#/ i do read ever tag as well! 💜

[voidsnarrator]

Ohoho what's this? My favorite frame of my Lovebug AU Animation Meme?

It's my favorite bit!! Narry looks so cute! The pose is so cute! But because Stanley is sad it's also so ouch! I just love it a lot ;3;

Designs of my Narrator and Stanley for my AU “I see you, I hear you” :] (But Lovebug of course! Which I'll write eventually hehe)

Please reblog if you like it? 💜

[zepskies]

Every Second Counts - Part 1

Pairing: Russell Shaw x F. Reader

Summary: One date with your best friend’s brother leaves you wanting more, even though his questionable job and vagabond lifestyle make you want to guard your heart. When your brother falls into trouble, however, Russell is the first one you trust to help you find him. 

AN: Finally, here we are at Part 1! Remember that A Line and a Half functions as our prologue here.

Word Count: 5.7K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only for some mature thoughts. Fluff, angst and hurt/comfort, drug use, mentions of drug addiction and alcoholism, skeevy men, and a tinge of spice.~

💜 Series Masterlist

Part 1: "Permission Granted"

“Are you absolutely sure?” you asked, with your hands on your hips. 

You wanted no miscommunication here, no read-between-the-lines mishaps, no subtext or nuance to bite you in the ass later. So here you stood in the middle of your best friend’s office, still at the Wyoming University campus after your last class.

Dory had to laugh at you. She pushed away from her desk and threw her hands up.

“Yes, for the love of God, you can grab a drink with my brother,” she said.

After brushing a lock of blonde hair behind her ear, she went to you and set her hands on your shoulders.

“You have my blessing,” she said. “All I ask is that you don’t scar me with any gushy details afterward.” 

Your face began to heat up in a blush. You crossed your arms.

“All right, no one said there was going to be any of that,” you replied. “It’s just a date. Barely a date, mind you.”

“A-huh,” Dory said with a sneaking smile. “Out of curiosity, what was it about him that hooked you? You’ve been dodging Chris’s valiant attempts for like a month now.”

Chris was a French and Spanish professor. His office was on the same floor as yours, so you two occasionally crossed paths whenever you ventured into the teacher’s lounge.

He usually caught you in the morning while you were grabbing your free coffee fix at the Keurig. He’d chat you up about his classes and his dog and his new boat, and all the while you’d struggle to get a word in edgewise. Despite that, he was good-looking and pleasant, for the most part. It was just…

“I don’t know. He’s not my type, I guess,” you shrugged. You kind of liked conversations where both people got to speak.

“And Russell is?” Dory said, in a teasing tone. You chewed the inside of your lip, fighting a smile.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “Kind of want to find out though.”

“Okay, well, let me know what you find,” Dory said, more wryly. You caught a bit of melancholy when her gaze drifted off. Your brows furrowed in concern as you drew closer, setting a hand on her arm.

“What do you mean?” you asked.

She was hesitant, but she eventually answered you with a confession.

“You know, it’s been about twenty years since I’ve seen him,” she said. “We’ve had entire lives already. I see him now, and there’s some of the Russell I knew when we were kids, but…there’s just a lot I don’t know about him, who he’s become.”

You could understand that. You squeezed her arm in sympathy.

“Well, he really seems to want to know you now,” you said. You remembered all the questions he asked you when he helped you carry your files back to your office after lunch today—most of them about Dory, about her career, your friendship, and ultimately, if she was happy.

“What happened to you guys?” you asked. “Why are you all so distant? Colter included.”

Dory’s face tightened. “It’s a long story. I’ve told you some of it. But basically, after our dad died, nothing was ever the same again.”

You dimmed at that. You knew their mother still lived in the cabin they grew up in, but Dory had never quite been able to tell you what happened to their dad. You’d never pushed the subject. You knew better than anyone what kind of pain that was. 

“I just wish we’d been able to stay with each other. Me and my brothers, at least,” Dory said. But she adopted a smile for you, before she returned to her desk.

“Okay. Go on your non-date at your favorite bar with Russell. I’ll be here, grading papers until Judgment Day,” she said, with a small laugh that felt like a coverup for thoughts she no longer wanted to think about.

You let her do it. You grabbed your purse and work bag off the spare chair in front of her desk.

“So you’re sure,” you wanted to confirm. “One last chance for me to tell him I came down with food poisoning.”

Dory collected her stack of midterm papers and gave you a cheeky look that said, class dismissed. Then she clicked her red pen and pointedly looked down at the first batch of papers to read through.

You smiled. Okay, you thought, giving her a little wave goodbye when you turned to leave. You had just a couple of hours to drive home and get ready to meet Russell.

“Goodnight,” you called.

“Goodniiight,” Dory replied.

You heard the smirk in her voice without even having to look back.

After fighting through rush hour traffic, you were exhausted when you got home from work. Your tentative excitement and nerves about tonight gave you some new energy though, even if you thought those nerves were silly to have.

Barely a date, you reminded yourself, as you unlocked the door to your house. Barely a date, barely a date.

The Ring Camera beside the door chimed when you entered the house, signaling your arrival. You had to wrinkle your nose at the dank-ass smell that greeted you.

Frowning in annoyance, you dropped your stuff on the kitchen table for now and shucked off your heels. You made a beeline down the hall, to the bedroom that lied across from yours. You pushed it open without knocking. There you caught your older brother, Charlie, snoozing in his bed with the covers half pooling on the floor.

His room was a mess, as usual. Your gaze locked on the evidence of half a blunt on his nightstand and two smoked roaches beside it. You were glad it wasn’t remnants of white lines of powder, like times before, but there was also a large bottle of whiskey. It was almost empty, and hanging loosely from his hand.

He managed to raise his head a bit when you came in.

“Hey,” he said, blinking bleary eyes. He cleared his throat and tried to sit up.

You shook your head and picked around piles of dirty clothes and a couple of used paper plates on the floor. You swiftly grabbed the bottle from his hand and slammed it on the nightstand.

“You promised me, Charlie,” you snapped. “You promised me for the hundredth time that you’d quit all this shit. Where even were you last night? You weren’t home when I left for work this morning.”

He sighed, frowning at how loud you were, and sat up in bed. He swung his legs over the side and held his swimming head in his hands, resting his elbows on his knees. He ran a hand through his hair. It was nearly black, like Dad’s had been, but he’d inherited Mom’s lighter eyes.

“I got invited to a party,” he said. “I’m sorry, I know. This is the last time.”

You expelled a frustrated breath and shook your head.

“You’re a grown fucking man, Charlie! Do you really need me to give you the just say no speech?” you said. 

“Look, I’m sorry. I don’t know how many times I can say it,” he said. He shut his eyes tight, probably trying to fend off a headache. 

Good, you thought. Let that be a reminder of how bad he’d screwed up again. 

“And while we’re at it, what about your half of the bills? You’re a week late,” you said, testily crossing your arms.

“Yeah, I’m a little behind,” he said. Once again, he cleared his throat past a wad of phlegm. He was still a bit crossfaded too, you could tell. “You know they cut my hours to part-time at the museum. I’ve, uh, I’ve been looking into getting another job—”

“I already paid the phone bill. And the internet, the water bill, the electricity,” you said. “The house may be paid off, but the least you can do is pay your half of living here.”

The longer you stared at him, seeing the guilt hidden behind drunken eyes, you realized he wasn’t just late on his half of the bills.

“How much?” you asked.

He frowned up at you. “What?”

“How much do you owe?” you said. Your voice was as cutting as your gaze. Charlie lowered his.  

“It’s okay, don’t worry—”

“How much,” you pressed.

He looked up at you again, this time with pursed lips. After a beat, he sighed and gave in.

“About two grand,” he admitted.

You raised your eyes heavenward, muttering a curse. Your hands went to your temples as you had to pace the room. You were angry and exasperated in equal measure.

“Who the fuck do you owe two grand?!” you asked.

Charlie shook his head. “It’s better that I don’t tell you that.”

You paused. As you looked down at him, your anger dissolved into sadness, like it always did.

“If Mom and Dad could see you now, they wouldn’t recognize you,” you said.

Charlie fought not to react to that, his brows furrowing. Instead, he just looked down, unable to answer you.

“Charlie, you need help. I can’t keep doing this with you,” you said. Your shaky breath gave way to the burn of tears.  

His red-rimmed eyes became glassy as well.

“I’m sorry,” was all he said.

He was always sorry. And you always had to be the one to nurse him back to health, pick up the pieces, pay the bills. You were exhausted. The bone-deep kind of tired that felt like gravity wasn't so much keeping you down, but pushing you.

“I’m going to ask for two things: do what you need to do to get paid, and clean up your shit. If you can’t accomplish that, then I’m taking you to rehab,” you said.

“You know I’ve tried that,” Charlie said, with a shrug of his shoulders. “Didn’t really work for me.”

“You left the program after two weeks!” you retorted.

“I did it on my own! I’ve been clean for months,” he argued.

“And what happened? You go to one party and all your good sense, all your training, mentally and physically—that all goes out the window?” you said. You had half a mind not to believe him.

“Yeah well, maybe just for one night, I wanted to relax without you harping on my back,” he said, glaring up at you. “Is that too much to fucking ask? For you to give me some goddamn slack?”

Your mouth fell open incredulously.  

“I’m on your back?” you said. “Okay. I’ll get off. Do whatever the hell you want, Charlie. I’m done.”

You left his room in an angry huff. You headed over to your room so you could take a shower and start getting ready to meet Russell at Howley’s. 

By the time you got to your bedroom, you heard the front door slam closed.

The truth was, you were no longer in a mood to have fun when you pulled up to Howley’s, but you needed to escape your house. Also, you weren’t someone who canceled on people last-minute, especially not on Dory’s own brother.

You found Russell waiting for you at the bar. He waved to you with a fifth of whiskey in hand and an easy grin. He’d saved you a seat beside him.

You found yourself smiling. Your mood began to lighten as you went over to him. He looked more or less the same, but this time the jacket and jeans combo was navy blue and dark wash, respectively. His hair was swept back, lightly gelled. You smelled the familiar, rich woodiness of his cologne when you drew near, along with a hint of spicy soap.

“Hey, there.” He greeted you with a warm hand on your back. He helped you into your seat.

“Hey, yourself,” you replied, and thanked him for the assist onto the tall stool. You’d opted for jeans and a blouse, paired with your favorite leather boots. It was less dressy than he’d seen you before, but that was “work mode.” This was a more casual affair, even if you’d spent at least twenty extra minutes on your makeup.

You were glad he picked a spot at the end of the bar though. It put some distance from the group of guys getting rowdy as they cheered at the football game playing on the TV.

“How was the rest of your day, Professor?” he asked. “And what’re you wanting to drink?”

You let out a long sigh and turned toward him, resting your elbow on the counter.

“Awesome. I’m going to need two shots of tequila and an order of something fried, and preferably covered with cheese, please,” you replied.

Russell’s grin deepened. “Okay, I’m thinking ‘awesome’ is code for something. But we can get started on that order of Forget Today’s Unfortunate Events.”

He flagged down the bartender with a raise of his hand, but he shot you a glance.

“Though I’m hoping it’s not all of today that you wanna forget,” he said.

Your lips threatened another smile, as the memory of your hand being swept up into his, and soft lips meeting the back of your hand filtered through your mind.

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s possible,” you said.

After about ten minutes of playfully debating the appetizer menu (you swore by the pretzel and beer cheese, but Russell had his eye on those spicy wings), he finally settled on ordering both.

“When in doubt, don’t go without,” he’d remarked.

You swept a pretty coil of hair over your shoulder and downed your tequila shots with a lime wedge. Meanwhile, Russell tried not to linger his eyes on the way your tongue swept over your finger to catch a drop of lime juice. Your nails were manicured, and the shade of the polish matched your lipstick.

Russell didn’t pretend to know the art and science of a woman’s wardrobe, but everything about you was thought out, it seemed, falling in line with what he’d expect from a (sexy as all hell) college professor. You’d also told him at lunch today that as of last year, you now had two doctorates: History and Ancient Studies.

Even with all that under your belt, you also seemed refreshingly down-to-earth, a lot like Dory in that sense. He could see why you two were friends.

“So, are you from here, or are you a transplant, like my sister?” he asked.

Dory hadn’t come to live in Wyoming until their aunt and uncle took her in, when she was about eight years old. Before last month, Russell hadn’t seen her since. It hurt his heart to think about, but he tried to focus on you.

You now seemed to be staring a bit listlessly at the glass of whiskey in his hands. He laid a hand on your arm and called your name.

“Hmm?” Your brows rose as you blinked to attention. “Oh! I’m sorry. Yes, I’ve lived here pretty much forever.”

“You okay?” Russell asked. “Tequila hit ya a little hard?”

You shook your head. “No, I’m sorry…”

You raised your hands up to your temples. You debated whether you wanted to open up about this, but…considering who Russell was, you thought he might just understand.

“Dory told me you’ve been trying to reconnect with your brother, right? Colter?” you said.

Russell nodded. He wasn’t sure how much Dory told you about their family business, but it dimmed his mood.

“Well, you could say I’ve got a brother issue of my own,” you said, laughing humorlessly. “You don’t have to talk about yours, but maybe you’ll understand… My brother is a veteran too. He was a Captain, air force pilot. He fought in Afghanistan, mainly.”

Russell processed that with a nod. “Yeah, I was there too. Special Ops.”

“Wow, okay. Then you know what it was like for him, coming back home,” you said. Your gaze fell to your empty shot glasses. “It was hard, after…”

“After?” he prompted.

You sighed. “Near the end, he lost half his unit in a raid, off of some flawed intel.”

Russell’s brows knitted together. Hmm. Grief, survivor’s guilt, feeling like you don’t belong.

He was starting to get a clearer picture of who your brother was. It struck at familiar chords inside himself that he wasn’t so comfortable with. He shifted in his seat, fingers flexing over his glass on the counter.

You didn’t notice, but you did push the shot glasses away from you.

“I helped him the best I could,” you said. “I got him a job at the museum I interned at when I was in undergrad. He’s there as a security guard, but it’s not really enough, you know? It’s like, nothing satisfies him. I just…I don’t think I know how to help him anymore.”

You couldn’t help it. Emotion bubbled in your throat, making it close up on you as tears stung in your eyes. Your lower lip wobbled, and you tried to turn your face away. Embarrassment coiled up in your chest and made your face hot.

You felt a hand cover yours on your thigh, squeezing warmly. You looked up and met Russell’s gaze, both sympathetic and understanding.

“I’m so sorry,” you said, trying to calm your shuddering breath. “This isn’t exactly first date material. I can’t believe I unloaded on you like that.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” he said. “Believe me, I get what your brother’s going through.”

He pushed the plate with the last piece of soft-baked pretzel over to you.

“You finish that if you want, then you go ahead and pick something else off the menu. I won’t even argue with you this time,” he promised with a grin.

It got you to laugh, at least, and he gave you a napkin for your tears.

God, get it together, you told yourself. You’re a damn mess.

“Thanks,” you said. You managed to smile as you blotted at one corner of your eye. You hoped you hadn’t just irreversibly smudged your mascara.

Russell surprised you by brushing his thumb against your other cheek, wiping a stray tear away. Your face began to warm with a blush.

“Again, I’m sorry for dumping on you. We had a fight right when I got home,” you admitted.

“What’s his name?” Russell asked.

“Charlie.”

“Older or younger than you?”

“Four years older,” you replied. “He enlisted a few years after he graduated high school.”

Russell flickered at a smile. Enlisted, huh?

Yet another thing he and Charlie had in common, except Russell hadn’t made it through high school in the classic sense.

“What do you think?” you asked.

“I think your brother sounds lost right now. I’ve known a lotta guys like him, unfortunately,” Russell admitted. “Walking back into civilian life, it ain’t easy. That I know my damn self. Just like I know a thing or two about being an older brother. He’s probably doing his best to keep it off your shoulders.”

You shook your head at that. Trying, maybe.

You weren’t even sure of that anymore. Still, it made you all the more curious about Russell and his family.

“I know I said I wouldn’t ask this, and you don’t have to answer. But did you and Colter have a falling out or something?” you asked.

Russell expelled a deep breath and took a sip from his glass. How was he supposed to navigate this minefield with you?

“You gotta understand that me, my brother, my sister, we didn’t grow up like a normal family,” he said.

“Yeah, I know,” you nodded. “Dory’s told me some of it. It sounded…rustic.”

He snorted. “Putting it mildly.”

He shook his head and drained the rest of his glass. 

“Well, my brother’s got an idea about me that isn’t true,” he said.

Your head tilted in curiosity. “Which is?”

His lips briefly raised in a wan smile. 

“We don’t gotta get into that one tonight. But uh, the truth is, I’ve tried reaching out to him several times now. He just doesn’t wanna hear from me,” said Russell.

You considered him for a moment. You laid a hand on his arm, covered by his jacket. 

“Don’t give up,” you said, with a sigh of your own. “Despite some things I said to him today, I know I can’t. My brother’s the only real family I have.”

Russell grew curious then. “What about your parents?”

You gave a weak smile.

“They passed away when we were young, but…we don’t have to get into that one tonight,” you said, borrowing his words. 

His expression fell. “Jesus. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you,” you accepted, twisting the napkin around your fingers.

An awkward lull of silence fell between you, until Russell nodded and blew out a breath.

“Well. Heavy, huh?”

You chuckled and rested your head against your hand.

“I know. Again, my fault,” you replied. 

“It’s okay, swee—. Mmm,” he cut himself off, shooting you a knowing glance.

“Were you about to sweetheart me?” you asked playfully, nudging his hand. “You know how I feel about that.”

“No, ma’am. Not at all,” Russell shook his head. His smile gave him away though. You laughed and grabbed his arm.

“Come on,” you said.

He allowed you to lead him out of his seat. He already had a tab open, so he’d settle up with the bar later. “Where we going?”

“You’re gonna lose to me at pool,” you said with a smirk.

Russell laughed and wrapped his arm around your waist instead.

“Oh, okay. I’m gonna give you a run for your money, though,” he promised.

And he was true to his word.

Russell Shaw turned out to be a more than worthy opponent. You studied the board as you changed the angle on your cue stick no less than five times.

“You gonna make a move, or we going to be here all night?” he said.

He was smiling as he leaned against his own cue on the other side of the board. His clever moves had left you in a difficult position to get your three remaining solid-colored balls into the pocket.

“You hush. I’m thinking,” you said, fighting your own smile.

“Careful, you’ve got steam coming out of your ears,” he teased.

You shot him a narrowed look for that. But then you smiled, as the answer came to you. You walked around to his side of the board and nudged him with your hip.

“Excuse me, sir,” you said to him over your shoulder.

Russell made way for you, but his eyes followed the way you bent over to line up your shot. Namely the curve of your ass in those tight jeans. He could see you knew exactly what you were doing, in more ways than one.

You shot your shot. The solid green ball leapt over his white-striped blue one and managed to sink into the pocket. You straightened up and gave him a triumphant little smirk.

He tried to temper his smile (and ignore the way his cock twitched).

“All right, go on, do your little victory lap," he said. "But remember, I let you go first.”

“Like that matters,” you quipped back.

You went back to the other side of the board to line up your next shot. Russell noticed a pair of drunk men ambling your way from the bar, but before he could make a subtle move to put himself in between, one of the men’s gazes slid down your form and gave into the base urge to let out a low whistle.

And he slapped you right on the ass.

You gasped, grabbing hold of the pool table. Then your shock melted into ire.

Russell was already heading toward you with an angry frown of his own, but even he had to stop short, when he watched you throw a punch that cracked the drunken man across the bridge of his nose.

Good form, Russell thought, when the guy reared back with a howl. His nose dripped blood when his hands came away from his face.

His buddy started to raise his hackles, but that was when Russell stepped to your side. He angled himself toward you and loosely gripped his pool cue by his hip, like it was an extension of his arm. He was fully prepared to use it like one.

“Fucking bitch!” said the one who was still dabbing his nose in vain. He glared at you, his eyes watering involuntarily, while his friend tried to keep him upright. You rolled your eyes.

"You're the one who's crying, bitch," you returned. Russell held in a snort. He cleared his throat and looked on at the pair of idiots.

“I’d have a little sit down if I were you,” Russell told them, with a smirk. “Let that be a lesson to ya. And if it don’t stick? Well. Whatever you start, I can damn well finish.”

His steely gaze reinforced the promise of his words. The other men were still angry, but even drunks had some sense of self-preservation. They ambled toward the back of the bar to find another pool table.

Russell focused his attention back on you, finding you looking down at your hand, rotating your wrist and flexing your fingers.

“Well, look at you, slugger,” he said. You met his smile with one of amusement.

“That’s just what I needed tonight. A broken hand,” you quipped.

“Aw, it doesn’t look as bad as all that. But can I see?” he asked. You allowed him to take your smaller hand in his. Your knuckles were red and tender to the touch when he gently pressed. You hissed in pain.

Damn, she really gave it to him, Russell thought.

“Sorry,” he said, but your hand felt fine, at least. More than fine. His gaze flicked up to yours as his amused grin deepened. “Good hit though.”

If he liked you before, he might’ve fallen half in love with you right there.

You laughed through the pain. “Yeah, my brother did teach me something. Shit.”

Russell led you back to the bar after you grabbed your purse. There he called to the bartender for some ice. The guy nodded; he’d seen the entire exchange and was sympathetic.

You knew this sort of thing was just par for the course at this kind of bar, but they had the best drinks. Charlie had to carry you out of here on your twenty-first birthday, drunk off your ass. Not to mention, he’d punched out two handsy dicks that night.

You recounted the story to Russell over a couple more drinks. Your conversation was lighter then, filled with laughter and a warm, companiable feeling. He was still rather evasive about his job, but you supposed he had to be, since it was government contract work.

Private security, mainly. Or so he'd said. This man made you infinitely curious, and a bit apprehensive, if you were honest.

And yet, at some point while you two shared and laughed and split a hot sandwich with another round of beers, you realized it.

I like this, you thought. And I like him.

However, the night had to come to an end sometime. Your third involuntary yawn told Russell it was time to call it.

"I'm okay," you tried.

"Nah, you've gotta work tomorrow," he said. He signaled to the bartender. "Let me go ahead and close out my tab."

“Oh, I can pay for half,” you said, reaching for your purse now hanging from your hip.

“You kidding me? Put that away,” he said, guiding your hand with your wallet aside.

Smiling, you accepted his generosity with a small thank you. Then, you let him take up your sore hand again, just to carefully press the half-melted bag of ice over it.

“Feelin’ better?” he asked.

Your smile became softer. “Yeah.”

You had no doubt that this man, tall as he was, with his broad shoulders and the controlled way he carried himself, could’ve laid both of those drunken assholes onto their asses. His intimidating gaze had promised as much.

But his hands were gentle for you.

“I was about to win that game, no contest!” you said, laughing as you and Russell headed out of the bar and into the parking lot.

“Hey, hey, I still had time to win it back,” he argued. “I only had three more balls to go. I could’ve sunk that with my eyes closed.”

“Three balls, huh?” you said slyly, and maybe, a little tipsy. “Might wanna get that looked at.”

Russell snorted. “You think you’re funny, huh?”

“Hey, you laughed!” you said, pointing at him.

He shook his head, despite his amusement. He slowed to a stop in front of his car.

“Where’d you park, huh?” he asked.

“Over there,” you said, pointing several parking spaces down. Your eyes were drawn to his car, however. “Wow. This is your car?”

Russell grinned and patted the top of his black Chevy.

“Aw, yeah. That’s my baby,” he said. “She’s a Chevelle, 1967.”

You didn’t know much about cars, but you could see this was a classic beauty. You passed a hand over its sleek paint job without touching, so you didn't get any fingerprints on it. Though you quirked a smile over your shoulder at him.

“She?” you intoned.

“That’s right. She,” he confirmed.

You smirked and crossed your arms. You paused in front of the passenger door, and when Russell drew in closer, you had to crane your neck up to meet his warm gaze.

“Now, if I go in for a kiss goodnight, are you gonna deck me?” he asked, with a teasing glint in his eyes.

You tilted your head, your own eyes dancing.

“I’m sure you’re brave enough to find out,” you said.

Russell decided he’d take that bet.

He leaned in slowly. He made a show of hesitating, raising a brow, as if waiting for a blow. You were tempted to laugh.

But then he let loose a true smile, and he bowed his head to press his lips against yours. Your eyes fell shut, and your hands moved to flatten against his chest. A firm fucking wall. Jesus.

He circled his arms around your waist, bringing you in closer. Your fingers wound up in his hair, while he tilted his head to kiss you again. You met him with the same fervor with each new kiss, and the feel of your body, soft and pliant under his hands, each little sweet sound that you made, it all drove him to delve in deeper.

You moaned into his mouth at the first warm swipe of his tongue against yours. He tasted like the burn of good whiskey.

You pressed yourself flush against him on instinct. He found no other recourse but to back you up against the side of his car. His hand tangled into your hair, gripping, then easing through the soft strands.

Russell veered away from your soft mouth after a while, just to burn a line of warm, wet kisses along your jaw, and down your neck with the added rasp of his beard.

His lips found the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder. He kissed and sucked at your skin, even grazing with his teeth. You gasped softly in his ear, shuddering against him. You ran your hands over his shoulders and down his strong back out of a need to feel him.

His hands were heavy along the curve of your waist then, squeezing your hips. It all felt incredibly right. And by right, you meant body tingling, warmth churning in your lower belly, and wetness growing between your legs, for sure dampening your panties.

You tugged him back by his hair, so you could reach him for another steamy kiss.

“I’m staying at a motel, if you wanna…” he said, between kisses.

You paused against his lips, parting from him softly.

“Or not," he added. "Just thought I’d mention.” 

You giggled, catching your breath, and then smoothing your hands down his chest. The faint throb of your core was telling you one thing, but the warning signals of your more cautious mind were telling you another. You thought for a moment…but then you sighed. 

“How long are you really in town?” you asked.

His wet lips tugged to one corner, ruefully. “A few more days, probably.”

“Right,” you said with a frown. “Russell, I like you. I actually, I really do. If you were sticking around for a while, it’d be one thing. But you’re my best friend’s brother, and I—”

“No, I get it. I can’t predict when I’m gonna be able to swing back into town, and you’ve gotta live your life,” he said, but not without care. He curled an errant strand of hair behind your ear. 

Your heart tugged, almost painfully.

“You’re a good guy, Russell Shaw,” you breathed. “Why can’t you be a good guy who’s staying?”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he said. Then he cringed, knowing how you felt about sweethearting men. “Ah, sorry—” 

You smiled and covered his mouth with your fingers. 

“It’s okay. You have permission to sweetheart me.” 

After blinking his surprise away, his face eased into a grin.

“Then I’ll wear that badge with honor,” he said. 

Your shoulders shook with laughter when you let your forehead fall against his chest.

Russell remained what he had been throughout the entire night: a gentleman, who accompanied you over to your car.

After another stolen kiss or two in front of your sedan, you parted ways from him with a bit of a heavy heart. You wondered if you made the right decision, or if you should’ve just gone for it for once, instead of second-guessing yourself like usual.

You did know this. The rumble of his Chevelle driving down the opposite road would be imprinted on your memory.

When you returned home, you realized that the house was empty, and in complete darkness.

Charlie still wasn’t home.

Worried, you flicked on the lights and began to text his cell, only to find a note for you on the kitchen counter.

And it worried you even more.

I’m sorry. I’m going to make it right. 

— C.

AN: 😬 Well then! lol We're diving straight into the drama and feels on this one. What did you think of her "barely a date" with Russell? 😂

And where do you think we're going next with Charlie?

Next Time:

Dory was sat next to you on the couch, rubbing your back with sympathy and concern in her own eyes.

“You should call the police,” she advised.

You’d thought of that, but if Charlie was doing something he wasn’t supposed to, then depending on what it was, you didn’t necessarily want him locked up in a cell. He wasn’t a bad person, he was just…lost. You wanted him to get help.

You set down the butterknife beside the jar and turned to her, after drying your eyes the best you could.

“Do you think your brother would be willing to come back to Wyoming?” you said. After a beat of hesitation, you specified:

“Colter, the tracker.”

Series Masterlist

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[positively-mine]

You’re a girl?!

how the twst boys find out you’re a girl & their reactions

tags: afab, accidental touches

a/n: very much self indulgent BUT I COUNDNT STOP THINKING 🤔 what if because it was a boys school that they didn’t have skirts and basically Crowley just made you wear the uniform & you didn't tell anyone. Like epel and lilia’s case, they just thought you were a feminine guy (p.s I just started and I haven’t read any spoilers, except for some info from reddit so I’m very sorry if this has already been covered/ revealed) very gacha coded but PLSSSSS bear this brain rot with me

Some spoilers: until book 3

Series: ❤️ 🧡 🩵 💛 💜 💙 💚

Ace

This can go two ways. Firstly, is that he was chasing deuce or Grimm around and you happen to be walking around the corner. And BAM. You’re both on the ground with him on top of you, caging you into his arms. With both his hands conveniently placed on two lumps on your chest. It takes him a good 3 seconds of staring and squeezing before he realises what they are. What you are. Immediately feels embarrassed and starts screaming and scarmbling to get up.

Orrr he has gotten so used to coming into ramshackle house as he pleases and barges into your room without knocking. You’re both guys, so what’s the problem? Big mistake. Because you’re changing and literally only in your under garments. He’s all red and hot faced before he’s running out of your room and the house into the walkway to calm himself down.

The next time he faces you, he’s apologising while avoiding eye contact. He knows you’ve been through thick and thin together but it really did feel as though his whole world view was shattered when he found out. When he’s hanging out with you, he’s much more careful of where he places his hand and tries to look out for you. Definitely tried to act more manly as well, like when there's an overblot about to happen he either pushes you behind him or blocks you with his body..

Deuce

The way i see this going down is that he’s got his gangster mode on from whatever trouble he’s gotten himself into (or for convenience sake; the broken eggs in book 1). And he’s trying to push you away to stop you from stopping HIM from picking a fight. And something soft hits his forearm. He turns to look at you chest before he quickly realises. He’s screaming like a banshee while moving as far away as he can from you. The initial quarrel was forgotten and now his head is spinning. Thoughts like “what would my mother think if she knew what i did??”, “HES A GIRL?! I MEAN SHE” and so on. The walk back to the kitchen is so quiet that you could basically hear Grimm’s grumbling all the way from Heartsbyul kitchen. Once you arrived back at the kitchen, the guys are wondering why its so quiet between you two but pay no mind to it.

He gets awkward around you every once in a while when realises how close the two of you are but still tries to make up for it. Also becomes more diligent in trying to withhold his gangster personality. He doesn’t want to show anymore of his nasty side to you when he can show you how well he can treat you. Lest he wants to lose you to some other guys…

Trey

This one's tough. I don't know if he has sisters so let's just say that he has. He's one of the first few to realize that you're a girl, being the ever observant person that he is. He sees the pattern when you start getting a little bit more emotional than you are. Snapping at Adeuce and Grimm when you're usually much more patient, getting upset at small things or when he catches you tearing up when you talk about returning to your own world. Yeah he definitely knows.

So it's no surprise when you start to receive more baked treats from him and he's piling up all sorts of nutritious food onto your plate when you sit together. The others are wondering why he's doing that when you're capable of doing it yourself. It's only after several months of this treatment that you realize he knows that you're a girl. And when you confront him about it, "I can't help but want to take care of you when I see you".

Riddle

I like to think that you’re having tea together. He’s invited you to another one of their dorm’s many reason to have tea. Grimm and Ace are fighting for the last cookie and accidentally knock into you as you pick up your teacup. Splashing the liquid all over your dress shirt. Riddle is of course, furious. Rule #363, never spill your tea. Especially on a Tuesday. He’s screaming at them both when his eyes move to check if you’re okay. And that’s when he sees some blue peeking out at the wet area of your shirt. It takes him a quick second to march over to you and drape his blazer over you. “You should go back and change. Make sure to take a warm bath unless you want to catch a cold.” You nod at him confusedly. He watches as you make your way down the steps. He turns to the rest of the members with pink tinted cheeks. “Unfortunately this tea party will have to be cancelled,” and he quickly turns back to walk to his dorm before anyone can say anything.

The next time you see him, his cheeks are tinted pink and he’s trying very hard to not make eye contact with you. Overall, most of your relationship stays the same except that he’s inviting you over for tea more often. But this time its just the two of you. And his excuse? It changes every time. Sometimes its because he says he wants to talk about Adeuce and Grimm’s behaviour, and sometimes it’s because he wants your thoughts on which tea set is better.

Cater

For his case, it's not that he found out, rather he overheard it from a rowdy pair of first years and a cat. He was walking to his next class and about to turn around the corner when he overheard their not so very hushed conversation. His eyes widen very similarly to the saucers that they use for tea. He's kind of upset that he didn't find out himself, but learned it through someone else. Oh well. It's a win-win situation for him anyways.

So when he starts being much more clingier to you and offering to walk you to your classes do you start to get suspicious. He’s always coming over to sit together at your table and visiting you at Ramshackle more. Lounging on the beaten up sofa while you do whatever work you have to. Keeping you company for as long as he can. Or at least until Riddle calls him back or you kick him out. Whichever comes first.

Now imagine there’s a celebration of some sort and he’s excitedly running up the steps to Ramshackle to formally invite you as his date. “I’ve got a surprise for you,” he smiles cheekily. And from behind him he pulls out a beautiful dress. “Will you be my date?” No misunderstanding his gestures now.

reblogs appreciated!

[bonny-kookoo]

Jungkook

𝐒𝐞𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐀𝐧𝐱𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐲 | Part 5

A smile from you is all he needs to feel recharged.

Tags/Warnings: Game Designer!Jungkook, Non Idol AU, established relationship, Angst , emotional kook, suggestive messages, poor Maria pt.1 [Tags will be different for every part!]

Length: 1k Words

There is no taglist for this fic.

Collab with @euphoricfilter ! 💜

-> Masterlist

♥━━━━━━━━━━•.♡.•━━━━━━━━━━━━♥

This is not going to plan at all.

Not only is he behind schedule wise, he's also not thought about the possibility of what this all might look like to you at all. Because why would you even think that in the first place? He'd be absolutely stupid to cheat on you, let alone with a 64 year old married woman of all people!

But then again, you don't know that part- and he also can't really properly explain it as he would surely blow his own cover, and he's just too close to the finish line to give up now. He already almost cried at deleting your face ID and fingerprint from his phone, feeling like he deleted the memory of setting those things up too, but he swore himself it's for a good cause down the line. You'll make so many more memories together for sure, and they'll top those more than by just a little. He'll make sure that they will.

[Alright, I'm so excited! Next time let's do it this way right from the start- no need to make it so complicated!] Maria had wrote him in full, and he reads over it with a bit of worry. Does she really understand what he meant by his worries?

[I'm not sure you understand. I'm planning something big, and I'm also behind when it comes to physical intimacy these days, you know?] He writes the woman, who he's asked prior about the rules and such regarding.. well, sex in the home he's renting out for the upcoming special occasion he's planned. He doesn't want to get locked up for not following some Airbnb laws he overlooked after all. That would just be embarrassing. [And we're very intimate people. I'm taking her pleasure and happiness seriously, if you get the hint.] He texts her as he boils some water on the stove for his absolute accurately made ramyeon.

[Oh trust me, I've been young too! No need to be shy, I can only imagine that emotions will run high most likely!] She responds, and Jungkook pursed his lips for a second, before he starts to play with his piercings deep in thought.

[No, Maria, I don't think you get it-] he begins to type. [-it's been almost two full weeks at this point, that's the longest we've ever gone without any sex, we're talking at least three orgasms a day times fourteen, I've got some major catching up to do..] jungkook sends her, before he puts his phone down for a second as to prepare the instant noodles properly.

[It's fine, really. No need to worry!] The woman responds. But jungkook wants to make sure.

[She's a squirter- you know what that is right? Either way it's gonna get messy so I'm just making sure you REALLY know what you're getting into if you say it's alright because the carpet looked really nice and I'm not sure how to get cum stains out of that] he rambles, not noticing you emerge from the bedroom now as you put your bag on one of the kitchen chairs. [I can replace it too if that happens no problem, you know how my girlfriend gets haha. Well you don't but you will know after we're done with the place-] he taps and accidentally sends out as you call his name, causing him to almost drop his phone into the soup pot on the stove, only barely catching it in time before he can practically throw it into the pocket of his sweatpants. "Yeah?" He asks towards you, and you look at him still way too hostile in his opinion.

He knows you can be a bit of a hot head. It's what he loves about you- how fierce you can get and how you'll always stand your ground. But he also knows that you're a bit of an aklebiter with some serious anger issues sometimes- once you see red, you don't see anything else anymore. So he's got to be careful not to fuck it up any further, because once he loses you, he loses for good.

