#Tint and Mint | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rottingpink · 22 days ago

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hii 💕I know wildest dreams is a multi but would u be willing to do a pt. 2? like mayb a continuation in the car and then a lil fluff :3 it was soo good <3

wildest dreams ii | multi

cw. cheating (on your part), car sex, fingering, pussy play, degradation, fingering, squirting, crying, OVERSTIMULATION, messy sex, breeding, raw sex

synopsis. the biggest loser at your college takes you, the sweet, taken cheerleader to the backseat of his car while your boyfriend's on the football field.

pt. i here!

main masterlist

he groans lowly and grabs for your waist, tugging you into him and kissing you messily. he doesn't let you catch your breath for a second, merely scooping you up with his hands under your thighs while he carries you, lips on yours, to his car out in the lot behind the football field.

your hands tangle up in his hair while your tongue rolls over his. for someone as strange and unsettling as him, he tastes oddly pleasant, like mint and smoke, and his lips, though chapped, mold on yours so perfectly that it feels like he's made for you. he squeezes your thighs and nips your lower lip, murmuring into your mouth, "you're not walking into that stadium again unless it's with my cum dripping out of you."

you moan into his thought, warm and fuzzy at the idea of him breeding you in the back of his car and making you walk back to the pitch when he's done with his cum stuffed in you and dripping out every step you take.

your arms lace tighter around his shoulders as you go back to kissing him, tilting your head to get the perfect angle of your tongue against his, and your mewls get louder when you do. "mmh, mmh..." you hum softly

his mouth moves against yours urgently, almost as if he's starving. his tongue slides against yours as he walks with you in his arms, slotting into your mouth in messy, wet strokes that make heatwaves travel through your body and pool at your core.

"fuck... tastes like candy..." you can feel how hard he's breathing and he squeezes you tightly like you might run away and never talk to him again after this.

you pull back just enough to breathe and he chases after you, lips dragging down to your jaw, your neck, his mouth warm and frantic. "don't stop," he mumbles against your skin, breath hot, voice wrecked. "give it back t'me. come on, pretty… kiss me again."

you oblige and shove your mouth back into his just as he reaches his sleek car, and he fists his pocket to find his keys, unlocking it without pulling away from you, and lays you down in the backseat under him with no effort. it smells like cedar and his natural, everyday scent. he doesn't let up off you for a second, already spreading your thighs apart so he can slot his body between your legs.

you're so small underneath him, pliant and needy and reaching up to tug at his clothes and his hair to ground yourself while he strips you fully, not wanting an inch of you covered. he could afford to do so, as his tinted windows and huge body hid you from any passerby that may wander near his car, though he doubts anyone would be anywhere but the game right now. anyone normal, of course. not little brats like you who wanna get pounded in the backseat of some social reject's car.

he's quick to strip you of every article of clothing on you except for your cute knee high socks and the lacy stretch of your panties, which are now so soaked that they've become sticky and translucent and stick to the plump lips of your pussy. "look at the nasty lil' mess you made." he tuts, voice mocking as his thumb runs over the outline of your cunt through your panties, which makes you jolt and instinctively reach to claw at his hand.

"w-wait! 'm sensitive," you whine, extremely tender from cumming so much already, but he doesn't seem to care at all. he pushes you back into place, grabbing your wrists firmly and pinning them above you with one of his huge hands. "no shying away after you begged me to fuck you like a little whore. you're gettin' what you asked for." he says sternly, still rubbing you through your panties.

you squirm beneath him, bucking up into his hand before wiggling away due to overstimulation. you don't know if you want more or less. your panties grind against his fingers, and he pushes his fingers up against your panties so your juices squelch and make a huge mess in your underwear.

he drags his thumb up slowly and presses just right against the swollen, soaked outline of your clit through the thin fabric, and you moan, high and whiny. he finally, finally pushes your panties aside, exposing your glistening cunt to the cool air of the car, and his eyes go hazy at the sight of the mess between your thighs. "fuck, you're so pretty down here," he mutters, fingers dipping into your folds, spreading you open with ease. he tosses your panties somewhere in the heap of your clothes at the floor of his car.

his fingers slip through your soaked, swollen folds easily, and he relishes in the little gasp you make as he notches his fingers knuckles deep inside you, twisting and curling his fingers immediately to stretch you out. his eyes are locked on the slick that strings from your pussy to the base of his fingers, and he groans in delight. you're this soaked for him. only him. he swirls his thumb around the tight ring of your asshole in the meantime, not pushing in yet, but to spread your slick around to your other hole too. "mmh, please, 'm sore," you whine, knowing how much you want it anyway.

