love it, so don't waste your time acting so disgusted now."

You regretted more than anything saying that it felt good, literally asking him to fuck you before you really understood what you were asking for: you thought it was Bucky, yes, but that didn't mean it was an act. It did feel good, and that must've been obvious to everyone since you were so wet already. You could hear it each time he pushed all the way in, that telltale squelching noise that was somehow disgusting and hot all at once.

Steve wasn't so quiet now that he didn't have to be. "God, you feel so good," he whispered, grabbing the backs of your knees and pushing your legs up. It forced his cock even deeper and you choked on your own suppressed moan.

You heard Bucky opening his belt, and turned your head to see him pull out and stroke his cock while he watched Steve fuck you. It was hard to imagine what he was getting out of this; he never seemed like the sharing type, if anything he sometimes became too possessive. But clearly there was a lot about him and Steve that you didn't understand.

"Play with her tits," Bucky instructed, voice a bit deeper as he pleasured himself, "makes her come so fast."

Steve dropped your legs to rest on his shoulders so his hands were free to grope your chest, thick fingers twisting and tugging your nipples. Annoyingly, Bucky knew his way around your body well by now, and so it was difficult to pretend that Steve's touches weren't sending shocks of pleasure right down your spine and to your core.

You had been biting on your lip so hard to stay quiet that you feared you would break the skin, until Bucky leaned down and gave you a little slap on the cheek— not very hard, but enough to make you gasp which in turn released the moan you'd been holding back.

"There it is, honey, don't be quiet for my benefit," Bucky encouraged. "It's okay to like it, I'm not gonna be jealous."

As if that was your concern; angering your boyfriend by enjoying being fucked by your foster brother.

"You really overestimate my interest in your— fuck— in your feelings," you panted as you glared up at Bucky where he was grinning down at you with a look that almost indicated pride.

"You're gonna come, aren't you?" he asked, ignoring your resistance entirely. Whatever chance you had at pretending he was wrong was lost when, just for a moment, your eyes widened at his question. "Yeah, thought so. I can tell by that dumb look on your face. I'm close too, babydoll, betcha wanna taste it…"

His free hand roughly held your jaw open as he stroked himself desperately, his weak groan coinciding with the moment you felt his hot seed spray into your open mouth, his taste familiar despite the entirely surreal circumstances.

It was purely coincidence that you came in that moment, your walls bearing down on Steve while you tried to stay silent so you wouldn't choke on Bucky's spend.

"Fuck, that's it, gonna fill this pretty mouth— god yes, you'd better swallow it all," he sighed as come painted your tongue and the inside of your cheek. Maybe it was more than normal or maybe it was just that he was tightening his hand around the head of his cock to get every drop in your mouth, but either way it was enough to give you quite a mouthful to swallow, which you did without much question due to force of habit.

"M’close too," Steve warned as Bucky stepped back, "I'm gonna come."

“No, Steve, not inside,” you whimpered, hearing the way your voice had weakened after your orgasm, “you can’t…”

“I can,” he disagreed, “Bucky said so.”

Once again, Bucky's will was more important than your own, and your desperate pulling at the handcuffs was only another reminder of the way you'd guided yourself into his trap.

"Don't," you stammered one more time, but it was hard to focus when he was filling you exactly how you needed, when his thick hands gripping your waist felt just as perfect as you'd secretly imagined so many times…

Denial is a powerful drug, but so is two orgasms in a row.

"Fuck!" you yelped as you felt a gush of warmth drip from your entrance, even further wetness spurring on Steve's fast and brutal thrusts into you.

"Knew you'd love it," Steve mumbled, growling slightly as he slammed into you. "Knew you'd take it so well, make a pretty mess all over my cock— fuck I can't wait anymore, gotta fill you up, oh my god... gotta give you my load, honey, you want it?"

"Yes," you sobbed, "Steve, yes, come in me…"

He didn't need much more encouragement than that, groaning loudly as you felt his cock flex and pulse against your walls, his release overwhelmingly hot inside you.

You sighed in time with Steve as he finally stilled, and it was hard to know where to look when Steve and Bucky were both staring down at you. “What happens now?” you found yourself asking, not so much a literal question about the next task but more about what the three of you were going to do with all the unfortunate truths that had come to light in less than half an hour.

“What happens now is I take my turn,” Bucky informed you sternly, pushing Steve aside. “Did you really think I wasn’t gonna fuck my girlfriend on Valentine’s Day?”

#dark!stucky x reader #dark!bucky barnes x reader #dark!steve rogers x reader #dark!bucky barnes smut #dark!steve rogers smut

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snackhobi · 5 years ago

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pairing: taehyung x reader / word count: 13.3k / genre: fluff, friends to lovers, smut (NSFW, 18+)

summary: you’re used to being in love with taehyung. you’ve had a lot of time to get good at it, after all—by this point you’re the world’s expert at keeping your less-than-platonic feelings hidden from him, what with the amount of practice you’ve had.

but then he signs up for a massage therapy course, because apparently you can never catch a break.

or: the one where taehyung gives you a full body massage and then some.

warnings: sexually explicit content, massage with a happy ending (literally 🤧), cursing, edible massage oil/lube, fingering (f), unprotected sex (be safe when you have sex please), multiple orgasms (f), oral sex (m), cum swallowing, pet names, body worship?, brief mention of shower sex

a/n: I swear this was meant to be pwp. this was literally meant to just be pwp with some massage shenanigans. and then I blinked and it had become a soft 13k fic which honestly… kicked my ass quite a bit. but I hope you enjoy it!! thank you as always to @hobi-gif for beta reading this and encouraging me and putting up with me changing this multiple times, what would I do without your support miss hope?

Taehyung goes through a lot of different phases.

He just finds so many things interesting. Photography, art, art history, music, fashion, thrift shopping; heck, there was even the time he got weirdly into making tea and became some sort of connoisseur, going through the whole rigmarole of buying the loose leaves and weighing them out, checking the temperature of the water, brewing for a precisely measured amount of time.

You still remember the look on his face when you said it all tasted like hot leaf water to you.

Because, of course, as one of Taehyung’s best friends and his roommate, you’re inevitably swept up in everything he does. You’re used to the weirdly acrid smell of photo development fluid and how cold dark rooms can get. You use phrases like chiaroscuro and sfumato to describe the simplest things after listening to Taehyung do the same for so long. You’ve lost count of the amount of times you’ve tripped over his saxophone case when he leaves it lying around the apartment. You regularly wear the baggy t-shirt with the face that Taehyung had painted on it—even if you still refer to it as the Squidward-House-Shirt despite the fact you know he was inspired by Basquiet and Schiele and not the Easter Island themed stone head that Squidward lives in.

You don’t mind getting dragged along with whatever he does, honestly; you don’t have time to attend every class, but go with him when you can. It’s always good to expand your horizons. You also love watching Tae’s face whenever he learns something new, the various expressions that flit across his features—from wide eyed excitement and eyebrow raising astonishment to the more solemn side that appears whenever he’s taking something in and thinking deeply about it, turning it over in his mind, mulling on it.

(You love watching Tae’s face all the time, actually, but that’s a whole other can of worms you’d rather keep shut.)

However, the latest course he’s signed up for is not one you’d been expecting.

“Massage therapy?” Your face twists in equal parts confusion and surprise.

Taehyung’s dropped this latest nugget of information while you’re cooking, trying to fry some rice while also peering at the phone screen that’s been thrust into your face. You’re not bad at multitasking, per se, but Taehyung’s iPhone is drifting so close that you’re almost cross-eyed and it’s blocking you from seeing what’s going on in the pan.

“I had a coupon,” he says, as if that explains everything. (It doesn’t.)

“Scooch,” you say, and he immediately moves so you can turn the gas off.

“Jiminie and Jungkookie say that my massages help with dance, and that's just from Youtube tutorials.” Taehyung continues to talk as you bustle around the tiny kitchen. He’s already set the table so now he’s free to watch you finish doing the rest of the work. “And Joon-hyung says I have the perfect hands for it.”

You fumble with the pan as you’re scooping the steaming rice into a large bowl, only just managing to save food from scattering everywhere. You’ve thought about Taehyung’s hands a lot, about how large and long fingered and beautiful they are, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“Really? Huh. That’s nice.” You stare at the pan, fixated on getting every grain of rice so you can avoid looking at Taehyung’s face. And hands. Which are still cupped around his phone. Which looks so small in his big, pretty grip.

Jesus Christ.

“It means I can give you massages if you ever start to get tense.” Taehyung sounds pleased, lovely grin on his face at the prospect of being able to rub his hands over you. As if that isn’t going to make every single one of your muscles lock up and turn you into some sort of coiled rope of a human being, which is the complete opposite of what a massage is supposed to achieve.