Because you're stubborn if you've made up your mind.

"The water's boiling over." You mumble, avoiding his gaze as you sit at the kitchen table, arms crossed in defense. He jumps at your words and turns off the stove at that, somewhat awkwardly playing up some food into bowl for the both of you, watching you eat silently across from him with an almost needy gaze.

You're gonna probably try and kick his balls if he asks you to sit on his lap right now, so he swallows down the request to keep them intact.

He's gonna seriously crunch some hours while you're sleeping over at a friend's house so he can still make the deadline, able to pass up on sleep with you not actually home to scold him for it. He hates the fact that the app on his phone constantly reminds him of the lack of intimacy between you two- taunting him with notifications about his streak being broken, his record being topped, his spot up top on the scoreboard being taken. He hates it. He created this app, he should be the one who's best at it too!

God he can't wait to get his hands on you again. He feels like his dick is going to fall off in the next few days.

And it's not just that, either. He doesn't sleep well when you're not with him, he misses all the interactions you usually have during the day, the love, the intimacy of just being close, he misses it so bad. And he kind of doesn't want you to leave right now- he'd love to just call it quits and just cave in, but he's come too far now, and you're also a strong independent woman. You deserve to choose where you want to go or stay, he's got no say in that- or at least he shouldn't try to have it.

"I.. You'll text me when you wanna come back home, right?" He asks as he finishes his bowl, and you shrug.

"Whatever." You mumble. "S' not like you want me home for more than the chores anyways." You huff into your food, and he can't help but feel his eyes tear up. No, stupid Jungkook, don't fucking cry right now. You're gonna ruin it all with your dumb tears and weak heart just like always-

"I do want you home.." he mumbles quietly, blinking harder to avoid you spotting anything off- but you notice. Of course you do.

"...I'll text you." You say, and that at least soothes his mind for the moment as his phone falls out of his pocket, screen cracking and making him cringe.

Fuck. That's the what.. 20th time this year?

But it's all worth it, if it means he can at least see the hint of a smile pull at your lips for once.

The sight alone motivation enough to make him work even harder now.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 4: These Words Are All I Have So I'll Write Them]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, prostitution, references to sexual content including noncon (18+), pregnancy, methods of ending pregnancy, speaking High Valyrian at a third-grade level, no Larys Strong this time yay!!!

Series title is a lyric from: “7 Minutes in Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Dance, Dance” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 6.7k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

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She gives you a new dress to replace the one that is sopping wet and algae-stained from your tumble into the fishpond: a deep gory maroon, low-cut across the chest, a slit up to your thigh. It is the most revealing thing you have ever worn. You keep crossing your arms and tugging at the fabric, trying to make it cover more of you, incurably out-of-place in this room, this world. The madam is seated at her desk and jotting down notes in a thick, ancient book. When you steal glimpses of her words, they are messy and often misspelled, the script of a child. If you had parchment, you could write a letter. Your hands itch for it; your fingers flex to grasp nothing.

A woman glides into the madam’s bedroom—a tiny kingdom where no men exist—and hands you a cup of tea. She appraises you with a swift, intrigued glance; her hair is long and coppery red, her belly rounded out. She is perhaps five months pregnant. The madam casts her a stern look and the woman dutifully vanishes. “What is this?” you ask as you take a sip. It’s hot, lemony, bitter. “Moon tea?”

The madame chuckles. “No. We have moon tea for if that doesn’t work.”

Because I’m going to be doing things that could result in a child. Because I’m going to be violated here, again and again, I who was so terrified of being possessed by even one man.

The madam says: “Can you play any instruments?”

“No.” You draw into yourself—eyes and ears and the pores of your skin—every detail, every tapestry on the walls and creaky board of the floor and shift in tones of voice, anything that could help you escape. You are a traveler in a strange land. You have no map, no compass. You can bandage burns and set bones, but you know nothing about brothels in the suffocating, squalid entrails of a city.

“Sing or dance?”

“Not well at all.”

A furrowed brow. “Can you sew?”

“Barely.”

“Cook?”

“No.”

Disappointment, palpable and shaming. “Can you read or write?” the madam asks, scratching disorderly lines of black ink into her book.

“Both.”

Now she has perked up a bit. “How well?”

“Fluently.”

A raised eyebrow. This is unusual. “Any other languages besides the Common Tongue?”

“No.” Then you add desperately: “But I know about medicine! I’ve studied herbology and wound tending, and I can act as a healer for the women here, I can—”

“You could, perhaps,” the madam says, smiling with sad, aged patience. “But that is not what the prince regent intended.”

You stare at her, aghast, petrified. There is no swaying her. You consider revealing yourself and attempting to bribe her with the renowned Celtigar fortune, but this is inadvisable. It is one thing to be raped; it is another to be raped and then murdered and then probably raped again. The Greens are the true heirs of the throne in this establishment, which means Rhaenyra and all those who aid her are traitors. Already you have overheard the women gossiping about King Aegon. They do not appear to fear or dislike him; on the contrary, they fret over him like anxious mothers or wives. They hope his recovery is quick. They are grateful he survived. They wonder if he will return to visit them again soon. They do not seem to be under the impression that he is vile, amoral, cruel, a threat, a curse. When they look at him, white hair and ocean-deep eyes, they do not see a monster.

“You aren’t bleeding currently,” the madam continues.

“How do you know that?”

“You didn’t ask for a rag when I gave you that dress.” New words springing to life on those yellowed pages, pricelessly valuable and yet forbidden to you. “Ever borne children?”

“No.”

“Are you a maiden?”

You can’t decide how to answer; you aren’t sure if either reply will help you. You settle on the truth. “Yes,” you admit tentatively.

“Good. We can charge more for you.”

“Wait, no, I’m not. I’ve been with lots of men.”

The madam laughs, shaking her head as she makes her notes. Her necklace and earrings jangle merrily, too large, glinting and gaudy. “Have no fear. I will make it easier for you. I will find a slight, young lad to be your first. He won’t be too big, he won’t last too long. And if you’re fortunate, he’ll even be handsome!” Her prominent, pale eyes go distant; she is orchestrating myths, the trade she deals in like some women sell silk or wool. “A soldier home on leave, perhaps. Looking for a taste of dwindling innocence before he marches off again to be butchered by a Costayne or a Darklyn.” She snaps back into the room. “It will be over before you know it. You’ll be more underwhelmed than anything else, trust me.”

You picture it, red, rust, rage, resignation: the impossibly large stain of blood on your cousin Theodora’s bedsheets. “What if I’m frightened? What if I cry?”

The madam shrugs. “Some men like that. It will convince them of your inexperience.”

You gape at her. “That’s appalling.”

“That’s the world we live in.” She sets down her quill, closes the book, and stretches out her back as she stands. “Follow me. I’ll show you around.”

There are rooms where the women sleep, rooms where they get ready, servants to arrange their hair and moonlight-silver mirrors and a cluttered array of cosmetics and closets bursting with sheer, sensuous gowns. As the madam momentarily diverts her attention from you to scold a servant for knocking over a tin of rouge made from ground cinnabar, you swipe a small stick of kohl eyeliner off a table and tuck it into the pocket of your dress. You might be able to write with it.

What is that pocket supposed to be for? A vial of perfume to mask the sweat of men, mint leaves to clear away their taste? A cloth to mop their mess off your thighs? You shudder, then trail after the madam as she floats out into the hallway.

There are bedchambers, six or seven of them, but the doors are shut. You can smell incense burning; you can hear moans and wet slaps of flesh beneath plucks of harps played by servants. Outside there is a courtyard where women sit on the stone rims of fountains simpering and stroking men’s beards, necks, chests, thighs. It is surrounded by a wall nine feet high. Armed guards pace through the maze of rose bushes and elm trees and proliferate quilts of ivy, keeping uninvited men out, keeping women in. They are protected from their own ambitions of some other kind of life. They are prisoners. The sky above them is a mosaic of spilled wine and gold; the sun is setting.

Downstairs in the kitchen, the madam leaves you in the care of the same woman you saw earlier, long coppery ringlets and a bastard in her belly. The dress she wears is a cleaner red than yours, not blood that has dried and flaked but a heart that’s still beating. She is chopping vegetables and tossing them into a pot boiling over the fire. The long wooden table is strewn with carrots, onions, potatoes, leeks, mushrooms, fresh dark green herbs.

She flashes you a wily smile. “Our cook dropped dead last week. We’ve yet to procure a new one, so I’m making myself useful. All the house laments.”

You laugh and join her, though you don’t know the first thing about working in a kitchen; you pick up a knife and begin slicing through a carrot. It takes more muscle than you anticipated.

“On a cutting board, you idiot,” the woman says kindly, passing you one.

“Sorry. I’ve never cooked before.”

“What? Never?” Her auburn eyebrows spring up. “Where did you come from?”

The cliffs, the sea, salt and waves and mist. “The Crownlands.”

She is studying you with interest as her blade hovers over a half-chopped leek. “Were you a handmaiden to a lady there, or…?”

“It doesn’t matter. Whoever I was, I’m not the same person anymore.”

“No,” the woman agrees softly. “None of us are, I suppose.”

You glance down to her belly. You don’t wish to offend her, but you are curious.

“Go on,” she prompts. “You may inquire. I am well aware of my predicament whether you speak of it aloud or not, I assure you.”

“Did the moon tea not…expel the child?”

“No,” she sighs as she resumes hacking away at the leek. She speaks with vague, weary fondness. “The lemonweed tea did not prevent it, the moon tea did not kill it. I nearly died of fever and vomiting myself, but the child held on. It’s alive in there, I can feel it kicking sometimes. A fierce little thing.”

You nod, still gazing at her belly, undeniable evidence of the act that built it. The copper-haired woman is almost certainly younger than you, and yet she knows exactly what it means to be opened by a man, pillaged, conquered, used, left. This time tomorrow, you will know it too. “The madam let you stay?”

“Not very enthusiastically, but yes. I cook, I clean, I do the shopping in the market. She does not fear letting me venture out into the city. She knows I have nowhere else to go. I only have to entertain clients if they ask for a pregnant woman. Some men have a particular liking for that, you know.”

You did not know. “Right.”

“Besides, there might be some advantage in it for the madam,” the woman tells you. She grins. “When the child is born, there’s a chance it will have the silver hair of a Targaryen. Then the madam could approach Otto Hightower for a reward of some sort, money, protection. Royal bastards have never been more valuable. Little princes are dying left and right.”

“King Aegon’s?” you say numbly. “The child could be his?”

“Yes, obviously. Who else?”

So Aemond does not frequent this place as a customer. You wonder how he met the madam.

Aegon was here before the war began, you think, blood hot in your face, your guts twisting and nauseous. How many women know what he feels like, tastes like, sounds like when he is moaning in pleasure instead of agony?

The copper-haired woman is staring at you quizzically. You have to say something. You hear your voice like the distant cry of a crow through fog: “What was he like? The king, I mean.”

She considers this. “Drunk. Sad. But perfectly pleasant. I wouldn’t mind serving him again. He’s well thought of on the Street of Silk. I do hope he recovers. I think Rhaenyra would hang us all from a gallows. She knows Daemon has a wandering eye, and she’s not the type of wife to look the other way.”

You are trying to clear it out of your skull, like a room full of smoke: Aegon was here, Aegon was here, Aegon was here. “When you met with him, it was in this brothel?”

She hesitates. “Mostly.”

Mostly…? “Have you been inside the Red Keep?”

“Once. Ages ago. There is a network of secret passageways beneath the castle and behind the walls. The king has been known to use them for…well. You know.”

It should not hurt you. You’ve spent all your life listening to the tales of his failings. Yet it does, more than you thought was possible. You’ve never wanted a man before. But you want Aegon now. You do, you must, otherwise you wouldn’t be so pained by the thought of others touching him. You wonder if he feels the same way about you, if he ever lies awake at night with his stomach in knots over your nameless betrothed.

You try to focus on this moment, this kitchen, this copper-haired woman.You need to find a way out of here. “So the madam will decide what happens to your child once it’s born.”

“Of course,” she replies simply.

“You don’t want to keep it yourself? You are not attached to it?”

The woman is suddenly serious, quiet, melancholy. “I have no choice in the matter.”

She’s my chance. She’s my redeemer. “Can I ask your name?” you say.

“What my family named me is of no account. As you said, we’re not the same people anymore.” She smiles, warm like embers once again. “People here call me Autumn.”

“Autumn,” you echo. A woman with hair the color of crisp, dying leaves, the color of a dying world hurtling towards winter. “I think I can help you. You and your child, no matter its parentage.”

She does not want to believe you—hope is a dangerous, taunting creature, one that builds a home in your ribcage and then taps taps taps its claws along the ladder of bones—but she does. You can see it flickering in her small, upturned hazel eyes. “You…what?”

“When you go to the market, do you take a list with you? Of items that you require?”

“Yes,” Autumn replies, puzzled. “The madam always gives me one.”

“Do you have any parchment here in the kitchen?”

Autumn shakes her head. “The madam keeps it in her room. Shall I ask her—?”

“No,” you say. “Definitely don’t ask for any. Is there an old list lying around, perhaps?”

“Um, let me see…” Autumn rummages around the table; onions go rolling, leeks are flung aside. She snatches a tattered, folded sheet of parchment from under a pile of potatoes and surrenders it to you. “Here. This is the one from yesterday.”

You open it and lay it flat on the table. Sure enough, there is a list written in black ink; but not in the Common Tongue. The items are sketched. There’s a carrot with a cloudlike plume of fronds atop it, a bee (meaning honey, you imagine), a pig and a chicken, a round bottle with a heart drawn above it. Perfume? you guess. “These are pictures.”

“Well, of course. I wouldn’t be able to read it otherwise.”

You take the stick of black kohl out of your dress pocket and flip over the list. The back is blank. You write as Autumn watches, baffled, fascinated.

Your Grace, you begin, and then scratch it out. You start again.

Aegon,

Aemond has imprisoned me in a brothel. He knows the madam (middle-aged, brown hair, clever).

“What is this place called?” you ask Autumn.

“The Pink Pearl,” she says.

Autumn works here, if you recall her. She says the establishment is known as the Pink Pearl. Please send someone to rescue me at once. I am to be put to work soon, and I am afraid.

You pause. What will he have been told? What will he think of you now?

I beg your forgiveness for my deceit. I did not mislead you out of malice. I knew you needed help, and that I would not be able to provide it if my true identity was known. I have not done anything to undermine your cause. I have not written a word to my family. I assume they now believe me to be dead. I do not want this, but it is a sacrifice I have made so that I can continue to serve you.

Please help me. Please allow me to return to the Red Keep.

My name was a lie, but none of the rest was.

Angel

“You’re highborn, aren’t you?” Autumn says, hushed, awed. “You must be, to write like that.”

“Yes. And I am a friend of King Aegon. If he knows I’m here, he will pay for me.” You don’t know that for sure, but you have hope, that risky rattling beast.

“He will pay to fuck you, you mean?”

“I believe he will buy my freedom.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

Then I will slit my own throat with one of these knives. “It’s better for everyone if he does.” You fold the parchment closed and then give it to Autumn. She takes it, perplexed but willing. “I cannot leave this place. But you can. I need you to get that letter to the king. You know the way to the Red Keep; you have been inside these secret passageways. Hand the letter to him directly if possible. If you are intercepted, ask to see the Dowager Queen Alicent or…” You debate this. Sir Criston is closer to Aemond than Aegon, but you believe the opposite to be true for the youngest Targaryen brother. “Or Prince Daeron. Tell them that the letter must be read by the king immediately, and by him only. If he is resting, he must be roused. If he is speaking with someone, he must be interrupted. Explain this and then leave. And do not allow the prince regent to see you.” Aemond’s words blow through you like a cold wind: If she tries to escape, kill her.

“This is a difficult task,” Autumn says uncertainly, the folded square of parchment disappearing into the bodice of her gown. “I cannot promise you anything. But I can try.”

“If I am rescued, I will see that you and your child are provided for. You will have your own home, one far, far away from here. You will never have to answer to the madam again. You will never have to lie with a man who is not of your choosing. Your life will be your own.”

She stares at you, dazed and wonderous. She cannot even fathom this, but she knows she wants it. You’ve begun to feel that way about certain things as well. When Autumn speaks, it is in little more than a whisper. “I would like that very much.”

“You will have my most fervent gratitude.”

“I will depart tonight after supper. I will tell the madam that I am craving apple cake from a street vendor.”

“Thank you, Autumn,” you say, lips trembling as they curl into a smile, tears blurry in your eyes.

She points to the stick of black kohl you’ve used as a makeshift quill, smirking. It’s still clutched in your dominant hand. “You’d better hide that before people start showing up looking for soup.”

Hours later, you are trying to fall asleep in a room you share with half a dozen other women who are not presently working, beds so close together they almost touch, soft snores, mattresses shifting when people roll over, a thin wool blanket pulled all the way up to your chin.

Aegon will read the letter. Aegon will send someone to rescue me.

In the darkness, your hands wander down to your belly, your hips, lower. Skating over your white silk nightgown, your fingertips press cautiously at a place where you sometimes feel an indistinct, uneasy sort of pleasure. You rarely touch yourself; you cannot do so without remembering that your body is not your own and never has been. But now, for the very first time and without any premeditation, you picture Aegon—his murky oceanic eyes, his crooked grin, his hands, his bravery, his gentleness, his shock of white-blond hair adorned with that single tiny braid—and instantly your once-ambiguous desire sharpens, strengthens, is accompanied by a wetness that you can feel blooming warm and needful beneath your nightgown.

But it’s not going to be him. It’s going to be some stranger who doesn’t know me and doesn’t want to.