"shh... you don't want me to stop. look at your pussy, she's gushing. didn't even need to prep you," he mocks, pumping his fingers into you fast and rough, your toes are curling against the leather backseat and your head lolls back, mouth falling open as loud moans leave you. you can't even respond anymore to tell him not to tease you, because your soaked cunt pulses every time he says something mean.

he pushes his fingers down inside you, the pads of his fingers resting still on that sweet spot deep inside you, while he fumbles with his belt and begins to tug down his pants and boxers. but too much pressure on such a sensitive spot inside you, which already experienced so much stimulation is far too much for you. you thrash underneath him, feeling a very odd coiling feeling in your tummy, and also the need to pee...

"w-wait, ngh! take your fingers out, p-please, i think... i think 'm gonna..!"

he ignores you, slipping in a third finger and using all three to push down hard on that spot, and before you can stop yourself, you're gushing around his fingers intensely with a scream so loud he has to let go of your wrists to cover your mouth.

he freezes once you squirt around his fingers which remain buried deeply inside your fluttering walls, and as you gush all over his hand in several hard, uncontrollable pulses, his eyes go wide, pupils blown out, and he leans back slightly to watch. "...oh, fuck."

his voice is quiet at first, like he genuinely can't believe what he just saw.

he looks down at you, eyes flicking from your soaked pussy and thighs to your brightly flushed face, then back to the fucking ruined state of your pussy. "you just..." he breathes, curling his fingers inside you experimentally, which makes you jerk under him and gush a little more around him. he's fascinated. a girl like you can't be real, can you? "...squirted on my fingers."

he doesn't even try to hide how turned on he is. despite cumming earlier from frotting with you back outside behind the bleachers, he's rock hard again, cock bulging at the front of his cum soaked pants. he lifts his soaked hand up and parts his fingers to look at the gooey strings between him, and then pushes two fingers into his mouth, licking at your juices. you squeak, embarrassed beyond belief and red in the face, but still too far gone to tell him how dirty he's making you feel right now.

moaning at your taste, he pulls his boxers down to rest at his knees with his jeans, and his fat cock springs up, swollen and flushed a bright red at the huge, flared tip, with several strings of pearlescent liquid clinging to the fabric of his discarded boxers and more leaking down the shaft. you're both soaked. he lets go of you just long enough to line himself up at your soaked entrance, nudging the tip through your folds and collecting your slick. his other hand comes up to grab your throat, so he's holding you still, grounding you in place.

he makes sure to stare into your eyes intently as he slowly sheathes himself inside you. he sinks in slow at first, just the thick, heavy head of his cock pressing into your fluttering hole, and you gasp, arms wrapping around his neck, eyes rolling back, feet digging into the seat.

you whimper, nails scrabbling at his shoulders the second he frees your hands to hold onto your throat and hips. he leans down to kiss you again while you adjust to his size, fat tip swelling at your womb while he rests inside you and swirls his tongue around yours. he starts to move, slow at first, hips rolling, grinding, both of you panting into each other's mouths, your thighs shaking with every bounce. he pulls back just a little to murmur against your lips, "oh fuck, fuck, fuck, you're tight. shit, this pussy's fuckin' choking me."

you cry out under him, overwhelmed by the stretch and the sensation of his thick cock splitting you open inch by inch. it burns, but it's good. your body clenches around him helplessly. "too much... mmmh.... s'too big," you babble, but your hips don't stop moving under him, fucking yourself onto his cock even as tears prick the corners of your eyes.