“Great.” Despite your inner turmoil, your voice is level and steady as you meticulously scrape the last grain of rice into the bowl, chasing the tiny fleck of white around the huge pan. Scrape, scrape, scrape. “Sounds fabulous. Can’t wait.”

Of course Taehyung would sign up to learn something that he could use to help his friends. He’s so big-hearted and loving. Big-hearted and loving and kind and funny and affectionate and beautiful and deep-voiced and so entirely overwhelming in every single way imaginable.

You do what you always do when confronted yet again with your all-consuming crush—you bottle that shit the fuck up until he’s not in the room.

And then you have a miniature breakdown at Pickles.

“I am going to die,” you whisper-scream. “He’s going to offer to massage me and he’s going to get a bottle of massage oil out and he’s going drizzle it onto his massive hands and I am going to fucking die.”

The bearded dragon cocks his head as he stares at you. Taehyung had come home with the reptile one day, tank and all, saying that someone on Facebook had been giving him away because they were moving house and could they just look after him for a little while, please, pretty please? Until they found a good home for him? Please?

That was over a year ago. (You’ve always been bad at saying no to Taehyung.)

“I hate my life,” you lament to the lizard, but then you hear the noisy flush of the toilet and know that Taehyung is going to emerge from the bathroom soon, so you have to wrap this miniature meltdown up pronto. “I wish I was a bearded dragon too, you know. All you do is get fed and sit under the heat bulb. Your life is so easy. You don’t even know what capitalism is.”

The silence you get from Pickles is far more support than you get from your human friends once you tell them. Yoongi just raises his eyebrows while Seokjin and Hoseok laugh outright in your face, just like they always do when you cry to them about Taehyung.

You need new friends. These ones are defective. (If only you’d kept the receipt so you could return them.)

“We learned how to do neck and shoulder massages today!” Taehyung says brightly after the first session.

You hum in response. You’re rewatching Pacific Rim together, cuddled up against Taehyung’s side, and you don’t have to turn your head to know what expression is on his face. There’ll be that little upturn to his lips, happiness at learning something new. That warmth in his eyes at being able to share it with you, even if you couldn't be there with him. Those little freckles on his face, under his eye, his nose, his lip; the one you’ve imagined kissing more times than you can count.

“My teacher says I have a natural talent with my hands,” he adds, and you’re so grateful that you can blame your sudden intake of breath on the scene that’s playing on the screen, as high stakes as it is.

“That’s nice,” you say, and mentally pat yourself on the back at keeping the strain out of your voice. You've had a lot of practice at this. “I’m not surprised, though. You’ve always been good at doing things with them.”

That’s not a euphemism. Taehyung’s always so careful when he makes things; you’d learned how to fold different origami patterns together, matching crane for crane, lotus for lotus, and he’d always been so delicate with his fingers. He’s always so careful and considerate with you, too, fingers splayed wide across your shoulder as he squeezes you closer to his side, leaving you breathless.

“I wish you could come too.” Taehyung sounds disappointed. “We always have so much fun together.”

For the first time in your life you’re grateful that your manager at Olive Chicken is such a hardass and won’t let you swap shifts, so you’d had to miss signing up for the massage course with Taehyung—because you know there’s no way you’d be able to keep it together if there was some sort of tandem practice in class or whatever. Your crush on him is filled with equal parts of tenderness and lust and you’re well aware of that. You’d rest your hands on the soft skin of Taehyung’s shoulders and back, the lust would overwhelm you, and you’d immediately burst into flames like some sort of demon stepping over the threshold of a church.

Why oh why did God have to make Kim Taehyung so hot?

Why oh why did God have to make you so… not?

You know Taehyung doesn’t see you in a romantic light at all. You’re grateful for this deep, platonic relationship you have, and you love him to pieces, but holy hell is it hard to walk around with Kim Taehyung looking the way he does and wanting to jump his bones while simultaneously being aware that it’s never going to happen. Whenever he smiles at you, or touches you, or holds you, it’s in exactly the same way as he treats any of his friends—and as happy as you are to be one of those friends, it also kind of kills you inside.

(Because you know you don’t have a chance, have never had a chance, and will never have a chance.)

The idea of offering to massage Taehyung is one that makes you want to melt into a puddle of horny goo. But when he offers to massage you, it’s because you’re a convenient practice partner who he’s comfortable with. It’s no big deal. You could strip naked and slather yourself up in oil and stand in front of him with your bosoms heaving and say ‘Have at me, big boy’ and Taehyung would say: ‘Sweet! A chance to practice deep tissue massage! Gee, thanks for being such a great pal!’

The kind of deep tissue you want Taehyung to massage is very different to whatever he’s talking about.

… Anyway.

You manage to avoid Taehyung using his apparently magic fingers on you for a surprising amount of time, though you’re kept up to date with his progress, because he shares everything with you and tells you about everything and you always, always listen. Because, more than being your crush, he’s one of your best friends and you love him.

Which is why you try your best to be gentle, graciously refusing his offer of a shoulder massage after he sees you wincing, even if with anyone else you’d just tell them to back off with zero hesitation.

“It’s fine,” you say, flapping a hand at him. “I just slept on it funny.”

“A massage would help! It won’t take long, I promise. Five minutes? Please?”

Taehyung’s looking at you with those big puppy eyes of his, pleading. You waver. You’re torn between being steadfast and avoiding a situation you’ve literally had nightmares about (Taehyung had offered to massage you, and you’d said yes, but then you’d fallen over as you were walking to him and suddenly a lasagne had appeared in your hands and you’d spilled it all down your shirt and he’d pointed and laughed and laughed and you’d felt so embarrassed that you’d woken up, cheeks burning), but then he pouts and you give in like the spineless and lovesick fool that you are.

“Five minutes,” you say, and Taehyung nods emphatically, looking pleased.

(You have the backbone of a chocolate éclair.)

You send quiet thanks to whatever God is listening when he doesn’t ask you to take your top off and doesn’t break out a bottle of scented oil. Instead he just asks for you to straddle a chair, clutching a plushie against your chest to cushion where it leans against the backrest, and tells you to get comfy.

“Just relax,” he says, as you desperately try to remember how your body works and coax it to relax like Taehyung wants you to. You fail miserably. You feel like a ball of rubber bands, each muscle a layer of tighter and tighter elastic that’s circled around you. “Lean forwards a little?”

At least Taehyung can’t see your face from this angle. You have no idea what sort of expression is twisting your features; consternation and horrified anticipation, probably. You're basically throttling your plushie, taking out your tension and frustration on the poor thing, Rilakkuma's placid face morphing into a twisted expression of sympathy under your grasping fingers.

“Perfect,” Taehyung says. The sound of praise in his deep voice has your insides turning into overheated syrup, hot and thick, dripping down and pooling between your legs. You hate yourself. Getting turned on by the most innocuous words from your best friend, really? Get it together.

The second you feel Taehyung's warm hands touch the back of your neck, your shoulders hunch up faster than a whiplash, a turtle sucking its head into its shell. Your friend laughs.

“This is the opposite of relaxing,” he says, voice warm with amusement.

“You surprised me.” You dig your nails into Rilakkuma's soft brown fur. Taehyung just thinks you're not used to being massaged, not that you're being weird because it's him that's touching you. Because he touches you a lot. He’s just never done it like this. “Sorry.”

“It's fine,” he replies, unruffled and oblivious. “Let me try again?”

You bite your lip, desperately trying to quell the mix of arousal and tension that’s churning in your stomach, begging your muscles to unwind. You’ve kept your crush a secret from him for this long, you can keep that energy up. (You have to keep that energy up.) “Um. Okay.”

You’re still tense when Taehyung puts his hands on you again. The touch is warm through your clothes, firm but careful, digging into the sharp line of tension laid across your shoulders; despite the way your heart is threatening to launch itself out of your chest, you start to loosen up, because holy shit that feels nice, actually.

You melt against Rilakkuma and smother the bear's face in your chest. “Your teacher wasn’t kidding when they said that you’re good with your hands,” you mumble.

You’ve never gotten a proper massage before but it feels so damn good that you can’t help but unwind, turning to jelly at the confident presses of Taehyung’s fingers and palms into the soft skin between your neck and shoulder. A little sigh spills past your lips when Taehyung starts to work at the part that’s been twinging after you lay crookedly on it, limbs akimbo in your sleep after a long night at work. “Oh, right there, Tae.”

Taehyung goes still for just a second before continuing, trailing his fingers over your shirt. “Here?”