You roll over onto your side and thrust your hands under the pillow, squeeze your eyes shut until they ache, try not to hear the moans that creep through the walls like dark veins of blood poisoning.

~~~~~~~~~~

All day you wait for someone to cross through the doorway of the brothel to claim you, a guard, a messenger, Daeron, Criston, anybody. But no one does. The women here keep strange hours: late to bed, late to rise, breakfast at noon, lunch at four or five, supper long after nightfall. You pick listlessly at a breakfast of biscuits with butter, honey, and blackberry jam, bacon, weak wine, pomegranate juice, lemonweed tea to prevent an unintended child like Autumn’s.

“I was stopped by a guard just outside the Red Keep,” she mutters to you in a stolen moment, huddled together at the end of a hallway by a window that opens out onto the courtyard. “They agreed to let me see Prince Daeron. He took the letter and said he would deliver it. That’s all I could do. I hope it’s enough.”

I hope so too, you think to yourself as you thank her, marveling with brick-heavy horror at how all the Valyrian ancestry and riches in the world cannot save you from the fate of being born a card for others to play, trade, bet on, use until it is worn and faceless. I hope so with everything I’m made of.

The other women take you with them to the bathhouse down the street, and in the labyrinth of sweltering pools and swirling steam you scrub yourself all over until your skin is tender to the touch. You use perfumed soaps and luxurious floral oils, not for healing but for vanity, so strange men will imagine you to be an intoxicating fantasy, so any human imperfections can be ignored. You pluck some stray hairs and trim others. You inspect each other for bruises or scratches or bitemarks that will need to be covered. No one mentions how they got them. Everybody knows.

Back in the brothel, the women show you how to wear your hair and do your makeup: black kohl on the eyes, beeswax dyed with berry juice on the lips, powder on the face to even out your complexion. Servants flit around fussing over hairstyles and switching ripped seams on dresses. Your silk gown—the one you will be raped in—is a soft, helpless, feminine lavender. You are shown to a bedchamber: flickering candles, a mountain of pillows and jewel-toned throw blankets, harp music and fresh air breathing in through the windows. You sit on the edge of the bed wringing your hands. You are waiting to be rescued. You are waiting to be harmed.

The door opens, and he enters. The madam was truthful: she has found you a slight, benign-looking young man. He smiles shyly, clanging in his light armor. He is indeed a soldier on leave from the front. He wears the crest of his family as the clasp for his cape, a white shield with a black cross. He is a Norcross, the same as the dying boy you were tending when Aemond pulled you off the battlefield at Rook’s Rest. How easy it would have been for you to not be here right now; a difference of a few minutes, a few meters, and Aemond never would have found you.

“Hello,” the man says pleasantly. He is yanking off his boots.

“Hello.” You are still sitting on the edge of the massive bed, big enough for four or five occupants. This is not a coincidence, you’re certain. But that will come later, once you have been sufficiently broken in. Your stomach lurches; you try not to show it.

Now he is taking off his cape. “You’re nervous,” he observes. There is a pitcher of wine on the table in the middle of the room. He pours two cups and hands one to you. You take it—intending to be dignified, ladylike—and then gulp it down. The Norcross laughs. “You needn’t fear me, maiden,” he says. “I am here for pleasure, not pain. I have paid a considerable price for you. You are a piece of treasure, a rare gem, and I will handle you accordingly.”

Then he reaches out to stroke your cheek, and something in you shatters, splits open, screams. I don’t know this man. I don’t trust this man. You shrink away from him and retreat to the center of the vast bed. The Norcross blinks at you, a little amused, a bit bewildered. “Sir, you have stumbled upon a great opportunity,” you tell him. “I am no ordinary woman.”

“No?” he says. But he is smirking beneath gleaming eyes, like this is a joke; and he is removing his armor as well.

“I am here as the result of a dreadful misunderstanding. You see, I have actually already been claimed. There is another man who has the right to take my innocence if he so chooses.”

“Oh?” the Norcross says. He is unbuttoning his white cotton shirt. “Who?”

“King Aegon.”

He throws his head back and guffaws, dark hair long enough to cover his ears and brush against the nape of his neck. “This is a very charming jape. Me? Getting to deflower the king’s chosen whore? Yes, yes, very good. Delightful. Delicious.” He crawls onto the bed; the mattress shifts beneath your palms. A cold sweat slicks across your skin. Goosebumps rise on your arms. He doesn’t hear me. He doesn’t want to.

“I’m not joking,” you implore the Norcross. “I am well-acquainted with King Aegon, he cares for me. I was brought here by mistake and against his knowledge. If you assist me in returning to him, I’m sure you will be generously compensated for your trouble—”

The man’s hand juts out, snags in your hair, yanks and tears at it. You yelp and struggle as he wrestles you down onto the mattress and settles his weight on top of you. “You’re mine, all mine,” he growls, smiling, playing along with what he has chosen to believe is a fantasy. “Not the king’s whore. The king has plenty of those already, he probably has thousands. But you’re all mine.”

“Get off me,” you order him, as if you are still the daughter of one of the wealthiest houses in Westeros and not some powerless, penniless woman imprisoned in ornate walls and perfumed silk; and isn’t this where you always would have ended up anyway? Flinching on some stranger’s bed as he tried to claim you, subdue you, force pieces of himself inside you?

“I will show you, maiden. The king is a cripple now. He could not satisfy you anyway. I will give you what he could not. And I’ll give it to you more than once, if you ask nicely.” He presses his lips to yours, a sickening mockery of a kiss, all flesh and no heat. He is wearing only his trousers; they could be gone in an instant. He is tugging your sleeves off your shoulders to get to your breasts.

“Please don’t do this, please stop, I’ll give you anything—”

“Everything I want is right here.”

Just let him do it, you think. I can’t leave this place, I can’t fight him off. There’s no way out. Just let him do it, and live to see if freedom will arrive tomorrow.

Aemond’s words fill your skull like flashes of lighting: If she tries to escape, kill her.

The Norcross man is pulling off his trousers. It strikes you like a closed fist: the terror, the injustice, the rage. You swing at his face, your knuckles rapping against his cheekbones. “Get off of me—!”

There is a tremendous fracturing noise, and at first you think the man must have snapped one of your bones, your radius or your tibia or your clavicle. But no: it was the bedchamber door being thrown open so violently it hit the wall behind it and cracked down the middle. And now there are footsteps, and now there are guards pouring into the room, and now the point of a blade bursts through the Norcross man’s windpipe splattering blood across the bed, the walls, the wood boards of the floor. You are shrieking; scarlet rain peppers your face, chest, hands.

“You’d take an unwilling woman?!” Aegon demands of the dying man, who gapes at him with rapidly fading eyes and a mouth hemorrhaging dark, lethal red. The king is wearing all black, tunic, trousers, boots. Half of his hair is pulled back from his face and secured with a black ribbon. You have never seen him like this before. You have never seen him brutal, formidable, furious. “You fucking animal. Enjoy drowning in your own blood.”

Aegon wrenches his sword free from the dying man’s throat and he falls face-down onto the mattress as you scramble away. And then Aegon falls too: his legs give out and he collapses to his knees, kneeling in a pool of the Norcross man’s blood, the hilt of his sword tumbling out of his grasp. You bolt off the bed and drop down onto the floor beside him.

“Aegon?!”

“Are you okay?” He takes your face in his hands—they’re shaking, they’re weak again, but just strong enough to cradle the slope of your jaw—and looks at you, turning your face one way and then the other, his eyes searching for bruises, lacerations, more fuel for the vengeful fire that blazes in him. The burn on his own right cheek is inflamed, blistering. He does not seem to notice.

“I’m okay, I promise.”

“Did they hurt you?”

“No, no, you got here just in time.”

And Aegon—this so-called monster, this alleged beast, this man who the Blacks swear is a villain and a degenerate and soulless—slips the sleeves of your silk lavender gown back up over your shoulders so your chest is covered. “If it’s any consolation, you’re fucking beautiful.”

“Of course you would prefer me dressed like a prostitute.”

He laughs, embraces you, holds you to him, the first time he ever has. Your arms link around the back of his neck, your fingers knot in his hair. You are so close, yet not nearly close enough; you want him completely, always. You can’t claw your way back up the cliff you’ve fallen down.

There is a commotion as the guards that accompanied Aegon to the brothel part to allow two new arrivals into the bedchamber. Aemond and Criston now stand just inside the doorway, breathing heavily from their sprint across the city. Your gaze meets Aemond’s and you clutch Aegon tighter. The king kisses your temple—so quickly and unceremoniously it feels like a habit, something instinctual, something innately right—and reluctantly unravels himself from you. He grabs the nearest bedpost and hauls himself to his feet, wincing, groaning, bracing himself against it with both hands.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Aemond shouts at his brother.

“You will not harm her! You will not take her from me!”

“Aegon, she’s not a Thorne, she’s a Celtigar! Her father sits on Rhaenyra’s council, he funds her war effort, when our men are killed it’s with arrows and steel that he paid for—!”

“We’re all different people now!” Aegon roars. “All of us! You were some pathetic runt, I was useless, Daeron was a child, Helaena was happy, Criston was devoted to Rhaenyra, Mother was her closest friend, all of us have been changed by this world and its endless goddamn misery! So she was born a Celtigar, is she to be eternally condemned for that? Is she truly irredeemable? Can no acts of service to the Greens’ king convince you of her loyalty? She saved my life!”

“Are you insane?! We can’t trust her!”

“I am the king!” Aegon bellows. “I am still the one who gets to make these decisions, no matter how unworthy you think I am!”

“She lied to you, to me, to everyone, that cannot go unpunished!”

And then Aegon responds, but not in the Common Tongue. He says something—laboriously, haltingly—in a language you recognize only from hearing Daemon and Rhaenyra converse in it. You were not aware that Aegon knew High Valyrian well enough to carry a conversation. Perhaps Aemond and Criston weren’t either; they exchange a brief, astonished glance. The guards’ eyes dart between the king and the prince regent.

Aemond replies, his tone cutting but his words swift, seamless, graceful, fluent. Aegon stumbles his way through a sentence or two, pausing several times to conjure the correct word. Aemond says something else, an effortless litany of syllables your forebears shared. Aegon forces out one last plea. It sounds painful; it sounds like a confession. Aemond stares at his brother, perhaps scandalized, perhaps merely stunned.

“Alright?” Aegon pants, in anguish now. His hands are like talons on the bedpost, the force of his fingernails leaving white scratches in the wood. “You get it? You understand?”

“Fine,” Aemond says, low and bitter.

“You will not harm her. She stays in the Red Keep. Promise me, Aemond. I cannot rest until you do.”

Aemond nods, glaring down at the floor.

“Criston?” Aegon presses. “Promise me. If he breaks his word, you will stop him. I command this. I am your king.”

“I promise, Aegon,” Criston agrees, willingly enough.

“Good,” Aegon says. “Good.” And then he blacks out and crumples to the floor. The guards rush for him, but Criston tells them to stand back. He stoops low, lifts the king, throws him over one shoulder and carries him. Aemond fetches his brother’s fallen sword. You follow them out of the brothel, staying as far away from Aemond as you can. You pause just long enough to peek into the kitchen.

“Autumn?” you call, and she looks up from the chicken she’s been coating with herbs and butter. “I’m leaving now. You’re coming with me. Get your things.”

“What things?” she says, grinning. She cleans her hands and trots after you, one palm resting on the swell of her belly, her copper sea of hair streaming out behind her.

Inside the Red Keep, you inform the servants that Autumn will be staying as a guest of the royal family and that she is to have a room near yours. Then you hurry to Aegon’s chamber. He is sprawled across the bed, writhing and moaning. Grand Maester Orwyle is administering milk of the poppy. Criston is stripping him, heaving off Aegon’s boots and trousers before gingerly removing his tunic to reveal bandages red with blood around his shoulders. He has torn the half-mended flesh there. He suffers, he heals, he suffers again.

“Angel?” Aegon chokes out, reaching for you with tears flooding from his eyes.

“I’m here.” You take his hand. “What hurts, Aegon?”

“Everywhere,” he gasps.

You tell Orwyle: “Give him another dose.” And a second goblet of milk of the poppy is emptied down the king’s throat. Within a minute, he is mercifully unconscious again.

Criston looks at you. “What’s wrong with his face?”

“Sunlight. The rest of his burns were covered, but not the one on his cheek. Fresh burns must be kept out of the sun. He knows that.” You unwrap Aegon’s bandages; his wounds need to be cleaned and re-dressed.

“Oh, seven hells,” Criston whispers, covering his mouth with one hand. There are four or five ruptures around each shoulder, thin bleeding crevices that branch out like the legs of a red spider. Grand Maester Orwyle ambles off to order servants to fetch water, vinegar, honey, linen, more milk of the poppy.

“I should have done better,” you say, and your voice breaks. “I should have used more rose oil on his shoulders. I should have made him stretch three or four times a day.”

“You’ve tended to him tirelessly,” Criston says gently.

“I shouldn’t have lied about who I was.”

“I don’t see how you could have saved his life otherwise.”

“Go find Alicent,” you say. “Explain what’s happened, but don’t bring her to visit him yet. It will only upset her.”

“Yes,” Criston agrees, and leaves.

Outside, the sun is setting, and all the world is the color of dragonfire. Grand Maester Orwyle returns with servants and supplies. As you are dabbing at Aegon’s wounds with cloths dripping with water and vinegar, Daeron appears in the bedchamber doorway. His eyes—large and expressive like Aegon’s, but more crystalline, less dark—are shimmering and wider than you’ve ever seen them.

“Is he dying?” Daeron asks, sounding fearful and very young.

“No more than usual,” Aegon rasps; and that’s how you know he is awake again.

When Aegon is cleaned, bandaged, and soothed once again with milk of the poppy, the two of you are left alone. You perch on the edge of the mattress and can’t stop touching him, his left hand where his dragon ring glints in the flickering candlelight, his disheveled silver hair that still has that little braid you made for him. You don’t know what to say. You worry that if you begin talking, everything will spill out like a monsoon or a rogue wave, things you can’t take back, things you don’t fully understand yourself.

“House Celtigar, huh?” Aegon murmurs drowsily, smiling. “I’ve never been so happy to see a crab in my bed.”

And it hits you all at once: I would take every last drop of pain for this man. I would slit him open and drain him of it, swallow it down, assume the debt. I would carry every burden, every red flare of agony and ache in his bones. I would learn the art of self-loathing if he could forget it. I would trade fates with him, threads cut and crossed and burned to ash.

“What?” Aegon asks. He’s watching you with those storm-blue eyes, glassy with pain and poison.

Why wouldn’t you send someone else in your place? Why would you go yourself? Why would you injure yourself so grievously, so senselessly? “Why would you do this for me?”

“You are the only person I’ve never disappointed. I’d like to keep that going if I can.” He takes your hand and laces his fingers through yours. “You’re so far away.”

You lie down on the bed and curl up beside him, careful not to put pressure on his fresh wounds. You place one palm on the center of his bandaged chest, the other against his unburned cheek. Aegon pulls you in closer until your noses are nearly touching and you swing one leg up to rest on top of his; even then, he keeps a hand on your thigh, as if to make sure you don’t leave. The other twists into your hair and stays there. Aegon dives into a deep, starless sleep and you doze next to him. When you catch wisps of dreams like fireflies in a child’s grasp, you hear crashing waves and see dragons pitching into the sea: Vermax at the Gullet, Arrax into Shipbreaker Bay.

Why did Aemond have to murder Luke? Why did he have to start this war?

Something wakes you, a sound, an indescribable shift in the room. You open your eyes and turn to see Aemond, arms crossed and back propped against the opposite wall. You rise as carefully as you can so you don’t disturb Aegon, untangling yourself from him like he’s something catastrophically fragile, a spider’s web, a splintering pane of glass.

You stand and take several steps towards Aemond, only so you can speak without waking Aegon. “What do you want?”

“I fear I did not conduct myself particularly well yesterday,” he says. “I may have acted…impulsively. Unwisely.”

“Your capacity for self-reflection is truly inspiring.”

Aemond frowns. “I’m being serious.”

“I’m not interested.”

“If we are to be on the same side of this war, we should learn to understand each other.”

“I don’t want to understand you. Your mind must be a horrible place to live.”

He stares at you with his sole remaining eye, cold and hurt and wrathful and hopeless.

You ask softly, knowing that only Aemond can tell you: “What did he say? Back at the brothel?”

Aemond does not answer for so long that you convince yourself he’s not going to. At last, he decides to extend a peace offering. “He said that he cannot live without you. Or that he wouldn’t want to. I’m not certain which he meant. His High Valyrian has always been terrible.”

Then Aemond walks out of the room without another word.

[here4kpopfics]

Pieces of Greece | KNJ & KSJ

Pairing: Kim Seokjin x Kim Namjoon x reader Genre: smut, a little fluff, a whole lot of bickering AU: established relationship, fwb to lovers Wordcount: 17,100 on the dot Summary: After the events during Christmas in the Swiss mountains, your boyfriend Namjoon wants to go to Greece for his birthday. And, of course, another surprise in the form of Kim Seokjin. Warnings: There's. So. Much. Smut. Plane sex, voyeurism, exhibitionism, Namjoon loves to watch but this time he gets to participate. ice play, threesomes the entire time. DVP fun time, creampie, oral in every which way, unprotected sex, it goes on. mxm moments that make my heart happy. IT'S SMUT WITH SOME PLOT OKAY. Rating: M / 18+ AN: Sooooooooooooooo....Many many many many months ago, someone asked if there'd ever be a sequel. i joked there would be a summer vacation. then summer happened and nothing was written. Then I met my favorite @echotoyou and well, they said they loved Swiss Miss and I mentioned the thought of a sequel and they got excited and then Namjoon's birthday was coming up and i thought fuck it and THEY ASKED FOR MOST OF THE SMUT IN THIS OKAY. so this is for my baby starcandy. i love you so much, i hope you enjoy. Thank you to my lovely @theharrowing for beta-reading and @classicscreations for the banner/divider. Also tagging @simp47koreancrackheads for reasons. Enjoy!!! 💜Masterlist | AskBox | AO3

When Namjoon brought up the idea of an end of summer vacation for his birthday, you were hesitant at first. Last time you let him plan a vacation, he dragged you to the Swiss mountains and it was miserable. 

Well…not all of it was miserable. 

Seokjin being your Christmas present made up for the freezing mountain getaway. 

It’s been almost nine months since then. Seokjin’s been away filming and being a gorgeous model, but you both still kept in contact. The three of you agreed it’d be okay to send photos of you in lingerie sets, Namjoon taking it a step further to send videos of you riding his cock, begging to come. Seokjin would send videos back, specifically to you, of his hand stroking his cock until he was a moaning mess, coming all over himself. 

The two of you met up with him a few times since Christmas. Once in February, once in April, and the last time being very briefly in July when Namjoon watched on as Seokjin fucked you so ridiculously that you squirted all over the hotel bed while he erupted inside of you. 

As far as you were concerned, your relationship with Namjoon was technically still monogamous. At least, until Seokjin became involved and suddenly he was the added friend with benefits for you. Namjoon and Seokjin never got involved with one another; your boyfriend only ever watching on as his best friend fucked you sensless, and fucking you right after so your last orgasm was from the man you loved.

You understood Namjoon loved to watch. Every time you’d look over at him slowly rubbing his hard cock, either with his hand coated in your arousal or with your underwear, his eyes would be watching the faces you’d make in pleasure or the way Seokjin’s cock pounded into you. But there was always a moment where it felt like he wanted to be involved. You’ve tried to ask, but could never find a way to bring it up. 

So you agreed to the trip, hoping you’d get the chance to ask at some point. 

“Joon, what’d the attendant say?” Your boyfriend makes his way back to where you’re sitting in the terminal, wearing a long summer dress with thin straps. Your flight’s been delayed an hour at this point, and you’re feeling just a tad bit suffocated in this airport that conveniently has the air conditioning down for maintenance. 

“Good news and bad news.” He sighs, plopping down in the seat next to you, “which do you want first?”

“Always start with the bad.”

“Bad news is it’s another ‘forty-five minutes at least’ until we can board.” He pauses for your groan of frustration, fanning yourself with the book cover of some nonsense romance book you found in the gift shop. 

“And the good?”

“The good,” he smiles, handing you the boarding passes, “there aren’t a lot of people on our flight anyway, and the girl thought I was cute so we got upgraded to first class for free.”

Your eyes barely glance at the passes with the upgraded seat locations on them, instead finding their way to the female attendant that had her eyes on your boyfriend. Namjoon might not mind sharing you with another man, but you can’t say the same about you sharing Namjoon with another woman. 

“Y/n. Don’t give her that look.” 

“I’m not giving her a look.”

“Yes you are. You’re giving her that look at my man one more time and I’ll end your happiness look.”

“No I’m no— wait. I have a look like that?” You look at Namjoon with wide eyes, a grin slowly creeping across your face. “That’s so cool. Is it easily readable? Do I have others?” 

The girl is long forgotten about as you see Namjoon’s beautiful dimples appear with his smile as he leans closer to whisper in your ear. 

“Yeah. You make some other ones. Like when you’re about to come all over me. When I’ve fucked you so hard that you’re about to black out. The face you make when you realize you’ve taken every inch of me is my favorite, though.”

Your face flushes in heat as you sit completely still, eyes staring straight ahead. You hear him chuckle next to you before kissing your temple, leaning back in his seat with an arm resting against the back of yours. The goosebumps on your skin and the back of your neck raise with every pass his fingers make across your shoulder and back. You know it’s for comfort, but it feels like the best kind of torture. 

Shockingly, the wait time is far less than forty-five minutes before you’re one of the first groups to board, letting Namjoon hand over the boarding passes to the attendant. She gives him a big smile and flirty eyes and you have to fight yourself to not give her whatever look Namjoon was talking about. You’re about to spend ten hours on a plane, two weeks in Greece, and potentially the rest of your life with this man. She will be left behind at this terminal; she is no threat. 

If anything, she’s a gift to this world. The first class seats are amazing in comparison to the main cabin seats Namjoon originally booked. You immediately claim the cubby-like seat next to the window, Namjoon sitting in the cubicle parallel to yours. The flight attendant left you both pillows, blankets, a bottle of what deemed fancy water and snacks already laid out for each of you. 

“Is this what Jin experiences with being famous? Because if so, one of us needs to get on it, stat, Joon. Probably you. Make an onlyfans.” You giggle when he ignores you, his face taking a turn at going flush with heat. 

You don’t tease further, getting comfortable in your little bed for the next ten hours. You poke the buttons to make the bed come out from under your feet before returning it to a sitting position and pulling the partition down between you and your boyfriend’s seats. 

“Hi.” You smile at him while he sorts out both of your bags, pulling out your phone charger and handing it to you. “Thank you, Joonie.” You lean across the divider to give him a kiss, laughing when you try to pull back, only to have a giant hand cradle the back of your neck, tugging you back against his lips. 

“I love you, baby.” He whispers, finally pulling away when the surge of other passengers begin to board the plane. You quickly say it back, full love-sick grin on display for him. 

God, you really do love him. 

Halfway through the flight, you’re being nudged awake, pulled from an amazing dream or memory - you can’t tell anymore - of you and Namjoon. Your headphones are slowly pulled off your head as you groggily turn over to find Namjoon leaning through the divider with a smirk. 

“What?” You grumble, wiping your eyes. 

“You were moaning my name.”

“What?” You were moaning in your dream, but surely not in real life? On a plane? 

“Bathroom in five minutes.” Is all he says before sliding the divider back up. All you hear is quiet rustling until you see his top half making its way to the first class bathrooms. 

He can’t be serious. 

He can’t. 

While you love the control Namjoon has over you, and you both share an openness to exploring new kinks and sexual experiences, this wasn’t on either of your lists. 

You watch the time on your phone move slowly, one minute down. 

You shouldn’t do this.

Two minutes down. 

You’ll get caught. 

Three minutes. 

You’ll be banned from flying. And how will you get back home if so? A ship of some sort? 

Four. 

But he’s waiting for you. Possibly hard and you’re soaked from your dream. 

Five. 

You tuck your phone under your pillow, slowly crawling out of your cubicle and tiptoeing your way to the front. Luckily first class only has about eight seats and everyone seems to be sound asleep as you reach the bathroom door, giving one small secret knock. The door unlocks and you creep it open, sneaking your way in. 

“Holy fuck, it’s huge.” You whisper, eyes scanning the bigger than normal airplane bathroom. There’s enough space to have a moderately small sized counter and an actual sink. And enough space for your boyfriend to stand up tall without banging his head on the ceiling. 

“I feel like I should make a joke there, but we have limited time. Turn and bend. Now.” He quietly growls. It’s only then you notice his hardened length in his hand, slowly being pumped as he waits for you to follow instructions. 

“Sir, yes sir.” You quip, ignoring his glare as you turn around and brace yourself against the counter. He parts your legs with his feet, a hand grabbing your waist when you momentarily lose balance. 

“Remember. Not a sound, okay?” He whispers against your ear, tongue tracing down your neck. You quickly nod, skin shivering as he pulls the hem of your dress up, bringing the fabric to the front and giving it to you to hold against your stomach. Your underwear is dropped past your knees and you quickly step one foot out so you can freely move. 

He wastes no time smacking your ass once, grabbing at the meaty flesh right after. You fight back the yelp, covering your mouth as you watch his intense gaze through the mirror. His eyes are glued to your ass while he massages it, watching in awe as your arousal pools at your entrance. 

“Fuck, I love how ready you are for me all the time, baby.” He groans, lining your hips up with his, gliding his cock along your folds. You bite the inside of your cheek to not make a noise. 

“Stop that.” The hand on your hip slides up and around to your neck, pulling you up to his chest. “Don’t bite the inside of your cheek, it’ll get infected.”

“Then don’t tease me.” You rasp, voice straining when his grip tightens around your neck. 

“If you insist.” He gives one bite to your neck before letting you go and bending you forward again. He gives no warning as he realigns himself, pushing past your entrance in one go. 

You let out a silent scream, covering your mouth again with your free hand as you practically hug the sink. There’s no hesitation when he starts pounding into you, both of you a mess of silent moans. 

“Come back up here.” He groans, pulling you back up by your arms. “I think it’s me that has to be careful about sounds, baby. How are you always so fucking tight?”

“Feels so good.” You gasp, fighting the moan building in your throat when he kisses your neck.

He’s about to respond when there’s a small amount of turbulence, causing him to thrust even deeper into you. One of your hands flies to your mouth, followed quickly by him biting your neck. 

Namjoon removes your hand from your mouth, placing his there instead, snaking his fingers past your lips and making you suck. “Get yourself off on my cock, baby. We don’t have time.” You whine, your fingers quickly finding your clit and rubbing. 

Another little bout of turbulence and his cock being buried even deeper inside of you makes you fight against the urge to scream around his fingers, walls clenching as you come around his cock. He comes seconds later, deep inside, holding you close while his lips leave feather kisses across your skin. 

You’re both silent after, his cock remaining tucked deep within your walls as his hands rub up and down your sides realizing you have another five hours before landing. The kiss he places on your shoulder tells you he’s having the same thought. 

“Need help?” He asks in a hushed whisper. You shake your head, letting him pull out. It’s almost awkward having to move around one another to clean up, but Namjoon makes sure to give you his dimpled smile and a quick kiss every passing until he’s ready to go back, leaving you to finish up in peace. 

The rest of the flight was normal. Half the time you were asleep, the other half playing phone games with Namjoon or listening to music or watching a movie while he was reading. 

When you landed, Namjoon was quick to grab your carry on and usher you off the plane, almost running to baggage claim. 

“Jooooooon, our bags aren’t going to magically appear the second we get to baggage claim. They have to unload the plane first.”

“I know, I know. But…I have a surprise for you.” Namjoon grins, pulling you past baggage claim to where people are waiting for their loved ones to emerge.

And that’s when you swear your heart stops for a moment.

Kim Seokjin.

In Greece.

“Jin?!” You accidentally shout. In hindsight, you’ll understand why Namjoon grabbed your bags and didn’t let you carry anything. You would’ve dropped it all or thrown it across the building as you ran up to your friend and jumped into his awaiting embrace.

“Oh my god, you’re here?! Why are you here?” you start rambling off nonsense, speaking into his neck as he hugs you, holding you in the air with his arms holding just below your ass. “How have you been? How was the movi–”

“Princess, slow down!” He laughs, finally placing you back on your feet. Your hands rest on his forearms, his on your elbows as you finally look at him.

He’s still beautiful. His hair is still the same, if not a little bit longer. You told him he was in his long fluffy era while he’s taking a break from filming last time you saw him. It was fun tugging on it when his mouth was exploring your body. His eyes are a mixture of exhaustion, happiness, and a hint of mischief. He somehow looks bigger, like he’s been working out a lot more. It’s only been two months since you’ve seen him, but it feels like a lot longer. There’s a small ache in your heart when you look up at him, and you’re not even sure when you started crying until his hands cradle your face, thumbs wiping away your tears.

“Why is my beautiful princess crying, hmm? Can’t stand my beauty?” 

You scoff out a sob, lightly smacking him. The ache in your heart turns into a searing jolt at my beautiful princess. 

“Shut up, you’re hideous.” 

“Tell that to Vogue.” 

“Will do. I’ll write a book about it.” 

“Oh, can I have the first copy?”

“Of course. I’ll sign it and everything.” 

“Oh my god, what an honor.”

“I’ve missed you, Seokjin.”

“I’ve missed you too, y/n.”

He pulls you into another hug, tightening his arms around you when you let out a soft squeak.

“Okay, you two, let’s get this vacation underway.” Your boyfriend’s voice drags you out of the hug you’ve missed so much, stepping away from Seokjin to let the two men hug and greet one another while you mind the bags Namjoon must’ve grabbed while you were busy. 

“You’re not gonna run into my arms? Only her?” Seokjin playfully pouts at your boyfriend, who rolls his eyes in response, grabbing your hand in his.

“Nah, that’s her thing.” 

“What’s your thing then?” you ask, tilting your head to the side with a smirk.

“Later.” 

He doesn’t look at you, so you turn to look at Seokjin instead, who has an eyebrow raised at you. You shrug in response, giving him a look that says I’m just as confused and walk out with your boyfriend and best friend. 

“So, welcome to Athens.” Seokjin starts and he and Namjoon load the bags into the back of the small car, “I’ll be your driver today and the rest of the time we’re here until we get to–”

“Don’t say it, hyung.” Namjoon quickly interjects as you get in the passenger seat.

“Don’t say what?” You turn to look at your boyfriend sitting behind the driver’s seat. 

“You haven’t told her any of the plans?” Seokjin looks in the rear view mirror in astonishment. 

“Nope. And it stays that way.”

“Boo.”

“Lame.”

“It’s a surprise.”

“Joon, it’s your birthday. Why am I the one being surprised?”

He doesn’t say anything more, giving Seokjin a knowing smile that frustrates you when he raises his eyebrows and grins in response. 

You pout, “I hate you both.”

“Lying is bad for your health, princess.” 

Your annoyance with the two men in the car is quickly forgotten about when Seokjin starts driving through Athens. Everything is gorgeous. You get a little giddy, driving through streets you refuse to admit to going through on Google maps, or seeing structures you’ve seen in video games. 

“Princess, look out my window.” Seokjin’s hand lightly grabs at your thigh to get your attention, making you swivel around to look out his window where you can just make out a building you know you’ve climbed in an Assassin’s Creed game. 

“Is that the Parthenon?!” The question is rhetoric, but your excitement is overflowing. “Holy shit, we’re actually in Greece! Can we go see the Olympic park? The observatory? Oh! Joon there’s some really cool art museums there, too! Can we go there?”

“Baby, breathe.” Your boyfriend laughs, Seokjin snickering beside you, his hand still on your thigh, “we’ll go tomorrow first thing. Today we just need to get to the hotel and get dinner.” 

“How are we going to do all this in two weeks? Greece is huge.” You plop back in your seat, huffing in response. 

It’s only now you notice Seokjin’s hand on your thigh, following the limb up to its owner who has his eyes switching from the road to the gps, slightly confused expression on his face in concentration. You turn your head to look at Namjoon, whose eyes are on the hand on your thigh, a soft smile he tries to hide when he realizes you’re looking. 

It’s confusing. It should be Namjoon’s hand there, and yet it still feels right. You love Namjoon. Absolutely head over heels in love with him. 

But in comes Seokjin. The man you’ve had a crush on for years. Who you finally found out actually had feelings for you too. 

You adore Seokjin. You always will. You probably could’ve fallen in love with him if he had said anything back then. But then what would’ve happened with Namjoon? Your stomach drops at the thought.

You silently thank any and every god there is that neither you or Seokjin said anything and that you met your boyfriend. And that by some weird miracle, he’s willing to share you with no one other than Seokjin.

You’re so spaced out, you barely notice when Seokjin pulls into the parking lot of where you will be staying. It’s a gorgeous private villa, an elegant white building with a mixture of modern and Greek design. You hop out of the car while the two men grab the bags. 

“You got a whole house?” You’re not sure if you’re asking Namjoon or Seokjin. But they both respond at the same time. 

“Yes.”

“Yup. Privacy is priceless.” Seokjin chimes in. You roll your eyes with a smile, grabbing the key from him and unlocking the door. 

“There’s three king sized beds and two smaller ones. I took one of the king ones just off the kitchen.” Seokjin guides you both through the house, bags left by the front door with your shoes, “there’s a sauna, a little gym, air conditioning thank god, and a bunch more I haven’t actually explored yet.” 

“With how much we’ll be exploring, we don’t really need a sauna or a gym or anything like that. Y’all really love to go overboard.” You poke both of them in their sides, Namjoon quietly grabs your wrist while Seokjin dramatically cries out as if you’ve stabbed him. 

“It’s nice to have the option, princess!” His dramatics will never cease to amuse you, “Aish, now I’m going to bruise and it’s all your fault.” He rubs his side as he walks away, heading towards the kitchen. 

“Let him have the weird accommodations, baby. He’s a celebrity like that.” Namjoon speaks next to your ear, wrapping his arms around your middle and hugging you. 

“He’s weird.”

“And yet…” his voice trails off, his nose nudging against your throat when he kisses your shoulder. 

“And yet…” you sigh, repeating the statement back. You both silently stand in the middle of the living area, Namjoon leaving kisses across your shoulder, and you staring out the window. You can see just enough of the city of Athens, it feels like a dream. 

“I’m gonna shower really quick, go keep Seokjin entertained, hmm?” Your boyfriend kisses your temple, humming when you agree. He gives your ass a light smack before he walks away, grabbing the bags and taking them to a room with a bathroom. 

You find your way to the kitchen where Seokjin is holding two bottles of wine in either hand, eyes flicking back and forth on each label. He looks up when you enter, eyes scanning next to you before he pouts. 

“Where's Joon?”

“Shower. Told me to entertain you.” You shrug, walking with a little skip over to him. He smirks as you hop up on the island counter, placing the bottles of wine on the main counter away from you. 

“And how do you plan on entertaining me, princess?” His tone teases and you shrug once again, kicking your feet out a little as you rest your palms on the counter’s edge. 

“I dunno. How would you like to be entertained?” You know where this is going, you haven’t seen or felt him in over two months. You miss him. So much. 

And he has clearly missed you just as much when he grabs your kicking feet, moving them to spread your legs so he can stand between them. One of his hands finds the back of your head, fingers curling in your hair, as he brings your lips to his. 

It’s slow and deep, but it quickly turns heated and desperate when his head turns to the side to gain better access. Your lips part and you let out a soft moan that he quickly swallows, tongues fighting against one another as he keeps his fingers tangled in your hair and the other hand gripping your hip tight. 

Your hands stay cradling his face, desperate to remember how he feels when kissing you so desperately. 

“God, princess, you have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”  

“Me too.” You pant between kisses. 

“How often I look at those photos you sent me or the videos Joon sent of you taking his cock so deep. It fucking killed me every time.”

“Jin.” You moan when his lips trail down to your clavicle. 

“I don’t need to see old buildings or art or any of that, I’d rather spend the next two weeks fucking you with Namjoon.” He curses against your skin, your dress’s straps falling off your shoulder. Your breasts are so close to spilling out, if not for a third voice causing you both to jump, you pulling the straps back up to cover yourself. 

“As much as I would like to have two weeks to fuck our baby stupid, I didn’t plan this trip for that.” Namjoon gives a mischievous smirk. You know he might not have planned for that. But he did plan something. You just don’t know what. 

“As long as I get to taste her at some point.” Seokjin says, smiling up at you as he speaks to your boyfriend. 

“You will, but for now she should shower the plane off of her and get ready for dinner.” 

You nod, sighing as you tap Seokjin’s arms to let go of you. He backs away, letting you hop down and toward your boyfriend who grabs your waist as you walk by, tugging you to stand in front of him. 

“Be a good girl, and you’ll get rewarded.” He whispers, kissing your forehead. You give him a playful glare, stepping to the side and walking past him, towards the bathroom he used.

You shower quickly, changing into another summer dress, this one a mix of green and blue chiffon with beautiful off-shoulder straps that fall perfectly in place just below your shoulders. Even though it’s about five in the evening, it’s still ridiculously hot. You put barely any makeup on, fixing your hair up to stop yourself from sweating down your back. 

When you return to the kitchen, Namjoon is bothering Seokjin while he’s focused on pouring the three of you some wine, making sure it’s an equal amount for each of you. What takes you by surprise, however, is Namjoon’s chin resting on his friend’s shoulder, his arms wrapped around his middle like he does with you. 

Oh. 

Suddenly it makes sense. 

“There she is!” Seokjin’s voice pipes through the kitchen. Namjoon slowly backs away from Seokjin’s back, grabbing two glasses of wine and bringing one to you. 

“You look stunning, baby.” 

“Thank you. It’s too hot.” You pout, taking the wine and giving a small thanks. You join him and Seokjin back in the kitchen where he’s prepared a little plate of snacks to go with the wine. 

“That’s Greece. I don’t think it’s ever cold?” Namjoon shrugs, taking a sip of his wine. 

“I bet it’s like LA. Maybe cold like once or twice a year.” Seokjin pops a cracker into his mouth. You share a look with Namjoon, both of you snickering. 

“Oh, look at this fancy boy, saying LA like it’s so casual for him.” You tease, taking a big sip of the wine. 

“Ha ha ha. Keep being jealous.” He deadpans. 

“Me? Jealous? Of your exhausting life? Absolutely not, handsome. I like being in Seoul where I sleep and eat and the only traveling I do is to various museums and art galleries for work.”

“Ah, yes. Our little curator. That’s how you stole her from the world, right Namjoon?” 

“I didn’t steal her.”

“More like held me hostage.”

“In bed I assume?” 

“Of course. Then I think it became some sort of Stockholm Syndrome and I fell in love.”

“A true romance right there. Can I tell that story at the wedding?” 

“Please. I’ll write it all down for you.” 

“Thank you, princess. I’ll memorize it and give the best performance.”

“I know you will.”

“God, I forgot what it’s like when you two get together.” Namjoon groans, leaning over the counter to bury his head in his arms. You look over at Seokjin in feigned shock. 

“I feel like he’s being rude and offensive.”

“So rude. So offensive.” 

“Extremely.”

“I thought you loved us!” Seokjin exclaims dramatically, hand on chest and fake tears starting to build up. 

“I do!” He laughs almost manically, lifting his head up and running his fingers through his hair. “It’s like you’re twins or something, it’s so much.” 

You giggle, leaning across the counter to soothe your boyfriend. 

“We’ll tone it down a bit, babe. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.” Seokjin shrugs, a smug look on his face. He exclaims when you lightly hit his shoulder, “What? He said he loves me! I’m over the fucking moon right now.” 

All three of you laugh, finishing up your wine and snack grazing. Seokjin orders a cab for the three of you to take to a fancy restaurant by the beach where there’s even more wine. Multiple bottles of it. 

You barely remember the dinner, only remembering that the wine kept coming and resulted in both men having their hands on you the entire night. Whether it was Namjoon’s hands on your waist while standing in a crowd, or Seokjin’s hand clutching yours tight while guiding you through the masses of people. 

The light touches on your arms at dinner or your thighs in the car, they both knew what they were doing to you and fully aware of the hold they had on you. 

At one point, you ended up in a square that had people performing live music and people dancing to it. Seokjin dragged you and Namjoon to the makeshift dance floor, making you dance with your back against his chest and Namjoon facing you. Your hips swayed perfectly against Seokjin’s, pressing just right against his cock while Namjoon’s was pressing against your lower stomach. 