"yeah?" he groans, fucking you so deep you swear you can feel him in your stomach. "but you said please, baby. remember? begged me to fuck you. so take it." he bottoms in and out in rough thrusts that make your whole body jolt, ensuring each thrust has him fully inside you. you're so soaked that he slides in perfectly every time, your walls clinging to him deliciously while his cock also slips inside you with filthy, loud schlick's. he's sliding in like nothing, your walls clenching and sucking him in tighter with every thrust while your slick soaks his shaft.

the car rocks as he thrusts into you, his cock splitting you open with each thrust deep inside you. your pussy stretches slightly to accommodate to is girth, and he feels his mind numbing at the way your pussy slurps him in with each thrust. he groans loud, head tipping back and his hand squeezing firmer around your throat to make your eyes flutter. not for long, though. he likes to look into your pretty eyes while he ruins you.

"open 'em," he demands, squeezing a little on the sides of your throat to jolt you back to the present. he slams into you with a particularly rough thrust, your tits bouncing and head lolling stupidly at the feeling of being fucked dumb on the school loser's huge fucking dick. "there you go. such a good girl f'me, aren't you?"

"uh... uh... uhhuhhh...." you breathe out stupidly, drool slipping past your parted lips. you're GONE. fully gone. your fingers dig into his broad shoulders and then trail down his body, exploring his broad frame and muscles. before you look back into his eyes. he chuckles, leaning down to press a chaste kiss to your swollen lips, the gentleness contrasting the way he's pounding into you and holding your throat. "look at you." he hums. "forgot you're a disloyal little whore, didn't you?"

he snaps his hips up into yours, a small bulge forming in your tummy where he lodges his cock so deep inside you. "or maybe," he sneers, "you just don't care about anything but having your cunt stuffed to the brim."

you cry out, dragging him down so you can bury your face in his neck, and he kisses your jaw, fucking you while laying on top of you. "cum for me again," he demands, lips brushing your temple while his hips roll into yours. your legs tremble and curl around his waist, each thrust making your pussy flutter around him. you try to clamp down on him, but his girth makes it so difficult.

he's splitting you open with every drag of his cock against your raw, plushy walls. sobbing into his skin, he mumbles filth into your ear while his hands travel down to your waist and he drags your body up effortlessly so his cock is tilted up inside you, the perfect angle for him to hit that same spongy spot inside you over and over, making your mouth drop open in a silent scream. you clamp around him hard, fingernails digging into the firm muscle of his back. the pressure inside you winds tight, tight, tighter...

" 'm cumming!"

you explode around him, pussy convulsing around his cock. your whole body seizes, a strangled moan ripping out of you while you cream around him uncontrollably.

"fuck, fuck, look at you," he moans, watching your pussy pulse around him, fluttering on his cock like you were made for it. "holy shit, baby."

he pulls out just enough to see your slick gush after him before slamming back in, making you sob. he shoves your thighs up higher, practically folding you in half now, forcing you open wide so he can fuck even deeper. the wet, obscene sound of your cunt sucking him in grows louder with every thrust, echoing in the small space of the car, and he grits out, "you feel that? feel how deep i am? gonna fill you up, fuck, 'm gonna breed you."

your head spins and you nod frantically, moaning out broken, babbled yes's, even as tears slip from the corners of your eyes.

"fuck, fuck, fuck."

he buries himself to the hilt and cums hotly inside with a deep groan, heavy, fat balls twitching as he empties them deep inside you, so much at once that you can feel your womb filling up to the hilt. he keeps you locked against him so all of it floods inside you. "ngh... 's such a fuckin' perfect pussy," he groans aloud, mouth falling open as he keeps filling you and filling you and filling you until your belly distends just slightly from the volume of his cum.

you're gasping, clinging to him, body limp beneath him while you both ride it out together. he pants into your mouth, breathing hard, kissing you through the aftershocks. his voice is low, barely audible, wrecked. "mine. fuckin' mine. look what you do to me."

he stays inside you, twitching every now and then as your fluttering walls milk him, your slick and his cum seeping out around the base of his cock.