Your eyes have drifted shut so you can focus on the sensation of that tension being pulled out of your body. “Yeah, right there,” you repeat, massaged into a state of lazy euphoria. The breath you let out is long and deep, catching in the back of your throat at a particularly firm rub of Taehyung’s hands; if you weren’t so blissed out you might be embarrassed at how much the noise you make is like a moan, but as it is, you don’t even notice. You just let out a little sound of discontent when Taehyung’s fingers stutter in their motions, displeased that he’s stopped even for a second.

By the time the massage is over, you’re so relaxed that you feel like you could melt into the floor, a wobbly puddle of unwound muscles and loose limbs. It’s official. You’re a massage convert.

“Holy shit.” Your eyes flutter open as you lean away from Rilakkuma so you can turn around. They’re the first coherent words you’ve spoken for a while; small sighs and sounds have been dripping from your lips and it’s only now that you’re able to regain your breath. “Tae, that was amazin—”

You’re met with the sight of Taehyung’s back as he power walks away, steps rapid, a little shaky, awkward. Before you can ask what’s wrong, he’s stepping into the bathroom.

“I need to wash my hands,” he says without looking at you, before the door slams shut.

You don’t remember Tae telling you about how quickly you have to wash your hands after finishing a massage. But, thinking about it, you suppose it makes sense—you know, with massaging multiple clients or whatever—even if it’s surprising exactly how fast he’d hoofed it away from you. It sounds like he’s switched both taps on full blast as well, noisy even through the wooden door, and judging from how long he’s in there, he’s being very thorough. Hand washing must be a lot more important than you’d realised.

Once Taehyung emerges, his face is a little flushed, cheeks a soft red. You wonder if the hot water tap is playing up again and filling your dinky bathroom with hot steam, and make a mental note to look into it. You smile at Taehyung from your perch on the sofa, Rilakkuma plopped on your lap, smile spread across your features; one that Taehyung returns, as pink-faced as he is.

“How’s your shoulder feeling?”

“So much better, honestly,” you admit. It’s incredible. He hasn’t even finished the course yet and he's already this good. He really does have magic hands.

“I’ll have to give you massages more often,” Taehyung says, though the end of the sentence trembles a little. He must be light-headed after all the steam in the bathroom.

The thought of more massages doesn’t fill you with as much mind-numbing trepidation as it might have earlier, utterly languid as you flop across the sofa, muscles uncoiled after the lovely touch of Taehyung’s even lovelier hands. No wonder people rave about spa days if they leave you feeling like this. Maybe if you’d been staring at Taehyung in the eye when he’d been touching you, then you’d feel a lot more awkward—as it is, it’s no worse than usual. Your crush is still all-encompassing but you also got a massage out of it, so.

“Sounds great.” This time you don’t even have to fake your excitement. “Now come sit your butt down so we can order some takeout and decide what to watch.”

When you bend down to speak to Pickles later, the bearded dragon is lolling on his favourite branch. “There’s still a high chance that I’m going to die,” you say in a low voice, before you flick the lights off so the lizard can sleep. “But he hasn’t broken out the oils yet, so I think I’ll be okay for now.”

Your luck doesn’t last.

“Strawberry and champagne, lychee martini, mint mojito, white chocolate, or tropical coconut?”

You look up from where you’re painting your toenails. “Huh?”

Taehyung bundles into the room and throws himself onto your bed, flopping on his belly and ignoring the way the mattress is jostled. You, of course, are used to his antics, which is why you’d swept your open bottle of nail polish up before he could spill it everywhere.

“What do you think sounds best?”

“Well, that depends,” you say, squinting at your toes and carefully sweeping the polish over the freshly buffed nails. “For candles, I think they sound pretty nice. For sauces to pour over a steak, I’d say I’d give them all a hard pass. What’s it for?”

“Massage oils,” Taehyung says blithely, too busy staring at his phone to see you muffle a curse when your hand slips and you paint your entire little toe blue. “I was wondering which you think sounds best.”

“Oh. Uh.” You fumble to clean your toe and salvage the now-terrible pedicure you’re trying to give yourself. It was only a matter of time before massage oils were going to become part of your life. Taehyung never goes into things half-hearted, so of course he’s going to invest in oils, too. God’s sake. You can never catch a break, can you? “Why these ones in particular?”

Taehyung pauses for a suspiciously long time, but it gives you the chance to furiously rub at your toe while he’s distracted. “We get a free bottle from the course,” he says eventually.

Huh. Okay. “That’s pretty neat. What was the last one? Coconut? Stick with the basics, can’t go wrong with that, right?”

“Coconut is always tasty,” Taehyung comments absently, and you glance up from your Smurf toe.

“Agreed, but it’s not like you’re about to eat massage oil, are you?”

Taehyung pauses, and then buries his face into his phone screen—suddenly very intent on rereading the list of ingredients in each bottle, it seems. “No, of course not, you’re right,” he mumbles.

He’s almost finished the course. He’s not going to be an accredited masseuse or anything, but you definitely think he could be, if he wanted to—you’ve never had less tension in your shoulders and neck in your life. Taehyung always eases his way into your personal space anyway, casual and effortless after years of friendship, but now you’re used to his fingers sliding over the back of your neck, a gliding touch, sending tense little goosebumps over your skin while simultaneously making you melt.

“It’s pretty cool that you get free stuff, though.” Your toe is clean, thankfully, no longer blue. “And not just, like, a generic bottle of oil or something. They all sound really fancy. I didn’t realise that you could get massage oils that were scented like that?”

Taehyung makes a non-committal noise, which is uncharacteristic of him, but you’re too focused on repainting your final nail to pay it too much mind, letting out a loud huff of triumph when you’re done.

“Get me a bag of shrimp crackers, please?” You have a sudden craving but you don’t want to penguin waddle to the kitchen and risk getting anything on your wet nails. “Ya girl is hungry.”

“Got it.” Taehyung rolls off the bed without protest. You’re used to his antics, and he’s used to yours, indulging you whenever you feel lazy or want him to do something for you. “You need me to feed you?”

“I wasn’t going to use my toes to feed myself,” you laugh, but Taehyung ends up feeding them to you anyway.

When you recount the list to Seokjin later, his face crumples in a way that’s equal parts offended and disgusted. “They all sound terrible,” he says. “White chocolate should stay in chocolate form and not be turned into an oil. Why does massage oil even have to smell like anything?”

You’re both holed up in the tiny smoking nook behind Olive Chicken; neither of you smoke, but it’s a good excuse to go outside and get fresh air during longer shifts.

“Hey, don’t ask me, I’m not the one who’s taking the course. I think lychee martini sounds interesting, though.”

“Agree to disagree.” Seokjin unwraps one of the complimentary chocolates the restaurant gives to diners with their bill, swallowing it whole. “Besides, we all know Taehyung could approach you with dirty, used fryer oil and you’d let him dip you in it.”

You slap the next chocolate out of his hand before it reaches his mouth. He’s unmoved and simply plucks another from his pocket, which is apparently bulging with them.

“Yoongichi,” Jin says, calling to the delivery boy, who’s just appeared from the dark like some tired-eyed spectre of fried chicken. “Tell me this. If I were to ask you what smell of massage oil you’d prefer, what—”

“I would say that I really could not care less.” Yoongi flops down on one of the rickety fold-out chairs before silently accepting a chocolate from Seokjin’s stash. “And then I’d ask why you’re asking me in the first place, seeing as you’re the one using it, not me. If Taehyung’s asking what massage oil you’d prefer, Y/n, it’s because he wants to rub it all over you specifically.” Yoongi munches on the chocolate, already filling in the blanks without needing to be told the context. You really are that transparent, huh. “Please, we’ve been over this.”

Jin pouts. “You ruined my set up. I had a whole speech prepared.”

“Oh no.” Yoongi remains blank-faced. “How terrible.”

“I hate both of you,” you say. “I’m going to tell Pickles how mean you are.”

“I bet if that lizard could talk, he’d tell you how tired he was of you two dancing around each other, just like the rest of us,” Yoongi says.

There’s no dancing around, though, no matter what your friends say. Well. Not on Taehyung’s end anyway. You’re out here doing the fandango, castanets and all, while Taehyung just stands stock still, oblivious.

You let out an incredibly long sigh. Seokjin hands you a sympathetic chocolate.

The massage oil doesn’t make an appearance in your life for a little while, though. The end of the course comes and goes, Taehyung proudly flapping the laminated certificate at you, wobble-wobble-wobble, filling the apartment with the sound of rippling plastic. But no coconut oil.

The scent of ‘tropical coconut’ has started to haunt your dreams, in a way that’s both good and bad; when you wake up in a sweat, heart pounding, it’s not because you’re having nightmares, let’s just put it like that. It’s like there’s an invisible countdown that you can’t trace and it’s only a matter of time before it ticks over and the shoulder massages (that you’ve gotten very comfortable with) edge into something different. Taehyung’s going to innocently offer to give you a backrub and uncap that bottle of scented oil and you’re going to explode into a mess of putty under his hands.