Both men covered either side of your neck with kisses, really testing your ability to not moan in public. It took you mumbling something about going home for them to stop, quickly getting a ride back to the private villa. 

The moment you hit the mattress, Namjoon has you splayed out on the bed, your summer dress riding dangerously high up your legs. Seokjin stands at the edge of the bed, quietly taking his shirt and pants off. 

Namjoon, still fully clothed minus his shoes, crawls over your body, deeply kissing you while his hand roams your entire body. His lips trail down your neck to your shoulder where he stops for a moment. It’s when he lets out a heavy sigh that you feel a sense of panic. 

“I’m so sorry, baby. I’m too drunk.”

“What?”

“I can barely stay awake, baby.” He rolls off you, laying on his side while he hugs a pillow. 

“But…”

“Jinnie can take care of you. Right, hyung?” He barely opens his eyes to look at the older male, who looks just as confused as you do. “You just can’t fuck her though. Have her ride your thigh. That should do it.”

His eyes fall shut and you sit up, not sure what to do next. You look over to Seokjin, who’s looking at you for confirmation of what to do next, standing there in his underwear that’s straining his cock right now. 

“Should we go to your room?” You ask tentatively, moving to get up when he nods.

“No.” Namjoon’s voice returns from its slumber. “I wanna hear it. Do it here.”  

“Joonie, you’re tired.” You try to reason, but you know for a fact you’d rather do it here than without him there. 

“Here or not at all, baby.” His tired groan sounds serious, so you nod again, bending over to kiss his cheek, a small dimple appearing from his smile. 

“I love you, Joonie.”

“Love you too.” 

You turn back to Seokjin, a hand reaching out that he quickly takes, pulling you up to meet his standing position with your knees on the bed.  

“We don’t have to.” He murmurs, fingers delicately tangling with yours while his other hand finds your waist, bunching up the fabric there. 

You shake your head, leaning forward to softly meet his lips with yours. Kissing Seokjin is an experience every time. His plush pout’s ability to take over the kiss, and the moans he makes when you tug on his bottom lip with your teeth to try to regain control, makes you want to crumble into a pile of goo. 

“I need something, anything, Jinnie. Please?”

You rarely call Seokjin by the nickname Namjoon and Yoongi gave him years ago. You could probably count on one hand how many times you’ve said it. While it was a loving joke type of nickname from the guys, it always felt almost too intimate coming from you. So you have always stuck with Jin. 

Seokjin sighs, smiling at your adorable pouty expression. He whispers okay before leaning in to kiss you again, “what princess wants, princess gets.” 

Giant hands maneuver you so he can lay down. When you twist your body to straddle his lap while facing him, the big hands still your hips. 

“Ride my face.” 

Funny how three little words can make your entire body feel like it’s on fire.

You quickly look over to Namjoon who has his eyes closed, pillow tucked against his chest, but there’s a smile there that you know was in response to Seokjin’s order. 

You huff out, moving to crawl further up Seokjin’s body, but you’re stopped again when you’re just about over his face. 

“Turn around.”

“What?”

“If I can’t fuck you right now, I need your mouth to remind me what it can do.” 

You nod, afraid if you speak, it’ll be mushed up nonsense, and turn around, getting on your hands and knees facing away from Seokjin. His hands grab your upper thighs and tug you closer to his face, making you gasp and almost fall forward when you lose balance on your hands. 

“The dress has to go, y/n.” He gives your ass a light squeeze and you quickly rid the dress from your body. Jin lets out a low hum of approval at your matching bra and underwear; a deep crimson red and satin set.

“Every time…” he says under his breath, hooking his fingers into the side of your underwear and pulling it to your knees. You awkwardly lift one so he can move the underwear off it, not caring about the other leg. 

You palm Seokjin’s cock through his briefs, smiling softly at the sound he makes. 

You don’t hear his response, only gasping when he tugs your lower half down to meet those plush lips of his as he licks a long stripe through your folds, lips wrapping around your clit. 

“Fuck, Jin.” You whimper, head dropping to his hip as you slowly rut against his face. His hand smacks the side of your thigh, making you still. 

“Let me take care of you, princess.” He says, almost as a warning. 

You nod, forgetting he can’t see you, and lift your head up. With one of your shaking hands, you free his cock from the confines of his briefs, momentarily laughing when he tries to kick the fabric off his body. 

A harsh suck against your clit stops you from laughing. 

You pull yourself together again, wrapping your fingers around his impressive length. You fondly remember when you saw it for the first time last Christmas. You wanted so badly to touch it, hold it in your palm to feel how heavy it was. But there was a desperate need the first time you were with him. Now, nine months later, you had all the time in the world. 

Leaning down, you kiss the tip of his cock, enjoying the way it twitches at the contact followed by Seokjin’s light moan. You do it a few more times, on the tip, down the shaft, a kiss or two lands on his balls. Each kiss earns a twitch or a groan. Just as his tongue dives deep in your folds, you gather enough spit to trickle past your lips and onto his cock, using your hand to spread it around before slowly lowering your mouth down his now leaking member. 

You let his cock prod the back of your throat for a moment, thanking whatever gods that you barely have a gag reflex, and hum around him. Your nails dig into his thighs as he groans against your center, a hand smacking your ass. 

“Princess, what the fuck are you doing to me.”

His hips buck up, his cock somehow finding its way deeper down your throat. You cough, fighting the urge to pull off as his hips continue to buck up, your hands finding the bedding to brace yourself as he fucks your throat. You whine when two fingers ease past your folds, curling inside of you to press against your walls. 

It’s not long after that, that you’re crying, coming around his fingers and tongue and whining around his cock. Seconds later, he’s coming as well, bitter liquid shooting down your throat. 

You’re so lost in focusing on swallowing and not choking that you don’t hear the small breath of a laugh coming from your boyfriend. 

Seokjin, however, heard perfectly. 

“Ya, your girl’s a menace.”

You lift your throat off his cock, taking slow but short breaths as you look over at your boyfriend whose eyes travel from your lips down to his best friend’s soaked cock, some cum still coated around him. 

You glance down at the wet spot at his crotch. 

“Are you still too tired?” Your voice rasps. He nods, but your eyes stay locked on his crotch. 

Seokjin pats your ass, signaling for you to crawl off just enough that he can get off the bed. 

“I’m gonna shower and head to bed. Tomorrow we will explore Athens.” He gives you a kiss on the cheek before turning to the door and heading to his room. You smile, turning back to your boyfriend who has his eyes barely opened, watching you. Your eyes go back to the wet patch. 

“Let me take care of you, Joonie.”

“Baby…”

“Please?” 

“I’m fine, baby. Come to bed.” Sighing, you lay down next to him, your leg finding its way between his as you lean in just enough, connecting your lips to his. He moans deeply, tasting Seokjin on your tongue. Your suspicions are confirmed as you feel the bulge in his pants move underneath you. 

“You sure you don’t want me to take care of that?” You tease against his lips. Your hand sneaks between you both, but is quickly grabbed by Namjoon’s. 

“Yes, baby. I’m sure.” He smiles, eyes shut as he brings your hand up to his lips, kissing your fingers briefly. “Sleep.” 

You murmur defeat, getting off the bed to brush your teeth and change into a large shirt to sleep in. When you come back to bed, Namjoon is fast asleep on his back, his arm splayed out waiting for you. You pout, crawling into bed and curling up against his side. The moment your head rests on his shoulder, his arm moves on instinct to wrap around your back, thumb moving back and forth against your shoulder. 

It’s not until you’re at the edge of falling asleep that you realize this is the first time Namjoon let you be with Seokjin without claiming you after or being the one to make you come last.

Athens is beautiful. You spent the first three days simply wandering around the ancient city, going from ruin to ruin and museum to museum.

This is how you met Namjoon. You were part of the opening of a new museum in Seoul and Yoongi dragged Namjoon as his plus one. You both immediately hit it off and have been in love ever since. 

Yoongi demanded to be one to marry you both, getting ordained on your one year anniversary just in case. 

Museums and art galleries quickly became your thing with Namjoon. While it was a part of your job to constantly be in museums and galleries, it’s your dream job for a reason. And what could be better than finding someone who loves your job as much as you do? 

Seokjin, however, never showed any particular interest in museums or art in general. Sure, he’d go and take pictures either of or in front of the art, post it to socials, and come up with some horrible dad joke. But he couldn’t stand the idea of spending hours walking around looking at things from years and years ago. 

But you have to give him brownie points, he persevered the few days in Athens, knowing there would be wine and delicious food at the end of it all. And potentially a blow job from you. 

Namjoon still refused you both from actual sex, making you and Seokjin pout or whine. Seokjin almost begged one night, much to Namjoon’s delight, but he still said no. 

After Athens, the three of you packed your bags and boarded a boat to head to the next stop in Greece. Seokjin was beyond excited, Namjoon had a smug smile the entire way over, and you were completely clueless. 

That is, until you stepped off the boat onto a wooden deck and it clicked immediately. 

“Is this…?”

“Where they filmed Mamma Mia? Yes. Yes it is.” Namjoon replies, helping Seokjin off the boat after you. 

“Ahhh, it’s even prettier in person!” Seokjin's voice squeaks, running to stand next to you, hand grabbing yours. 

You grin, trying to avoid screaming like you want to. Mamma Mia has and always will be one of your favorite films. It’s your comfort movie and you and Seokjin would watch it consistently when either of you had a shitty day. You’d always end up standing on the couch or coffee table dramatically singing along with the ABBA songs or quoting the movie and acting them out while it played in the background. 

Still holding Seokjin’s hand, you turn to your boyfriend, who’s making sure all the luggage is accounted for. 

“Oh, right. Sorry, Joonie.” You drag Seokjin back to Namjoon, both of you grabbing as much luggage as you can and following the other tourists off the dock. 

Again, Seokjin arranged for a private villa. This one, however is smaller, only has one bed as well as a couch, and no air conditioning. 

The first two days aren't a problem. The weather is cool, the clouds covering the sun a majority of the day, and an amazing ocean breeze to make you shiver every now and again. The three of you travel around the island, you and Seokjin giggling every time you find a spot from the movie and having Namjoon take a photo of the both of you mid-reenactment. 

During the third and last day on Skopelos, however, there was a heat wave. And it is miserable to put it nicely. 

So miserable, none of you want to move. Seokjin is groaning that Greece isn't going anywhere. And you are complaining that days like this are why Google Street View exists. Namjoon is huffy at you both, deciding to go for a run while you two lie around, complaining about the heat. 

It is on his run, however, when a perfect idea pops into his head as he sees some locals with frozen treats. 

When he comes in, he finds you lying on the tile floor, your flowy summer dress draped around your body and the floor, and Seokjin on the couch, one leg dangling off the edge and the other off the back of the couch. You both look ridiculous as Namjoon heads to the kitchen. 

“Jooooooonie, can you make the fan do more?”

It’s a silly question to ask, you know the answer. But you have hope. 

“Nope, baby. Sorry.” He answers, head in the freezer. “I have a better idea, though. Hyung, come here.” 

He groans, throwing himself off the couch dramatically and playfully stomping his way to Namjoon in the kitchen. He’s about to speak when the two exchange glances. Seokjin glances down at the bowl in his hand and grins, nodding quickly as if to agree to Namjoon’s silent question. 

“Princess.”

“Baby.”

They speak at the same time, causing you to tilt your head backwards, looking at the upside down men quizzically. 

“Hmm?”

How’s the tile down there?” Your boyfriend asks, hands behind his back. 

“It’s cooler than the bed.” You answer slowly as Seokjin sits behind you, Namjoon moving to sit in front of you.

“Wanna play a game?”

“You wouldn’t let me bring my switch, so we can’t unless there’s one here…”

“No. Princess. A game.” 

It takes a second to process, but when it finally clicks, Namjoon’s already starting to spread your legs, the dress’s fabric falling to your hips. 

“Joonie, it’s too hot…”

“Right. It is way too hot. Which is why I want to play a game.”

You question what he means, allowing Seokjin to lift your head and shoulders enough to tuck himself underneath you, letting your upper torso and your head to rest against chest

“I just wanna help you cool down, baby.” He smirks, bringing the bowl into view for you to see what he means. It’s a small but deep bowl full of ice cubes and pieces alike. 

Fuck. 

You’re not sure if you say it in your mind or out loud. Possibly out loud since both men grin wide, snickering as Namjoon spreads your legs further. You relax into Seokjin’s chest, his hands finding the bottom of your dress and shimmying it up your torso. You lift your ass off the ground ever so slightly so he can pull the dress further up until he fully removes it, tossing it to the side. 

“Gonna be a good girl for us, princess?” Seokjin smiles, leaning down to kiss your forehead. 

“What are the rules?” You ask softly, your hands finding Seokjin’s forearms resting on your shoulders. 

“The rules, baby, are simple.” Namjoon grins, picking up one of the ice cubes, holding it in his fist to help it melt down a bit. 

“Move, and we stop. Come before we say so, and we stop.”

“I don’t like those rules.” You pout, Namjoon rolls his eyes, ignoring you while Seokjin snickers. 

“There’s our princess being a brat.”

“Those are the rules, baby. Follow them and you get rewarded.”

“What’s the reward?”

Namjoon looks up to Seokjin, eyebrows raised at Seokjin’s questioning gaze. 

“It’s a surprise.” He finally answers, putting the ice cube back in the bowl and trailing his frozen cold hand up your body. You shiver, fighting the urge to pull away from the freezing hand. 

“I like to know what I’m winning.” You grumble through chattering teeth, your boyfriend's hand softly gliding up your waist to behind your back. 

“I know you do, baby. And I promise you, you’ll feel so fulfilled after.” He whispers, undoing the clasp on your bra. 

“Joon.” You whine, fingers digging into Seokjin’s arms after your bra gets removed. 

“Ready, baby?” 

You nod, hating his teasing tone. 

He grabs the ice cube again, it already melting in his palm as he hovers his hand above your chest. All three of you wait as the little drop of freezing water develops under his grip, slowly getting ready to drip down. 

You feel yourself breathing harder, chest rising faster as you watch the droplet. When it finally drops, it feels like a spike of ice landing

But before the drop can land on your skin, Namjoon’s pulling it away again.

“New rule. Close your eyes, baby.”

You whine again, body wiggling in anticipation. 

“Eyes, princess. Let us make you feel good.” Seokjin whispers against your temple. You nod, shutting your eyes tight and leaning further back into Seokjin’s embrace. 

Not even seconds later, you feel a drop of water drip on your chest between your breasts.

“Fuck!” You yelp, body lifting off the ground from the initial shock. 

“Already breaking the rules, baby. Stay still or we stop.” Namjoon’s deep voice teases as another few drops land across your chest. 

“Okay. Okay okay okay.” You nod, keeping your eyes shut as you grip onto Seokjin’s arms even more to stay still.

You have no idea where the ice is going to be next, your body tensing in preparation for another jolt of cold against your skin. It’s almost torture how long between drops Namjoon lets it be before you feel a full cube against the bottom curve of your breast. 

You let out a high pitched whine, forcing yourself to stay still as he glides the ice all around your breasts, to across your clavicle, down the sides of your waist and across your middle section. Your breathing returns to rapid breaths, shivering with goosebumps as well as just pure arousal. 

You can’t tell what’s turning you on more; the frozen water being softly dragged across your sensitive skin, or the melted water that remains in its path, dripping down your sides and making its way to your back. 

Opposite of the freezing ice, however, is how hot Seokjin’s skin feels behind you. It almost feels like the ice dripping behind you is evaporating the moment it makes contact with his skin. 

It’s too hot. 

But you want more. 

Need more. 

The last piece of ice melts directly over your belly button, your breath stuttering when Namjoon’s hand goes flat across your stomach, gliding up to between your breasts and around your throat. 

“Good girl. Ready for more?” 

You whimper out a yes, your legs subconsciously spreading further for him, like your body begging where to go next. 

“Remember. No movements, princess.” Seokjin teases, having noticed your legs. 

You huff out in complaint, but it quickly turns into a shaking gasp when there’s an ice cube tracing up your inner thigh. Namjoon skips over where you want it most, dragging the cube to your other thigh and back up to your lower stomach, dancing the cube along the waistline of your underwear. 

“Joonie, please.”

“Please what?” 

“I hate the teasing.” You pout petulantly, head twisting to the side to bury your face in Seokjin’s arm. You’re desperately trying to ignore the hardening bulge pressing up against your back.

“Mmmm, I’d say otherwise, baby. You’re soaking through.  I mean, hyung just look at how soak—”

A string of curse words leave your lips, unable to hear anything the men are teasing about, when Namjoon presses a cube directly over the wet patch of your underwear, fitting perfectly against your folds and your clit. 

“Ya! No biting!” Seokjin’s voice yells, prying your mouth away from his bicep. 

Namjoon pulls the ice away, giving your clothed center a light smack. Your hips jerk from the sensation, fighting back the urge to open your eyes. 

“‘M sorry, Jin.” You whimper, kissing where you think you bit. 

“I don’t know if I should forgive you, princess. That was a very bad thing to do.”

“No no, I’ll be good. Please.”

There’s silence. With the inability to see them, you can’t tell if they’re silently discussing whether to punish or reward you. 

“I feel like she’s been through enough, Joonie. Maybe we should just stop here.”

“She can take more.”

“I can. I can do it. Please.” 

“What’s the word, baby?”

“Wendigo.” You let out a breathless laugh, the two men snickering at the memory. 

Namjoon taps your hip, telling you to lift so he can remove your underwear, tossing it aside with your dress. You feel movement down between your legs before you feel a sudden warm breath, making your toes curl. 

“Remember, princess. No movement.” 

You nod vigorously, clutching onto Seokjin again when Namjoon’s warm tongue licks a full stroke up your folds, the tip teasingly dancing against your clit. 

He’s vicious with the way he teases you, breathing against your soaked center with his hot breath before bringing the melting cube to your clit when he can feel you’re close. Your constant moans and cries only encourage him further as he pops the cube into his mouth, settling it below his tongue, and dancing it at your entrance. The switch between warm tongue and ice cube is infuriating to say the least.

“You’re being such a good girl, princess. I think Joonie might reward you soon.” Seokjin’s deep voice against your ear sends a different kind of shiver down your spine. 

Namjoon’s mouth pulls away from your throbbing center, giving your inner thigh a light kiss. You take a deep breath, eyes still shut, as you wait for whatever pleasurable torture was next. 

But nothing happens. 

Nothing happens for what feels like eternity but, in reality, it’s only a minute or two before you feel your boyfriend’s body move away from you. The sounds of shuffling as well as Seokjin letting you go slack against his body.

“Do you trust me, baby?” Namjoon’s voice comes from where you think the kitchen is located. You nod, muttering out of course while leaning further into Seokjin’s chest. 

“Let’s move her to the couch, hyung. Baby, keep your eyes shut.” Seokjin does as he’s told, lifting you up carefully and bringing you to stand in front of the couch. It sounds like more ice is being put into the ceramic bowl. Your body shakes at the thought.

“Sit, hyung.” When you hear movement to the left of you, you can only assume Seokjin’s following orders. 

“Jagi…” Namjoon’s voice is suddenly right in front of you, a big cold hand softly caressing your waist. The temperature makes you jump, but you settle into it immediately.

“I think hyung was right, you deserve a reward. I’m gonna sit you down on hyung’s cock, and you’re gonna be good and take it all, right?”

You nod again, pouting slightly when he reminds you to keep your eyes closed as he leads you back. Your hands reach behind you, finding Seokjin’s immediately as he and Namjoon help you onto the couch. They sit you down on Seokjin’s lap, your legs spread and hooked on either side of his thighs. Seokjin lets go of one of your hands to wrap around his cock, giving himself a few pumps before his tip meets your entrance. 

“Ready, princess?” 

“Please.” You beg, head falling back when he presses the tip past your folds, slowly easing himself inside of you. 

“Good job, baby. Keep taking his cock, take every inch.” Namjoon’s praises sound like they’re coming from below you, but you’re not sure, unable to focus as you try to relax around Seokjin’s massive length. 

Once you give the okay to Seokjin, he sinks down on the couch a bit more, bringing you back to plant your feet on the cushion so his hips are free to move at the pace he knows drives you crazy. 

You cry out, it’s been months since you’ve had him inside you and it feels so fucking good, you could write poems and songs about how good his cock feels filling and stretching you out with every thrust. 

“Fuck, please. Please let me come. Feels too good. Plea— oh, fuck.” Your body jolts at the sudden feeling of ice against the junction where your pelvis meets your thigh. Seokjin’s hands quickly steady you, massive hands holding your waist still while he continues to fuck you. 

The moans you make are pornographic as the ice cube slides around your skin, gliding and dancing around your pulsing clit that when he finally brings it there, you let out a sharp gasp. You bite your bottom lip, trying to fight the curses you want to scream at the top of your lungs. 

Namjoon quickly removes the cube from against your sensitive bundle of nerves, questioning Seokjin for permission to something you can’t hear because you’re too focused on Seokjin’s cock hitting exactly where it needs to. 

When you hear Seokjin whine, saying yes, he slows down his thrusts, hands bringing your waist down to sit on his lap with his cock fully inside of your clenching walls. 

You resist asking them what they’re doing, knowing it’s pointless. You lean your head against Seokjin’s shoulder, facing his neck as your lips find skin. 

You’re about to press soft kisses against the skin when a sharp bolt of ice courses through your body. 

Your eyes snap open, looking down at where you and Seokjin are connected and you nearly come just from the sight of Namjoon’s tongue shoving a small mostly melted ice cube past your entrance and against the bulging vein around Seokjin’s cock. 

Your boyfriend’s tongue is on your best friend’s dick. 

Okay, maybe it’s not on his dick, but it’s close enough to just graze over that counts. 

The fingers holding onto your waist dig deep into your skin as Seokjin groans at the feeling of the ice cube being kept inside of you by his dick. 

You whine, head leaning back again and shutting your eyes once more as you feel the cube, melting fast, make its way inside of you, being eased deeper by the head of Seokjin’s cock. 

“How’s it feel, baby?” Your boyfriend’s voice rumbles against your skin as he sits up on his knees, large hands on your thighs, watching the way you take Seokjin’s cock. 

“So fucking good.” You whimper. 

“Fucking heaven.” Seokjin whines behind you, hips beginning to lose their rhythm, teeth grazing your neck. “I won’t last long, fuck it’s so impossible to last long with you, y/n.”

You let out a soft laugh, a moan mixing through it, as you reach behind you, tugging Seokjin’s hair to pull his face back to yours, trapping him in a kiss. 

“Come for me, Jin. Fill me up. Please.” You repeat your request against his lips until you’re wincing from his teeth catching your bottom lip and one last thrust. The sensation of his cum filling you up makes you both moan. 

Namjoon’s hands help you lift yourself just enough that Seokjin’s cock slips out, but he quickly stands, leaning over you both on the couch, and slides himself past your entrance, stuffing his hyung’s cum back inside. 

“Joon!” You cry out, hands flying away from Seokjin and grasping Namjoon’s forearms. 

“Take his cock, princess. Gotta keep all my cum in there.” Seokjin’s strained voice comes from behind you. One hand barely helps to hold you up as the other sneaks away and you hear that damn ceramic bowl with ice being moved around. 

“Don’t you dare.” You mumble, immediately feeling Seokjin laugh under you.

“I thought you could take it, y/n?” Seokjin teases, grasping an ice cube and tracing it along your waist. You gasp, trying to move your body away from the sensation, but Namjoon tugs you back on top of the older man as he starts thrusting. 

Seokjin’s fingers trail the cube up your waist, alongside your ribs, just below your breasts, before finally bringing it to one of your nipples. Your back attempts to arch, but Seokjin’s other hand forces you back down from your stomach until you’re fully lying on him, no longer hovering.

It’s a chaotic mix of teasing, pleasure, and pain as Namjoon’s thumb starts circling your clit as he pounds into you at the same time as Seokjin’s ice trails along your skin. You barely give a warning before you’re crying out over your orgasm, body shaking and trying to grab onto anything you can. 

It’s only seconds later you feel Namjoon’s cock twitch inside of you, making you feel more full than before.

You wake up to the sounds of Seokjin snoring behind you. Eyes opening wide in panic when he lets out a rather loud one that almost sounds like he’s choking. You try to turn over to check on him, but you’re being held down by one of his arms. 

When your eyes open, you’re met with Namjoon’s closed ones, silently sleeping. He’s hugging his pillow tight, somehow unaware of the loud snores behind you. 

Or so you think. 

You try moving again, freezing instantly when Namjoon’s eyes open, a soft smile forming. 

“Hey, beautiful.” He whispers softly, his voice gravelly from the slumber. 

“Hi?”

“How you feeling?” His question confuses you. 

You feel fine. But you last remember Namjoon coming inside of you and that’s it. 

“Good? I don’t…remember what happened.” You try shuffling close to your boyfriend, but Seokjin’s hold on you is tight. Namjoon lets out a soft giggle, scooting closer to you instead. 

“You kinda passed out…?” His eyebrows raise a little, smile starting to form into a small laugh, “not like anything bad. But, after I came, you were a little loopy? It was amusing. We took care of you though. Cleaned you up and everything.”

“Hmm. I genuinely don’t remember, but thank you, baby.” 

“Where’s my thank you.” The voice behind you grumbles against your skin. You and Namjoon laugh as you twist your face into the pillow, muffling yourself. 

“Thank you, Jinnie” your voice drowns in the pillow. 

“Namjoon should thank me too. I was super helpful.”

You laugh into the pillow. 

“I take thank yous in kisses, please and thank you.” He snickers. You shake your head, twisting your body to face him now. 

“Shut up, hyung.” Namjoon sighs, his hand rubbing up against your waist.

Seokjin’s so pretty when he wakes up. His face is a little extra puffy, but it’s so cute. You love it. 

“I’ll get my kiss from him one day.” He pouts. 

“One day. I believe in it.” You grin, leaning in to give him an obnoxious kiss, pulling away with a loud mwah sound. 

The three of you laze around the rest of the day, only going out to get dinner before returning to sleep. 

The next day, the three of you make the trip to the final destination: Mykonos. 

It’s an island you had discussed early on in the relationship. Your typical Greece imagery of gorgeous waters, all white buildings and blue trim, beautiful beaches all around. Everything about it was perfect in the images you looked at. But it’s nothing compared to seeing it in person. 

You guys have the last four days here to just relax and enjoy the beaches. 

The day before Namjoon’s birthday, the three of you all separate to do different things. You stay inside, having some work stuff come up that you can't avoid. Seokjin decides to lounge on the deck of the villa you are staying in. It has stairs leading down straight onto the beach. There is a running path just off to the side and Namjoon decides to go see how much of the island he can cover (not much, but he does try).

When you finally finish up with work (you’re going to fight with Taehyung when you get back for directing the issue he could’ve easily fixed to you, knowing full well you are on vacation), you change into a bathing suit, throwing an oversized shirt (whether it’s Namjoon’s or Seokjin’s, you’ll never know) on over it and walk out onto the deck. 

You’ll never get over Seokjin without a shirt. 

He’s leaning over the balcony, in only shorts as his broad shoulders are on full display. The dimples in his back as well as the way his shoulder blades move when he shifts in place is enough to send shivers down your spine. 

You lean against the railing while standing next to him, staying quiet while he’s on the phone, having some sort of back and forth with who you assume is his manager. You’re quickly distracted by the beautiful blue waves rolling in to notice Seokjin repositioning to stand behind you, resting his chin on your head while he continues his phone call. 

“Yeah. I should be back in a few days and then I was hoping to stay in Seoul a few days before New York…but I guess that’s not happening?” 

You pout when he sighs, saying he understands and hanging up. The phone is tucked away in his back pocket while his arms snake around your waist. 

“Already have to go back to work?” 

He nods, moving down to rest his chin on your shoulder. 

“Unfortunately. They actually wanted me to come back tonight but I told him to fuck off.”

“No you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t. But I did politely say no and made a compromise to come back asap.” 

“You’re too nice to them.” You pout, watching a couple playing in the ocean waves, “They overwork you. I miss you. Namjoon misses you.”

“I miss you too, princess. I miss you and Joon every time I’m away.” 

“Wanna stay here forever.” It’s a soft mumble, but you know he hears it when he hums in agreement, turning his head to kiss your cheek. You turn your face to him, letting your lips meet in a slow, deep, kiss. 

Again, there’s nothing quite like kissing Seokjin. Namjoon is the love of your life and always will be, but there’s just something about Seokjin’s lips that you crave constantly. Something about the way he holds you both delicately and possessively. Or the way he looks at you after a kiss, like he’s just as lost in it as you are. Like he’s trying to figure out the answer to the question you’ve been asking since that weekend in the Swiss mountains. 

He uses his tongue to tease your lips apart, making you gasp through a moan as he turns you around to face him, hands gripping your waist. 

“Jinnie” you whine, your arms wrapping around his shoulders. His lips trail down your jaw to that special spot between your neck and shoulder. 

“I’m sorry, y/n. We shouldn’t unless Namjoon’s around. But,” he leaves a small love bite on your shoulder, “you just have this effect on me. I can’t help it.”

You nod, moaning when you tug on his hair, making him suck harder on your skin. You’re going to be covered in bruises and hickies when you get home. You don’t care. 

“What’d I miss?” Namjoon’s voice breaks you two apart, but only barely. Seokjin’s lips place soft kisses on your cheek and forehead while you look at the man you love. 

“Jin told his manager to fuck off and wait until his vacation is over.”

“No he didn’t.”

“See?” You look at Seokjin, a playful smile and raised eyebrow, “you’re too nice.”

“I have to be. Or it ruins my reputation and makes me look like I’m difficult to work with.”

“But you are difficult to work with.”

“I take it back. I don’t miss you. I only miss Namjoon.” He jokingly shoves you away, stepping to move behind Namjoon, getting on his tiptoes to put his chin on the younger’s shoulder. “You’re too tall.” He grumbles, wrapping his arms around Namjoon’s middle. 

Namjoon smirks, hands holding onto Seokjin’s forearms to keep him there. 

“Well, I still think you’re too nice. You guys have fun. I’m going to get in the water.” You laugh, heading down the steps to the beach. You hear snickers, turning back briefly to see Namjoon turning in Seokjin’s arms to face him. 

You look back towards the beach, allowing them privacy even though that word barely exists with you three. 

The water is perfect. It’s not cold like the Pacific Ocean, not weirdly warm like the Atlantic. It’s a perfect balance. 

You let your feet sink into the sand, the gentle waves slowly bringing you closer to the ocean as the sand keeps you still. 

You love it here. 

You love your job, love your life, love your friends, family, and your boyfriend. 

But here? With not only your boyfriend but the man you crushed on for years that you now have the privilege to be with along with your boyfriend? For two whole weeks? 

That’s heaven.

It’s felt right these two weeks with them. Any time it’s been just you and Namjoon, it’s been perfect as usual, but it always feels like something is missing. 

Or rather someone.

You’re not sure how long you’re out here, staring at the horizon. The sand is halfway up your calves and the waves are hitting your upper thighs by the time two large arms wrap around your middle, body draping over your back as lips find refuge on your neck. 

You smile, sighing as you relax in his hold, tilting your head to the opposite side so he has better access. 

“Where’s my Jagi right now?” Namjoon’s voice barely breaks above the waves, only enough because it’s right by your ear. 

“Thinking.” 

“About?” His nose nudges under your ear. 

“Us.” You pause when you feel him tense, “us and Jin.”

“What about us and Jin?” His body relaxes, but barely. You use his hold on you as support as you pull your feet from the sand, both of you stepping a little further from the ocean when you turn to face him. 

“What is this to you, Joon?” Your arms snake around his neck, fingers dancing through his hair there. “Or rather, what is Jin? I know last year he was my present or whatever, but…that was nine months ago. And after all the texts with photos and videos and the times we’ve been with him…I don’t know. I need some sort of understanding before this gets too much.”

Namjoon’s eyes stay steady on you the entire time, the hands sitting on your waist, holding you gently, yet firm enough to keep you still. His thumbs rubbing circles through the shirt. 

“Too much, how?” Is all he asks. 

“I…I don’t know. Too much like he’s part of this? Too much like my crush from before you comes back and causes issues?”

“How would that cause issues, Jagi?”

“I don’t want to choose…”

“Baby,” Namjoon smirks, leaning in to kiss your forehead, “there is nothing to choose. I’m yours forever and if you want him, too…as long as he wants you back…I’m pretty sure I’ve done nothing but show you I’m very okay with sharing you.”

“That’s nice and all and I love you for that,” you pull away from him just slightly, forcing him to look at you again, “but what about you? What is this to you? It can’t just be me with two boyfriends. I mean, it can. But…what about you and Jin?”

And that’s where his confidence falters, for just a moment, you see it in his eyes and the way his lips twitch. 

He comes up with nothing when his mouth opens to speak, face contorting almost into confusion. 

“Joon? You okay?”

“Yeah…I just…” you let him pause, finding the right words as his eyes flit behind you to the crashing waves. It’s hard to bite back the smile when you try to soothe whatever worries he seems to have by massaging his nape. His eyes close momentarily before opening again, landing on your own. 

“I don’t know yet. But…I think there’s something…between him and I, I mean.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he nods slowly, eyes back on the ocean, “I just don’t know what exactly it is. If it’s just because of you or if it’s something else entirely? It’s confusing.”

“It’s okay, Joon. You don’t need to figure anything out right this second, but we should all sit down and figure this out at some point…maybe not tomorrow, though.”

“Why not tomorrow?” His head tilts to the side, looking back at you. 

“Your birthday? The whole reason we went on this trip?”

It takes two seconds of silence before he starts fully laughing, having to back away from you to bend over.

“I’ll be one hundred percent honest, I totally forgot.”

…

“You can’t be serious.”

“I was just treating it like a vacation with my best friend and my girlfriend.”

“Oh my god, Kim Namjoon. You’re an actual goober!” You playfully smack his shoulder, laughing with him. He takes the perfect opportunity to launch himself at you, bending slightly to pick you up by your thighs. You both laugh as your legs wrap around his waist, arms around his shoulders again. 

It’s a playful series of events, he threatens to lean forward, dumping you into the waves, you returning the threat with your own of no skin contact for a month, and just all around cuteness between you both that you’d be lying if you said wasn’t one of your favorite things about him. He’s so serious at work, so serious in most social situations. Except for with you, where he can be himself; laughing, dancing badly, making really terrible dad jokes, and just being your Namjoon. 

That night, the three of you are all dressed up for dinner reservations Seokjin made at the five star restaurant at the resort you’re staying at. 

Both men go for formal casual; slacks, a tucked in button up shirt, leaving the first three buttons undone for an added we’re on vacation and gorgeous models look that Seokjin will not shut up about. 

You dress up in a little black mini dress. It isn't too short to be informal, but just short enough that Namjoon’s hands stay on your thigh during dinner and Seokjin playfully grabs at your ass when you are waiting to be seated. 

Seokjin has the staff come sing happy birthday to Namjoon, the man’s face turning the deepest shades of embarrassment until the staff leave. 

Two bottles of expensive wine and a delicious meal later, the three of you are walking lazily down the pathway back to the villa. Seokjin directly behind you, his hands wandering your body as he kept you against his chest.

Mumbles of your nickname are pressed against your neck as he kisses and licks the skin there, not caring about where you are walking. 

With your head tilted to give him more access, your hazy eyes find your boyfriend a few feet away, holding onto the jacket you thought you might need, as well as your purse and heels you ditched at one point. He’s smiling his I’m tipsy grin, dimples peeking through as he watches his best friend cling to you. 

When you step past the front door of the villa, your body is quickly turned, back pressed up against the wall as Seokjin lifts your legs around his waist to bruise your neck some more. 

Your moans are cut off by your boyfriend’s words. 

“Hyung.” Seokjin quickly removes his lips from your skin. Head turning to look at his friend. “Bed.” Is all he says, tossing your stuff on the couch on the way to the bedroom. Seokjin smirks, tightening his hold on you as he pulls off the wall and heading to the bedroom with you in his arms. 

Namjoon is already standing by the foot of the bed, shirt pulled out of the waistband of the slacks that are unbuttoned, but still sitting on his hips. There’s a very prominent bulge peeking through the pants and it’s amazing how nervous it still makes you after all these years. 

There’s a silent exchange between the two men as Seokjin lays you down on the bed, letting you scoot back towards the headboard as he crawls over you. His mouth is on your neck again, wet lips marking anywhere he can. 

A free hand feels its way down your body, long fingers heading straight to your clothed center. He pushes a finger against your entrance, the fabric gathering up the arousal. 

You both let out a curse, your hips rolling up to meet his hand, trying so hard to get his finger to fully enter you. But it doesn’t, he teases you repeatedly, gathering more slick against your underwear until your boyfriend’s voice off to the side tells him to stop.

It’s almost like deja vu the way Seokjin pulls your underwear off, and hands it directly to Namjoon, who’s sitting in a chair next to the bed, cock already in his hand.

Your eyes stay on the way the underwear slides against his erection, the amount of arousal on the fabric mixing with his own. 

But his eyes? His eyes are on Seokjin. The way his fingers dig into your flesh as they roam your body. 

No. Not again. 

“Jin, off.” You whisper it, having to repeat it a little louder when he ignores you in favor of kissing your jaw. 

“You okay?” His whisper is panicked, hands leaving your skin to hold himself above you by placing them on either side of you on the bed. 

“Yeah,” you nod quickly, “just…the birthday boy.” Your eyes find Seokjin’s and you don’t know when it happened, but somehow you two developed a similar mind. He nods, kissing your nose and rolling off you to sit at the head of the bed, lightly palming himself. 

You grin, crawling off the bed, making sure Seokjin has a perfect view of your soaked center sans underwear. 

“Joonie, join us.” You stand in front of him at his chair, light fingers taking the underwear away from his cock. 

“I’m okay here, baby. Get back to hyung.”

You shake your head, and he doesn’t hesitate to help you when you straddle his lap, his cock teasing your clit as you settle down. 

“Come.”

“That’s my line.” 

You roll your eyes at his beautiful dimples, leaning down to kiss each one. 

“It’s your birthday, Joonie. Let us take care of you.” 

“It’s not my birthday yet.”

“As of seven minutes ago, it is officially your birthday, Kim Namjoon.” Seokjin’s voice comes from the bed, phone in hand with a shit eating grin on his face. You grin as well, looking back at your boyfriend. 

“See? It’s your day, baby.” You coo, brushing his hair back. “What would you like for your birthday?” 

“What are you doing?” He questions, eyes trying to decipher your smile. 

“I just want my Joonie to be happy and properly taken care of.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. Now, be good and get on the bed.”

“Oh, you’re telling me what to do now?”

You hum, nodding as you stand up between his legs, holding your hands out for him, palms up. He gives you a look before looking over at Seokjin and smiles nervously, taking your hands and standing with you. 

You back up to the bed, pulling him with you with a smile. You only let go to tug the slacks and briefs off the rest of the way.  

“Sit next to Jin.” You quietly command, letting him move past you to get on the bed, sitting next to Seokjin, who at some point pulled all his clothes off except his underwear. 

Still in your dress, you crawl back onto the bed, a smirk forming when it appears Namjoon knows exactly what you’re doing and spreads his legs just slightly. Just enough to let you get comfortable on your stomach and your arms resting on his thighs. 

“Happy birthday, Joonie.” You grin, taking his cock in your hand and giving it a single pump, standing it up in front of you. Your lips sneak small kisses up and down his length, longer ones on his tip, before slowly easing his entire length down your throat. Holding him there in your mouth, a free hand cradles his balls in your palm, giving them a gentle massage that makes him groan, hands clutching your hair. 

“God, she’s too good at that.” Seokjin murmurs, your lips wrapped around Namjoon’s tip, tongue teasing at the slit that’s already oozing with precum. 

“I bet you’d do just— ah, fuck,” Namjoon’s head falls back, hitting the headboard as you take him down in one go without warning. “You’d do just fine, hyung.”

“Oh, I know I would. I’d do more than fine.” Seokjin’s quick to quip and you can’t help but smile internally, lifting your mouth off and away from your boyfriend’s cock. 

“Prove it.”

Both men stare at you, one turning a deep shade, the other almost laughing if not for the shock of the call out. 

“That’s not…” Seokjin stutters, still trying not to smile. 

“Not what? Joonie loves his cock sucked. You have amazing lips and your mouth is big enough, I’m sure you could take him all.”

“Baby.” Namjoon warns but you ignore the tone, looking at him with pleading eyes. 

“Jin needs to prove himself, Joon. Is it okay if he helps me with your cock?”