you make your way back to the football field with wobbly legs and your cheeks flushed. you tried your best to fix yourself up before going back, raking your fingers through your hair, redoing your mascara and touching up your lip gloss, praying it hides how swollen and red he made your lips.

you put your hair down so any marks on your skin aren't visible, not that your dumbass boyfriend looks at you close enough to be able to tell. the loner's cum is still hot and thick inside you, leaking a little down your inner thighs with every step, wetting the inside of your cheer skirt while the rest pools into fat globs in your panties.

the crowd is screaming loudly and your cheer girls are bouncing and huddled up with the football team. the whole field is lit up in bright stadium lights, and no one is looking around for you right now. you use it as an opportunity to slide in through the back fence and under the bleachers to act like you'd been here the whole time, and you go to where the other cheerleaders are. unfortunately, you weren't as subtle as you thought.

ava, one of the girls in your year that you usually hang out with at lunch squeals and grabs your arm. causing the other girls to quickly turn their attention to you too. "where were you?" she screeches. "coach was looking for you!"

you blink coyly, rubbing the back of your neck to give the impression of being embarrassed. "i just really had to pee," you lie "mid routine, but then i couldn't find the right bathroom, an' i got mixed up and all of them had super long lines, and i'm so sorry, i was literally crying the whole time-" you sniffle.

the girls coo over you. you're just too sweet and cute to be mad at. so sweet, that no one would ever think you just got fucked in the back of the school loser's car.

then, your boyfriend barrels into you, carrying the unpleasant scent of sweat from the exertion he produced while on the field. he yells your name and picks you up with both arms around your waist, causing a fresh scoop of cum to trickle out of you. you squeak, hoping it's not noticeable, and he spins you in a circle. "there you are!" he shouts, loud and giddy, "my girl! babe, we fucking crushed it!"

he kisses you hard, and you giggle awkwardly, letting him brag about his win like he didn't just get cheated on for the past hour and a half. "i was watching," you lie with a perfect little tilt of your head. "I saw everything! you did so good!."

and that's when he walks up. he stands out of the crowd on his own, mouth red, eyes low, and hair a little mussed. there are faint lipgloss marks on his neck and jaw that he didn't wipe off.

he's walked in like nothing's happened, stopping at the edge of the crowd with his gaze locked on you very blatantly. you stare back while in your boyfriend's arms, and he follows your gaze and scowls quickly, arms tightening around you. "the fuck is that guy looking at?" he snaps, his voice obnoxiously loud. "why is he staring at you like that?"

you blink innocently, letting your eyes go all wide and confused. "who?"

"him," your boyfriend hisses, nodding over your shoulder. "that fucking creep. what the hell is his problem?"

you shrug, still looking at him, not your boyfriend. "um... i dunno... maybe he's high?"

your boyfriend scoffs, and tugs you in closer like he's marking territory. "yeah, well, he can fuck off. that fucking freak's probably just scoping out girls he can perv out on. probably watches porn in his room all day."

he doesn't look away from you, even as your boyfriend runs his mouth. you wonder if he can still smell your perfume on his hoodie. you hug your boyfriend back and lean into him, coaxing him to just leave it. he obliges and carries you back to the crowd to celebrate, and you look over your shoulder one last time to see him finally turn and walk away.

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rueclfer · 22 days ago

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PLUG KATSUKI WHO IS SOOO CUTE AND NONCHALANT BUT ONLY FOR U!!! rolls up and lights for you so sweetly but hates everyone else, charges people extra while all he charges u is kisses while he rolls

AAAAAAHHHHHH AAAAHHHHHHHHHH AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH thank u ily omfg THANK U

plug!katsuki // job fair

event m.list

you’re rocking back and forth on your heels as you see the bright headlights of katsuki’s car pull up in front of your apartment building. you can’t see through his tinted windows, but you're well familiar with the vehicle and wave as you approach anyways.

“hi,” you whisper once he rolls down the window, letting a gust of the perpetual weed smell in his car hit you in the face.

a whistle leaves his lips as he leans over the center console and eyes the outfit you had worn out to the club an hour prior. “throwing a party and didn’t even invite me?”