Well… then again… you had been worried about that with all the shoulder rubs. Now look at you. You weather those like a champ. Sure, your skin tingles and you run hot and you think about the sensation of Taehyung’s hands gliding over you whenever you’re alone, but you’re basically fine. Your friend who just so happens to also be the great love of your life remains none the wiser.

You bet a full back rub would feel great after a long week.

Which is why when Taehyung steps into the apartment with a look on his face that you immediately recognise as tiredness, you sort of wish you knew how to massage people, too.

He falls into your arms with little fanfare. It’s been one of those days, one of those ones that everyone gets, even Taehyung—he’s usually so Switched On and Exuberant and Alive, and people don’t seem to realise that even he feels exhausted, sometimes.

“You alright, bubs?” You can’t massage him but you can rub his back soothingly, let him snuffle against your neck. Sometimes you think about that little space between your chin and collarbones as Taehyung’s, a hollow that’s perfect for him to press his face into, hair tickling your chin as he curls up into you. His and his alone. “Did something happen?”

He just shakes his head.

“Okay,” you say.

(Close proximity and skin on skin with Taehyung doesn’t always have your pulse rising and your heart racing. Sometimes it’s just this: quiet and soft, your heart bright with fierce affection for this boy, the only thought in your mind that you want him to be happy, forever.)

The long silence is broken by the sound of Taehyung heaving in a breath before letting out a long, exhausted sigh.

“Thank you.” His voice is quiet and low, far less energetic than his usual self.

“Nothing to thank me for, Tae,” you reply. “Always here for you. You know that, right?”

He doesn’t respond straight away. He just burrows closer, draped over you, until he murmurs, barely audible. “Why?”

Your face twists. “Why, what? Why am I always here for you?”

“Yeah.” Taehyung squeezes himself impossibly closer, skin warm against yours, forehead pressed to the skin of your neck. You can’t see his expression from this angle.

“Because you’re one of my best friends and I love you,” you answer, immediately. You don’t even have to think about it. “Because you’re important to me and if there’s anything I can do for you, I will. I’ll celebrate the good things in your life with you, and I’ll be at your side during the bad times, just like you are with me. Please don’t ever forget how much I love you, okay?”

There’s a pause, and then it feels like all the tension leaves Taehyung’s body, slumping his whole body weight against you. “Okay,” he murmurs. “I love you too. Thank you,” he says again. You just reply by squeezing his shoulders.

He’s a little quieter for a few days after that. You’re not sure why, because he’d perked up after a lazy evening of lying around and eating too many snacks, flopped against you like an oversized, clinging starfish—but you’re gentle with him nonetheless.

(Well. You’re always gentle with him. It just takes you half a second to fold in the face of his whims, rather than a whole, full second.)

So when the dreaded bottle of oil finally appears, you’re far less ready to fight off Taehyung’s insistence on a full body massage, caught off guard after days of indulging him. Fuck.

“You’ve had a long week!” Taehyung insists as you scrabble your way over the sofa’s backrest so you can hide behind it, clutching a cushion to your chest. “You need to relax!”

Without looking you fling the cushion over the sofa. Judging from the fact that Taehyung doesn’t make a sound, you’ve missed. “I was feeling perfectly relaxed until you started yelling at me about it! Why are you so obsessed with the idea of me being relaxed?”

Taehyung doesn’t respond. Oh, crap. Maybe you did hit him with the cushion?

You pop up from behind the sofa. Nope. It's an embarrassing distance away from Taehyung, who’s got that surprisingly large bottle of oil held loosely in his hands. There’s an expression on his face that you can’t decipher; a little crestfallen, a little unsure, but there’s something else there, too, something you can’t put a name to.

“Taehyung?”

“I just… wanted to help,” he says. “You’re always there for me when I’m not feeling great, and you calm me down, and I wanted to do the same for you.”

You immediately feel like the worst human being alive. Take the feeling you get whenever you accidentally step on an animal’s tail, multiply it by infinity, and that’s only just a drop in the ocean of awful, awful guilt that you’re drowning in.

“Oh, Tae,” you say. Your voice comes out so much softer and sweeter than you mean it to, but you can't help it. “I’m sorry. I was just joking. It’s really nice of you to be so concerned. You just surprised me. You do help me relax and your massages are great.” (You tell him that often enough that he should know it, but it never hurts to repeat a compliment.)

His face lifts. It’s like the sun bursting forth from the clouds after heavy rain, and you have to resist the urge to shield your eyes, blinded by the brightness and beauty. Kim Taehyung is so unfairly gorgeous (but what else is new?). “So I can give you a massage?”

Despite the fact the prospect makes you want to fling yourself into space, when you’re faced with Taehyung’s dark eyes and wide smile and large, warm hands, you cave, because of course you do. If, way back when you’d first been frying up that kimchi rice and letting Taehyung thrust his phone into your face, you’d been told you’d end up in this position, you would have laughed outright. Haha, yeah, sure, like you’d be stupid enough to let yourself be wrangled into such a vulnerable state in front of Taehyung, nowhere to run, helpless under his fingers. Not.

But here you are. Whipped for Kim Taehyung, forever and always.

The pastel blue towels under your stomach and chest are soft as they shield you from the cold, hard floor. You’re incredibly aware of how chilly the apartment feels, air prickling against your bare skin; you shift to try and get comfortable, glancing over your shoulder to fiddle with the towel that’s draped over your hips and ass, making sure it’s covering everything. Taehyung insists on authenticity (as if you’re not lying on the floor of your apartment rather than on a massage table) and he says that it’s normal to be completely naked for a full-body massage, even underneath any towels that are covering you up.

Authenticity is also why he’s in the other room, warming up the massage oil, because that’s apparently a thing?

(You’re going to die.)

It doesn’t matter that Taehyung will only be able to see the back of your head, your shoulder blades, the small of your back, a slip of your thighs, your calves. None of these things are especially scandalous; all the parts of your body that someone might find more interesting are out of sight, pressed against the floor or hidden under a layer of Egyptian cotton microfibres.

And yet you can’t help but be hyperaware of how you’re entirely unclothed. Even if it doesn’t bother Taehyung—what with, you know, the fact he’s not interested in you like that and doesn’t find you attractive at all (sigh)—embarrassment creeps hot and uncomfortable under your skin.

It just feels so crazy intimate to be laid out like this, even if people do this all the time, happily strip down to let professionals rub the tension out of their body.

(Then again, most people aren’t best friends with their masseuses and haven’t harboured long, one-sided crushes on them, either.)

Just breathe. You can do this. You love the shoulder massages that Taehyung’s been giving you; just think of this as a shoulder massage.

… A shoulder massage that involves warm oil, near-nakedness, and Taehyung’s hands sliding all over you.

… You are going to have a very long venting session with Pickles after all this.

You’re so distracted by your own self pity and distress that you don’t register the sound of Taehyung entering the room; the little pause when he steps over the threshold, feet stuttering, just for a moment. It’s only when he’s kneeling down that you notice his presence, body jolting from surprise before you let out a slip of high laughter.

“Jesus, Tae,” you say. In any other circumstance, you’d be clutching your chest. “You scared me.”

“Sorry.” He sounds genuinely apologetic.

Your cheek is pillowed on your arms. When you turn to look at your best friend you immediately regret it; he’s settled back on his ankles, knees spread wide, and you come eye-to-eye with his crotch.

In an effort to look away from his clothed dick, your gaze flies up to his face, which might be even worse. He has this intense look in his eyes, and wow, alright, you’ve never been able to see Taehyung’s face as he’s been massaging you, but you never realised exactly how seriously he seems to take it, judging from his expression.

(Do all massage therapists look like that when they work?)

“That’s alright.” You’re a little breathless, but you’re going to blame that on how your boobs are smooshed into the floor, and not on anything else, nuh uh. Shoulder massage. It’s a shoulder massage. It’s just like a full bodied shoulder massage. (Maybe if you repeat it to yourself often enough then you’ll actually start to believe it.) “Uh. Do you need me to… do anything? Or do I just lie here?”

Taehyung’s expression lightens a little at the uncertainty in your tone, smile curling up the corners of his mouth. “You’re perfect right where you are,” he says, and then he reaches for the bottle of oil.

You turn your head away again, cheeks burning. There’s no way you’ll be able to handle the visual of him slicking his fingers and palms up. “Cool,” you say, voice only a little strained. “Coolcoolcoolcool.”

(It’s not cool.)

You don’t have a visual, but you do get the auditory experience thanks to the relative silence in the apartment. Goosebumps ripple down the back of your neck and trail down your spine at the sound of Tae’s hands sliding against each other, thoroughly coated in the warmed oil, and you’re so glad that you can blame it on the chill in the air.