Namjoon’s eyes stay locked on yours. You can’t tell if he’s angry or nervous, but it’s enough to make you feel like submitting to whatever he wants, but also rebel against everything and anything he says. 

Not to mention, the shooting jolt of arousal you get from just that gaze is enough. 

It’s Seokjin’s voice that breaks through the staring contest. 

“I’ll be good, Joon. I promise.”

Namjoon’s eyes tear away from yours to Seokjin’s so fast, you think his neck would’ve snapped. 

You keep watching your boyfriend for any sort of negative reaction. 

But his eyes dance from eye to eye to lips, back to his eyes and next thing you know, Namjoon is nodding, sliding further down the bed to give you both access. 

You share a look with Seokjin, both ending in a grin as you take place on the bed between Namjoon’s legs. Your boyfriend is muttering something quietly to himself, his arm thrown over his face. 

You give Seokjin’s cheek a kiss, a hand pressing soothing circles into Namjoon’s thigh. Seokjin reaches out for Namjoon’s cock, almost mimicking your actions from moments ago. You watch in awe as his lips prove to be perfect for this activity, his mouth wide enough to take Namjoon down without a problem. 

“Fuck, so fucking good.” Namjoon mutters, biting his forearm. You can’t fight the smirk when you and Seokjin dive in at the same time, licking and kissing along his shaft and tip, both taking turns with his balls. 

Namjoon is going insane, fighting the urges to either force both of you closer to his cock until he’s coming across both of your faces, or to fill Seokjin’s mouth with himself until Seokjin’s crying and coming down his throat. He so desperately wants to regain control, but if this is what happens when he doesn’t have control?

Fuck that. No better time to give it all up than right now. 

“Fuck, okay you have to stop or I’m going to explode.”

You look away from Seokjin’s swollen lips around Namjoon’s tip to look back at your boyfriend, who has his eyes on the ceiling, afraid to look down at the two of you for it might make him come. 

“That’s not how you ask.” 

“Baby.” There’s that warning tone again. 

“Joonie.” You mock the tone, Seokjin pulls off, giving his tip one last lick. 

“Tell him, princess.”

You grin, wrapping your hand around Namjoon’s shaft, pumping hellishly slow. 

“Come on, Joonie. Be good for us. Ask correctly.”

It takes a few more pumps, Seokjin next to you, kissing your shoulder, before Namjoon lets out a deep whine, voice cracking when he finally speaks. 

“Please stop. I need you to stop before I come. Please, baby.”

“I like that word coming from those lips,” Seokjin giggles, “no offense, princess. It’s just hotter.”

“None taken. I agree a hundred percent.” 

“You two are the worst.” Namjoon’s muffled words send you both into a giggle fit, giving one another a small high five. 

“It’s what we strive to be, Joon.” Seokjin nods in agreement, arms wrapping around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder.

“Now, since you clearly need a minute, how about I take care of the princess for a moment?” Seokjin’s lips trail up your neck to your jaw and finally seal your lips with his. He tastes like Namjoon, and you’d be lying if you said that didn’t make you want to come right then and there.

Namjoon nods, muttering approval before you’re yoinked away from your boyfriend, giggling when you’re pulled on top of Seokjin. It’s a fumble getting his briefs off as well as your dress, but you manage to do it, out of breath from laughing too much at the end. 

You sit up, your mind in a blissful happiness you can’t describe at the sight of both men on the bed. 

“I’m too lucky.” You whisper, using one hand to steady yourself over Seokjin’s hips, the other wrapping around his cock, giving it a few pumps to coat it with his own precum. His hands find your hips, holding tightly as you align him with your center, sinking down until he’s fully inside. 

“Shit,” you curse, loving the stretch while you slowly lift your hips, circling them at the same time. 

“Come on, princess. Show me what you can do.” Seokjin coos, giving your ass a light spank to encourage you to move. You scoff, grabbing the hand on your ass to hold it there as you pick up the pace, bouncing on him. 

Seokjin’s cock is perfection, honestly. Or as close to it as one can get. Namjoon’s is too. But goddamn Kim Seokjin’s dick can make you see stars. 

Neither of you notice Namjoon getting on his knees to crawl to you, grabbing your face and kissing you like he’s never kissed you before. 

It’s hunger, lust, love, vulnerability, and just everything kissing should be with the one you love. 

You melt into him, your pace slowing again on Seokjin’s hips, your hands reaching to hold your boyfriend’s face. 

It’s not enough. 

“Joonie,” you breathe against his lips, your hips stilling, “I need you.”

“Wait until hyung’s done, baby.”

You shake your head almost too fast, pushing him back a bit. You gesture to Seokjin to fully lay down, laying across his torso, lifting your ass up as if you’re presenting yourself to him. 

“Both, Joonie. Want you both.” You moan against Seokjin’s collarbone, your hips rolling against his own, keeping his cock inside you. 

There’s a breath of a curse and your princess nickname under you, his hands holding your waist as you still. 

“Jagi,” Namjoon chokes in his next breath, eyes focused on your stretched cunt swallowing Seokjin whole, “are you sure?”

“Yes. I need it, baby. Wanna feel you both.”

“You’re not nearly stretched enough.”

“I’m fine. Please.” 

“If she says she’s fine, she’s fine, Joon. Please hurry up.” Seokjin tries to joke, but his jest is cut off by a groan when you lift your hips and slam them back down for some kind of friction. “Princess, behave. I’m trying to help you.”

“Both.” You whimper desperately. “Need you both.”

“Listen to her, Joonie,” Seokjin teases, spreading his legs some, “she needs us. You gave control. Do as she says.” 

“I did not give her control.”

“Joonie.” You cry with another roll of your hips. 

“Shit, Jagi. Okay.” His voice is rushed as he gets in his knees between Seokjin’s legs. 

“He’s so whipped for you, princess.”

You giggle softly into Seokjin’s neck. The three of you have to maneuver around just a little for the right angle, but you finally feel the tip of your boyfriend’s cock along your inner thigh.

You clench at the sensation, quietly apologizing to Seokjin when he gasps. 

“Relax, princess. You have to relax if you want us both.”

“I do. I do, I do.  Want you both.” 

“Kiss me.” Those two words have your head spinning as you lift it to melt your lips to his. 

In the back of your mind, you know what he’s doing. He’s distracting you, giving you something else to focus on and relax. And goddamn does it work. You get so lost in the feeling of his lips, the way his tongue dances with yours, and matching your breathing to his, that you barely notice Namjoon pressing inside of you, cock sliding against Seokjin’s. Not until Seokjin lets out a guttural groan at the pressure. 

Then you feel it.

How full you feel. 

Both men inside you. 

How it should be. 

No choices. No turns. Just together. The three of you. 

The stretch is intense. Borderline painful. But you’re so aroused from just the fact that both the men you love so much are inside you at the same time, that the pain lessens quickly. 

“You okay, Y/N?” Namjoon’s voice echoes against your ear. 

You try to hold yourself up to lean into him, but feel your arms giving out. As if he knows what is happening, because of course he knows, an arm snakes its way around your middle, holding you up against him, allowing you to focus on the feeling of them. 

“Full.” You mutter, hand reaching behind you to run your fingers through Namjoon’s hair. “So full. ‘Sokay though, you can move.” 

His lips press against your ear, then your neck, ending on your shoulder as he gives Seokjin a look before they both nod, alternating their thrusts. Every time Namjoon pulls back, Seokjin pushes further in and vice versa. 

It feels too fucking good. But you can’t do it yet. You can’t come yet. You need the feeling to last longer. You try to prolong the feeling, rolling your hips to meet with Namjoon’s thrust, clenching around him as you do so. 

You shouldn’t have done that. 

Instead of prolonging it, it just forces your orgasm. Your sensitive clit rubs just the right way against Seokjin’s pelvis, making you cry out in complete euphoria. 

“Oh, fuck!” Namjoon’s voice cracks behind you, hips stuttering before pressing flush against you. 

You can feel his cum pooling inside of you, spreading around with your own arousal as Seokjin’s thrusts continue, encouraging Namjoon to keep coming until they both have to pull out from you and Namjoon becoming oversensitive. 

Namjoon falls back from his sitting position on his knees to on his ass, hands holding him up behind him. You roll off Seokjin, eyes shut as you breathe heavily. Your body can’t decide between closing your legs to keep Namjoon’s cum inside and keeping your legs open because of the soreness and sensitivity. 

It takes a few seconds before you hear a body shuffling on the bed and a gasp from beside you. 

“What are you doing?!” Seokjin whisper-shouts. Your eyes fly open as you turn to look at the gorgeous sight beside you. 

Seokjin is still lying down, legs spread. But he’s looking down between them where Namjoon has settled on his stomach, hand cautiously wrapped around Seokjin’s still hardened erection. 

“You haven't come yet.” Namjoon states. 

“So, what? You’re gonna jerk me?”

“No? I was gonna try…sucking.”

You and Seokjin both snicker at the same time, much to Namjoon’s annoyance. 

“Oh. I can’t decide if that was adorable or fucking hot.” Seokjin cackles, a hand holding Namjoon’s face gently. Namjoon tries swatting the hand away, losing very quickly when you’re suddenly laying on your stomach as well, but near Seokjin’s side. 

“It was both. One hundred percent, it was both.” You kiss the cheek not being cradled. “Want some help?”

It’s the way he nods so nervously that makes your heart burst. You grin, settling in closer. 

“Well, you’ve seen me do it a million times. Use the lips, avoid teeth, the balls are fun, always kiss the tip, know your limits.” You give the instruction fairly easily, trying not to giggle at his anxiousness. “You’ll be okay, Joonie. And if you don’t like it, you can stop at any time.” 

“I’d rather he didn’t, though.” 

“Jin.” You warn, glaring at the handsome idiot. 

“Don’t Jin me! You both came already! I’m dying here!”

Namjoon snorts, not hesitating or giving any warning when he leans forward to kiss Seokjin’s tip. 

“Oh— fuck.” Seokjin’s hand leaves Namjoon’s face, hitting the mattress by his thigh, and taking a deep breath when Namjoon slowly wraps his lips around the head, tongue dancing along the slit. 

You watch in awe, giving words of encouragement as Namjoon lowers his mouth further down Seokjin’s cock, trying his best to take as much as he can. His hand cradles his balls, massaging them gently, but giving a small tug every now and again. 

“You’re doing so good, Joonie.” You praise over and over, running your hand through his hair, “make him come, baby. Make him lose control the way you do to me.” 

Namjoon finally hits his gag reflex, coughing slightly around Seokjin. His eyes lift to find Seokjin’s head leaning back, hand hitting the mattress again, fingers digging into the blanket. 

“Careful.” Your eyes widen slightly, resisting the urge to pull him off. If Namjoon wants to stop, he’ll stop. 

Also the sight and sounds are way too erotic to want to stop him. 

Seokjin’s head snaps forward at the feeling of Namjoon’s free hand pulling the hand tangled in the sheets, placing the hand in his hair. 

Their eyes meet. 

Seokjin smiles, his fingers tangling in Namjoon’s hair as the younger’s head lifts to wrap around the tip, tongue teasing it. 

“Goddamn, Joonie, that’s fucking perfect.” Seokjin lets out a light laugh, almost in disbelief at what’s happening. His hand slowly presses his head down, making Namjoon take more of him until it hits the back of his throat again. 

You honestly don’t know what to do yourself. Do you touch them? Join in? Say something? Encourage them to continue? Honestly, you’d rather just sit back and enjoy the visual of your boyfriend and best friend enjoying one another.

You do, however, find yourself rolling your hips against a blanket, soaked center making it perfect for your clit to glide along as you watch. 

And of course, Namjoon knows what you’re doing, even with his best friend’s dick down his throat. The free hand that had Seokjin’s trades with the one cradling his balls, quickly pulling the blanket away from you. You whine in protest, but his hand quickly finds its way between your legs, long fingers collecting up arousal and cum to spread around your clit. 

Your hips buck up closer to his hand, whimpering when a finger finds its way past your entrance, pumping you in perfect timing with the way he bobs his head. 

You know exactly what the fuck he’s doing. 

It takes barely a few minutes of the synchronized bobbing and pumping until Seokjin is almost in tears, moaning loudly as he comes down Namjoon’s throat at the same time your hips lose any and all sense of rhythm, coming around Namjoon’s fingers as you hug Seokjin’s thigh.  

Your come down is broken through when you hear Seokjin mutter come here and both hands grab at Namjoon, pulling him up his body to kiss him. 

To actually kiss him. 

Seokjin kissing Namjoon. 

After Seokjin just came down Namjoon’s throat. 

And Namjoon is kissing him back, open mouth, tongues tangling together. 

This is the fucking dream. 

You mutter a soft curse, lazily grinning at the sight. Seokjin seems to be the only one who hears you, pulling away from Namjoon’s lips with a grin. 

“Happy birthday, Joonie.” Seokjin gives another peck on the lips. Namjoon sighs into the quick kiss, lips faintly chasing the other’s. 

“You finally got your kiss, Jin.” You tease, the three of you giggling together. You scoot back a little bit, letting Namjoon get off Seokjin, laying between you both. 

“Finally.” He laughs as you throw your leg over Namjoon’s right leg, head ducking under his arm to rest on his chest. Seokjin is quick to mimic the position on the opposite side of Namjoon, who seems too blissfully out of it to care about the teasing. 

It’s silent for a moment, but your brain won’t shut up.

And of course, Namjoon knows. 

“So should we have that talk now?” Namjoon’s words are quiet against the silence of the three of you in the afterglow moments. Both you and Seokjin make questioning noises, prompting you to look up. 

“What talk?”

“Jagi…wanna tell him?”

Your eyes widen in a small panic, but Namjoon’s fingers dance along your spine reassuringly. 

You can do this. It’s fine. It’ll be fine. 

“Uh, Jin. I don’t want this to be…like Namjoon and myself in a relationship with you as a bonus. I want the three of us to be…”

“A throuple?” Seokjin’s quick to catch on. Namjoon smiles, eyes shut. 

“If you want. Clearly, you and Joon have something. You and I have something. Obviously Joon and I have something…”

“I’d be happy to be a boyfriend to you both.”

You can feel Namjoon’s heart pounding under your cheek, your own heart doing the same. 

“Yeah? Officially?” You just know the way you’re grinning looks like a child told they’re going to Disneyland, and you don’t fucking care. This is so much better. 

“As long as this guy wants it,” his head jerks up to the man lying between you both, arms wrapped around both of you. He’s got a smug smile with his beautiful puffy lips.

“I do.” Namjoon confirms with a sigh, “dunno how I’m gonna deal with both of you when you’re being brats, but…”

“We are never brats.”

“Yeah!” Seokjin lightly hits Namjoon’s stomach, “maybe it’s just that you are a strict spoilsport. Ever think about that?”

“You’re literally being a brat right now.” Namjoon’s monotone voice cracks with just a hint of amusement. You stay silent, curling up closer to Namjoon as they continue to bicker with a smile. 

“Wow. Day one of our relationship, and you’re already being so rude. Do you even know who I am? How lucky you are?” 

You bite back the laugh, letting yourself fall asleep to the voices of your two boyfriends. 

When you wake up the next morning, it’s to the sound of screaming. But not from either of the men you fell asleep with. 

“Sorry! Sorry sorry sorry! We’ll just…we’ll be out here! Yoongi, come on!” You know that voice. Why is that voice in Greece?

Oh fuck. 

Once the bedroom door closes, you sit up quickly, your head spinning from the sudden position change as you wrap the blanket around your top half. You leap out of bed, trying to find clothes. 

“Y/N? Care to explain?” Namjoon’s voice is higher than normal, still sitting upright in the bed. 

Fuck. 

“This was the wrong way to surprise you.” You throw some shorts, a tank top, some underwear and a bra onto the bed, quickly getting rid of the blanket to change. 

“I was supposed to wake up early and let them in and we’d make breakfast and it’d be a whole big birthday thing. But then we…last night…and I just…forgot.”

“You forgot Yoongi and Jimin were going to be joining us in Greece?” 

“Don’t even start!” You button the shorts around your waist, throwing the tank top on after. “You forgot your own birthday!” 

“He forgot his birthday?” Seokjin makes his appearance from the bathroom, looking as disheveled as you do in his haste to put on clothes. He sits on the bed, toothbrush in his mouth. The only one still naked is Namjoon, who just has a blanket covering his bottom half. 

“For like a moment.” The birthday boy shrugs. You cut him off before he can continue. 

“Whatever. Jin and I will go set things up. You put some pants on and laze about or something, you birthday grump.”

“Not a birthday grump.”

“I thought you’d be happy with your friends out here with us.”

“I am, Jagi. I am and I love you for it. But they just saw both of my partners naked in bed with me and you know I don’t like others seeing what’s mine.”

You have to remind yourself that Yoongi and Jimin are just outside the door. You cannot tease your boyfriend into fucking you right now. 

“Joonie. They’re together. They don’t care about what they see. Yoongi and I are like siblings.”

“He’s still possessive.” Seokjin shrugs, returning to the bathroom to spit out the toothpaste. You swap places with him, quickly brushing your teeth and trying not to look like a complete mess. 

Namjoon’s at the door when you leave the bathroom, pants on but no shirt. 

Damn him. 

You pout. But not for the reason he thinks. 

“Thank you for inviting Yoongi and Jimin out here for my birthday, baby.” His voice is softer, hands reaching for your waist. 

“I just wanted it to be a fun birthday.” 

“It’s been a great birthday so far. I’m sure it’ll get even better. Thank you.” He presses his lips to yours, lips tugging into a smile when you melt against him. When he just barely pulls away, he mumbles “I love you, Jagi.” 

“I love you, too.” You sigh against his lips. The sound of something moving on the bed pulls you away, making you laugh when Seokjin appears by you. 

“Excuse me, I paid for their flights. Where’s my thank you kiss?” 

“Shut up, hyung.” Namjoon rolls his eyes, grabbing Seokjin by the back of the neck and cutting off any sassy responses with a kiss. Seokjin melts into him just like you did, but pushes away after a second. 

“Brush your teeth, stinky. You taste like last night. Let’s go, princess.”

Seokjin’s hand grabs yours, pulling you out of the bedroom and into the living room where the two wait. 

“So…” Yoongi’s voice trails, eyes set directly on your joined hands. 

“What’s going on with you three?” Jimin completes the question for Yoongi, who’s sitting on the couch with him, legs crossed and foot tapping the air. 

“We’re uh…together.”

“Did you and Joon break up?”

“Nope.”

“We’re all together now. The three of us.” Seokjin explains further for you. 

Both boys sit there, Jimin with an amused, almost shocked expression, and Yoongi of course stone faced. It’s silent until Yoongi finally smiles. 

“You’re welcome.” Is all he says, standing up from the couch and heading to the kitchen 

“I said it wouldn’t happen. Yoongi said otherwise.” Jimin giggles, bouncing up. “Okay, let’s go make the birthday boy some food!” 

“Nope. You’re banned from kitchens, remember?” Yoongi grabs both of Jimin’s wrists before he can reach for any utensil.

“Minnie, help me decorate and let the old men cook.” You call out, ignoring the shocked gasp from your boyfriend. 

Jimin sighs, joining you, the other banned one, to help decorate. 

Namjoon joins half an hour later, trying to help you and Jimin decorate, only to be banned after he pops a confetti balloon. He tries to help in the kitchen, but Yoongi goes off on him when he tries to cut a vegetable incorrectly. 

“I thought you’re supposed to be nice and loving to people on their birthday.” He grumbles from the couch. 

Jimin has taken over the decorations, his interior design skills coming in handy to make it look perfect. You are settled on the couch next to Namjoon, curling up in his arms. 

“You’re also not supposed to help with your birthday party, silly.” You both laugh, watching the ridiculousness going on in this villa in Greece of all places. 

“Thank you again, baby.” Namjoon whispers against your temple, a kiss following after, “This has been an amazing trip.”

“Of course, Joonie. And thank you for being the man I love. Happy birthday.” You look up, smiling before your lips find his, and you feel whole. Jimin says something and Namjoon pulls away to respond. You take a second to look over at the kitchen. 

Yoongi’s ranting about how annoying grocery shopping is on the island, but Seokjin’s not paying attention. His eyes are on you and Namjoon, handsome face smiling ear to ear. 

You can’t help but smile back. 

You have the man you’ve loved for years and the man you know is your soulmate. You don’t need anything else.

[kingofbodyrolls]

Learn to Love Again (m) | myg

Summary: People always leave. They become beautiful stars shining bright in the night sky. When life hands you lemons, you’ve been told to make lemonade, but that is hard when your soul and heart is breaking apart. When you rescue a tiny cat and meet a handsome stranger in the cafe, you finally feel yourself healing – but when they too leave, how are you going to learn to love again?

Pairing: Yoongi x reader (female, mainly called pet names so no ‘Y/N’).

AU + genres: Hybrid!au (shapeshifter!yoongi), strangers to lovers, slice of life, heavy angst, a lot of sadness and grief (I’m sorry!), dark vibes, smut and fluff and some humor sprinkled in there too. 

Rating: Mature/explicit/R18 – this is mature/explicit content, so minors, please do not interact.

Word count: 19,4K

Disclaimer: I do not own BTS or know them personally and this work of fiction is purely fictional and for entertainment purposes only. The actions and personalities described in the story do not reflect those of BTS— it’s just fiction. Also, if you would kindly read the tags/warnings before reading, that would be lovely: and if you don’t like whatever is described in the tags, just hit return and find something else to read. Thank you 🌸

Warnings (general) + triggers: Heavy angst, extreme heavy sadness and grief, death of minor characters, mention of previous character death (parents and siblings), mentions of su*cide, mention of m*rder, su*cidal thoughts. Mention of past car accident. Mention of past domestic abuse. Mirrors 👀👀

Warnings (explicit): unprotected sex (please stay safe!), choking, oral (female receiving), nipple and breasts play, one-time use of a degrading word (otherwise petname), hair pulling – I guess it’s pretty vanilla with a slight sprinkle of spice 🤭

Author’s note  (1): I know it sounds hella sad (and it is), but it is also very sweet and heartwarming too 💜 I wanted to venture into the darker stuff again, and embrace all the feelings and sadness that I felt a few weeks ago (I’m fine, well I’m getting through it at least). 

If you are triggered by any of the warnings, I suggest that you skip this. It’s not that explicit though, but the heavy subjects are still there and they feature in it a lot.

Also, the quote “people always leave” features a lot in this and I only now realize why I find it so familiar – it’s a famous quote from Peyton Sawyer from One Tree Hill.

Author's note  (2): It’s only partly edited, so I’m so sorry about any mistakes or weird wordings (English is also not my mother language). When I read it again, I felt sad and like the whole thing is crap (why do I also feel like this adgadfjkhs), BUT, I still like it, it’s a piece of my heart in there… I can’t just let it sit in my docs to collect dust. So – I’ll just post it early and never look at the thing again (expect for the cover, because damn I’m so happy with how that turned out 🥹).

Taglist: @keshiadeija @viankiss @hopefulrascalstatesmantoad If you prefer to read on AO3 you can also find it there 🙂

The heavens are weeping again, unleashing a torrential downpour that drums heavy on the windows. Just like the heavy beating of your heart and the tears that just won’t stop falling down your cheeks.

For days now, the world has languished in this disquiet, a foreboding atmosphere that has draped itself over every moment, casting a shadow even before the haunting ring of the call that echoed through the silence.

A searing, heart-wrenching call that etched itself into the fabric of your existence, standing out as one of the most agonizing moments life has ever dared to deliver.

Caught off guard by the unexpected twist of fate, it blindsided you, sending shockwaves through your core and leaving you utterly rattled, as if the very ground beneath your feet had shifted without warning.

Your conviction in her well-being crumbled as swiftly as a sandcastle against the tide.

In your last encounter, she radiated joy—her infectious happiness casting a brilliant glow over her words as she spoke about her new job, her blossoming romance, and her boundless love for life.

A tear, heavy with the weight of the contrast between then and now, traces a lonely path down your cheek.

The echo of her laughter, the sparkle in her eyes, and the unbridled excitement that made her hands tremble with anticipation haunted your memories. 

It's a heart-wrenching juxtaposition between the happiness she projected and the sorrow now etched into the fabric of your own emotions.

She wasn't just a friend; she was your confidante, a steadfast companion through the labyrinth of years and experiences. Your best friend.

In the tapestry of your friendship, she emerged as the resplendent thread, the one who consistently outshone the rest. 

Even on her darkest days, she radiated a brilliance that surpassed the ordinary, a celestial glow that left an indelible mark on your heart. To you, she wasn't just a friend; she was a luminous star, a breathtaking celestial entity whose untimely descent felt like a cosmic supernova, casting a blinding light that left everyone in its wake awestruck and forever changed.

Like a thunderbolt from a clear sky, the day she chose to end her own life blindsided everyone. 

The abruptness of her decision, the finality of calling it quits, left a haunting question echoing in the hollow chambers of your soul—why? 

The puzzle remains unsolved, the enigma of her despair a perplexing maze you can't navigate. Outwardly, her life seemed like a canvas painted in hues of contentment, yet the invisible struggles eluded comprehension. 

Despite the deep conversations that usually wove through the tapestry of your friendship, the darkness she harbored never surfaced in her words. Her choice to shroud her pain in silence remains an unfathomable mystery, a tragic paradox that still elicits a profound sense of bewilderment.

The haunting ‘what if’ lingers, an elusive specter of regret—what if she had shared her struggles with you? 

The possibility that your words could have been a lifeline is an uncharted sea of sorrow. The uncertainty, the unfulfilled potential for intervention, claws at your conscience like a relentless tempest.

In the wake of this unanswered plea for connection, tears cascade down your cheeks, each drop bearing the weight of unspoken conversations. The dampness on your collarbone, where your shirt clings uncomfortably, is a tangible reminder of the storm within. 

A mere few days have crawled by since that fateful call, the kind that alters the very fabric of reality. 

The echo of your friend's voice reverberates through your memory—a seismic revelation that shattered your world. As the words unfolded, you crumpled to the floor, the phone nearly slipping from your trembling grasp.

A gasp caught in your throat, a palpable surge of emotion crashing over you like a tidal wave.

In that harrowing moment, your heartbeat quickened, each thud resonating with the weight of sorrow and anger. The air itself seemed to constrict, tainted with the bitter aftertaste of an impending storm. The onslaught of emotions clawed at your chest, a tumultuous dance between sadness and anger, each one vying for dominance in the chaotic symphony of your soul.

Powerlessness wraps around you like a suffocating shroud, the absence of your brightest star leaving a void that seems insurmountable. 

In this moment of staggering loss, the future unfolds as a vast expanse of uncertainty. How do you navigate a world without the radiant glow she once brought to your existence?

Yet, as the weight of grief presses down, a resilient ember flickers within. Acknowledging the inexorable march of time, you realize that her memory, like a cherished constellation, will be a guiding light in the night sky of your life. 

In the tapestry of your emotions, she, alongside your parents, becomes one of the celestial beacons you look up to during moments of sorrow or when life's burdens become too overwhelming.

You step out onto the balcony, enveloped by the velvety embrace of the dark blue sky. 

The resplendent moon takes center stage, surrounded by a constellation of bright companions that twinkle in the vast expanse of the night. The beauty of the cosmos is a bittersweet solace, a celestial dance that captivates your gaze.

The night sky has always held a captivating allure for you, but in the wake of the profound loss of your parents, it transcends mere beauty. 

It becomes a sanctuary, a cosmic tapestry where memories linger among the stars. Each celestial beacon now carries the weight of cherished moments, transforming the night into a sacred canvas where the brilliance of your loved ones continues to shine, casting a radiant glow that lingers in the quiet moments of contemplation.

The subtle hum of your phone reverberates in your hand, a clandestine messenger that disrupts the tranquility of your thoughts, setting loose a cascade of emotions. 

The screen lights up with a message from a friend, its arrival like a seismic tremor in the landscape of your contemplations, shaking loose the delicate balance you've tried so desperately to maintain.

Yuna [20.31]: Iseul’s funeral is on Saturday. We’re all going. U coming?🌹

Dread settles in the pit of your stomach like a heavy anchor – the thought of attending the funeral feels like navigating a tempest of emotions you're not sure you're prepared to weather. 

The prospect of confronting tears, raw emotion, and the grieving presence of her family looms before you, casting a shadow over the already somber occasion. 

Yet, duty intertwines with reluctance; you were her best friend, after all. 

The expectation to pay your respects becomes an unspoken mandate, tugging at the seams of your resolve despite the storm of discomfort that brews within.

Tears have become an unwelcome torrent on your phone, transforming the smooth surface into a slippery terrain that complicates every attempt to type. 

The screen blurs beneath a watery veil, mirroring the tumultuous cascade in your own eyes. Distraction clings to each droplet, making it not only challenging to navigate the phone but also to see through the emotional downpour that clouds your vision.

But against the deluge of sorrow and the weight of grief, you summon the strength for a brief reply, a fragile lifeline tossed into the turbulent sea of emotions.

You [20.46]: Yes🌹

With a heavy sigh, you gently lay your phone face-down on the nightstand, as if shielding the illuminated screen from the weight of the world you've just momentarily set aside.

How do you navigate this desolate landscape that life has become? 

The void feels more palpable now, a haunting echo of emptiness that had lingered even before.

It's as if the very essence of existence has been drained away, leaving you grappling with the profound question: What is the point when the world around you continues to crumble, and people around you just keep dying?

At Iseul's funeral, you navigated the somber scene alongside your friend group, bracing for the emotional maelstrom that awaited. 

The atmosphere unfolded exactly as you had anticipated — a tableau of tears, grief-stricken family members, and the embrace of mournful hugs. Conversations echoed with memories of Iseul's radiant spirit, each word a bittersweet tribute to the bright and bubbly soul that once graced your lives. 

Amidst the collective sorrow, the air hung heavy with the weight of loss, weaving a tapestry of emotions that spoke to the indelible impact Iseul had left behind.

It was agonizing, bidding farewell in the harsh reality of acceptance. The harsh truth of life unveiled itself – an unrelenting cycle of departures. 

Yet, amidst the crushing finality, you find solace in the enduring promise that even though everyone leaves, the stars above will forever bear witness to her presence, a cosmic constellation of memories that will continue to illuminate the canvas of your nights.

Work persists in its mundane rhythm, the monotony punctuated only by the forced smiles you offer customers as you brew their coffee or recommend delectable treats in the cafe. 

For you, work has forever remained a sterile landscape, devoid of passion or purpose. The unfulfilled yearning for a meaningful career tugs at the edges of your consciousness, a persistent ache exacerbated by life's unrelenting cruelty—your unfinished degree in astrophysics stands as a testament to dreams deferred. Maybe you’ll go back to school – you don’t know.

Your thoughts are abruptly shattered by a brash intrusion, a man’s voice slicing through the ambient noise with an unwarranted familiarity. “Hi, pretty,” he drawls, snapping your attention to the present, “can I get a black coffee, a muffin, and your number, please?” 

The audacious request hangs in the air, leaving a charged pause that crackles with a blend of amusement and annoyance.

You stifle a silent scoff, a careful veil to conceal the simmering irritation within, though the indignation is palpable. 

This flirtatious interlude is far from novel—far from the first time someone has attempted to weave charm into the fabric of your workday. Yet, a discomforting truth lingers beneath your composed exterior: you disdain these unwarranted advances, a sentiment you've carried with you each time such encounters stain the ordinary canvas of your work.

Forcing a smile that feels more like a fragile mask, you locate a muffin, navigating the familiar routine with practiced efficiency. 

As you approach the coffee machine to craft the requested brew, you gather both items and, with a subtle sigh, slide them across the counter. 

Your words, delivered with a polite cadence, carry a hint of firmness as you say, “Here you go. Apologies, but my number isn't on the menu.”

Turning men down has become a skill honed through the crucible of experience, a necessity etched into the fabric of your being, especially after the wreckage of your last relationship. 

It wasn't just a breakup; it was a tempest that left you bruised, not only on the surface but also in the recesses of your soul. 

To declare a dread of relationships, despite the quiet longing that flickers deep within, would be an understatement—the mere thought evokes the echoes of a tumultuous past, a cautionary tale etched in both physical and emotional hues of black and blue.

Despite the man's disapproving frown, he begrudgingly parts with his payment, snatching his coffee and muffin.

As he vacates the space, you extend a tight-lipped greeting to the next customer, the forced smile a delicate masquerade concealing the intricacies of emotion churning beneath the surface.

Day after day unfolds in this relentless routine, a relentless loop where, despite the suffocating weight of depression, you muster the strength to haul yourself into work. 

The struggle is an unspoken battle, fought in the silent recesses of your soul, and each morning becomes a victory against the persistent darkness that threatens to engulf your spirit.

You maintain a lifeline to your friends, weaving a narrative of your somber mood and emotional tumult, acutely aware of the significance of vocalizing your feelings rather than succumbing to the perilous grip of silent suffering.

Recent conversations with your friends have taken an unexpected turn, steering into the realm of your dating life or, more accurately, its conspicuous absence. 

Their fervent advocacy for you to reenter the world of romance echoes in your ears, their well-intentioned pleas urging you to cross paths with someone great and amazing. 

However, you find yourself standing at the crossroads of uncertainty, unsure if you're ready to navigate the labyrinth of love once more. 

Despite your reservations, you indulge them, allowing their words to wash over you like a waterfall of unsolicited advice, all the while steadfast in your understanding that a man is not a prerequisite for happiness or the completeness of your life—you've long recognized your ability to stand firm and flourish on your own terms.

An entire season has unfurled its tapestry, and while the vast void persists within the caverns of your heart, there's a subtle transformation underway. Amidst the lingering shadows, a sliver of the sun's warm rays threads its way through, gently illuminating the emptiness. 

The caress of warm weather and sunlight manages to coax a faint lift in your mood, a subtle thawing of the emotional frost. 

Yet, amidst the burgeoning warmth, there's a yearning for the crispness of cold, the kind that invites the comfort of wool sweaters and socks, beckoning a desire to cocoon on the couch and lose yourself in the embrace of solitude.

After withstanding the relentless onslaught of your friends' persistent prodding into the realm of your love life, you've yielded to the chorus of their well-meaning badgering. With a mixture of trepidation and curiosity, you've made the bold decision to reenter the intricate dance of the dating game.

The prospect of discovering 'the one' remains shrouded in uncertainty, a delicate balance between the promise of profound connection and the potential peril of heartache from those who might not treat you right. 

However, the ambiguity of the journey doesn't deter your resolve. To remain passive is to forfeit the chance at something extraordinary. 

The echoes of Iseul and the silent encouragement from your departed parents reverberate, urging you to embrace life with all its intricate hues. Their unwritten wish for your happiness becomes the compass guiding your path, compelling you to take the plunge and give it your all.

You yearn for a life where the pursuit of happiness isn't punctuated by the haunting inevitability of departures and loss. You grasp the harsh truth that people leaving or departing through death is an inescapable facet of existence, a relentless current in the river of life. 

Yet, the recurring tide of sorrow that washes over you each time someone departs feels burdensome, a weight that anchors your spirit. It would be a cherished reprieve if the ebb and flow of life's transitions didn't carry with it a relentless undertow that threatens to drag you down each time.

Your dating escapades have unfolded like a series of misadventures, each rendezvous more perplexing than the last. 

One suitor wielded an aggressive tone that eclipsed any potential connection, while another was so absorbed in self-interest that your voice seemed but an echo in the conversation. Then there was the one who sought solace in your company to mend a broken heart, an unwitting participant in their quest for emotional repair.

With every disappointing encounter, your hopes wane like the dying embers of a once-bright flame. Yet, undeterred, you persist in the pursuit of connection, a resilient soul navigating the unpredictable seas of dating with unwavering determination.

Amidst the tumultuous sea of advice from your friends, the suggestion of a night out clubbing emerges as a potential remedy to jumpstart your dating life—a one-night stand, a shortcut to reclaiming agency over your love life. 

However, the proposition fails to align with the essence of who you are. The neon-lit allure of the club scene doesn't resonate with your soul, and the idea of a fleeting encounter doesn't hold the promise you seek. 

Nonetheless, you find yourself engulfed in a pulsating sea of sound, the music in the club roaring, the bass reverberating through the floor and into your bones. 

The atmosphere is a maelstrom of heat and sweat, a suffocating embrace that intensifies your regret for being there. 

Yuna, exuding an air of confidence, takes charge and orders a round of drinks for the group. Meanwhile, Nari's eyes scan the lively chaos of the club, a vigilant matchmaker on a mission to uncover potential matches for you.

Her finger extends with a pointed certainty toward a mysterious figure—a dark-haired man sporting a sleeveless shirt, the canvas of his arm adorned with an intricate tattoo sleeve. His dark eyes, scanning the crowded expanse of the club, carry an enigmatic intensity, hinting at a captivating allure that goes beyond the surface.

Your laughter carries a blend of amusement and skepticism as you dismissively remark, “Nah, he's giving off major fuckboy vibes.”

Amidst the cacophony of pounding music in the club, Nari practically shouts in your face, her words punctuating the beat as she insists, “Maybe that's exactly what you need!” 

The intensity of her proclamation, a fervent plea for spontaneity, reverberates in the air, a challenge thrown into the whirlwind of the night's possibilities.

You shake your head, a firm yet polite rejection lingering on your lips, “No, thank you.” 

Just as the tension subsides, Yuna appears with a tray of drinks, a timely distraction. Gratefully, you accept your drink, savoring the sweet and sour concoction that dances across your palate, momentarily providing respite from the charged atmosphere of the club.

The night unfolds in a rhythm of measured indulgence—a few drinks to chase a gentle buzz, steering clear of the edge of intoxication. Your gaze scans the crowd in search of potential matches, but amidst the pulsating lights and swirling music, none captures the elusive spark that ignites a genuine interest.

As the night deepens and the rhythm of the club starts to fade, you bid farewell to your friends, the weight of the evening settling in your bones. 

Stepping out into the nocturnal air, you're greeted by the relentless cascade of rain, a torrential downpour that catches you off guard. Damn it, you realize, a surge of annoyance coursing through you, you didn't bring an umbrella.

Embracing a sudden burst of defiance, you make a split-second decision, a resolute ‘fuck it’ echoing in your mind. 

Stepping onto the sidewalk without the shelter of an umbrella, you surrender to the unrelenting rain. In mere moments, your hair clings to your skin, and your clothes succumb to the downpour.

As you navigate the labyrinth of alleys and pass by numerous apartments, a peculiar low noise infiltrates the ambient hum of the rain. What is that sound? 

It's a subtle yet persistent calling that arrests your movements, compelling you to strain your senses in an attempt to decipher its origin. 

It's not just your slightly tipsy mind, is it, playing tricks on you? 

The cadence of the noise feels like a desperate plea, an ethereal call for help that beckons you into a mysterious dance between reality and the unknown.

Undeterred by the absence of street lamps, you navigate a shadowy alleyway nestled between looming apartment complexes. The darkness cloaks the path ahead, but you press on, an intrepid explorer drawn to the mystery that lies beyond the veil of obscurity. 

As you draw nearer, the enigmatic noise crescendos in intensity, a haunting melody that pierces the quiet of the alley. 

Your steps quicken, and with each stride, the source becomes clearer. Could it be emanating from the depths of the dumpster?

A sense of déjà vu wraps around you, as if this eerie scene has been lifted from a cinematic reel. The dilemma tugs at your curiosity, tempting you to peer into the abyss of the dumpster, a choice that hangs in the balance. 

Yet, before you make a decision, a glimmer of relief washes over you. 

Nestled snugly beside the dumpster, a small ball of fur captivates your attention, its presence a stark contrast to the ominous shadows. 

A silhouette emerges from the darkness, and as you inch closer, the mystery unfolds into a shivering, meowing figure—a black cat. 

The frailness of the tiny creature tugs at your heartstrings, and you find yourself hunching down, extending a tentative invitation with soft calls, coaxing the small, ebony bundle to bridge the gap between its vulnerability and your outstretched hand.

The black cat fixes its gaze upon you, eyes mirroring a blend of uncertainty and wariness, as if it's attempting to decipher the intentions behind your outstretched hand. 

The black cat stirs from its initial hesitation, uttering plaintive meows that seem to echo its distress. As it rises, the stark reality becomes evident—malnourished and shrouded in fear, it moves tentatively towards you. Each step seems to echo a history of abandonment and struggle. With aching slowness, the feline inches closer, navigating the wet ground with trepidation. 

Softly, you beckon the malnourished feline closer, the words “Come here, you poor thing” carrying an invitation laced with compassion. 

As the tiny creature inches nearer, its pitch-black eyes become an intense focal point, a gaze that transcends the physical realm, peering into the depths of your soul. In that poignant exchange, a silent pact forms—an unspoken promise of comfort and understanding between two beings, each seeking solace in the other's company.