“we went out for someone’s birthday,” you correct with an eye roll, “you would’ve hated it.”

“would’ve hated it more than being woken up at 1am to deliver across town?”

“stop that. you said you were already up,” you lean into the open window with a pout, “you really didn’t have to, katsu, i already told you i wasn’t expecting you to say yes.”

“no shit i’m going to say yes to you,” he scoffs, “you know better than to think i won’t. get in.”

you don’t move or say anything until he cocks his eyebrow at you, almost ready to get out of the car and come over on the other side to open the door for you himself.

“i can’t sit and hang. i have guests over and they’re all drunk and feigning for a smoke.”

he presses his lips together in a tight line. maybe he would’ve enjoyed being dragged out for one of your friend’s sloppy birthday celebration after all- as long as it meant time with you if he couldn’t have it right now.

“how are you gonna smoke it, huh?”

“uhhh..” you trail, “through an apple? crush up an empty beer can?”

he gives you the look that only brings a sheepish grin to your face.

“sit with me for a little and i’ll roll a couple for you to take in.”

without missing a beat, katsuki reaches over and unlatches the passenger door, leaving you no choice but to slide right into your spot.

he doesn’t waste any time. from behind your seat, he pulls out a tray that perfectly fits in his lap. you’ve watched him do this countless times, but it never gets less interesting. you think he’s so type-a. he’s meticulous about his rituals, you don’t even bother asking him to let you have a go at it.

“you should teach me how to do this sometime,” you say, leaning over the center console and resting your cheek against his shoulder, watching his hands move seamlessly.

“nope."

“no?”

“no.”

“scared you won’t be useful to me anymore?” you chuckle, shifting your head to gaze up at him.

“can't risk losing business.” he shrugs.

“oh right. business,” you roll your eyes, “how much do i owe you? i’ll wire it over right now.”

katsuki scoffs out a chuckle and shakes his head, still fumbling with the cone in between his fingers.

“if you want to pay me right now, then you’re definitely gonna be late getting back to your little friends.”

your hand runs up the side of his outer bicep and to the back of his neck, rubbing your thumb back and forth against his nape. he sends you a side glance.

“not that i mind,” he quips.

you lean up against him and press a kiss onto the tender skin of his cheek. and again. and again until the tip of his ear is pink and he’s biting back a smirk.

“thank you again,” you mutter against his cheek.

“it's you. no biggie."

katsuki takes his attention away from the half stuffed joint to turn towards you, pressing his lips against yours for a split moment. you taste the remnants of the mint chewing gum in his mouth just as he pulls away.

"you should've invited me to the birthday thing," he murmurs, "i wouldn't have minded. even if your friends are messy as fuck."

"really?"

"mhm," he hums.

you fiddle with the hem of your dress for a moment, chewing on the bottom of your lip.

"do you want to come up then? people are probably just gonna smoke a little and then go home, but we can still hang out? if you're not sleepy?

he continues humming. he's pensively thinking and it only makes you more nervous, but his hands are still moving as if rolling a joint was muscle memory at this point.

"yeah sure. but when you introduce me, i'm not your plug. i'm just yours."

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werezmastarbucks · 2 months ago

Text

three hugs

idol!yoongi x f!reader oneshot

oneshot

oneshot!!!!

You will do well to remember that Yoongi is in love with his job first; he is married to his music and is merely cheating with you. There's no space or capacity in his life for commitment to a human; only, the way he cares for you betrays his inconvenient feelings.

warnings/tags: FWB, unreciprocated feelings, jealousy, emotionally cold lovers, dual pov, aerophobia, lovers to exes to ???, drunk sex, cursing, emotionally unavailable Yoongi, hiking in Japan, smut kind of hits you in the face a little, but it's not super graphic?

word count: 12652

music: on the low by justin park, i like it by skz, spring attitude by sunwoojunga

author's note: guys i am stuck in dramatic present. break me out pls

"Shit".

"What?"

You slide the chapstick over your lips.

"It's mint".