At first, it’s okay. Taehyung starts at the parts of your body that are used to receiving his attention, though it’s different without the barrier of clothing in the way, not to mention how easily his palms glide over you, the air full of the light scent of coconut. It’s different, but manageable, and you think you just might be okay; as always, his touches are firm but careful, and your body is used to this by now, relaxing.

But. The second you feel Taehyung’s touch between your shoulder blades, you stiffen with a shiver. The oil is the perfect temperature against your skin, but you’ve always had a sensitive back; you can’t help but clench your fists, digging your fingers into your palms. Relax. Just breathe.

“You’ve got a lot of tension here.” Taehyung’s voice is low as he digs the heel of his palm into the dip of your spine.

It’s because you’re touching me there, you think to yourself, but just let out a non-committal hum of agreement instead.

You feel Taehyung's hands, a repeated sliding motion between your shoulder blades; the tension starts to leak out of you again, but your breath hitches in your throat at how you're pressed downwards and into the cotton towels beneath you, nipples hardening against them.

Thank God you're on your front so Tae can't see what effect he's having on you.

“Better?”

Taehyung's voice is always deep, but you'd swear it was even deeper in this moment, pitched low. Maybe that’s because the sound of blood pumping is filling your ears so it’s hard to discern. At this point, who even knows? Not you, that’s for sure.

“Yep.” Why are you so breathless? You haven’t moved at all, but you sound like you’ve just run the 100m sprint, winded and weak. “So much better.”

You regret agreeing to this. You are so out of your depth and there’s no way you’re going to be able to hide exactly how much this is affecting you and you want to collapse in on yourself and shrivel up like a sundried tomato, tiny and wrinkly and underwhelming.

Taehyung shifts to reach more of you and you squeeze your eyes shut so you don’t come face first with his crotch again, shielding yourself from the view of his loose linen trousers stretched almost taut with how wide his knees are. It’s both a blessing and a curse—a blessing because you’re saved from aforementioned view, but a curse because your sensation of touch is heightened, and all you’re aware of is his hands sliding down your sides. You’d swear those fingers were so long he could circle your waist with ease.

(Massages are meant to relax you and yet you’ve never felt so tense in your life.)

Taehyung clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth. “I can’t get a good angle like this,” he mutters.

Before you can think anything or say anything, you become aware of the sound of moving and shifting and—

Your eyes fly open. Taehyung’s straddling your thighs, heavy and warm, and you suck in a breath so sharp and fast you can feel your chest expand, brain full of the screaming clang of warning bells. There’s no way this is a normal masseuse thing. There’s no way. It’s intimate and entirely too physical and there’s absolutely no way that this is something Taehyung learned in class.

(What is he doing?)

But then any coherent thought in your brain slips when his hands settle on you again.

They so, so lightly brush the hem of the towel that preserves your modesty, and you can’t help the full-body shiver that wracks through you. You suck your lips into your mouth, swallowing down the noise that threatens to bubble up in your throat. There’s the sensation of fingers trailing up the line of your spine, feather light, smoothed by the slide of oil, and you feel like molten lava, burning hot and bright.

“Taehyung.” Your voice is high and faint.

His fingers splay down your ribcage and run down your sides, confident and smooth, warm with that coconut-scented oil, and you’re dying, you’re living; you want to disappear, you never want this to end.

“Taehyung,” you repeat. Your voice shakes.

He hums, low and indulgent. “Yes?”

“M-my thighs,” you stammer, unable to articulate yourself. Why are you on my thighs, oh God, you’re so warm and heavy on top of me, oh God oh God oh God.

Taehyung completely misunderstands you. “Oh? Of course.” He sounds nonchalant. “I’ll massage those next.”

You can feel the drag of his linen trousers against your skin as he moves down to rest on your calves, and hear the bottle open as Taehyung drizzles more oil over his hands, far more than he could possibly need. His palms feel so broad and warm against the smoothness of your thighs, touches firm and confident as he digs his fingers into the muscle, and, oh, fuck, this is, this is too much—

Your legs jump when Taehyung hitches the towel up, just a little, baring more of your body.

“Fuck.” You can't keep quiet any longer. “Tae, I’m fine, I’m feeling way less tense now.”

He’s still, for a moment, before his hands slide up the back of your thighs. “Are you sure? You want me to stop?”

It’s only then that you realise how deeply Taehyung is breathing, fast and low, voice rough and gravelled. His fingers rest in wait, warm and slick with oil; you’re so close to losing any modicum of modesty, only one motion away from that towel being rucked high enough that there’s nothing protecting you from Taehyung’s touch and eyes.

“I haven’t finished yet, though,” he continues, digging his thumbs into your skin as he pulls his hands down your thighs, mindlessly following the motions he’s been taught. “There’s still more to go.”

You could twist around to look at him but you’re almost afraid to look at his face, afraid of what you’d find there. He sounds as affected as you are, but there’s absolutely no way. There’s no way.

“You don��t need to do the whole massage if I’m feeling relaxed, right?”

(Because you’re feeling so relaxed right now, of course, and not like you’re about to go supernova and burst into heat and light. Absolutely.)

(But.)

(But. Taehyung’s hands settle at the back of your knees, swiping the sensitive skin with his thumbs. You can’t see his face, but you can feel something in that touch, something more than skin deep, like it’s sinking into you, through skin and muscle and bone, in in in, settling inside you, a flicker of—of—)

“Want to do this perfectly for you,” he murmurs. You clench your hands at the husky note in his voice, nails digging so hard into your palms it hurts. “You deserve the best. I want you to feel good.”

He must be able to see your back rise and fall as you breathe in sharply.

“Taehyung.” Almost pleading.

“Yes, love?”

You suck in another sharp breath. The pet name sounds so soft and sweet in his mouth, somehow, even with the heated edge to his voice. One that’s definitely there. You’re not imagining it.

(You’re not.)

“Do you want me to make you feel good?” he continues.

Before you can think, you nod.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

You’re trembling. Taehyung’s still heavy and warm across the back of your calves, sliding one hand to the inside of a knee and up the soft skin of your inner thighs. You instinctively shift them apart, as far as you can with Taehyung trapping your legs, and, oh, his hand is going higher, oh—

His hand is so big, cupping your overheated sex. It’s hard to tell where the oil ends and your own arousal begins, flushed wet and hot; when he dips his middle finger between your lower lips, long and gentle and firm, you let out a noise you didn’t realise you were capable of. The angle is off, a little awkward, the motions of Taehyung’s fingers stifled by how you’re lying flush to the ground, but God, you’re so turned on it barely matters.

You’re hyperaware of everything. The soft touch of air on the cooling oil across your skin. The fall of the towel, bunched around your waist, slowly slipping to one side. Taehyung’s hand, his fingertips easing through the heat of you, sliding over your clit, over your entrance, slow and soft and amazing.

“Again,” you plead. “Again, Tae, please.”

“Feels good?” He asks, and you squeeze your eyes shut as you nod, cheek still pillowed against your arm.

“So good,” you say. “But I want more, please, Tae.”

“Anything you want,” he murmurs.

Taehyung’s hand shifts between your legs again, so hot, so big, so reverent. The slide is smooth as his fingers press into your folds, practically gliding. You twist beneath him, letting out a noise of displeasure when he draws his hand away, but then he lifts off your calves. You let him thrust your legs apart before he resettles between them.

Just as you’re distracted with the towel being tugged away from your hips, baring you entirely, Taehyung slides a finger into your weeping cunt.

You whine. It's so long. Now that your calves aren’t trapped, there’s nothing to stop you from rutting back against his fingers. He splays his other hand over the soft flesh of your ass, encouraging the rolling motion of your hips, and you’re gasping, wanton in your noises of desire and pleasure. One finger becomes two, and then three, Taehyung’s voice a low undercurrent to your stuttered moans as he presses them as deep as he can.

“Just like that, angel,” he breathes. “Want you to feel good, keep making those pretty noises, let me know how good it is—”

“Taehyung,” you whine, dragging the syllables of his name out when he curls his fingers inside you, so amazing, hitting you in all the right places.

“Baby.” He sounds wrecked, words sliding together, and you haven’t even touched him yet. “You’re so hot n’ wet, fuck. So perfect. Just like that, keep moving like that.”

You can hear the slick sounds of his thrusts into you. He’s already learned what you like, twisting his fingers in a way that leaves you breathless; they’re so fucking long, sliding into your greedy cunt with ease, reaching so much deeper than your own can. His pretty lovely hands are on you, inside you, and you’re heady at the thought.