As the fragile black cat draws near, an echo from your past resurfaces—the cautionary words of your mother reverberating in your mind. ‘Black cats bring omen and death,’ her voice, etched in childhood memories, had warned. 

Yet, confronted with the stark vulnerability of this shivering, lost creature in the cold summer rain, you find your resolve tested. 

Against the weight of your mother's superstitions, compassion prevails, and you make a conscious decision to offer refuge. You haven’t got anything else to lose, but yourself.

The cat's purrs resonate in the quiet alley, a melodic response to the tentative connection forming between you. Meows become a symphony of trust as it finally caresses your hand, a delicate dance of vulnerability. 

With a newfound intimacy, it leans into your touch, climbing up your arm to find refuge in your lap. Despite your jacket's damp embrace, you pull the shivering creature closer, enfolding it tightly against your chest.

“I’ll take you home and get you some food.”

Rising from the damp alley, you cradle the tiny black cat in your arms, an intimate embrace that transcends the physicality of the moment. As you navigate the journey home, each step becomes a testament to the newfound connection—its fragile heartbeat resonating against your chest.

As you finally reach the sanctuary of your home, both you and the shivering cat are thoroughly drenched from the relentless rain. 

With a twist of the key, you unlock the door to your small apartment, ushering in a breath of warmth that contrasts sharply with the damp chill outside. 

In a choreography of relief, you kick off your sodden shoes, the cat nestled at your feet. Unburdened by the weight of the rain-soaked coat, you hang it on the rack, a visual symbol of the transition from the stormy world outside to the comforting refuge within the four walls of your home.

“I'll find you a towel and dry you off,” you promise to the cat, your words a tender reassurance before your feet. With a sense of urgency, you hasten to the bathroom, a quest for a towel becoming a mission to provide comfort to your newfound companion.

As you return, traces of wet footprints mark the path from the entryway to your living room, leading to the sight of the cat perched regally on your couch. 

The unexpected image elicits a sense of awe within you, a silent marvel at the fortuitous encounter that has unfolded. With the fluffy towel in hand, you join the tiny creature on the couch.

With gentle strokes, you tenderly dry the cat with the fluffy towel, the rhythmic purrs and meows resonating like a melody of gratitude. 

In this intimate act of care, a bond forms between you and the feline, its response a testament to the shared understanding that has quietly blossomed. 

The dampness of the storm may linger outside, but within the confines of your home, a warmth permeates, forged through the simple yet profound act of offering comfort to a fragile soul.

Persistently, the cat continues its chorus of meows, its nearly obsidian eyes fixed on you with an intensity that transcends mere feline curiosity. In the silent exchange, a profound question lingers in the air—what does it want? 

The gaze carries an almost pleading quality, an unspoken plea that invites you to unravel the mysteries hidden within those enigmatic eyes, and in doing so, embark on a journey of connection and understanding with this small, mysterious soul.

A revelation flickers in your mind like a sudden burst of light—food! 

The realization washes over you, and a spark of understanding illuminates the unspoken hunger behind those pleading eyes. “You're starving, ain't ya?” you murmur, the words a bridge between the two of you, an acknowledgment of shared needs and the beginning of a silent commitment to provide not just shelter but sustenance to this small, hungry soul.

In a hurried dance between care and necessity, you dart into the kitchen, swinging open the fridge door to unleash a blast of cold air. 

The realization that your wet clothes might lead to an impending cold nudges at you, urging a brief pause for self-care. As you contemplate changing into dry attire, the cat, now a nimble companion, weaves around your feet, a symphony of meows echoing its anticipation of the impending feast.

As your gaze sweeps across the contents of the fridge, a flurry of questions dance in your mind—what do cats like? 

In a moment of culinary improvisation, you spot the remnants of yesterday's fish. A hopeful assumption takes hold—cats like fish, right? 

Without a second thought, you snatch the container, crack it open, and ceremoniously place it on the floor. 

The cat descends upon the fish with a voracity that borders on desperation, consuming it in a whirlwind of seconds. 

You observe in silent fascination as the cat devours the fish with an almost primal fervor, each bite a testament to the depth of its hunger.

As the cat lifts its gaze, those dark, fond eyes fixate on you, a silent expression of gratitude that transcends words, forging a connection that lingers in the air like the sweet aftertaste of an unexpected bond.

You retrieve a bowl, fill it with water, and place it on the floor. The cat, having satisfied its hunger, wastes no time. It immediately dips its tongue into the water, each lap a testament to the thirst that had accompanied its hunger. 

In the quiet aftermath of the cat's meal, you find yourself engaged in a one-sided conversation. While it laps up the water, you speak to it with a hint of longing, as if expecting the feline to reveal its name with a mere glance. “I don't know what your name is…” you muse aloud, your words hanging in the air like a silent plea for connection. 

In the exchange, a profound yearning takes root—a desire not just to care for this creature but to unravel the mystery that shrouds it, beginning with the revelation of a name.

Hmm... A whimsical idea takes shape in your mind, and with a voice full of hope, you share your musings with the feline companion. “I don't know, maybe I'll give you one!” you exclaim, the words tinged with the excitement of a newfound connection.

Testing the waters, you propose a couple of names with a hopeful lilt in your voice. “Shadow?” you venture, eyes fixated on the cat, seeking any flicker of recognition. 

Yet, met with a stoic demeanor, you playfully offer another option, “Licorice?” 

A soft chuckle escapes your lips, but the cat remains unfazed, engrossed in its culinary pursuits. 

Embracing a sudden surge of inspiration, you think of a name that dances on the edges of whimsy and mischief. “You look like a 'Loki,' like a God of Mischief!” The words tumble out with a playful chuckle, a nod to the elusive charm that shrouds the feline. 

To your surprise, the cat interrupts its feast, casting what seems like a dumbfounded expression your way. 

A moment of shared acknowledgment hangs in the air before the cat resumes its meal, leaving you to wonder if, in that fleeting pause, you've glimpsed the spark of recognition in its enigmatic eyes.

An impromptu burst of enthusiasm seizes you, and with an abrupt yell, you christen the cat in a moment of whimsy. “Kitten!” 

The exclamation is so sudden that it startles the cat, prompting a small leap in surprise. “That's your name. You're so small, like a little kitten,” you playfully jest, mimicking the affectionate cooing one might give to a baby. 

In the imaginary realm where cats understand human whims, you half-expect a hypothetical eye-roll, as if the creature were a miniature human indulging in the theatrics of a quirky naming ceremony.

In the wake of your spontaneous naming ceremony, Kitten darts away, a streak of fur and energy leaving you in its playful wake. A fleeting attempt to follow its swift movements reveals the futility of keeping pace with this agile companion.

An earnest plea escapes your lips, “No, don't run away, Kitten!” A plea that halts not far from your bedroom, where a sudden idea takes root. “We're going to bed, and you can even sleep in my bed.” The promise hangs in the air, an invitation that sparks the cat's curiosity. 

Without hesitation, Kitten races back to you, weaving through your legs and darting into the bedroom. It watches itself in the mirror in front of your bed, before it in a graceful leap, lands on the bed, transforming this impromptu offer into a shared moment of warmth and companionship.

A soft chuckle escapes you as Kitten, with a graceful twirl, transforms into a snug, fluffy black ball. It settles onto the bed, a picture of contentment and trust, the rhythmic rise and fall of its breathing echoing in the room. 

In the sanctuary of your bathroom, the day's residue fades away as you delicately remove stained makeup and indulge in your nightly skincare rituals. 

With a sense of quiet reverence, you return to the bedroom, mindful not to disrupt Kitten's serene repose. Nestled in bed, you prop yourself up, the rhythmic routine a prelude to the tranquility that envelops the room. 

As you surrender to the embrace of sleep, the ethereal presence of the black cat becomes a silent companion in the journey between waking and dreams, a guardian of the night's secrets.

In the intimate company of Kitten, you find solace in the honesty of your own reflection. “He wasn't really for me, Kitten. I don't know why I keep going on these dates. They amount to nothing.” A sigh punctuates your admission, a subtle echo of the unspoken search for connection that seems elusive in the realm of human encounters. 

As you delve into a shared meal with your newfound family member – Kitten, you stuff your face with delicious food in an attempt to keep your minds off your failing romantic life.

Kitten responds to your words with a series of gentle meows, a seemingly agreeable chorus that resonates in the room. 

Over the past few days, he has transformed into an impeccable listener, absorbing the tapestry of your thoughts with silent grace. 

In the quiet moments of your soliloquies, a yearning surfaces—a desire for more than a feline confidant, for words that echo back with advice and wisdom. 

Yet, despite this unfulfilled wish, Kitten's silent companionship remains a source of profound comfort, his presence weaving seamlessly into the fabric of your daily life, a testament to the unexpected connections that emerge in the quiet interludes of solitude.

Consistent as the rhythm of a heartbeat, Kitten is there, a patient sentinel awaiting your return from the hustle of the day. 

His presence becomes a cherished routine, an embodiment of comfort that transcends the mundanity of the everyday. 

As you settle in front of the television, Kitten gracefully claims his place in your lap, his form snuggling into the contours of your warmth. 

The scene unfolds like a silent ballet, a dance between two beings finding solace in the quietude of shared moments—a testament to the profound bond that has blossomed in the intimate spaces of your daily life.

On a day marked by what you'd deem a successful date, you decide to bring the guy home to your apartment. 

Kitten welcomes you with joyous meows, but the moment his obsidian eyes lock onto the man, a palpable shift occurs. 

The cat's once-hospitable demeanor morphs into a display of territorial assertion—he hisses, claws unsheathed, a guardian of the sacred space that has become both haven and sanctuary.

Unfazed by Kitten's display of discontent, the man follows you into the bedroom, a trail of unresolved tension lingering in the air. However, as you attempt to navigate the fragile balance between human relationships and the silent protests of your feline confidant, Kitten stalks in with palpable anger. 

Kitten's claws assert their protest on the man's pants, a silent plea echoing through the room. “I'm so sorry about my cat. He's not usually like this,” you hastily apologize, attempting to navigate the tumultuous intersection of human connection and feline territoriality. 

In the midst of the uneasy dance, the guy gently guides you down onto the bed, a kiss bridging the gap between words left unsaid and the uncharted landscapes of desire.

In an unforeseen twist, Kitten catapults onto the bed, launching a surprise attack on the poor man's back with unbridled ferocity. 

The room erupts with a sudden commotion as the guy yells in pain, Kitten swiftly retreating to the shelter of your startled embrace.

Frustration and pain tinge the man's voice as he vehemently declares, “Fuck this. This isn't worth it! Your cat is a fucking psycho!” 

The words hang in the air, a bitter testament to the unexpected turbulence that has unraveled in the wake of Kitten's feline intervention. 

With an angry storm, the man storms out of your bedroom and through the front door, leaving behind a charged atmosphere and the unresolved echoes of a connection unraveling at the seams.

As the storm of emotions settles, Kitten finds solace in your lap, a contented purr resonating through the room—a feline sovereign basking in the aftermath of his territorial triumph. 

Meanwhile, you remain seated, mouth agape, an image of stunned disbelief etched across your face. 

You address Kitten with a scolding tone, attempting to impart a sense of reprimand into the air. “You can't do that, Kitten!” you assert, a firmness in your voice attempting to breach the language barrier between human and feline.

Amidst the aftermath, a hesitant chuckle escapes your lips, a soft attempt to diffuse the tension that lingers in the air. “Also, you're gonna leave me single forever if you do that,” you jest, the words bearing the weight of both humor and a subtle unease. 

In the ambiguous space between laughter and contemplation, you grapple with the conflicting emotions stirred by Kitten's unexpected display of protectiveness—a complex blend of gratitude, amusement, and the uncharted territories of understanding the intricate dynamics of companionship with a creature whose language transcends the boundaries of words.

A solitary figure with raven-black hair occupies a corner table in the cafe, his presence shrouded in an air of quiet mystery that tugs at the edges of your memory. 

Intrigued, you've stolen glances at him, an unspoken connection sparking curiosity within you. 

The man, seemingly lost in a world of words and sketches within the pages of his journal, emanates a strange familiarity that dances on the fringes of your consciousness. 

As he sips on his coffee, a poignant picture of solitude and anticipation, you can't help but wonder about the untold story woven into the fabric of his contemplative gaze. Perhaps he's a poet awaiting inspiration, or maybe, like you, he's caught in the delicate dance of anticipation, waiting for someone who may never arrive.

His long, pitch-black hair cascades in soft curls, framing a face adorned with dark, expressive eyes. The fair and creamy complexion of his skin, paired with lips tinged with the aftermath of fervent bites, adds an air of mystery to his features. His hands, adorned with prominent veins, move with purpose across the pages of his journal, translating the thoughts within his mind into tangible strokes. Clad in a black leather biker jacket and ripped jeans, he emanates a ‘bad boy’ allure that might not align with your usual preferences, yet there's an undeniable handsomeness that transcends the surface. As you observe, the truth unfolds—looks can be deceiving, you know.

As the hands of the clock inch towards the conclusion of your shift, you notice the enigmatic man with the pitch-black hair has vanished, leaving only the echo of his presence lingering in the now vacant corner. 

The air is charged with the unspoken allure of an encounter that slipped through the fingers of time. 

Packing up your belongings, you carry the weight of curiosity with you as you embark on the journey home, where the enigmatic enigma of Kitten awaits.

Kitten, sensing your return, greets you with a symphony of affectionate meows. Your hand instinctively reaches out, weaving a tapestry of gentle pats and strokes, an unspoken language shared between human and feline. With a contented sigh escaping your lips, you murmur, “Happy to be home.”

In the quiet sanctuary of your apartment, you find yourself recounting the day's enigmatic encounter to Kitten, the words lingering in the air like a shared secret between kindred spirits. “I saw the loneliest guy today, Kitten. It felt like he was waiting for someone, but destiny stood him up.” 

As the words escape your lips, Kitten's attentive gaze reflects an unspoken understanding, a silent pact shared between you and your feline confidant.

Your fingers delicately dance behind Kitten's ears, a gesture that elicits a symphony of contented purrs, resonating within the confines of your quiet haven. 

The next day unfolds like a familiar scene, the cafe's atmosphere steeped in the aroma of coffee and the rustle of pages turning. 

Once again, the mysterious black-haired man graces the corner with his presence, accompanied by a steaming cup of coffee and the enigmatic dance of his pen across the pages of his journal. 

Your curiosity, a flame flickering in the recesses of your thoughts, draws you to the edge of decision — to approach and unravel the mysteries that cloak him. Yet, an invisible barrier holds you back, a silent pact with yourself not to disturb the solitary poet whose verses remain unread. 

The elusive man, shrouded in the mystery of unread words, remains a realm unexplored, as each coffee order becomes a bridge guarded by your coworker.

As the day unfolds, the mysterious man persists in his corner, a captivating enigma that draws your attention like a moth to a flame. 

The rhythmic ballet of your daily routine continues, an intricate dance of serving customers while stealing glances in his direction. 

In the quiet recesses of your mind, a burning question simmers – who could possibly stand up this captivating soul, adorned with the allure of dark hair and an air of mystery that commands the room?

After days of observing the silent saga of the man and his solitude, a week of unbroken routine, your empathy swells like a rising tide. 

A magnetic force compels you to bridge the distance, and against the backdrop of the cafe's ambient hum, your feet, as if guided by an invisible hand, carry you to the table where he patiently awaits an absent companion. 

With a mix of curiosity and compassion, you settle into the chair opposite him, breaking the invisible barrier that held you apart.

As your presence disrupts the solitude he had grown accustomed to, his intense gaze, reminiscent of a predatory feline, lifts from the pages of his journal to meet your own. The sharpness in his eyes feels like a calculated assessment, causing a subtle tremor to course through you. You gulp.

“Hi,” you start, the uncertainty palpable in your voice. Attempting to mask your nervousness, your fingers run through your hair, a feeble defense against the anxious tide. 

“I’ve noticed you here alone for the past few days, and I just—” Your words stumble, caught in the rush, but before you can continue, he interjects with a voice sharp as a blade, his eyes piercing through you like he can unravel your deepest secrets. 

“Are you stalking me?” The question hangs in the air, and his gaze feels like an X-ray, laying bare your darkest thoughts. Your body seizes, frozen in the penetrating gaze that seems to pry into the very recesses of your soul.

Why does his voice carry a hint of familiarity, resonating through the air like an echo from another time?

His very presence, too, feels like a distant memory, even though you're certain you hadn't laid eyes on him before he entered the cafe a week ago. 

A subtle smirk plays on his lips, a realization dawning on you that he's asked a question. As you attempt to gather your thoughts, you find yourself choking on air, grappling to string together a coherent response.

“I'm kidding. I know you work here,” he chuckles, and you release a breath you hadn't realized you were holding. Your shoulders ease, and in an instant, you respond with a soft smile, a subtle connection forming in that shared moment of relief.

“Are you waiting for someone?” you inquire, and a smile graces his face, revealing gleaming white teeth and pink gums. He looks cute. Dangerously so.

“Nah. She just arrived.” Your eyes light up. Finally, his date has shown up! You start to rise from your chair, eager to make space for his companion. He looks up at you, a curious expression on his face, and asks, “What are you doing?”

“Making room for your date?” you quip, utterly dumbfounded.

“Date?” he asks with a raised brow. You nod, adding, “The one you’ve been waiting for.”

“But I’m already looking at her.” Your mouth hangs wide open; did you just hear him right? Is this a pickup line? And why on earth is it working?

You chuckle nervously, the sound a stark contrast to his calm and cool demeanor.

You ease back into your chair, and the conversation flows so naturally that you feel like you've known him for years.

Upon returning home, you excitedly share the details of your day with Kitten, recounting the encounter with the handsome man with his curly hair and piercing eyes. While you stroke Kitten and he purrs contentedly, you express your perplexity about the strange sense of familiarity the man emanated, despite being certain you've never met him before.

Kitten twirls and purrs in your lap, savoring the gentle strokes as you recline on your couch.

“I can't help but wonder if he'll be there again tomorrow,” you muse, your voice a soft melody to the room, accompanied by Kitten's content purrs.

He returned to the cafe the next day, and the next and the next turned into weeks.

He dedicates every moment to his secluded corner, and during your breaks you find solace in the cadence of your conversations. His name, Yoongi, resonates with the soulful poems that he breathes life into with his well-worn guitar. You’ve never heard him play or sing, but you look forward to the day you might.

His question pierces through the hum of the café, abruptly pulling you from your reverie as you delicately nibble on your muffin. “Are you heading home for the summer break?” he inquires, the unexpected interruption leaving a sweet and curious taste lingering on your lips.

As his question hangs in the air, you lock eyes with him, realizing he might not grasp the gravity of his inquiry. 

There's a momentary sag in your shoulders, a silent acknowledgment of the pain that lies beneath. Gathering the strength to respond, you share a piece of your past, “No. My parents died when I was young.”

Regret casts a shadow over his striking features in an instant, and you witness a profound apology escaping from his lips.

“I'm holding up okay. It's a tale from a while back. A car accident took my parents, leaving just my little sister and me as survivors,” you share, a poignant sadness threading through your words, your eyes misting with the memories.

He tenderly offers words of comfort, a soothing balm for your weary soul, and you allow him to lift the heaviness that clings to your spirit.

You beam at him, grateful for the warmth that radiates from his kind soul, a presence you've grown to cherish over the past few months. “And you, any exciting plans for the summer?”

“I might have to go home to my parents for a bit, but I’m not sure yet,” he shares, absentmindedly running his fingers through his soft black locks, a gesture that makes you yearn for the touch of your own hand in that sea of darkness.

“I'm telling you, bitch!” Nari slaps Yuna's thigh, a bit too enthusiastically, causing her to flinch in pain, as Nari adds with a sly grin, “She's head over heels in loooove.”

You roll your eyes at both of them, their playful banter fading into background noise as you savor the drink that Yuna ordered for you.

You've navigated downtown, finding refuge in a cozy establishment where the ambient tunes, board games, and drinks create the perfect backdrop for reconnecting with your friends.

“I swear, I'm not head over heels or anything,” you insist, batting away their teasing with a playful smirk, all the while sipping on the drink that Yuna ordered for you.

“He’s just nice,” you add with a soft smile.

“You sure do talk about him a lot,” Yuna adds in a chuckle as she rubs her thigh.

“Well, he's an interesting person, and the conversations just flow,” you reply with a grin, downplaying the significance, but your friends exchange knowing glances that hint at their suspicions.

Nari takes a sip of her drink, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Speaking of crushes, your little companion, what's his name again? Kitten?”

You passionately defend Kitten, your eyes sparkling with affection. “Don't bring Kitten into this! I adore him,” you gush, wearing your love for the little furball as a badge of honor.

Nari shares her romantic wisdom, her words dripping with affection. “Cats are fine companions, but you should find a man who can bring you warmth and happiness,” she says, her eyes practically turning into hearts if this were a cartoon. You can't help but chuckle at her earnest advice.

Yuna playfully nudges your shoulder and suggests, “You should totally ask out this Yoongi guy. I mean, come on, you practically light up every time you talk about him.”

You pause, a moment of uncertainty hanging in the air. “Maybe,” you finally reply, your words carrying the weight of contemplation.

Nari's enthusiasm rings in your ears, a bit too loud in the cozy ambiance. “You don't have anything to lose, only more to gain!” she almost shouts, her excitement reaching its peak. Her words, fueled by a touch of intoxication, linger in the air, leaving you to ponder as you consider whether it's time to call it a night.

“Okay. I’ll ask him tomorrow.”

As you step into your apartment, Kitten greets you with an extra dose of affection, weaving himself between your legs and trailing you with heightened attention. Tonight, he appears more attuned to your every move, purring and twirling around your legs with an endearing neediness. Settling down, you can't resist his charms and find yourself seated, offering gentle strokes to his fur-covered frame.

As you wrap up your nightly routine and slip into your comfortable pajamas, you turn to Kitten with a question that has become a familiar part of your routine. 

“I'm heading to bed, Kitten. You joining?” Kitten promptly leaps onto the bed, taking his customary place by your side. 

However, tonight, there's a lingering sense of affection in his actions. He showers you with gentle licks, a gesture that brings a smile to your face. As sleep gradually claims you, your dreams are adorned with vivid images of obsidian eyes and a dark, star-studded sky.

As you awaken from a restful sleep, the absence of Kitten by your side strikes you like a sudden jolt. 

Your initial response is to sit up, calling out for him, yet there's only silence in return. 

The quietness, once comforting, now carries an eerie weight as you realize the profound impact Kitten has had on your daily life. 

The room feels emptier, and a sense of unease settles in, disrupting the peace you've grown accustomed to.

A wave of melancholy washes over you, creating a heavy ache in your chest as you scan the familiar corners of your apartment, desperately searching for any sign of Kitten. 

The unanswered questions pile up in your mind, a torrent of worries threatening to drown you. Did he, too, decide to leave, slipping away like others from your life? 

The uncertainty gnaws at you, pushing you to venture into the quiet streets, hoping against hope to uncover the fate of your feline companion. Each step is a mix of trepidation and determination, a journey into the unknown to retrieve the missing piece of your daily existence.

A sense of desperation tightens its grip as you scour every nook and cranny, but Kitten remains elusive, leaving you with the bitter taste of vanishing hope. 

The echoes of your unanswered calls hang in the air, blending with the growing unease that clings to you like a shadow. The once familiar spaces now feel like a maze, and you can't shake the sinking feeling that your luck is slipping away, slipping through your fingers like grains of sand. The haunting question persists: where could he be, and what could have taken him from your side?

With a mixture of determination and trepidation, your feet instinctively carry you back to the cafe. 

The familiar chime announces your arrival, drawing the attention of your coworker, who casts a puzzled look your way. The early hour has caught them off guard, their raised eyebrow mirroring the questions that dance in your own mind.

As you scan the cozy confines of the cafe, a subtle panic begins to creep through your veins. The absence of Yoongi creates an uneasy knot in your stomach, but you reassure yourself, clinging to the hope that he might stroll in later, as he often does.

The hours drag on, each passing moment heightening the anticipation. As the door chimes with every newcomer, a flicker of hope dances in your chest, only to be extinguished when it's not Yoongi. 

The day becomes a symphony of disappointment, and the subtle hope you clung to begins to dissipate, slipping through your fingers like elusive grains of sand. The cafe, once a haven of warmth and comfort, now feels eerily empty without the presence of his familiar silhouette.

As your shift draws to a close, a heavy sadness settles over you like a thick fog. The absence of Yoongi, who always brought a touch of warmth to the cafe, leaves an emptiness that echoes through the familiar surroundings. The unanswered questions linger in your mind, and a nagging worry creeps in — what could have kept him away? 

The air is charged with uncertainty, and you can't shake the feeling that something might have happened to him.

A sudden realization hits you like a wave, as you recall Yoongi mentioning the possibility of traveling to his parents for the summer break. 

The initial sting of disappointment transforms into a pang of concern. Questions swirl in your mind like a tempest – did he leave without saying goodbye? Why didn't he share his plans with you? 

The uncertainty gnaws at your thoughts, and you grapple with the unknown, desperately seeking solace in the memories of your time together.

A disquieting sensation twists in your stomach, an ominous premonition casting a shadow over your thoughts. The unease tightens its grip, leaving you with an unsettling sense that something may have befallen Yoongi. 

Your mind races through various scenarios, each more distressing than the last, as you grapple with the haunting uncertainty that looms over his absence.

Regret echoes through your thoughts like a haunting refrain. The absence of contact details with Yoongi leaves you grappling with the repercussions of a missed opportunity, a seemingly insignificant detail now carrying the weight of your uncertainty. 

A sense of loss and yearning wraps around you, intensifying the void created by the absence of a farewell. The realization dawns that in the midst of budding connection, you failed to secure a bridge to traverse the distance that now separates you.

Each step on the journey home feels like a weighted march, the heaviness of unspoken goodbyes sinking into your bones. 

Sorrow, like a relentless tide, floods your heart, consuming it with an ache that echoes through each footfall. Familiar pangs of longing claw at your chest, constricting breaths into fleeting gasps. 

It's as if the very air you breathe carries the weight of an unfinished story, leaving you to navigate the foggy terrain of uncertainty, the poignant residue of an incomplete connection lingering in the spaces between each step.

A tempest of thoughts unleashes in your mind, a whirlwind of self-doubt and abandonment. The notion that he, too, might have slipped away like others before him wraps around your heart, squeezing it in an unforgiving grip. The ache is palpable, resonating through every fiber of your being. It's an anguish that cuts deep, a symphony of hurt orchestrated by the haunting possibility that echoes in the chambers of your wounded heart.

In the intricate tapestry of your time knowing him, he wasn't just a passing figure; he had etched himself into the mosaic of your life, becoming a fragment that held the essence of friendship. 

You step into the sanctuary of your apartment, liberating your feet from the constraints of shoes, and collapse onto the couch, surrendering to its plush contours that cradle you in a cocoon of solace.

In the midst of trying to regain control of your racing breaths, a subtle vibration resonates from your pocket, drawing your attention like a lifeline. Retrieving your phone, you cast an intrigued glance at the illuminated screen, revealing an incoming call from Yuna.

With bated breath, you answer the call, the familiar cadence of Yuna's voice instantly arresting your senses. 

An unexpected wave of emotions surges through you, freezing you in the moment as her words weave a narrative you weren't prepared for.

The weight of her words hangs heavy in the air, a heartbreaking tremor in her voice as she struggles to regain composure. 

“Babe,” she utters, the tearful plea slicing through the silence like a dagger.

You can feel the gravity of the situation intensify as she reveals, “It's Nari,” the name echoing with a sense of foreboding that pierces through the air, leaving you breathless.

Dread hangs thick in the air as you muster the courage to ask, your voice trembling with fear and concern. “What about Nari?” 

The words escape your lips, each syllable a hesitant step into the unknown, and as you sit up on your couch, a sense of urgency grips you, rendering you more alert than ever before.

The weight of Yuna's words crashes over you like an unrelenting wave, drowning your senses.

“She's gone,” Yuna sobs, her cries echoing in your ears. 

A sudden chill grips your entire body, and the world around you blurs as your vision turns white. 

Tears well up, threatening to spill over, and an indescribable ache settles in the core of your being. It feels as if the ground beneath you has shifted, leaving you suspended in a surreal and devastating moment.

Your voice quivers as you manage to break through the numbness, the question escaping your lips like a fragile whisper. 

“How?” you repeat, the word catching in the tightness of your throat. Tears cascade down your cheeks, each drop carrying the weight of an ocean, a torrential release of the overwhelming emotions within you. 

Your friend's voice wavers with sorrow as she delivers the painful revelation. “Apparently, she was sick and didn’t tell anybody…” 

Each word, heavy with the burden of the unspoken, echoes in the emptiness of your apartment.

The truth, a bitter pill to swallow, lingers in the air, and you find it hard to comprehend the reality of the situation. 

The walls of your sanctuary, once comforting, now press in on you, transforming your home into a claustrophobic cage of grief. The world outside seems to blur, and all that remains is the weight of disbelief settling on your shoulders.

The longing to share your grief with Yoongi intensifies, yet the barrier of not having his contact details becomes a painful obstacle. Your emotions, already tumultuous, now surge like a tempest within. 

Frustration and sorrow intermingle, a chaotic dance that you try to contain. 

As the weight of the news presses down on you, your nails unconsciously dig into your skin, seeking an outlet for the overwhelming emotions that threaten to consume you. The physical pain becomes a tangible manifestation of the emotional turmoil churning within.

The abruptness of Nari's illness and passing hits you like an unforeseen storm, leaving you grappling with disbelief. 

Memories of her last moments flash vividly, and you question the cruel twist of fate that snatched away someone seemingly healthy. The sounds of inconsolable sobbing echo in your ears, and only then do you realize that the mournful cries tearing through the air belong to you. 

“Are you alright?” Yuna asks you in sobs.

The weight of grief presses down on you, suffocating and relentless. 

As the tears stream down your face, each one carries a piece of the pain that now resides within you. 

“No,” you whisper, the word a feeble attempt to encapsulate the magnitude of your despair. 

Your body curls inwards, seeking solace in the fetal position, as if you could fold away the anguish. 

The phone lies beside you, a lifeline to Yuna's distant sobs, but it offers little comfort compared to the absent warmth of Kitten, whose presence could once bring solace to even the darkest moments.

The weight of Yuna's words hangs heavy in the air, a shroud of truth that you're forced to confront. “Babe, she had cancer and didn't want us to know… She wanted to live a happy life until the end,” 

Yuna sobs again, and though her intent is to offer solace, the revelation feels like a cascade of heavy stones on your already burdened heart. The bitter sweetness of her desire for a joyful life juxtaposed with the pain of her silent struggle adds another layer to the grief, leaving you to grapple with the complexities of Nari's hidden battles.

“Yuna…,” you cry, the anguish in your voice echoing the profound pain that seems to squeeze the very life out of your heart. 

“Why does everyone leave?” 

The question hangs in the air, more rhetorical than expectant, as if you're not seeking an answer from Yuna but grappling with the cruel patterns of departure that life has woven into the fabric of your existence. 

Each departure, like a thread pulled from the tapestry of your world, leaves an unraveled piece that never quite knits itself back together.

“I–, I don’t know,” she stammers through her tears, the weight of the unknown echoing in her voice, mirroring the uncertainty that now shrouds both of your lives.

“Promise we’ll be there for each other,” you declare, the weight of the words hanging in the air. It's a poignant plea, an acknowledgment of life's unpredictable twists. You understand that you can't ask for an eternity, but in this moment, you're determined to hold onto each other as tightly as time allows.

“Count on it,” she vows, her response flowing effortlessly, a testament to the unspoken bond between you two.

Despite the tightening in your throat, a glimmer of happiness sparks within you at the assurance she just gave.

Why must life be so fucking cruel, robbing you of everyone you hold dear?

An overwhelming urge to reconnect with your sister washes over you, a deep yearning fueled by the ache of prolonged silence between you.

“I want to call my sister,” you manage to say through your sobs, a desperate plea lacing your words. “Will you be alright, Yuna?” you ask, your concern breaking through the waves of grief that surround you both.

“Yeah. I mean, I'm fucking sad, but go ahead and call her. Can I come to your place tomorrow?” Yuna's voice carries a subtle plea, a shared understanding that neither of you wants to be alone in the midst of sorrow.

“Yeah, I'd love that,” you respond, your voice carrying the weight of grief and the faint glimmer of gratitude for the companionship that awaits tomorrow. As you attempt to dry your tears with a throw blanket on the couch, the room feels emptier than ever, and the ache in your heart persists.

“See you tomorrow,” she says before the call ends. 

The hollowness in the room deepens, and you draw in a shaky breath, your gaze fixed on your phone. The background image captures a moment frozen in time, featuring you, Nari, and Yuna. 

God, the ache of missing her intensifies, and you can't shake the heaviness in your chest.

You tighten your grip on the phone, each tear that escapes your eyes a silent testament to the pain in your heart. Determination wells up as you locate your sister's number, fingers tracing the familiar digits, ready to bridge the gap that time and distance have carved between you.

The rhythmic ringing echoes through the emptiness of your apartment, each tone a reminder of the solitude that now envelops you. 

Anxiety gnaws at the edges of your thoughts as you anticipate the warmth of your sister's voice, a comfort you desperately need. Yet, the unanswered calls amplify the distance that separates you. With a heavy heart, you decide against leaving a message, the weight of unspoken words settling as you slump back onto the couch.

The sudden vibration of your phone startles you, and as you glance at the screen, the sight of your sister's name sparks a mixture of relief and anticipation. With a soft sniffle, you muster the strength to answer, “Hey, sis,” your voice laced with a blend of vulnerability and longing, reaching out across the digital expanse to bridge the emotional gap that separates you.

A chill courses through your body, rendering you motionless, as a deep, resonant voice resonates through the phone, catching you off guard.

“Hey,” his voice echoes through the phone, sending a shiver down your spine. 

Your trembling hand clutches the device, and you find yourself holding your breath, caught in the sudden intensity of the moment.

“I'm Detective Kim,” he introduces himself, his voice echoing through the line. It carries a calm demeanor, yet beneath its surface, you detect a subtle undertone of sadness, adding a mysterious depth to his words.

This can't be good, you murmur to yourself, the words barely escaping your lips as a chill courses through your veins, turning your blood to ice once again.

“Are you Jiho's sister?” The detective's voice remains steady and calm, but beneath the surface, you sense an undercurrent of gravity and anticipation.

“Yes,” you reply, your voice catching in a sob as you struggle to contain your tears. The ominous feeling intensifies, and you can't shake the sinking realization that a detective is the one answering your sister's phone. 

The air becomes heavy with uncertainty and fear.

“I'm deeply sorry to be the bearer of this news,” he begins with a sympathetic tone. 

You inhale sharply, bracing yourself for the impact of the words that follow.

“Your sister has passed away.” 

The world seems to shatter around you as the weight of his message settles in, leaving you breathless and heartbroken.

In that devastating moment, it feels as if the very foundation of your existence crumbles. 

Your body and soul plummet through a void, each passing second an agonizing countdown to the inevitable impact that will shatter you into a million irreparable pieces. 

The weight of grief bears down on you, and you're suspended in a free fall of despair. 

You become acutely aware of your breath, or the lack thereof, as if the air itself has turned into a suffocating force, triggering a torrent of violent inhalations, each one a desperate attempt to grasp onto a reality that has just slipped through your fingers.

A heavy silence envelops the room as the detective imparts the devastating truth, each word landing with the weight of a sledgehammer on your fragile emotions. “She was killed,” he utters, the somber notes in his tone resonating like a funeral dirge, casting a pall over the already dim reality of your world.

A suffocating wave of panic crashes over you, rendering your extremities numb and your breath caught in the grip of invisible hands. 

The room seems to close in as the detective's voice on the phone becomes a distant echo, his words lost in the disorienting whirlwind of your own mental tempest. It's a struggle to comprehend the standard condolences and procedures he details, as if reality itself is slipping through your trembling fingers.

Fucking hell. Is this hell?

In the wake of your parents' departure, you believed you had tasted the bitterest sorrow, yet today eclipses that agony without a shadow of a doubt.

You cast your phone aside on the couch, retreating to your bedroom, collapsing onto the bed. The anguish within erupts into violent sobs, an unrelenting torrent of tears flooding from your eyes, your entire frame convulsing with the weight of your grief.

You bury your face into the softness of the pillow, muffling the guttural scream that tears from your lungs. 

The sound, a primal release of anguish, reverberates within the confines of your room. Screw the neighbors; right now, the universe needs to bear witness to the rawness of your pain.

What the fuck is up with this world? Everyone around you dies! Everyone leaves!

You can’t take it anymore.

As you surrender to the torrents of grief, you hope that tears might offer solace, a fleeting relief that could pave the way for much-needed sleep. Yet, despite your desperate attempts, the embrace of slumber eludes you, leaving you trapped in the clutches of your sorrow-soaked thoughts.

In an impulsive surge, you opt for a nocturnal stroll. Snatching your jacket, you step into the silent night, the residue of dried tears blending seamlessly with the ones that refuse to cease. 

The moon above, a silent witness to the turmoil within, as your footsteps echo the rhythm of a heart weighed down by grief.

As you traverse the familiar streets of town, a magnetic pull guiding you to a cherished park, your sanctuary. Swiftly, you arrive and gingerly settle your weary frame onto a weathered bench, the cool night air offering a gentle caress to your battered soul.

As your gaze ascends to the enchanting tapestry of the night, a celestial dance of stars unfolds above. Tonight, the cosmic expanse seems to cradle the spirits of your sister and Nari, their luminous presence illuminating the vast darkness, a celestial reunion among the constellations.

As your tears persist, you fix your eyes upon the star-lit canvas above. Each gleaming star appears like a radiant jewel, casting an ethereal glow across the night. The beauty is undeniable, yet a poignant sadness lingers in your heart. 

Compelled by an unspoken yearning, you embark on the solemn task of counting the stars, each one a celestial tribute to the cherished souls who now adorn the heavens. 

The question echoes in your mind: Why?

Why do they blaze with such brilliance, akin to a dying star igniting in a final, magnificent burst before consuming everything in its cosmic embrace?

Your heart pounds violently against your ribcage, each beat echoing through your chest, and the air feels elusive, slipping away as if you're caught in a suffocating grip.

Life reveals its cruel nature, leaving you to grapple with the relentless question: Why does everyone leave? Why does the world around you crumble, stealing away those you hold dear?

An emptiness envelopes you, a void so profound it swallows every ounce of light. Darkness creeps in, and an irresistible urge emerges, coaxing you to surrender to its consuming embrace.

Perhaps it's time to release your grip on reality and join the celestial dance of those who have departed before you?