Yoongi makes the curious cat-face, raising his eyebrows and pressing his lips together.

"Let me try?"

He found you on the balcony at one of the corporate parties. Those same parties where there was always one particular asshole recording things from under the elbow, in secret, for "reassurance". Thankfully, that evening didn't leak. Yoongi found you on the balcony when you were standing with your hand outstretched, catching rain, and he thought, thank fuck. A normal person. Some piano music was playing, reminding him of Mount Tate. It made him think of low Japanese pines and the fresh morning up above the ground. The droplets were gathering in your palm. You recognized his silhouette although you hadn't spoken before that. You were in too deep from the very beginning.

Now he is kissing you in the corridor of your Hannam-dong apartment, tasting the chapstick and making a face.

"It's freezing".

He's leaving first. You leave fifteen minutes later after his car is half way out of the neighbourhood. You aren't seen together in the street or establishments, unless it's an idol-approved restaurant where mobile phone use is banned altogether, and all the staff is on a massive pile of various NDAs. You do not get to hold hands or speak sweetly to each other, but he gets to watch his dick slide in and out of you, your lips wrap around it, gets to squeeze your breast and twist it, slap your thigh as you bounce on his lap, gets to mess your hair in his fist, yanking your head back, and you get to hear him produce god-fearing moans as he is orgasming under you. You do not date, you are four times removed colleagues and fuck buddies, and for the longest time it works well and boosts productivity tenfold. Stressed? Fuck. Depressed? Fuck. Yoongi can growl at his soundboard, then fall backwards onto his chair and keep falling until he lands head first on your lap. You are careful not to linger with your hand in his hair for too long lest he gives you that look that you don't like. When the tint of pleasure and casuallness slips off his pupil and he starts looking inside of you.

The reason is has been working so well was because you were both too busy and aloof to think about it. Two consenting adults, surviving on coffee shots and IVs, just trying to cum once in a while, and have someone around, who doesn't piss you off. Who doesn't know the people you talk shit about, so they don't side with them.

The fallout happened for you when you noticed him wrinkle his whole face as he squeezed a silicone slime, anatomically correct heart, in a futile attempt to "release the stress". Producer laughed at his snoot. You thought, oh, he's cute.

Oh, shit, he's cute.

Then the whole wagon of romance bullshit started filling your head and it felt like from then on you had about twice as much work. The load that feelings put on you cannot be overestimated. It's the constant thinking, even when you need to be concentrated. It drains the fun out of the sexual arrangement because now, instead of laughing at his jokes, you feel the fire at your ears and awkwardly giggle.

As he brushes his open palm across your hip in a mindless gesture, all of a suden, your whole body jerks, reacts, like a car starting all over again, like you've been zipped.

"Whoa. Haven't had enough?" he asks in the deep, rumbling voice that always gives you one promise. If you want, he can fuck for hours. Ten minutes in between rounds, glass of water, and he's good to go again. Yoongi is never stingy with compliments about your body; he always lets you know when you look breathtaking, and how the angle is to die for, and how nice your curves are, and how he appreciates you.

What he isn't generous with, is the actual connection.

On the day when you simply hang out in the same space, you, with your laptop, getting the documents ready, you decide to annoy him under the guise of being mad at everybody else. You're glad you have established earlier that you're an easily irritable person, because now Yoongi isn't suspicious when you seek his company.

But when you step to him from behind, completely misreading the atmosphere, and put your hands around his shoulders, he flinches. Yoongi never yells, god forbid, or even grunts at you, but instead, he turns around quite coldly, and says,

"Don't make it weird, okay? There was no need for that".

He shows you your place. You are, to each other, instruments. Friends almost, he enjoys your sense of humour when you're cool, and, preferably, naked. He respects your space and expects you to do the same with him. You know he is somebody who needs a lot of alone time. You are the same. The elite type of people who know how to be alone. But you have miscalculated that, after all the sixty-nines, maybe, a hug wouldn't be too out of the line. It is though.