“There, Tae, don’t stop, please, p-please.” The coil twists tighter in between your legs, a taut thread that’s ready to snap. He listens, repeating the motion that’s pulling you closer to the edge, eyes wide, staring at the way you’re writhing underneath him; the way the oil on your back and legs shimmers in the light, the evidence of his touch all over you, shining. “Tae, oh, God, right there, yes, yes, yes—”

Your entire body goes tense and then you’re cumming around Taehyung’s fingers, clenching your thighs together, trapping him inside as you buck your hips. You grind back against his hand, a loud moan falling from your lips, drowning out the noise of awe that Taehyung makes when he feels your walls pulsate around him. You're warm and tight and wet, arousal flooding thick against his skin, and he lets out a stuttered groan, fingers buried knuckle deep inside you, feeling every wave of pleasure that rocks through your core.

You’re panting by the time you settle back down and barely make a sound when Taehyung drags his fingers out of you. When he leans down the oil on your skin feels tacky against his clothes, material sticking to you, chest to back, hips to ass. You can feel the hot curve of him through his trousers, his cock heavy, getting harder—and it feels sososo good.

Taehyung’s face is so close, now, chin hooked over your shoulder. Even though you can feel the hardness of his cock pressed against you, the smile on his face is so gentle. Your heart thrums in your chest.

“So cute n' pretty,” he says, and presses his nose to the soft curve of your cheek. Rather than coconut, all you can smell is his shampoo, familiar and homely and heady. “All over. God, I can’t believe you’d let me touch you like this. I’m so lucky. Was that good, baby?”

“Yes,” you say, and then, because you’re still floating in a light haze of disbelief: “I’m the lucky one.”

Taehyung laughs, low and quiet. It’s a honeyed moment, dripping slow and sweet, even sweeter when he tilts his head forward. His lips are soft against your cheekbone, your jaw, and when you turn towards him, they’re even softer against your mouth. You can feel the shape of his smile, and it tastes so bright, small kisses that turn open mouthed, so perfect. Because you’re kissing Kim Taehyung, your Taehyung, something you’ve been dreaming about for so long, now—even if this entire situation is pretty unbelievable, honestly.

When you pull back, his eyes spark with unadulterated joy. He’s warm and heavy, pinning you down against the towels that are soft against your front; arching your spine, you lean back against the weight of Taehyung’s body, his cock fattening up through the layers of clothes that separate you. He lets out a breath of surprise before he grinds down, pressing that hard heat against you, and your cunt clenches.

“Can I finish the massage?” He asks, sounding almost eager, even with the rasp of lust in his voice. You can’t help but laugh, an affectionate giggle that has you knocking your foreheads together.

“Of course,” you say, and he catches your lips again, swallowing the last of your laughter, sweeping his tongue over your lips, inside your mouth, wet and hot and a little messy, but good.

“You need to be on your back,” Taehyung continues, slow after the kiss is broken, and, oh, okay, that has you shivering. “If you want to?”

Of course you want to.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Let me move.”

He shifts to give you room, but not before pressing a kiss to the back of your neck, the bump of the top of your spine, lips sliding against the oil that he’d rubbed there earlier, goosebumps erupting over your skin.

“So good to me,” he whispers. You don’t think he even means for you to hear it.

(It’s said without thought; not thoughtless, no, but a soft little thing that says so much. A thought that’s slipped across his mind and fallen from his lips, warm and tender. Like you’re always good to him, and he sees it, he knows it, he feels it, he thinks it, and he’s almost in disbelief about it, because you’re so good to him.)

You feel warm and languid after cumming, loose-limbed as you flop onto your back. There’s no going back now. There’s no going back from this moment, naked and vulnerable under Taehyung, nothing hidden away any more—the soft fall of your breasts, your stomach, the lines of your hips, your fingers tightening in the towels spread beneath you as Taehyung’s eyes drink you in, wide and overawed at the sight of your flushed cunt, ripe and slick and ready for him.

(There's no more hiding how much you want Taehyung to have you, body and heart alike.)

You can see the shape of your body silhouetted on his clothes, where the oil has seeped into the material from how close he’d been pressed against you. You can see just how affected he is, cock straining against the loose linen of his white trousers, and you bite your lip to try and stifle the sound you make.

“Look at you,” Taehyung breathes, kneeling between your legs. “You’re so perfect.”

Your cheeks burn. “Taehyung, please,” you say, embarrassed. You really aren’t, especially in comparison to model-gorgeous Kim Taehyung, eyes dark and full of heated lust, hair falling in his eyes, effortlessly beautiful, always.

“You are,” he insists. “You have no idea how perfect you are.”

Before he reaches for the massage oil, he sucks the taste of you off his fingers, sloppy and messy. Your pussy throbs at the sight. And—you were also right about the visual being too much to handle, breath catching in your throat as you watch it drip into his broad hands. His palms shine as he rubs them together, interlacing his fingers, so graceful in their motions. You’re so wet from your orgasm, only getting wetter as you stare back at Taehyung, whose gaze has been heavy on you the whole time.

He starts at your collarbones. It’s even slower than before, and you ease underneath him, revelling in the softness of his touch. He sweeps his hands over your shoulders, down your arms, circling his long fingers around your wrists before lifting one of your hands. Your eyelashes flutter as he presses a kiss to your palm, a motion so full of adoration and tenderness it steals your breath away, and you squirm, shy.

“Tae,” you whine. “You can’t just do that.”

Of course he doubles down, lifting your other hand and repeating the motion, letting his lips linger between your head line and your heart line. “I can,” he says, words warm in your cupped palm.

“I hope you didn’t do this in class.” Your voice is too weak for it to come out as the joke you mean it to be.

Taehyung just shakes his head, mouth brushing over the tips of your fingers. “Only for you,” he says. “Did the whole class for you. I wanted—wanted an excuse to touch you more,” he admits, and your heart feels like it’s going to launch itself out of your throat.

“Then touch me,” you say, trying to sound confident even if your cheeks burn.

And he does. He lets your hands drop, gliding his touch back up your arms, down your body, over your legs; he massages your thighs and calves, digs his thumbs into the arches of your feet, circling his fingers around your ankles, shackles you don’t want to escape from. You feel so relaxed and lax, somehow, even if every touch has you biting your lip, anticipation roiling in your stomach for what’s to come, Taehyung laying your legs down softly before he shifts back up, hands held out towards you—

—then he cups your breasts in his big, big hands and your back arches, fingers sliding over your nipples, glistening with coconut oil, circling them with the pads of his thumbs. You let out an embarrassing whine.

“Oh, Tae,” you beg. “More, please.”

“Whatever you want, sweetheart.”

You smile at another soft, unexpected pet name, flustered, but then your eyes slide shut when Taehyung bends down to kiss your neck as he continues to run his hands over the swell of your breasts. He trails his lips over your oiled skin, shifts down, drawing a line from your neck to the valley of your chest, the hard line at the center of your ribcage.

“Tae,” you murmur, and then, feeling bold under the heat of Taehyung’s dark eyes— “Baby.”

He hums before laying another sloppy kiss against your sensitive skin. You can feel the curve of his smile in the kiss. “Yes, love?”

“Is it really okay for you to… you know… get that oil in your mouth? I don’t want you to get sick,” you say, concerned, even through the haze of your arousal. His lips shine with it, at how he’s been trailing his mouth over all the parts of your body that he’s touched.

There’s a short beat, and then Taehyung buries his head against your neck—in that little hollow that’s his, in a motion he’s done dozens of times. Except this time you’re naked and he still has fingers splayed across the soft skin of your chest, nipples dragging underneath his palms.

“You’re always so considerate.” His words are muffled against your skin. “It’s fine. It’s edible.”

“You got edible massage oil from your course?”

Taehyung hesitates. “No,” he admits. “I bought it. It’s edible and, uh. Safe for intimate use.”

You’re silent, just for a moment, and then you can’t help it. You start to laugh.

“Kim Taehyung,” you say, body shaking with amusement. “Did you buy edible massage oil that you can also use as lube?”

Taehyung pulls his face away from your neck and glances up. You’re giggling at him, and he feels so full of love and affection; he can’t help but join in, both laughing at him, loud and carefree.

“It’s why I asked which one you liked,” he confesses, once he can catch his breath.

“I can’t believe you lied to me,” you say, but you don’t mind, really, and he knows it. You lift a hand to push hair out of his face, running your fingers down his scalp. He leans into your touch with a smile, bright and lovely, before he abruptly shifts one of his hands down so he can lick a hot, wet stripe across the skin of your breast.

That stops your laughter pretty fast, surprised hiccup shifting into a broken moan when he engulfs your nipple in the heat of his mouth. “O-oh,” you gasp. “Oh, Taehyung—”

“Been thinking about this for so long.” Taehyung’s eyes are lidded and dark as he leans back, watching the way you react to his touch, arching up towards him. “Wanted to touch you like this so much.”