As the tears flow, perhaps this haunting void within will dissipate, bringing an end to the relentless ache that permeates every fiber of your being.

As the weight of loneliness bears down on you, an insidious desire to surrender, to slip into an eternal slumber, creeps through your shattered heart. The yearning for an endless sleep, where the fractured pieces of your soul find solace, consumes you. It's as if the very essence of your being is crumbling into irreparable fragments.

The fragments of your soul lie scattered, and the daunting question echoes in the hollow chambers of your despair—can you summon the strength to mend them once more, to piece together the shattered remnants of your being?

In the depths of your despair, a resolute realization surfaces — a quiet but unwavering knowing that, despite the relentless cruelty, you're not ready to surrender to the void. Life, as brutal as it may be, still holds threads of resilience within its intricate tapestry, and you find an ember of strength glowing amidst the shadows.

You divert your gaze downward, focusing on your hands nestled in your lap, choosing the tangible reality of your own existence over the distant allure of the star-studded night.

You harbor too many aspirations to surrender to despair. Your desires paint a vivid canvas of dreams: to find solace in the embrace of a kind-hearted partner, secure a fulfilling career, and relish the simple joys that life offers. Nari's silent battle with illness inspires you to embrace life with the same gusto, celebrating its moments without the need for validation.

In the midst of your fragmented existence, amidst the shattering pain, you crave it all. Yearning for the entirety of life's tapestry, even when it feels like it's unraveling. 

Despite life's cruelty, there's an undeniable allure in its intricate beauty, compelling you to seek solace and embrace the stunning contradictions that define your life.

Amidst the tear-stained path, your resolve solidifies. 

The decision made, you tread back to your apartment, the silent witness to your inner turmoil. Each step echoes with the weight of your emotions, a symphony of sorrow playing in the background. 

The sanctuary of your home beckons, promising the respite that only sleep, albeit restless, can bring. Sleep, like a long-lost friend, embraces you swiftly this time. Grateful for the solace it brings, you sink into its comforting arms, the reprieve from the turmoil of the day unfolding like a gentle lullaby.

The chime of the doorbell resonates through your apartment, and you're roused from the depths of sleep. Yuna, true to her word, stands on the other side, a beacon of support in your time of need.

Embraced in a tight hug, tears stream down both your faces, the shared weight of grief transforming the silent embrace into a powerful testament of mutual understanding and shared sorrow.

Seated on the couch, you engage in a heartfelt conversation about the unpredictable journey of life—its highs and lows. 

As a comforting silence settles between you, you reach for the remote and, with a flicker of distraction, decide on a mindless show. Wrapped in the embrace of shared grief, you find solace in the soft glow of the television, its images casting a gentle veil over your weary souls.

That night, Yuna stays over, a comforting presence that feels like a blessing in the midst of your overwhelming grief.

In the vulnerable hours of the night, you pour your heart out to Yuna. 

Tears flow freely as you share the ache of losing your sister, the void left by Kitten's absence, and the fear that Yoongi might be gone forever. In the solace of shared sorrow, you find a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows.

In the tender embrace of Yuna, you find solace. Her comforting presence is a lifeline in the storm of grief, holding you close as tears cascade. Though she's often your pillar of strength, tonight you yearn to reciprocate, to be the support she's always been for you. It's a quiet understanding, an unspoken pact between friends navigating the unpredictable currents of life.

In the quiet depths of the night, as you share your pain with Yuna, a flicker of determination ignites within you. You yearn not just for solace but to become the architect of your own joy. The realization dawns that your happiness lies in the unwritten chapters of your own journey, waiting to be explored and embraced. It's a moment of self-discovery, a commitment to forge your path to happiness, independent and resilient.

With the dawn of a new day, you decide to embark on a journey of self-discovery. 

Despite the weight of sorrow lingering in your chest, you resolve to savor life in all its transient splendor—embracing its beauty, acknowledging its ugliness, and reveling in every nuanced shade in between. 

Each moment becomes a canvas, and you are determined to paint it with the vibrant strokes of resilience and newfound appreciation.

With unwavering determination, you approached your boss at the café, advocating for a shift in your work hours. The goal? To rekindle the pursuit of knowledge, to step back into the world of academia and reignite the spark of astrophysics that had once fueled your passion. 

As the prospect of returning to school looms on the horizon, you recognize that the journey ahead is both a challenge and an opportunity—a chance to sculpt a future that you can genuinely be proud of, with each completed course marking a triumph over self-doubt and a step closer to the constellations of your dreams.

In the wake of that poignant night where two cherished souls departed, a few months have quietly slipped away. 

In a tender gesture of support, Yuna encourages you to embrace the prospect of love once more. Unlike before, hesitation has no place in your heart this time. 

With newfound courage, you step into the realm of dating, a journey tinged with both vulnerability and hope, as you navigate through the tapestry of emotions woven by the threads of the past and the promises of the future.

Life, a relentless journey, doesn't yield to simplicity, yet within its intricate folds, a subtle transformation occurs. It doesn't unravel swiftly, but with each passing day, it stitches together a mosaic of improvement, a gradual emergence from the shadows into the dappled light of a better tomorrow.

With each sunrise, a symphony of healing orchestrates within you, crescendoing into a melody that resonates louder, and you find solace in the fact that every dawn gifts you a version of yourself stronger and more resilient than the preceding day.

As winter unfurls its icy embrace, you find solace in the familiar touch of your cherished wool coat, the cozy sanctuary of fluffy sweaters enveloping you like a hug from a dear friend, and the softness of warm socks cradling your every step. 

With a steaming cup of tea in hand, you dive into your studies, the brisk air outside contrasting with the warmth that courses through your veins.

Embarking on the journey to reclaim an unfinished chapter of your life, returning to the hallowed halls of academia, you revel in the triumphant echoes of resilience as you strive to complete the narrative you once set in motion.

As you tread homeward, the city draped in the melancholy hues of twilight, a fleeting silhouette dashes through the alleys, a phantom of darkness. 

For the briefest moment, memories of Kitten's playful escapades dance in your mind, a bittersweet symphony of nostalgia. 

A sigh, heavy with the weight of longing, escapes your lips, yet you trudge forward, navigating the shadows toward the warmth of your home.

In the intimate glow of your kitchen, you conjure a culinary masterpiece, a symphony of flavors orchestrated only for yourself. The sizzle of ingredients harmonizes with the rhythmic beat of your heart, a ritual of self-love that has become your refuge. 

Many a time, you've crafted these delectable creations, some shared in the company of fleeting dates whose presence, like autumn leaves, brushed briefly against the canvas of your life, but leaving no lasting imprint on your heart.

Midway through the mundane task of stowing away dishes, a subtle and mysterious hum reverberates through your abode, originating from the vicinity of your door.

The air is suddenly filled with a familiar, distant melody—a soft and rhythmic meowing that sends a jolt of excitement through you. 

Abandoning your chores, you rush to the door, fingers fumbling with the lock, and there, in all his glory, stands Kitten!

In a flurry of warmth and relief, you scoop up the cold, shivering Kitten into your embrace, quickly closing the door behind him. His meows echo gratitude, and a tender lick against your cheek seals the unspoken bond that time and distance failed to break.

In a million moments, you never fathomed seeing him again. Now, as he rests in your arms, elation courses through you like a celestial symphony, leaving you over the moon with sheer happiness.

His return is a testament to a bond beyond time, a friendship that defies the measure of days. It's not about the duration of his absence; it's about the joyous truth that he returned to you, stitching the fragments of your heart back together.

You rush to your cabinet, your heart pounding with both relief and excitement. Grabbing a can of cat food, you swiftly prepare a feast for Kitten, watching as he eagerly devours the meal, his hunger echoing the void his absence left in your life.

As you stroke Kitten's fur, you can't help but ponder on the mysteries that shroud his disappearance. His body, while not emaciated, carries the silent tales of his adventures. 

You yearn to unravel the chapters of his feline escapades, wishing you could converse with him, share the unspoken hardships, and assure him that he's found a forever home in the warmth of your embrace.

In a breathless whisper, you confess, “I've missed you so much,” the weight of your longing carried in the tenderness of your voice. 

A solitary tear, a testament to the emotions flooding your heart, escapes and dances down your cheek, mirroring the joy of a reunion long yearned for.

As the echoes of your affectionate words linger in the air, Kitten responds with a gentle purr, a harmonious melody that intertwines seamlessly with the sound of him relishing the meal.

Amidst the soft cadence of Kitten's purring, you find solace in the familiar presence of your feline companion. With a sigh, you decide to share the intricacies of the tumultuous journey you've undertaken since his absence. “So much has unfolded, Kitten,” you whisper, your voice a gentle reassurance, “a lot of shit, but also a lot of good.”

As Kitten finishes his meal, he responds with a symphony of content purrs, gracefully padding over to where you crouch. With a playful nudge against your legs, he seems to convey a silent acknowledgment, a shared moment of warmth and connection between old friends.

In the span of a few days, the void that Kitten's absence left has been filled with the comforting rhythm of his presence. You've poured out your heart to him, recounting the events and emotions that unfolded during his time away, as if catching him up on the chapters of your life. 

Kitten, with his attentive eyes and soothing purrs, seems to understand more than most, providing a silent anchor in the storm of your experiences.

As you sink into the soft embrace of your couch, a contented smile plays on your lips. With Kitten nestled beside you, you share a profound realization that has taken root in your heart: ‘I live, so I love.’ The words hang in the air, a testament to the resilience you've found in the face of life's unpredictable twists. The TV hums with background noise, but in that moment, the simple joy of companionship fills the room.

In the quiet solitude of your apartment, you confide in Kitten, the loyal companion who has witnessed both your joys and sorrows. “I don't think he's coming back,” you murmur, a tinge of sadness lingering in your voice. As if attuned to your emotions, Kitten responds with a gentle meow, a feline reassurance that transcends words. 

In the rhythmic cadence of your words, a sense of vulnerability emerges. “I know, I know. I don't need a man in my life. I get that,” you confess, your voice carrying the weight of self-awareness.

The clinking of utensils against pots and pans provides a subtle percussion to your thoughts as you continue, “But Yoongi was special, you know? Like he just got me... and I just wish for him to be happy doing whatever he's doing.” The aroma of dinner fills the air, mingling with the unspoken sentiments swirling in the room.

As you delicately feed Kitten some steamed broccoli, the notion of reuniting with Yoongi lingers in the air. “If he comes back, you should meet him – I'll introduce you!” The words spill from your lips, carrying a hopeful melody.

As you reminisce about Yoongi, a fond smile plays on your lips. “He's such a wonderful person. And handsome? Oh, his hands,” you begin, tracing the air with your fingers as if you can feel the texture of his presence. Memories flood back, each detail etched in your mind like a cherished photograph. “Long fingers, veiny hands,” you murmur, the words infused with a hint of admiration that even surprises you. The love for this man reverberates in your voice, a quiet confession to the depths of your feelings.

Kitten's melodic meow serenades the room as he gracefully weaves between your feet, his tail coiling affectionately around your calves like a comforting embrace.

“If you meet him, please don’t claw his back out like you did with that other guy. Yoongi is nice.”

With a heavy heart, you confide in Kitten, the weight of your worry evident in the rhythmic tapping of the spatula against the sizzling vegetables. “It's been nearly half a year, and I can't shake the feeling that something might have happened to him,” you murmur, the crackling sounds of the kitchen offering a somber backdrop to your uncertainty.

As the warmth of the meal envelops you and Kitten, you sit together, a silent companionship settling over the room. The simplicity of this moment strikes you, and a quiet realization unfolds – you love your life just as it is. 

In the shared silence, you feel a sense of wholeness, a testimony to the goodness found in life's simplicity. Though your heart may still ache at times, you've come to accept that, too, as a part of the beautiful complexity that makes life what it is.

You're keenly aware that time is the remedy for healing, a gentle but persistent force that gradually eases the ache until one day, the pain will be a distant echo of what it once was.

Your weary limbs protest against the demands of a full-time class schedule and cafe shifts, revealing the hidden challenges of your daily grind. Fatigue clings to you like a shadow, and an involuntary yawn escapes.

With a wearied sigh, you address Kitten, your loyal companion in fatigue. “Ah, Kitten, today's been a battle. I'm going to bed early today,” you murmur, dragging your exhausted body to the bathroom in a nightly ritual. 

Upon returning to your sanctuary, you find Kitten, already nestled in his customary spot, a comforting presence in the silent embrace of the night.

Sinking beneath the cozy duvet, you surrender to its tender embrace, the fabric cocooning you in a haven of softness. With a gentle pat, you acknowledge Kitten, “Thank you for being here,” you murmur before succumbing to the enchantment of dreamland.

As consciousness tiptoes back into your awareness, the remnants of dreams linger like elusive whispers in your mind. Gently awakening, you open your eyes to find the absence of Kitten.

Your eyes widen in astonishment, and your body tenses as you absorb the scene unfolding before you—a man, peacefully lost in the realm of dreams. 

Your gaze follows the cascade of long, slightly curly, obsidian hair that drapes over his shoulders, tracing the contours of his creamy white skin. The play of morning light reveals a well-defined back, drawing your eyes down the elegant curve of his spine until they come to rest on a small, soft, plum-like ass. The realization hits you like a bolt— he's completely naked!

Why is your heart orchestrating a rapid symphony, each beat echoing in your ears like a thunderous drumroll? And what in the world is a naked stranger doing sprawled across your sheets as though he belongs there?

He slumbers in serene oblivion, emitting soft, melodic sighs that weave through the air, his chest gracefully ascending and descending in rhythmic dance with each tranquil breath.

Wait. 

He seems familiar.

A gasp escapes your lips as you take a closer look, and the realization hits you like a bolt of lightning – it's Yoongi! 

Shock and disbelief intertwine in your chest as you stare at his peaceful slumber.

Confusion and a hint of panic surge through you as your mind races with questions. 

Why is Yoongi in your bed, and why on earth is he naked?

How did Yoongi end up here, and where is Kitten?

A myriad of questions spins through your mind, a turbulent storm of curiosity. As you ponder the mysteries, you belatedly notice Yoongi stirring, gracefully shifting to lie on his back.

Your face burns with embarrassment as the realization dawns that he's still completely naked. Heat rises to your cheeks when his half-erect dick brushes against his stomach, prompting you to instinctively shield your eyes, flustered by the unexpected sight.

You wrestle with the dilemma of whether to disturb his serene slumber or let him continue resting peacefully. The soft innocence in his sleeping form makes the decision more challenging, and you lean towards allowing him to bask in the tranquility of his dreams undisturbed.

Gently, you drape the comforting warmth of your duvet over him, a shield against the chill of the room. With nimble movements, you extract yourself from the bed, careful not to disturb the delicate balance of his slumber.

Confusion seizes your thoughts as you grapple with the surreal scenario—Yoongi peacefully nestled in your bed. You wrack your brain, questioning every sober memory, desperately trying to unearth the missing pieces that would explain his presence.

You step into the kitchen, a fleeting sense of unease prickling at your skin as you scan the room for Kitten, but he remains elusive, leaving a trace of uncertainty in the air.

A twinge of melancholy washes over you as Kitten remains elusive, but you console yourself with the hope that he might return, his absence merely a temporary void in your otherwise comforting routine.

You embark on the simple yet intimate act of preparing two steaming cups of coffee—one for yourself and one for the unexpected visitor who occupies your bed.

You seize a handful of aromatic coffee beans from a vintage jar, letting the rich fragrance envelop you as you crush them under the steady hum of your machine. With precision, you measure out the perfect amount, combining it with hot water, allowing the concoction to brew into a comforting elixir.

While the coffee brews, your mind races with bewildering thoughts about Yoongi's unexpected presence in your bed. Puzzlement clouds your senses as you contemplate every conceivable scenario. 

Did he let himself in? Was there some mysterious way he could have gained access? 

With a touch of anxiety, you even venture to your front door, checking for any signs of unauthorized entry, only to find it securely locked, shrouded in an eerie silence.

You're grappling with the perplexing mystery of Yoongi's appearance in your bed, as if he materialized out of thin air, defying all logic and reason, leaving you spellbound by the inexplicable magic that seems to have woven its way into your ordinary reality.

In the quiet chaos of your thoughts, Yoongi's presence offers more questions than answers, an enigmatic puzzle that seems to defy the ordinary. The absence of Kitten only adds another layer of mystery to the unfolding scene. 

As the coffee machine dings, disrupting the contemplative silence, you're left grappling with the surreal conundrum before you, seeking clarity in the comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

With the warmth of freshly brewed coffee in your hands, you reenter the bedroom to discover Yoongi, now alert, draped in your duvet, a captivating silhouette in the soft morning light.

Your greeting falters as you nervously stammer, “H–, Hi,” setting the two mugs of coffee on your nightstand. Yoongi's gaze, sharp and feline-like, traces your every move, creating a palpable tension in the air.

An unfamiliar nervousness grips you in his presence, an unusual sensation considering your usual ease around him. Perhaps it's the fact that he's naked, his gaze akin to a predator eyeing down its prey, intensifying the air with an unspoken tension.

“Hey,” finally breaking the silence, he greets you with a low grumble, scratching his head and letting out a lazy yawn.

His body exudes a captivating blend of softness and defined muscles, a captivating sight that—

His voice, laced with a teasing smirk, breaks the tension. “Can't stop staring at my dick, huh?”

Your throat tightens as you realize you've been caught in the act, silently observing him. Panic sets in – does he think you're a freak now? Fantastic.

You let out a nervous chuckle, deliberately shifting your gaze away from the obvious bulge in the duvet around his lap. “What are you doing here, Yoongi? And why are you naked?” you inquire, genuinely puzzled.

He chuckles, a low sound that sends a shiver down your spine, and you can't help but feel a tinge of unease. “You haven't figured it out yet?” he teases, his words hanging in the air, leaving you in suspense.

You must resemble a walking question mark, because his chuckles only intensify. It's as if he finds your confusion amusing, and you're left standing there, desperate for answers in the midst of his enigmatic laughter.

In a soft tone laced with a smirk, he utters, “Kitten.”

Your gaze fixates on him, bewildered. Kitten? Is he referring to your cat?

Your jaw drops as he gracefully emerges from the bed, the duvet cascading off his frame. In his unabashed nudity, he strides toward you.

He inches closer, the proximity almost causing your lips to collide. A surge of warmth courses through you when he delicately tucks a stray strand of your hair behind your ear.

“I’m a shapeshifter,” his revelation hangs in the air, the weight of it palpable, and as he locks eyes with you, searching for any flicker of discomfort, the truth settles. Before you can process it fully, he leans in, capturing your lips with an irresistible surge of passion.

His lips, soft and inviting, embark on a slow yet passionate dance, as if reuniting with a long-lost lover. Responding eagerly, you part your lips, allowing the kiss to deepen, and in that electrifying moment, your entire body succumbs to a sensation akin to melting butter.

You yield to his touch, molding your body to his as you sense the undeniable hardness of his arousal intimately pressing against your core.

Fuck.

In the midst of the heated moment, you draw back slightly to meet his gaze, the question hanging in the air, “So... you're Kitten?”

He offers no verbal response, just a low, affirmative hum, before plunging back into another intoxicating kiss.

You surrender to the sensation, feeling the firm grip of his hands on your waist as they journey upward beneath the fabric of your well-worn shirt.

His touch ignites a trail of sensations, tracing a path across your body, sending electric shivers as he lifts your shirt, gently grazing against the contours of your breasts.

Under the intensity of his gaze, your body responds, a flush of heat spreading through you, your nipples hardening in response. He emits a low, satisfied hum, as if relishing the effect he has on you.

Effortlessly, he works to level the playing field, swiftly undressing you as if in a race against time. With a purposeful tug, he eases your shorts down, a silent declaration of his desire.

Bare before him, clad only in a simple black panty adorned with delicate pink hearts, you can't shake the vulnerability coursing through you. A sudden urge to conceal yourself washes over, a reaction to the raw exposure in this intimate moment.

“Don't shy away, you're stunning,” Yoongi murmurs, his firm grip on your hips drawing you closer to his naked body. The undeniable heat of his arousal presses against your core, a tangible reminder of the desire smoldering between you.

Gratitude escapes your lips in a hushed tone, your cheeks tinged with a warm blush.

“Now, let’s get these off you, yeah?” with a mischievous glint in his eyes, he hooks his fingers inside the fabric of your panties, teasingly tugging them down. He pauses, seeking your consent, before sensually sliding them all the way down your legs.

As he slides your panties down, a sudden awareness of your arousal hits you, intensified by the cool rush of air against your heated core.

As they fall to the floor, Yoongi swiftly snatches up your panties, bringing them to his face to inhale the intoxicating essence of your arousal, his eyes darkening with desire.

Why does that look so utterly sinful, setting off a delicious rush of arousal coursing through your veins, leaving you breathless in its wake?

As the intoxicating scent of you envelops him, he murmurs, “Damn, you smell good,” his eyes dilating with an unmistakable hunger.

“I wonder if you taste as good as you smell.”

In the raw vulnerability of your shared nakedness, he guides your body back to the bed, gently laying you down, his presence a magnetic force, hovering above you.

He immerses himself in the expanse of your neck, a symphony of sensations unfolding – a delicate ballet of tender kisses, followed by the electrifying nip of his teeth grazing the juncture between your neck and shoulder.

You moan in unabashed pleasure, your hands instinctively seeking refuge on his chiseled pectorals, anchoring yourself amidst the rising waves of bliss.

Yoongi's gaze shifts to the mirror positioned strategically in front of your bed. “I've been meaning to ask,” he smirks, locking eyes with you, “why do you have a mirror in front of your bed?”

You squirm beneath him, breath catching.”'It's part of my wardrobe panels,” you admit, your voice a fragile melody.

He chuckles, a low and enticing sound, his smirk dancing on his lips. “I don't think that's why the whole panel is mirrors,” he says, sitting up slightly. His finger traces a slow, teasing path from your collarbones to your breasts, sending shivers of anticipation racing through your body.

He leans in, his breath sending a shiver down your spine, and in a deep, low voice, he murmurs into your ear, “You're a dirty one, aren't you?”

His degrading words make your breath hitch instantly, and you involuntarily clench your thighs together. As you shake your head in disagreement, he just smirks, unconvinced.

His chuckle resonates in the room as he asks, “Do you enjoy watching yourself in the mirrors?” Sitting up, he moves to the foot of the bed, his eyes gleaming with a mischievous spark.

He gracefully steps out of the bed, casting a predatory gaze as he hovers over you, an aura of irresistible allure surrounding him.

With unwavering determination, he declares, “You're going to watch yourself in the mirror as I fuck your pussy with my tongue.” In a single, fluid motion, he seizes both of your thighs, pulling you to the foot of the bed, sending a thrilling jolt through your senses.

Despite the heat coursing through your entire being, a light chuckle escapes your lips. However, the mirth dissipates as you lock eyes with the intensity in Yoongi's dark gaze.

“Sit up,” his command echoes through the room, and as he gracefully lowers himself between your legs, a thrilling anticipation courses through the air.

From your elevated position, you admire the tousled chaos of his hair, a disheveled masterpiece that only enhances his captivating allure. His eyes gleam with a mischievous spark, a silent promise of the intensity that is about to unfold.

You seize his cheeks with urgency, your voice dripping with desire, a fervent plea escaping your lips, “Fuck. Yoongi, please eat me out.”

He moistens his lips with a teasing chuckle, descending eagerly towards your already soaked center.

He expertly widens the gap between your legs, creating a perfect haven for himself before delving into your pussy with fervent devotion.

With a tantalizing finesse, he starts with a subtle stroke of his tongue along your folds, gradually ascending to the apex of your clit, eliciting a fervent moan that echoes in the room.

As waves of pleasure cascade through you, your fingers instinctively entwine in his tousled locks, gently pulling as he skillfully devotes his attention to the exquisite dance of his tongue and lips on your pulsating core.

Gasping for breath, your anticipation mounts, every nerve tingling with pleasure, as Yoongi's rhythmic strokes across your intimate folds propel you toward a climax, your toes curling in ecstasy.

Pausing momentarily, he murmurs in appreciation, “You taste even better than you smell, Kitten,” his words sending a shiver down your spine.

You're on the verge of asking him about the nickname ‘Kitten,’ but his tongue explores your folds, leaving you breathless and unable to form words.

Your question dissolves in the heat of the moment, the building climax taking center stage as you lose yourself in the pursuit of pleasure.

Lost in the waves of ecstasy, you can't resist the urge to surrender, closing your eyes as Yoongi works his magic with undeniable expertise.

“No, no, no. Look at yourself in the mirror, Kitten.”

“Why do—” before you can finish your question, it fades away on your tongue as Yoongi plunges back into pleasuring your core with a renewed intensity, leaving your thoughts swallowed by the whirlwind of sensations.

As you glance at the mirror, you catch a glimpse of your own blissful expression, framed by Yoongi's tousled black hair nestled between your thighs. The sight is nothing short of breathtaking, a sight of pleasure that leaves you utterly captivated.

The provocative scene unfolding in the mirror intensifies your arousal, your breath hitching in tandem with the escalating desire pulsating through your veins.

“Yoongi, I’m—” your plea catches in your throat as Yoongi skillfully responds, his hand finding your pulsating clit, heightening the pleasure while he continues to ravish you with his insatiable tongue.

His fingers dance in rhythmic circles over your throbbing clit, coaxing the tension from your core. As the knot unravels, a wave of blissful release washes over you, leaving you breathless and trembling in its wake.

Ecstasy courses through your veins, your toes curling, muscles tightening, and in that moment, an unexpected surge of pleasure hits you like a sneeze that never comes. You release a symphony of moans, surrendering to the intense climax that Yoongi skillfully orchestrates with his talented tongue.

He continues to suck, savoring every drop of your essence, an insatiable thirst in his eyes matching the fervor of the intimate dance between your bodies.

As the intensity peaks, you gently tap his shoulder, signaling him to withdraw. He complies with a sensual slurp, leaving you breathless and tingling with the echoes of pleasure.

A mischievous grin stretches across his face as he licks his lips, “You're incredible, Kitten.”

You arch an eyebrow, curiosity coloring your tone, “Why do you keep calling me ‘Kitten’? You’re Kitten.”

He erupts in laughter, a symphony that resonates through the room, his chest rising and falling with the melody of mirth, and in that moment, he's a captivating masterpiece.

“Do I really look like a Kitten to you?” he inquires, a playful glint in his eyes as he gently nudges you back onto the bed.

Your words stumble as you search for a response, “Not really,” you admit, offering him a small yet tender smile.

“But you look cute and sweet, like a good Kitten,” he murmurs, his hands exploring the curves of your breasts.

A low moan escapes your lips as he teases your nipples with a playful twist, igniting a fresh surge of desire that pools in the growing heat between your thighs.

As you ache for the feel of his throbbing length, you attempt to grab hold of him, but like a fleeting mirage, he skillfully eludes your touch, leaving you yearning for the intimate connection that inches away with each evasive movement.

“Nah. I just want to fuck you silly,” he rasps, eyes tracing every bead of sweat on your flushed skin, reveling in the primal rhythm of your hurried breaths.

“If you want to, that is?” he teases, his voice a sultry whisper, as he takes control, guiding himself between your legs with a confident hand that promises a morning full of pleasure.

As you feel the weight of his gaze, you gulp, wondering how, in that heated moment, he could question what you crave. It's undeniable – you want him, and the intensity of your desire hangs in the air between you, palpable and unspoken.

Your breath catches as you respond, the words tumbling from your lips in a heated rush, “Fuck, yes, Yoongi. I want you inside me, now,” the urgency in your voice betraying the intensity of your desire.

A low, rumbling chuckle escapes him, the sound sending a shiver down your spine as he replies, “Please” with a teasing glint in his eyes.

“‘Please’ what?”

“Say ‘please’.”

You huff, incredulous at his audacity. The desire in his eyes is undeniable, and he seems to enjoy the game. Part of you rebels, tempted to be a brat just to irk him, but the need for his touch overrides any resistance. You crave his intimacy, aching for his dick despite the defiance lingering in the air.

“Fuck this,” you grumble, frustration evident in your voice. In that fleeting moment, you catch a glimpse of Yoongi pulling back, as if reconsidering his stance.

“Please! Don’t leave,” you plead desperately, your sincerity laid bare. The smirk on his face deepens, as if savoring the intensity of your plea.

“Please fuck me, Yoongi.”

His satisfaction evident, he rewards you with a swift kiss before aligning himself with your eager entrance, anticipation humming in the air.

Your arousal has reached a point where there's no discomfort, just a perfect fit as he slides into you, your wetness welcoming and enveloping him seamlessly.

He hisses as he eases into your warm, tight walls, and you can feel him doing his best to restrain himself.

You release a breathy huff as he fully penetrates, his balls gently meeting the warmth of your folds.

He lets out a guttural groan as he steadies himself, withdrawing only to plunge back in with an intensity that sends shivers through your body.

In this intimate position, with him above you, every nuance of his pleasure is on full display—the way his nose scrunches in delight, his soft lips occasionally nibbling the bottom one in sheer ecstasy.

Between each thrust, he can't help but express his amazement, his voice low and husky, “Damn. You're so tight.”

You know. It’s been awhile. 

As he moves within you with an increased rhythm, his hands find your breasts, skillfully massaging them in sync with his fervent thrusts, creating a symphony of pleasure that courses through your entire body.

Ecstasy courses through you, and in the midst of your fervent pleasure, you can't help but release a breathless exclamation, “Fuck, Yoongi!”

Every skillful thrust seems to find its mark, synchronized with the enticing dance of his fingers on your hardened nipples. Pleasure envelops you, clouding your thoughts in a haze of ecstasy.

Your pleasure intensifies as Yoongi skillfully pinches your nipples, eliciting a symphony of moans that harmonize with the rhythmic dance of his passionate thrusts.

Sensations ripple through you, and the desire to reciprocate Yoongi's pleasure builds within you. You yearn to give him the same ecstasy he's generously bestowed upon you.

Amidst the rhythmic cadence of Yoongi's thrusts, a bold request escapes your lips. Your gaze, laced with desire, meets his, and with a subtle plea in your eyes, you softly murmur, “Yoongi—, I want to ride you. Please.”

With a devilish grin, Yoongi withdraws from your embrace, reclining on the bed, his eyes ablaze with anticipation.

His voice, laced with desire, sends shivers down your spine as he commands, “Then you're gonna watch in the mirrors as you fuck yourself on my dick,” reclining with his head angled towards the mirrors.

Mounting him, you position yourself strategically, both of you reflected in the mirror—a tantalizing image of entangled limbs, the intensity of the moment etched in your heaving, sweat-glistened bodies.

Grasping his throbbing dick, he hisses in anticipation as you deftly align your eager entrance with his cock.

With a fluid motion, you descend onto his rigid cock, your velvet walls enveloping him in a tight, intoxicating embrace.

From below, Yoongi savors the view, his gaze lingering on the contours of your face, as if committing every detail to memory.

You guide the rhythm, your hands finding stability on his sculpted chest, setting the pace as you ride him with a mix of determination and desire.

Your movements cascade, a slow dance that gradually builds momentum, each rise and fall carrying a symphony of pleasure and anticipation.

As you gaze upon your reflection, the flush of arousal paints your cheeks, your disheveled hair framing your face like an unruly halo, and your breasts dance in perfect harmony with the rhythm of your passionate movements.

The person in the mirror seems like a stranger, a sensual revelation you never knew existed within you. The mirrors, always present but never before utilized for sex, now reflect a version of yourself that’s both thrilling and new.

Heat courses through your veins, an intoxicating blend of arousal and empowerment, as you observe your own uninhibited reflection. With newfound vigor, you escalate the rhythm, riding Yoongi more vigorously. His appreciative groans and tender gaze mirror the intensity of the moment.

Unbridled desire takes over as your hands instinctively find their way to Yoongi's neck. Without a conscious thought, your fingers glide over the warmth of his skin, gently encircling his throat.

An electrifying jolt courses through you as you sense Yoongi's involuntary twitch within you, and you catch the ragged rhythm of his breath.

Panic courses through you, and you hastily retract your hands, realizing with a shock that you had unintentionally exerted pressure on Yoongi's throat. “Oh my God! I'm so sorry!” you blurt out, your apology a mix of concern and embarrassment.

“It's fine, Kitten. I like it,” he reassures you with a devilish grin, seizing your hands and guiding them back around his neck, his eyes sparking with a hint of mischief.

You shoot him a concerned glance, pausing your movements to ensure he's okay. Once he reassures you with a nod, signaling his approval, you dive back into the rhythm you had before.

With a newfound boldness, you tighten your grip around his throat, drawing out another satisfying twitch from him. His reaction sends a surge of pleasure through you as he hits that sweet spot, causing a kaleidoscope of sensations that make you see stars.

Your unrestrained moans fill the room, a symphony of desire that intertwines with the rhythmic sounds of your bodies colliding. The sight of Yoongi unraveling beneath your touch fuels a primal arousal, and you revel in the raw passion that courses through every fiber of your being.

“Fuck!” you pant.

“I’m gonna come,” you confess, the words escaping on a ragged breath, as you impale yourself on his dick. You’re body trembling as you hold the moment, savoring the anticipation before the inevitable plunge into ecstasy.

With a tender touch, you withdraw your hands from his throat, leaning down to kiss him. Your lips meet his in a dance of passion, tracing a path from his mouth to the very spots your fingers had claimed on his neck moments ago.

His low, guttural groan harmonizes with the rhythm as you ascend, reclaiming your perch on him. The dance begins anew, your body moving with purpose, riding the waves of pleasure set in motion by each calculated bounce on his throbbing length.

Yoongi's hands eagerly envelop your breasts, his fingers dancing with the rhythm of your fervent movements. With each descent onto him, you feel a surge of pleasure building, the shared pursuit of ecstasy driving you both towards the brink of blissful release.

His fingers deftly find your sensitive nipples, sending a jolt of pleasure through your body. The sensation is so intense that a fractured, high-pitched man escapes your lips, your back arching involuntarily in the exquisite dance of pleasure and pain.

As your walls instinctively clench around his pulsating dick, you witness the pleasure etched across his face, a delightful scrunching of his features that mirrors the ecstasy coursing through both of you.

“Yoongi, I’m com—,” you gasp, a desperate plea laced in your voice. Your words are unnecessary; the vice-like grip of your walls and the erratic cadence of your breath already convey the impending release that hangs thick in the air.

“Come all over my dick,” he smirks through a groan, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Watch yourself fall apart in the mirror.”

How can this man ignite such an intense flame within you? The knot in your stomach tightens once more, and as you surrender to it, a primal, drawn-out moan escapes your lips, echoing the depths of your desire.

With unyielding eyes, you lock onto your own reflection in the mirror as ecstasy courses through you, marking the moment you climax on his d*ck. Your rhythmic bouncing falters, but Yoongi, sensing your need, seizes your hips and propels the pace, driving you deeper into the intoxicating whirlwind of pleasure.

Your mouth hangs open, breaths rapid and erratic, akin to the aftermath of a sprint, while every inch of your body throbs with the residual heat of a fervent blaze.

“So beautiful—FUCK!” he moans, powering into you with an astonishing velocity, sending shivers down your spine.

His hold on your hips tightens, your hands finding refuge on his sculpted chest for support. Your body teeters on the edge of weightlessness and grounding, as if you'd unravel if Yoongi's firm grasp on your hips faltered.

Despite the fatigue washing over you, a surge of determination courses through your veins. Summoning the last reserves of your strength, you entwine your fingers around his neck once more. You sense the impending release in Yoongi's every movement, and you're determined to be the catalyst that propels him over the edge.

The moment your grip tightens around his throat, a powerful surge reverberates through his dick within you, sending intoxicating waves of pleasure coursing through your body. It's an electrifying sensation, making every touch between you more intense and satisfying.

With an intense squeeze, you lock eyes with Yoongi, a plea in your gaze. “Fill me up, Yoongi.”

In a primal release, he surrenders to the moment, thrusting into you with an erratic rhythm, coating your walls with the warmth of his climax.

“Ahh,” he pants, the rush of air filling his lungs as you release your grip on his neck, both of you engulfed in the aftermath of shared release.

You watch him in amazement as his fervent thrusts subside, and he eases into the embrace of your bed, a portrait of passion painted across his beautiful face.

As he gradually softens within you, you take the initiative to lift yourself off him, both of your essences clinging to your skin, a residue of your shared passion that you welcome without reservation.

As you recline beside him, a soft chuckle escapes your lips, a shared breathlessness enveloping both of you. The air in the room is charged with the echo of passion, leaving a tangible energy that binds your entangled forms together.

Breathless and sporting a satisfied grin, he turns to you, his eyes filled with a post-passion glow. “Fuck that was incredible,”' he murmurs, capturing the shared intensity of the moment in the curve of his smile.

An undeniable contentment colors your voice as you respond, “Yeah,” savoring the echoes of pleasure that linger in the air.

Suddenly, a spark of realization ignites within you, propelling you to move with swift purpose. You crawl back on top of him, a burst of energy that startles him, like a surprise in the midst of shared afterglow.

“Why did you leave me?” you inquire, a tinge of accusation laced with the bitter notes in your voice. “Without a word or a farewell. Why did you disappear without a trace?”

His eyes widen momentarily before giving way to an expression of anguish and sadness. A tug at your heart intensifies, as his face alone tells a story you fear can't be good.

He begins with a heavy admission, meeting your eyes with earnest sincerity, “My brother died.”

Your words stumble out in a rush, “Oh, God! I'm so sorry!” The unexpected revelation leaves you fumbling for the right response.

His words flow, carrying a weight of anger and grief, “It's alright. ButI felt so much anger and grief, you know?” he explains, “so much so that I couldn't shapeshift and was stuck in my cat form.”

You exhale a soft ‘aha’ at his words, and the realization washes over you— he was grappling with his own demons, just as you were.

“When I'm consumed by intense emotions, I lose control of my ability to shapeshift, and, and—” You witness a tearful welling in his eyes, prompting you to gently cup his cheeks, reassuring him that it's okay.

“I just wanted to be alone and I didn’t want to burden you…” A few tears spill from his eyes, and you tenderly catch them with your gentle fingers.

You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, finding solace in the curve of his neck, where his soft minty scent envelops you like a comforting embrace.

“I am so fucking sorry you had to endure that. I understand, truly. But you would never be a burden to me,” you express, gazing into his eyes with a tenderness that echoes your sincerity.

“I want to be there for you,” you declare, your own tears mirroring the empathy in your eyes.

“Ah, shit. I didn’t mean to cry. But, you know, I understand,” you say, your words accompanied by a wry smile as tears trickle down your face and onto Yoongi’s cheeks.

“I’m sorry, Kitten. I know. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.” 

He seizes your cheeks, tugging you into a tender and unhurried kiss. Time loses its grip, and you're oblivious to the remnants of his seed mingling with your essence, creating a slippery trail between your pussy and his still-slick pelvis.

Lost in the rhythm of your kisses with Yoongi, you surrender to the moment, where every touch feels like a missing puzzle piece seamlessly falling into place.

The two cups of coffee are long forgotten.