“Wanted it too,” you breathe. “Wanted—oh, God, Tae, fuck—”

It’s overwhelming. Not just the way Taehyung is flicking his tongue over each of your nipples, pressing his lips against your skin, no—but the idea that he’s been hoping for this, too. Each wet motion of his tongue over your pebbled skin drags pulls out of you; Taehyung’s cock twitches at a loud keen that’s drawn from your lips, a wet patch of precum seeping through his boxers and trousers, darkening the fabric, even though you haven’t touched him yet.

When you reach out to grasp him through his clothes, his hips jolt forward and he bites off a surprised gasp, cutting through the sound with his teeth. He feels long and heavy as you stroke him, thumbing over the wet patch at his tip, hot, even through all those layers between your skin and his.

“I want to feel you, Tae,” you say, staring at him. “Inside me. Please.”

His breath hitches when you tighten your fingers around his shaft and drag your hand upwards, slow and intent.

“The oil isn’t condom friendly,” he admits, abashed.

“Then you can cum in my mouth,” you reply. No hesitation.

Taehyung’s eyes are so wide, but then he smiles, eyes squeezing into crescents, mouth turning up into that lovely, broad grin of his. He looks so sweet and sincere, and you feel like you could explode, stuffed overfull with love for him.

“You really are perfect,” he says.

“Only for you,” you reply, your smile just as bright.

He lays one final kiss to your chest, above your beating heart, before he starts to strip. The oil has obviously soaked through his shirt and onto his skin because it sticks when he peels it off and carelessly throws it aside.

Just like his heart, Taehyung’s body is soft and lovely. You sit up so you can touch him properly, catching him off guard when you pull him in for a kiss—one he eagerly leans into, and without the shirt in the way you can feel the way your skin slides against his, softened with oil.

There really is no one as beautiful as Kim Taehyung. You drag your hands over him, so warm and wonderful under your palms; his chest, his cute tummy, his waist, his hips, the soft skin above his red, neglected cock. He’s radiant in his nakedness, every easing line of his body so perfect as he kneels in front of you, the flush of his skin, the heavy weight of his arousal, head shining with precum, so wet it’s practically dripping.

You lean in to kiss his neck and nip at his Adam's apple as his hands slide over your shoulder blades and down your back, the parts that make you shudder.

“Want you, Tae.” You whisper into his mouth, a soft secret that isn’t really a secret at all, not any more. “All of you.”

“Going to give you everything you want.” The words flow out of him with ease. “Everything you want.”

His chest and stomach shine with the massage oil that’s rubbed off from your own skin. You run your hands across him, and when you finally grasp his cock without the barrier of cloth in the way, he’s almost burning under your grasp, thick, his entire body shuddering when you pump his length. So sensitive to your touch.

“I’m goin’ to make you cum again,” he promises, and you love it, the way he talks when he’s losing himself. “Bet you’ll feel so good around my cock, so perfect.”

A shiver skates through your body. Taehyung’s fingers dig into your skin when he feels you trembling under his hands, and all you can think about is how you want him in you.

“Please,” you say. “Please, wanna make you feel good too—”

“Hands and knees, angel,” he rasps, and, God, yes, those words cut straight through you, sharp and electric.

Maybe you should feel embarrassed at how quickly you obey. The towels underneath you, so carefully placed at the start, perfectly flat, become rumpled as you shift into position; you arch your back, wanting to look as good as possible, and glance over your shoulder to see if it works.

Judging from the look on Taehyung’s face, it does. He looks like he’s never seen anything more awe-inspiring, eyes wide and mouth a little slack, dumbstruck. But then his jaw snaps shut and he splays his hands over the soft skin of your hips, your waist, your ass, shuffling closer to you; you feel the curve of his cock slide against your skin and you bite back a noise of need.

“Fuck, so beautiful.” He ruts forward, and you can feel the wetness of his precum slicking against you, a beaded line drawn across the sheen of massage oil. “My beautiful, perfect girl.”

“Tae,” you plead, already overwhelmed with need, heart squeezing at his words.

“Just one more thing, angel, I promise.”

It’s a good thing that the bottle of massage oil is so big, considering how liberal Taehyung is with it. You gasp when he uses one hand to spread your ass and before you can react there’s a drizzle of oil falling onto your skin, down-down-down, over your cunt, dripping over your inner thighs; Taehyung catches the excess with his palms before he slicks himself up, spreading that sweet coconut over his throbbing cock.

(You wonder what it’ll taste like when you lick it off him.)

When you feel the blunt head of his cock nudging at your pussy, your entire body lights up in anticipation, nerve endings on fire, every inch of your body singing under Taehyung’s touch—and when he finally sinks in, it’s almost effortless. He’s thick and long but everything slides so easy; you gasp and he moans, both lost in how your body opens up for him, hot and wet. By the time he’s bottomed out you're a quivering mess, collapsed onto your elbows. You’re so full. You feel split open in all the best ways, wanting to draw him in impossibly deeper even so.

Taehyung is gripping your sides, hands unmoving even with the slick oil underneath them, fingers digging into your skin. He’s breathing so loud, and when you experimentally shift your hips, he bites back a noise that cuts through that breath.

“How’s it feel, love?” His words slur together in arousal, but the hand that strokes your back is slow, thoughtful. “Feel good?”

“Fuck me, Tae, baby, please,” you beg. It’s so, so so much, so good, amazing, hotter and bigger and harder than anything you’d let yourself imagine, your entire body taking Taehyung and holding him in, in, in. “Please, I need it, it feels good but I want more, please.”

When he pulls away it’s slow and torturous and he goes so far he almost slips out, cock nearly sliding out of your folds. You whine, a little shameless, mostly needy, but then—

The snap of his hips drives you forwards, towels shifting underneath as you scrabble for a hold on something. Each sharp motion of Taehyung’s body has you choking for air and letting out whimpers and gasps, drowned out by the slap of skin on skin; his hipbones meet the soft flesh of your ass, again and again, but all you can focus on is the thick heat of his cock inside you, in-out-in-out, the press of his balls against your clit, everything so wet and smooth and slick.

You can feel how you’re losing yourself to that heady place that’s golden bright with feeling, lust and sex, the rest of the world gone, unimportant. There’s nothing but this—Taehyung touching you, filling your body so well, so perfect, helping you chase that high that’s growing faster and faster, that precipice of pleasure that he’s going to throw you over again, intent on it.

One of his hands trails up your back, between that sensitive dip of your shoulder blades and into your hair, locks tangling with coconut oil before he urges you up. He doesn’t yank or pull but his hold is firm and you end up back on your hands, arms trembling as you try to keep your balance, back bowed, overwhelmed.

“Baby,” he rasps. “Oh, you’re so tight n’ hot, so pretty, fuck. You feel so good, do you feel good?”

Your answer is almost a wail, so overcome with pleasure, sensation, the glide of his hands over your shining skin, the mix of oil and arousal that drips out of you, only getting wetter with each thrust of his hips into you. “So good, o-oh God, Tae, baby, fuck, oh, theretherethere—”

“Here?”

He punctuates this with a roll of his hips, using the hand still on your hip to pull you back onto his cock as he fills you up once more, throbbing heat. He bends over you, and this time, there’s nothing stopping the skin on skin contact, the slide of his chest against your back as he kisses the soft skin behind your ear, nipping at your lobe, and that’s it, you’re gone. Your eyes slide shut and your mouth falls open as another orgasm crashes through you, legs shaking as you cum around Taehyung’s cock, grinding back against him to drag out that pleasure; the only thing holding you up is the hand still in your hair, the lips trailing up the side of your bared neck, the hard cock inside you, keeping you against him, so many points of connection with Taehyung.

(His chest pressed against your back, heart beating so hard you can feel it, your own heart moving in tandem, matching him.)

He’s been whispering filth to you, heated praise and love, how good you feel, how beautiful you are, what it’s like to see you like this, touch you like this, have you like this. Lovely, pretty, perfect, gorgeous, hot n’ wet n’ tight, fuck, love, oh.

You’re still shivering, the final pulses of your orgasm curling through you with each unintentional shift of Taehyung’s hips, the drag of his length inside your inner walls. You can feel something dripping out of you; oil, cum, you don't know, but fuck, it feels so so good.

“Oh, God,” you say. Breathless. “Oh, Taehyung, oh.”

“Pretty darling,” he murmurs. He swivels his hips, grinding against you, and your entire body jolts with oversensitivity, clit swollen where his balls press against it. You tighten around him and groan at how hot and big he still feels inside, even as you still shiver from the come down of your second orgasm. “Gonna roll you over so I can see that perfect face.”