Authors note (3): Thank you so very much if you have made it this far 😭 I know this story is a lot – I’ve been dealing with a lot of different stuff for many years, and some of it just got to be too much a few weeks ago, and this story popped into my head. It was therapeutic to write. I don’t know if people will like it or not, but in the end, that’s not what it’s about. It will just exist here.

If you struggle with any of these subjects or emotions, you’re always welcome in my inbox – I’m not a trained psychologist or anything, though! But sometimes it is better to voice your feelings, than struggling in silence. Everybody’s welcome 🫂

I hope you’re doing well. Thank you for you 💜

[spotsandsocks]

Tumblr story time

Now you may not be interested but I was thinking it might be interesting to share how we all got stuck in here and tell the story of how you ended up as the tumblr blog you are today .I’ll go first 💜

Joined tumblr, 2015 looked around, thought hmmm a lot of people have very intense feelings about Sherlock and left. I suspect this might be the superwholock phase I hear tell of.

Time passed, I tried again, now there are two guys on my dash. A lot. Firefighters?

One of them did something the other one is forgiving him. People are quite invested in this. Maybe I can watch it somewhere, no.. not available here… but more gifs of them turn up, hope I don’t get dragged into something … no I can resist this … then the well scene hit my dash and well that was that for me. Then 911 came to a TV near me…

So I lurk and I move from McDanno to buddie tags on ao3, I read, kudos but I don’t comment, too shy to do that. I lurk some more on tumblr then I start liking, then reblogging and then summer 2021 I write something and put it on ao3 (it’s then I start to commet on fics because I understand what it means to get a comment now.) I post my fics on my blog.

A few more followers turn up which is exciting then I get tagged in a writing game and I’m off. My stuff, your stuff… Reblog reblog reblog, followers go up… Get braver start sending asks (anon) get braver and go off anon… make some friends sharing some more, more followers, more sharing more fun.

So I’m still a very small part of the fandom not a big blog in any way I think but now I’m spotty to my pocket pals, and people I’ll never meet think of me when they see dragons- and that makes me so happy. I have strangers I care about across the world and can make smile by sending a silly picture or an ask or just saying hi. It’s fun and I like it very much. The world is brighter because I ended up here and said hello to some of you and you said hello back. Thank you my lovelies.

My blog is now 60% 911, 20% sci-fi stuff and 10% randomness and the last little bit is the strange and peculiar musing of the spotty one herself . I have somehow gathered more followers than I ever expected and written nearly a million words of fanfic in 3 years.

How remarkable! How wonderful.

So here I am and I’d love to hear about your blogging journey if you want to share tag me in or just come say hi. Never be worried about coming to say hello to me, I adore it.

I know some people are on hiatus so no pressure but tagging you just in case (sorry if I missed you 😔)

@shortsighted-owl @monsterrae1 @loserdiaz @thekristen999 @steadfastsaturnsrings

@inell @shipperqueen6 @rogerzsteven @underwaterninja13 @bekkachaos

@hippolotamus @bi-buckrights @djdangerlove @fiona-fififi @giddyupbuck

@theplaceyoustillrememberdreaming @buffaluff @honestlydarkprincess @daffi-990 @diazsdimples

@the-likesofus @eddiebabygirldiaz @thewolvesof1998 @hoodie-buck @ronordmann

@bidisasterevankinard @wikiangela @weewootruck @rainbow-nerdss

@tizniz @actualalligator @loveyouanyway @bewilderedbuckley @caroandcats

@elvensorceress @repressedqueen @jesuisici33 @exhuastedpigeon @lover-of-mine

@stagefoureddiediaz @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @spaceprincessem @pirrusstuff

[lutawolf]

My Personal Weatherman and the D/s element Ep 4

If you haven't read the others, they can be found here.

Ahhh, nothing gets me going like a sub wearing what their Dom picked out. That subtle ownership. Why yes, I do pick out all my husband's clothes except the dreaded work clothes. I refuse to take the blame for those tacky things.

Right off, we can easily see that this is not an M/s situation. The fact that Segasaki is asking Yoh what he wants to do, tells us exactly what we need to know. Yoh is explaining what he is going to do. That is not something a slave would ever even think to do. We can easily tell that he is a subby sub though, cause when Segasaki brings out the Dom, Yoh eases back.

OMG, that chin grab! @bl-bam-beyond pretty please gif that chin grab.

That chin grab with the "No." Ugh, how all my lovely subs doing? Are you still here? Have you been able to finish the show? Or are you stuck here on rewind?

Yoh actually questions Segasaki as to why not. Anybody still thinking Yoh a slave? Cause not to be rude, I can't fix stupid. This boy, a brat. Fuck, this whole scene is really showcasing their dynamic. "But we made a promise." "Tell her that you can't go anymore. Do it. Do you even know why you are in this house." And once again, we're back at the misunderstanding stage.

A fangirl, I see. OMG, this is adorable. Yoh is like, sure. Let's look at the tie of my Dom, bestie.

Yoh calling with Segasaki standing over him. This episode is killing me in the best possible way. Don't revive me! (No! I have not taken my ADHD meds, don't judge me!) "I was ordered to stay home." Hahahaha! Then the ahhhh, after he tells her that he will make it up to her. Letting you know he was likely just punished by Segasaki. Yes, my mind went here.

Then the reward of the head pat, "you did good."

She showed up to check on him! Woot! Haha, she is about to find out who is boyfriend is. Hahaha. I'm dying. Meanwhile, his boyfriend is like, "guess it's time for a face off." Ya'll I'm not okay. I'm laughing so hard.

And Yoho stepped over a line and got put in his place. But he is too busy having a crisis to care! 🤣🤣🤣 Her face is my favorite.

That effortless lie. He wasn't feeling well. Uh huh. I love these two dumbass friends. I need sake too!!! I'm dying. Shit, I can't breathe through the laughter.

Now it's Yoh's turn to be jealous. Ahh, he got drunk and fell asleep on the floor. The places we find comfortable when we are drunk.

Nope, he doesn't want to go to the bed. I love the outer dialogue we are getting. I really enjoy that we get Yoh's side of things and from his perspective, but this rounds it out a bit for me.

And look at that beautiful smile when Segasaki finds out she's married. "Are you in your rebellious phase." Does this sound familiar to certain people whom I will not mention by name!?! Hmmm! Brats! Stop breaking my heart! Make him stop Segasaki, make him stop!

Fuck, I love these two so much. Everything he is describing is very much a Brat Tamer. Bossy but gentle. Controlling but caring. Charming and unreasonable. Brat Tamer.

The way his squishes Yoh's face! Ahhh, these two are gonna kill me!

"It would be nice if you stayed drunk forever." Because of the honesty. Segasaki likes Yoh's quirks, but he also wants the honesty and the connection.

I need the curry story now! But apparently, I must wait. Heavy sigh.

Hope you guys enjoyed this! Let me know in the tags if you did. 💜💜💜 See you next time.

[acourtofimagines]

Summary: You end Rhysand enjoy flying around the nighttime sky. 

I do take requests. Just read my info and requests page. 

If you want to be added to my tag list let me know. 

💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

The night sky was a beautiful shade of sapphire. The stars above spread across it like sparkling Diamonds. Rhysand held out his hand to you. A shimmer of adventure sparkled in those beautiful violet eyes. “Ready darling?” He asked. You both stood on the railing of the balcony. 

You both unfurled your wings and with a swift push, you were both soaring through the sky. To you, nothing felt more freeing or relaxing than flying. Especially at night. The wind caressing your face is always refreshing. You two flew over the night court. Nothing but the sounds of yours and Rhysand’s laughter ringing out. 

“See that tower in the distance?” He asked fluttering next to you as he pointed. You nodded. “Let’s race to it,” he said “The loser gives the winner a prize”. 

“You’re on” you agreed. You took positions beside each other. 

“And go!” Rhysand yelled and you both took off. You were actually a little ahead of the high lord. That was until you felt him grab your foot and pull you back in order to fly ahead of you. 

"HEY!" you try to catch up to him, "Cheater!" He just chuckled with that playful grin of his. Rhysand tries to throw you off flying in different patterns and behind clouds and other tall structures of the night court. You were so busy trying to catch up to him that you hadn't noticed as you neared the tower that he slowed down on purpose so you'd win. 

"Well, looks like you won Y/N" he smiled like he didn't plan it to be that way all along. You looked at the royal fae and narrowed your eyes. 

"Did you let me win?" you asked. Rhysand flashed that feline-like grin as he flew to you.

"Would I ever do such a thing?' he asked. His tone gave it away. 

"Then you have no issue if I claim my prize?" You said.

"Fair is fair," he purred, "now I believe the bet was loser picks the winner’s prize correct?" You nodded. That classic smirk appeared on his face. "Now whatever should I give?" he said, putting his finger to his chin pretending to ponder. He gently wraps his arms around you pulling you close to him. The scent of Jasmine wafted in the air around you. He cradled your face in one hand. And then with the moon glowing down on you both, he gave you your prize as he took your lips in his. 

REQUEST INFO

[rivkae-winters]

This isn’t going to be a grand essay as I’m still feeling fairly low energy but I didn’t want to leave my two cents unsaid on this as it’s somewhat personal.

One thing I’ve noticed from all of the recent lore.fm events is the awareness of podficcing is much lower than I’d previously considered.

This is an absolute shame: podfics are great and there are many amazing narrators in fandom. One of the generalizations I saw made in the (regretably unarchived- lack of foresight on my part after I saved their videos) lore.fm comment section was how there was no natural sounding voice to read fan fiction at all ever and that’s why this proposed product was exciting for many of the people in those comment sections. Which is blatantly untrue as we have had natural voices even reading porn at times for years coming from the lips of actual people.

Obviously it’s not the same since not everything is a podfic all the time so check here for the fairly comprehensive guide @chaosisbeauty23 released recently covering native features of both iOS and Android devices and more.

Other than that though if there is a podfic scene in the space you find yourself in within fandom it’s well worth supporting. Narration is a skill and there is dynamism to the ebb and flow of a storyteller walking you down an author’s lovingly crafted web that is delightful. If you couldn’t tell I really do adore the podfic scene and certain podfic narrators have literally led me to new fandoms I wouldn’t have considered before with their voice and skill. It’s actually the reason why I still have blanket permissions attached to my work for recordings made by a living person reciting any of my works.

In that spirit: if you feel like checking just look up the tag ‘podfic’ on Ao3 next time you’re in your favorite tag! Or if you’re feeling adventurous just search through the podfic tag itself and find yourself somewhere new.

Typically you can filter by length as well and all the tags attached to the initial fic are typically on the podfic’d one. The podfic post is connected to the authors post as well via the ‘inspired by’ feature 99% of the time as well!

Fandom is an ecosystem of sorts and podfic readers are a native species here: they deserve more love 💜

[camaro-and-smokes]

Get Out of My Dreams, Get Into My Car

Chapter 6: Have You Ever Needed Someone So Bad

Tags for the chapter: Mutual pining, some fluffy fluff in the very end

Notes: Moodboard by the lovely @a-redharlequin 💜 Title from the Def Leppard song 💜

Summary: Billy finally catches Steve who's been slipping through his fingers all week and sits him down for a talk. Later, Billy unsuccesfully tries to let go of Steve, and Steve figures out what he needs to do—even though it scares the shit out of him.

Read on AO3 >>

:::::::::::

It was on Friday morning when Billy finally caught Steve—quite literally—before he left for work. Or rather, before he once again slithered himself through Billy’s fingers like quicksand.

Billy was reading an article about new materials used for surfboards when Steve appeared in the doorway.

“Uh…morning. Have you, um, have you seen my shoes?” Steve asked, rubbing his neck, clearly uncomfortable.

Billy looked up from his article and took a sip of his coffee. “Maybe.”

Steve looked at him expectantly for a moment before he spread his hands questioningly. “So? Where are they?”

“I think we have to talk,” Billy said.

Steve sighed and chewed his cheek for a moment. “About what?”

“About…” Billy started, not knowing how he exactly should continue. “Well, about…things. Like, this week.”

Steve closed his eyes and clenched his jaw.

“Just humor me, okay?” Billy asked and pointed at the empty mug on the table he’d taken out just for Steve. “Sit down for one mug of coffee. Please?”

Steve glanced at the front door as if calculating the distance to it from his spot and if he could reach it before Billy would catch him. Then he looked at his watch, wincing, but finally he relented. He sat down while Billy poured the coffee into the mug and gave him the milk from the fridge. “One mug,” he muttered.

“Alright, I’m gonna make this blunt, then,” Billy said as he sat down. “Are you angry at me about something?” He paused, measuring Steve and trying to see if there was something that would give away Steve’s emotions.

Steve just sat there, still clenching his jaw and staring at his mug.

“Like, for example, me going on a date and you thinking you have to find a new place to stay?” Billy continued.

Steve shifted in his seat, but kept his eyes locked on the beige liquid in his mug. “Uh…no. I’m not angry about…anything.”

“Good,” Billy said quietly. “Because you don’t have to worry about that. I’m really not planning on moving in with anyone soon.”

Steve just nodded. After a while, he asked, “Was the date that bad?”

Billy snickered. “No. It was okay.”

Just as Billy was about to continue, Steve asked, “Planning on seeing him again?”

Billy thought about it. Yeah, the date with Jason had been nice. It was nice to have the attention, someone laugh at his stupid jokes, and Jason was a decent guy. But he wasn’t…there was something that wasn’t just right. “Well, he said he’d like to see me again, but we didn’t yet agree on anything since he’s busy. Maybe,” he shrugged. Yeah. Jason just was…not Steve.

Steve felt like crying, but he just nodded and took a sip of his mug. He’d tried to avoid Billy all week just to save himself from hearing that maybe. He was sure the guy was decent, Billy probably wouldn’t want to go on a second date with someone who wasn’t. Decency did nothing to Steve’s desire to kill the guy, though.

The few days that had passed since Billy’s date had been hard. Billy had seemed happy after the date. Singing in the shower that Def Leppard ballad that was on the radio 24/7—and also humming it while cooking.

Steve wanted to leave, get to work and forget this misery for at least the eight hours. But he’d promised to stay for one mug of coffee and he’d accidentally put too little milk on it so it was burning his mouth. So he had to suffer a little longer than he otherwise would’ve.

Billy cleared his throat. Steve was fidgeting, so maybe that was enough of that subject. Billy felt the tips of his ears burning when he tried to find words for the second thing he wanted to talk about. “Um…That wasn’t all I wanted to talk about.”

Steve took a sip of his coffee. “Okay.”

“Yeah. Uh…” Billy took a deep sigh. Better just to spit it out. “The re—red panties…”

Steve had to close his eyes. He felt his face heating, and it embarrassed him. He hoped Billy would take his reaction as just that, embarrassment, and not as anything else. Especially not as something that had launched an avalanche that was shaking his life inside out.

Billy looked at his own mug when felt his face burning so he didn’t see Steve’s reaction. “They’re, uh…they’re mine,” he stammered. “I, uh…I—I like to wear them. Sometimes. It’s a secret and…no one has known until now.” To Billy’s surprise, admitting it felt liberating instead of anything else.

Steve hid behind his mug and drank from it as much as he could, even though it burned his entire mouth, and he was sure he wouldn’t taste anything for a few days. He knew he should say something. Yeah, I figured. No problem, I really liked the idea, was what he wanted to say. “Uh…” he started, knowing he couldn’t say what he was thinking. Ever. This secret would die with him. “Don’t worry about it. I mean, it’s OK. Not my business what you do in your room.”

Billy swallowed, glad that Steve took it like that. But he couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed, too. He’d been secretly hoping that maybe finding out such a delicate secret would’ve stirred something in Steve. Apparently it hadn’t, and instead, just made him embarrassed. “Yeah?”

Steve was nodding vigorously. “Yeah. Yeah, absolutely.”

Billy fidgeted with the ear of his mug. “Thanks,” he said. “Sorry you had to learn about it like that.”

Steve swallowed the rest of the coffee and set the mug on the table. He finally glanced up at Billy. A thought of getting up, leaning over the table and kissing Billy pierced his mind. A dream come true.

One he couldn’t have.

“Well, the mug is empty,” he said instead, getting up. He smiled a little. “So, any sign of the shoes?”

Billy looked up at Steve. “So, are we okay? I mean, really okay?”

Jesus, those eyes are blue, Steve thought. He could drown in them and would, too—happily. He found himself thinking that there was nothing he couldn’t forgive Billy. Clearing his throat, he nodded, his smile widening a little. “Yeah. We’re good.”

Billy nodded and got up. “Just a sec.” He went to his room and came back a moment later with Steve’s shoes.

“Do I have to worry about you stealing my shoes again?” Steve asked, with a hint of playfulness in his voice.

Billy smiled and offered the shoes to Steve. “You kept slipping away in the mornings, coming home just to sleep and…I just really wanted to have this chat with you, ’s all.”

Their hands brushed against each other when Steve took the shoes from Billy. It sent a hot jolt through Steve, and he set the shoes quickly on the floor and tied the laces. He needed to get out before he did something stupid.

+

When Steve left, Billy walked by the sink and looked through the window at how Steve got into his car and drove away. Steve’s warm skin on Billy’s in the tiny point of contact where their hands had touched was still burning his hand. He’d wanted so much to drop the shoes and kiss Steve. He’d needed to.

The truth was, Jason had asked him for another date. But he’d lied to Jason he couldn’t, not this week. That he was busy with a restoration project of an old Mustang and that maybe next week he’d have time.

He squeezed his eyes closed. Why did he always have to make stupid choices? Listening to his heart had only ever brought him heartache. And he’d just recovered from one heartbreak, only to get into another one that would probably drag on even longer than the first. He’d be hanging on to something he couldn’t have as long as Steve would live with him, or at least as long as he didn’t find someone he would truly be interested in.

Maybe he had no other option but to make himself interested in Jason for real.

+

Steve hunched over piles of paperwork in his office, the clack of keyboards and murmur of co-workers creating a soft background noise that reached his office through the open door. He tried to push Billy out of his mind and keep himself concentrated on his work, and the sounds seemed to help him achieve that.

“Hey, did you catch the game last night?” Dave, one of Steve’s colleagues, asked with a smirk, leaning against the door frame.

Steve glanced up. “Missed it,” he confessed. He’d been at the office all night and hadn’t even remembered the office bet pool. “But let me guess—our team tanked again?”

“Like a lead balloon,” Dave snorted, pushing off from the door frame. “We should start betting on how much they lose by!”

A round of laughter erupted from a nearby cluster of desks, and Steve joined in, the corners of his lips upturning genuinely for the first time that morning.

His gaze meandered through the door and across the sea of beige cubicles, his mind pulling him back into the conversation with Billy.

So far, two things had made themselves known. One, Billy hadn’t agreed to go on a second date with the guy—yet—and two, he had admitted to liking feminine underwear. Not that Steve needed a confirmation on that anymore. But it was nice to know for sure. So, Billy was still free and nothing was yet written in stone.

He still had a chance, but he needed to act on it. He just had to come up with something that might reveal what Billy really thought of him. If he really had a shot. No matter the consequences.

Janet, the secretary of Steve’s boss, appeared in the doorway, popping Steve’s reverie like a soap bubble. “Hey, Steve. Your list for the new purchases for the meeting this afternoon…you sure it’s right? I mean, ‘The Scent of a Wow Man’ sounds thrilling, but…”

Steve looked up at her. “What? Oh, that’s not—”

“Or what about ‘Bad man returns’?” she continued with a smirk and gave the paper to Steve.

“Damn it,” Steve muttered under his breath, reaching out for the paper as he felt heat rising to his cheeks. “I’ll fix it,” he said as he hurried to correct the list.

“Well, movies in your mind as they should be, just a little…adult-themed, maybe,” she teased, her eyes twinkling with mirth.

“Long week,” Steve admitted, trying to shrug it off, and rewrote the list by hand—careful not to let his thoughts wander to the last thing he’d seen of Billy in the morning: his sapphire eyes.

And then it came to him. He didn’t actually like the idea and what it required from him, but it was something he knew would get Billy’s attention for sure. Apparently, he was willing to leave his comfort zone for Billy.

+

The salty breeze from the Pacific ocean played with Billy’s hair as he sat across from Jason at lunch. All the way to work in the morning, he’d pondered the choices he could make and if he should take Jason’s invitation for another date. When he’d arrived at the garage, he’d called Jason first thing, wanting to stop the useless what-ifs for good.

Now they were sitting on the terrace of The Sand Dollar Cafe, a kitschy eatery by the beach, adorned with seashell wind chimes and driftwood art.

Jason was detailing his latest real estate conquest. “…and it was such a steal,” he said. “The view alone was worth—”

“Sounds killer,” Billy interjected, his mind drifting at the rhythm of the fish fillet he pushed around his plate.

“Uh, well, yes,” Jason said. He wiped the corners of his mouth into a cloth and reached out to Billy’s hand with his. “Everything alright? You look like your mind is…surfing on some distant waves.”

Billy looked up at Jason and forced a smile he didn’t feel on his face. “Oh, no, sorry. Just thinking about…work.”

“Right,” Jason replied, a hint of skepticism in his voice. He settled the cloth next to his plate and drank from his glass. “Speaking of which, how do you stay so clean while working on cars all day?”

“Oh, I just…” Billy started before he really, really heard the words. He frowned and looked down at the front of his shirt and his hands. He’d changed his clothes and checked himself in the mirror several times before leaving work to not have any oil or grease stains on him. Or did Jason actually make a derogatory comment about his job? For a moment, Billy had to hold back really hard not to say the first thing that came to his mind. He tilted his head as he looked up at Jason. “Ever heard of overalls?” he said tersely.

Jason raised an eyebrow and shrugged. “No need to get offended. I just wanted to know how the technicalities work. I have no firsthand experience, that’s all.”

“Right,” Billy said, biting his tongue. He didn’t yet know Jason that well, so maybe he shouldn’t get all worked up over something small like this. Maybe Jason was honestly interested in his work and sometimes just said things as he thought of them, without a filter. He did that sometimes, too.

+

Steve had left work the moment the afternoon meeting with his boss ended.

He knew a shop selling all the gear he’d need close to the bungalow, and that’s where he headed.

“Hey, Steve, my man!” Argyle, the shop owner—and one of Billy’s best surfer friends—greeted him from behind the counter. “Billy sent you to get that new wax he ordered?”

“Uh, no. Not exactly,” Steve said, looking at the rows of surf boards next to each other, lining the walls of the shop. “I’m here…uh, for…myself.”

Argyle’s face lit up, and he stood up and walked to Steve. “Alright! So, what do you need?”

Steve looked at him sheepishly.

Argyle squinted, measured Steve from head to toe, and then placed his hand on Steve’s shoulder. “You’ve never surfed in your life, have you?”

Steve shook his head slowly.

Argyle smiled a wide smile and patted Steve’s back. “Hey, no problem-o, man! Everyone gotta start somewhere.” The tall surfer turned around, looked around his shop for a moment, and started gathering the gear Steve would need. He talked while he sauntered around the shop, collecting everything. “So, Billy’s teaching you?”

“Um, well…I’m hop—I’m hoping he would.”

Argyle turned to look at Steve, who followed him like a lost puppy, and nodded, a wide smile apparently permanently plastered on his face. “He will. I was wondering when you’d get bitten by the surf bug. Billy can be enthusiastic about it.”

Steve laughed nervously. “To be honest, I’m terrified about the whole thing,” he confessed.

“Mmm, real. Trust me, you won’t look back after you do one clean wave,” Argyle said, sliding his hand in the air, imitating surfing on a wave. “After that, it’s just chasing the next one.”

“Uh, yeah. I’m sure about that,” Steve said, feeling his hands sweating just at the thought of riding a wave on a slick board.

Now that he was clearly doing this and not just thinking about it, it no longer sounded such a good idea. But it was the best one he could come up with. For a moment, he had thought of joining Billy’s aerobics class, but the guy who Billy went on a date with was there, so it wasn’t really an option.

And besides, surfing was Billy’s one true love. Sure, he loved fast cars and his beloved Camaro, but what he actually could do, and frequently did, was to spend all day on the waves and go back first thing in the next morning, day in and day out.

So, if he really wanted to get Billy’s attention, this would be the way.

+

Billy slammed the door of the Camaro closed after him and stomped to the front door of the bungalow. He’d gone to the late and long lunch hoping maybe Jason would’ve showed a side of himself that could’ve been worth pursuing.

Unfortunately, the opposite had appeared to be true. The guy hadn’t stopped talking about his work, his accomplishments, and how much money he’d made a year who knows how many years a row. Sure, money was nice, but it wasn’t what Billy was looking for.

He was annoyed at taking off half a day for only learning that he should’ve listened to the gut feeling he had already on the first date and never see Jason again.

Billy opened the front door and the moment he saw what was in the living room, Jason vanished from his mind.

Steve was standing in the middle of the living room wearing a full-body wet suit and leaning awkwardly to a blue and white surfboard.

“Yo, broski, wanna hit the waves?” Steve asked him, the slang not quite fitting into his mouth and making it sound stiff.

Billy couldn’t help but to laugh. “Well, my dude,” he replied, taking in the view and nodding approvingly. “I think you first have to learn how to.”

Steve smiled at Billy’s reaction; the blue eyes were sparkling and the smile on his face was wide and toothy and the laugh genuine. It was exactly what Steve had hoped for. “Well, I was thinking, if you have the time, I could take a lesson or two from the best.”

Billy couldn’t get his eyes off Steve. The guy had been adamant about not getting on the waves. Ever. But here he was, standing, in full gear, ready to go. A warm fuzziness filled Billy’s chest. Maybe there was a chance with Steve after all.

[dean-a-mean-tae]

Piercing | Stray Kids Extra Member AU

WARNINGS: Switches from 3rd person to 1st person. Depending on how well this is written, it might make you feel what he's feeling. There's angst, but I don't want to put too many warnings. Don't wanna spoil this extremely short drabble.

I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU CHOOSE TO READ!

Nicholas Ross Master List | Proceed with caution. I love you 💜

He couldn't name it. Granted, Nicholas didn't know much about feelings. He knew the basics. Happy, sad, mad, and fearful. Chan was the first person to help him feel safe. The most common feeling for him was numbness. But this?

This was different. 

This feeling, emotion, whatever it's called, was unfamiliar. It was this nagging feeling, and he couldn't place it. He hadn't felt something this intense, ever. No, he did. Nicholas was overjoyed when he got to debut with his friends. But this?

This is on a different scale, a completely different hierarchy. 

This feeling caused other emotions he never thought of. It made him name feelings he's already had. Feelings he could never put a label on but now could with his newly gained freedom. Nicholas isn't sure if he likes this freedom. Then again. Was it truthfully freedom?

Nicholas couldn't leave the dorm. Not without drastic security, and even then, he still needed at least two members with them. He was scared. What if something happened while he wasn't there? Fear.

Who was he kidding? What would he do if something did happen? He knows nothing. Nicholas is just a boy. Doubt.

Someone, or something, was watching him. All the time. Even at home. He could feel them staring at him. Their eyes pierced his skull, his back, and occasionally his face. Only when he dared to look back. The feeling never stopped. That feeling he couldn't place. It kept looking with inhumanly wide eyes. He could see it in the distance.

Nicholas can't tell the others. No, what if something happened to them? What if they began to see what he could see? The feeling with long hair, wide eyes, and a gaping mouth. A mouth forever stuck in a silent scream. It was there. He could see it.

 It made him overanalyze. Maybe it's anxiety? An everlasting anxiety attack? No, it's not that. It doesn't like false names. It's closer. I can hear it's scream now. It's quiet, but what if it gets louder?

You don't believe him? 

He thought he could trust you. It's why he told you. You saw his abuse. You felt for him. You saw him almost lose the battle to his insecurities. Granted, you only saw what was said and how his members fixed it. But you were there!

He can't tell other people. They'll send him to a therapist. A psychiatrist. They'll take him to someone who will give me pills. Everyone will force me to take those pills because it's for the better.

Why don't you believe me? 

Why won't anyone believe me? It follows me, and I can't get away. I'm terrified. I'm intensely scared. There's a word for it. What is it? Tell me, please. Maybe if I call out its name, it will leave me alone.

It's eyes. They- It's here. It's watching me. It could be watching you. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you feel like this. I'll be quiet. Momma told me I scared people with this bullshit. I didn't mean to scare you. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. I won't do it again. 

You will stay, right?

I'm still me. I'm Nicholas Ross! The boy- The man you imagine. The person broken by his parents is slowly being built together again. You're helping me, right? 

You said you feel sad for me. You expressed my stories as comforting. I can tell you more. Just please don't leave me with it. 

Don't leave me with paranoia.

Nicholas Ross Master List

©️DEANAMEANTAE2024

Tags list: @bada-lee-ily, @jinnie-ret, @hwxnghyynjin, @foxilsdenn, @rensahazard, @mynameisnotlaura, @lucianidealz, You can be added by asking in the replies, sending me a message, or doing an ask thingy.

[gingiekittycat]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. spread the self-love ❤

@ineffabildaddy tagging you too because you sent me this ask as well (omg thank you both! I love asks 💜💜💜). Like most of us I'm bad at self reccing but I guess that's what this ask is forrrr

It's hard to pick favorites of my babies but I will try....

5) He Can't Stop Thinking About It: The first fic I wrote after GO S2 aired and one I often think of continuing. I'm really proud of the prose and cohesiveness of this one despite it being so short and not a complete plot. 

4) Until the Dreams: I have a soft spot for this fic because the world building was SO fun and because the scene in the church is extraordinarily vivid in my head. 

3) A Walk in the Woods: A wild Sherlock fic appears! Most of my Sherlock fics are so old and I've grown as a writer so much since then, so I would like... not recommend anyone read them. EXCEPT maybe this one. I was experimenting with a new writing style and I think it was really successful. It was the first fic of mine that got a legit rec and review on Tumblr and I got so many amazing comments on it that have sustained me for years. I still go back and reread them when I need a pick-me-up.

2) Gate Duty: aka the fic that was supposed to be a romp and turned into the angstiest fic ever. This was the first time I'd set out to write something humorous, which is a huge challenge for me, and I am still so incredibly proud of myself for doing that. I probably have more pride for this fic than any of my other fics. And the jokes in here still make me laugh. I really want to try writing something funny again. Perhaps the next fic... 

1) We Can't Keep Meeting Like This: Of course. The whole experience of writing this fic was something that I don't think is possible to recreate, at least not on purpose. I feel like I gave a piece of my soul to this work. And continue to give it to each person who reads it.

[hajihiko]

Hey. So, I saw your Chiaki & Fuyuhiko comic that I like to call "Look on the Bright Side" (since it didn't have an official name in the post itself), and I loved it. I loved seeing Nanami & Kuzuryu interact with each other with the former comforting the latter on Peko and complimenting on how brave he was to save his friend, the scene between Fuyuhiko & Peko during the latter's execution, and then the scene of you making a throwback to your DR3 rewrite from your Talky Talky Tuesday content where the DR2 cast witness Human Chiaki's death and chose not to help her because of how awful Junko's influence on them was. It was heartwarming, bittersweet, and terrifying all at the same time, and as @/self-in-dulled-gent put it in their reblog of the comic, the 4th & 5th panels depicting your DR3 rewrite is a cool and visceral indication of how far the DR2 cast had fallen into despair. Heck, both the comic & the rewrite even serve as inspiration towards my au/rewrite/reimagine of DR3's Despair Arc & how Junko corrupts the DR2 cast into despair. So, thank you so much for the inspiration. I really appreciate it.

With all that in mind, I have some questions I wanna ask you regarding both the comic & DR3 rewrite, if you don't mind.

May I have your permission to do a review on your DR3 Rewrite post for my Advian Reads & Reviews content (which in case you're curious about, AR&R is reading review series where I read something, like fanfiction for example, while also doing a review on it at the same time, giving my thoughts on whatever I'm reviewing as well as potentially even sharing my own stories)?

Will you ever showcase the bonus panel of the rest of the class witnessing Chiaki's death that you mentioned in the comic's tags?

Who is the 5th person on the right between Kazuichi & Hiyoko in the 4th panel (I'm assuming it's Sonia based on the hairstyle, but I thought I'd ask for some confirmation)?

Will we ever get to see the dialogue of Chiaki not resenting Hajime/Izuru for not helping her you also mentioned in the comic's tags?

Follow up on that previous question, do you think it's possible that we might also get to see if Chiaki resents her classmates for not helping her, or if she would also get it with them like she did with Hajime/Izuru?

How exactly does Junko kill Chiaki in front of her classmates? Does she still have her go through her execution like in canon, or does she kill her in a different way, and if so, then how? I ask because I saw Nanami had blood coming from her eyes & mouth (making it look like Junko literally pulled her eyes out), there's blood on her hoodie & left thigh, and she appears to have been stabbed on her right side.

And those are my questions. In regards to gaining your permission to review your DR3 rewrite, if you do grant permission, great! I'll be sure to credit you and give you a shoutout too if you do. And if you don't, then I'm content with that and will understand and respect the reason behind your refusal, whatever that reason may be. Feel free to respond back to me whenever you get the chance. Thank you and have a wonderful day/afternoon/night. 🤗💕❤️🧡💛💚���💜💖💕🤗

that's one heck of an ask so I'm using a readmore:

Thank you! I remember that comment hehe I'm really glad people like it

1: sure! Just know that I'm like, you know, just a fan and a hobbyist and not even really a writer so I'm not saying my rewrite is more right than anything else!

2: the bonus panel was actually everyone else's deaths (in SDR2) since they all sort of died alone, too. But it didn't feel relevant enough, I prrrrrrrrobably don't have the sketch anymore

3: yep that's Sonia

4: I'll be totally real i don't remember what I was thinking there at all. Sssssorryyyyyy

5: I think Chiaki, if she got to see the events of SDR2 as the AI, wouldn't resent her classmates so much as feel sorry for them and be disappointed. At the same time though I think she might be shocked at what they're capable of. Maybe she can't help but be a bit bitter, who knows. Hajime/Izuru is a different deal since that guy literally got his brains scrambled, can't really blame him. (sort of like deleting all the save data, maybe?)

6: the blood and amounts of it was more about the drama lol. But I thought the obstacle was like, a little too fantastical, not serious enough, so in my rewrite she straight up beats Chiaki to death with some kind of instrument. I think the image of Junko doing something so realistic (and slow) while everyone watches passively is even worse.

Thanks for asking beforehand! 💙

[halfmoth-halfman]

Leaving this blog.

With my mini-series finishing up soon, I've decided to leave this blog as well as my AO3 account once it’s finished. This is not a decision I've made lightly, but circumstances have left this a place where I no longer feel safe.

As of now, I won't be deactivating this blog and will be leaving my fics up for anyone who'd still like to read them. I can't say this decision won't change later, but right now I feel that I've put too much work into this blog to simple delete it.

Below the cut is an explanation of why I'm making this decision, and what has been happening on this blog since the end of last year. It's not required to read or anything to understand the gist of this post; it's simply for my own peace of mind knowing that I spoke up about it. There will be topics that are possibly triggering such as harassment, threats, and racism so please mind the warnings and tags.

The mini-series is queued to finish next week, but there will be no more fic polls or wip wednesdays. I'll still be on here to make sure the queue does its job, and maybe post some stuff from my old drafts as a last bit of fun.

I'll have dms tentatively open for the next two-ish weeks for those who'd like to follow my new account, however I will not be answering anything from empty blogs. After that, asks and dms will be turned off, and I won't be coming back to this blog very often, if at all.

I cannot say thank you enough to the wonderful readers I've had and the amazing people I've met. I don't think I would've ever continued writing without your support and friendship. There's nothing I can do to show my appreciation for all of you.

Maybe we'll see each other again. If not, I hope your inspiration is always flowing, and 2024 treats you kindly.

Mothie 💜

Again, TW: rape/death threats, violent racism, repeated harassment, and mental health.

Back in November, I started getting rude, mean-spirited anons. It wasn't anything I was too bothered with because it didn't happen often and, honestly, my inbox gets flooded for a week or so anytime I post about certain topics. I blocked, deleted, reported and moved on thinking whoever it was would get bored and leave.

However, what started as a few rude anons calling me a bitch or stupid turned into a lot of anons being vile and racist which only worsened over the next few months.

I spoke about it in this post (link) near the end of November. In that post, I mentioned that those were the nicer asks and that was not an exaggeration. I have gotten my fair share of shitty anons as seen here (link) when I had to take a break from my blog because of said anons, but I have never gotten the amount of vitriol that I saw in these asks.

When I turned anon off, I started getting even worse messages from empty blogs that would either be blocked or deactivate within a week. When I turned my askbox off, I started getting hateful DMs. When I turned DMs off, it jumped from Tumblr to my other social medias which I had to private, completely avoid, or outright delete.

I got messages attacking my writing, calling me slurs, threatening to find me and rape or kill me, sending me explicit porn and rape videos while insulting my sexuality, and going into gross detail about how much people I interacted with hated me or how I would never be as good as them. I tried to power through it, pretending everything was fine while I pulled away from this blog, from writing, from friends that I loved and talked to every day. Everything about this blog, the fandoms I enjoyed, the people I talked to, made me so anxious because of these constant messages.

I took several breaks while dealing with this in therapy, repeatedly trying to come back and get comfortable on this blog, but within a few days of coming back the messages would start up again, either here or on any of my social medias I tried to unprivate, and I couldn't deal with it.

Only in the last week or two has it started to slow down and stop on a few of my other socials, which is the only reason I even feel comfortable making this post. However, in regards to this blog and my feelings toward it, the damage is done.

I don't think I can ever truly convey how isolating this has been. So many of these messages were about how I've spoken about my struggles as a black woman in fandom, how much of a burden it puts on the people who interact with me, how inferior I am to them and that I am everything that's wrong with fandom.

I felt scared and anxious to talk to anyone about this, especially people mentioned in those messages, out of fear that this harassment would jump to them. There are friendships that I stepped away from that I will never get back because of that. There are friends that I've felt like I was betraying by never telling them about what was happening because I felt too ashamed about letting this get to me.

I constantly worried that making a post like this would feel like, "Oh, Mothie's whining and trauma-dumping into the void about fandom racism again", that those messages would be right and it would force people to feel like they had to support me. Or worse, that people would agree and it would only make things worse. I've wrestled with so much guilt trying to decide to make this post and figure out what to do to make me trust myself again.

Ultimately, I don't think I was wrong for talking about my issues in fandom, and I don't think anything I've said has warranted this kind of harassment. I don’t know the who’s or why’s behind of this, but I've come to terms with the fact that I'll never really know. Truthfully, I'm not sure it even matters at this point. In the end, I think moving on from this blog entirely would be the best thing for me right now.

But, man, does it fucking suck.

This was the blog where I felt comfortable enough to start writing again, to start posting my fics. It's the blog where I met so many friends, got the courage to join new communities, found new hobbies, new music, new things to enjoy in life. It feels silly to say about a blog, but this was a place where I felt like I was able to carve out a space for myself. I put so much work into making it my own, and now the only thing I feel about it is anxious.

Hate messages and threats and racism have always been a part of fandom, and the internet as a whole. I’ve known since I started participating in fandom spaces that it was going to and continue to happen. I've known that I had to have a tough skin, especially if I ever spoke up about problems I faced because no one was going to have my back if I didn't have my own. I thought I had learned how to deal with it, and how to make a safe space for myself. But this goes beyond that. I did not deserve this. No one deserves this.

In some ways, it feels like admitting defeat, like I'm weak or hypocritical for not being as strong as I pretended I was and leaving. In other ways, it feels freeing to start over, and I'm choosing to view look at this optimistically even if it bittersweet. I don't want to let this scare me away from writing or from speaking about things that are important to me. All I can do now is say I'm so incredibly sorry to those I've hurt by stepping away or keeping this secret, and make sure I'm able to at least leave this blog on as happy a note as I can have.