And when you’re on your back again, fucked out and mussed and wrecked, he just stares at you. You’ve watched his face for so long, seen so many expressions flit across his features, but never something like this—it’s a mix of amazement and awe and tenderness and lust and love, a lift to his brows and a spark in his eyes and a set to his lips.

And when he leans down to kiss you, that look doesn’t leave. It melts and softens around the edges as you catch each other's mouths, as you kiss and kiss, small tender things interspersed with longer, deeper touches, lips and teeth and tongue—his eyes darken and his mouth flushes darker pink, kiss swollen and so beautiful, but that expression stays. It stays for you.

Kim Taehyung is beautiful and lovely and unique. Kim Taehyung is so far out of your reach it’s kind of stunning, actually. And yet, here you are, existence of his touch over every part of you, in every part of you, lust driven, love full; the carefully balanced weight of his body splayed over you, pinning you down, keeping you close.

“I wanna see you cum, Tae,” you say. “Please?”

And just like he always does, Taehyung indulges you, just like you indulge him. He presses back inside you, cunt opening up for him so easy, so smooth, like his touch has already been etched into the memory of your body, perfect for him. He stays pressed close, face so near as he rolls into each thrust, sweat and coconut oil painted across your skin as your bodies shift together.

He’s been covering you in his words, both heated and sweet, and now you return the favour. You tell him how good he feels, how beautiful he is, so good, so perfect, so considerate, how much you’ve wanted this. So good, so long and thick, oh, Tae, feels so good, ah-ah-ah, baby, you’re unreal, fuck.

You can see the exact moment he starts to reach his high, the way he sucks in air, the way he lifts his chin, starts to thrust a little harder, a little faster, chasing that thread of pleasure that’s spiralling through him, and you urge him on. You lift your hips and clench so tight it has him gasping, hips stuttering, and you press your nose against his jaw, saying give it to me give it to me give it to me, wanting him to feel the same pleasure he’s given you.

When he pulls out, you’re too busy moving to pay attention to how empty you feel, settling between his legs and swallowing down his shining cock almost desperately. There’s no coconut. You can only taste yourself and when you lave your tongue across his slit it’s all Taehyung-Taehyung-Taehyung, hot and salt and bitter; he gasps and his hips jump and you take it all, lowering your head as far as you can, the head of his cock at the back of your throat before you pull up, dragging your tongue over the pulsing vein at the underside, messy and wet. You drink down the wetness of his cock, your own arousal, mixed with his, the precum that beads at his head, staring up at him, your hands sliding over the sheen of his stomach, his thighs, cupping his balls, everything slick with oil and sweat.

“Oh, God.” Taehyung’s eyes are blown and his hair is a mess and his mouth is wide open as he pants for air, watching. “Baby, baby, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum.”

You suck hard, dragging your lips up from the base of the cock to the rounded tip, swirling your tongue, bobbing your head faster—

“Oh, fuck—”

—and you swallow down each wave of cum, swallow down the way his cock twitches as he spills the evidence of pleasure into your mouth, swallow down the lovely noises that shudder out of him, watching him the whole time, never wanting to look away.

When you take your mouth off his softening cock, you draw a line of kisses with your mouth, up the soft skin of his body, stomach to chest to neck to mouth. He licks the taste of coconut oil off your lips, the taste of himself off your tongue; you curl up in his lap, settled against him, the apartment’s cool air even sharper against your skin, magnified by the oil that still lingers.

(Even without the oil painted across him, Taehyung would still shine, even under the weak light from the cheap lightbulb that hangs above you.)

You feel soft and warm and small in the circle of Taehyung’s arms, pulled close, and you can hear the words in his chest as he speaks, a resonance that touches against your skin.

“‘M sorry,” he murmurs.

You pause.

“Baby, love, darling.” The endearments are sugar sweet in your mouth, soft against his skin before you pull back to look at him, confused, concerned. “Sorry for what?”

“I really—I really was just planning to do a massage, but you’re so…”

You let out a slip of laughter. The room smells of coconut and sex, but when you lay your head against Taehyung’s collarbone all you can smell is the light tinge of his sweat. You breathe in, deep, like you can hold onto that ephemeral part of him. “Oh, Tae. I’m so what?”

“You’re so good,” he says. “So good and kind and lovely and—and so beautiful. I was going to do the massage to make you happy and then… tell you. About how happy you make me.”

You burrow your head into the hollow of his neck, the way he does to you, shy. “I’m not as beautiful as you,” you reply. “Tae, you are literally the most beautiful person alive, and—God, I’ve. I’ve been. So head over heels for you.”

There’s a pause. “Really?”

When you pull back to fix Taehyung with all the surprise in your gaze, you can see that he’s surprised, too. His hair hangs into his eyes, and he looks a little unsure, like he believes you, but finds it impossible to fathom.

You leave massage oil on his cheeks when you cup his face in your hands, staring at him with wide eyes. “Kim Taehyung, I have had daily breakdowns about the intensity of my love for you to Pickles ever since we got him. You’re the first person I think about each morning—usually because we wake each other up—and the last thing I think about at night—well, usually because you end up climbing into my bed more often than not, but, it still counts,” you say. You’re both tangled together in so many ways already. “You’ve had my heart for a long time, you know. I just never thought I had a chance?”

When Taehyung kisses you, it’s brief, a hard press of his lips before he rests his forehead against yours. “You really, really have no idea how perfect you are,” he murmurs. “I’ve wanted—I want to do everything for you to show you how grateful I am for everything you do for me.”

“You don’t have to,” you protest, but he just smiles.

“I don’t have to, but I want to,” he says. “Like you don’t have to look after me, but you do.”

“That’s because I love you,” you say. “Like, capital L love you.”

You’ve been so afraid of confessing, so convinced that it was an unattainable dream; that Kim Taehyung would never, could never, has never seen you as more than a friend. But the way he’s looking at you now, the way he’s touched you, the way your body still echoes with the feeling of him inside you: you’re not scared, any more. You don’t need to be.

Taehyung’s eyes are so dark and warm when he replies, easy and effortless. “I love you, too.”

Your relationship has always been a give and take, is the thing. When you climb in the shower together, he washes the oil from your back while you massage shampoo into his scalp, laughing when he makes devil horns in his hair. He catches you by surprise when he presses you against the tiles, swallowing your moans when he coaxes one final orgasm from your tired body, rubbing tight circles over your clit as you buck against his hand and water cascades over you both. His cock hardens in your hands, sliding between your legs when you press them together, tight-tight-tight, his length rubbing against your cunt as he fucks your thighs until he’s moaning and shaking and cumming again.

(The water’s cold by the time you finally climb out, but that’s okay. You giggle and kiss as you dry yourselves, each other, excuses to keep touching and feeling, driven by affection, not lust.)

When you’re both clean, and dry, Taehyung’s leg thrown over your hip as he tugs you in, flush with his body under the covers, you press your lips against the line of his jaw.

“Taehyung?”

“Yes, angel?”

You smile and hunch up even closer to him, scrunching yourself up as small as you can to plaster yourself against his side. “Thank you for the wonderful massage. Definitely the best massage I’ve ever been given, ten out of ten, would do again.”

Taehyung laughs, pressing his rectangular smile into the kiss he lays against your lips, and you think that nothing tastes better than the happiness curling his mouth.

“Love you,” he murmurs. Always romantic. “I love you love you love you.”

“Tae-honey-hyung.” And it feels so nice to not have to filter your words, to bite back that second layer of meaning, to try and keep things platonic and chaste when you speak. “I love you.”

And it feels so nice to have your Taehyung beside you, your body still aching with the press of him inside you, a good ache, a nice ache. A physical ache from good love, rather than a heartache from a love you didn’t think was reciprocated. But it is, somehow, each of you so bowled over by each other.

(“Hey, Pickles.”

The bearded dragon looks up at you, placid as he lounges in his tank.

“Well, you’ll be happy to hear that you won’t have to put up with me ranting at you any more,” you say. “Taehyung did break out the massage oil but it’s all good. I didn’t spontaneously combust or anything, like I thought I would.”

Pickles’ tongue flicks out as he shifts, and you smile.

“Okay, that’s it, I’m done,” you finish. “Thanks, Pickles. You’re a real pal.”

Taehyung nuzzles into your neck. His arms are a tight circle around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder as he looks down at the reptile, too. He’s warm and solid against your back, and you lean into him, happiness tingling through you.

“I wonder how much longer we would have taken if you didn’t get that coupon for a massage therapy course,” you muse, and Taehyung chuckles, warm and lovely.

“We would have gotten there eventually. And we would have had each other until we did, anyway. Right, angel?”

Pickles stays quiet as you both kiss, but you can tell he approves.)

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