It hurts you because you had already lost. The day when he found you on the balcony catching the rain and made an adorably cautious conversation, you had recognized his frame before he stepped into the pool of light, and you should have known that the cup will overflow and you will fall in love with him.

Like, it's ridiculous, who wouldn't? He constantly makes these funny faces, shaking his oval head, and crunches his nose, and is so quiet that it draws you in. When he comes over for the first time, the fucking doesn't start for thirty minutes because he is fixing a closet door that caught his eye. He is this... an effortlessly lovable, rare person. Emotionally shut, which you interpret as manipulation instead of a fact. His gaze tells you, yes, it only takes two screws. What's the big deal?

You are deeply hurt by his rejection, then a little concerned when he doesn't text for a whole week; it's getting dangerous because you don't know where the line is, that you shouldn't cross. You practice with his brothers: Namjoon seems to like you, and you tend to work with him a lot, sampling his voice and sending him variants. You learn this about yourself: casual touch isn't a norm at all, so it's fair that Yoongi got alarmed at it. You avoid touching people even when you are very drunk: no matter how soft, attractive, squishy they look, you tend to keep your hands to yourself. His suspicion in quenched after a bit, he starts looking you in the eye again as you play annoyance. Yoongi is the type to quietly retreat from an argument, to give up if it takes too much effort to battle; to pretend not to notice rather than confront. When there's a quarrel breaking out, which happens relatively often considering how many different people he is surrounded with, and him, having his authentic, strong opinions; when there's a fight, he visibly shuts off, covers his stomach with his arms and slightly turns around, checks out. Especially when it doesn't concern him or his band. Especially with people he doesn't love.

And he doesn't love you. He likes you, respects you, finds you very attractive for some reason. But he shows love in a completely obvious, unmistakeable way. You know he loves Jimin because he never flinches when Jimin assaults him with hugs. He loves music because he spends all of his waking time with her; he speaks about music; he sees the world through her. He loves mountains, and it's simply easily readable in the way he looks around sometimes. He opens up rarely, and when it's about something that he wants to do, it's usually going to the mountains.

He doesn't love you because it's inconvenient, stressful and isn't booked in his schedule. In his daily life, almost every minute is dedicated to doing something. Even sleep is rationed; he knows what time he eats and what time he showers. There's very little space for improvisation, and at first you felt sorry for him. Because, even though you work in the same place, you are simply an office rat. You walk around the building teaching language models and giving them idol voices. You have days off, evenings off, lunch time and a circle outside work. You can walk the street without covering your head with a hood, a hat, glasses and a mask. You used to feel sorry for him because you thought Yoongi and his other boys were kind of victims to their jobs, but soon learnt that his insane schedule is his own doing. He made it. Training, gym, English, Japanese, guitar, vocals, piano, doctors, meetings, shooting, repeat. Asking him why he lives like that would be stupid. It's because he loves it.

You close up. Losers are left with feeling the sorrow and like the third wheel. That's what you get for catching feelings when you never wanted them in the first place. You're not star-struck: you see him in his least glamourous, in the mornings when he is so groggy that he looks like an old man, dragging his feet around the room, struggling to find his own pants. His hair is all but dead, dry, burnt, occasionally it gets softer when his hairdresser undertakes emergency treatments. You stop thinking of Yoongi as an idol three months into fucking him. That part of his life is constantly present, of course; you even get to see him in his public persona from time to time, but he feels like a different person then. Yoongi is just - surrounded by limits, often a physically unreachable lover, that you happened to get a crush on. You keep on living, having this affair, thinking that the feelings, undeveloped, tend to die sooner or later.

The only thing you can't forget is the look he has given you when he refused your hug. You're not enough to have the right to distract him from work. You aren't loved enough to nag on him or call him without a purpose. You should remember your place. He does good in not invading your space, so what's your excuse?

Otherwise, he's a good guy. Yoongi is generally kind and patient with everybody. If there's a choice, he chooses to do good.

─────────────────────────────────────

Like now.

You click your tongue and swipe the web page closed.

"Hm?"

Your favourite band is touring across Europe without thinking of dropping by your place, or at least somewhere in Asia.

"I can even get the tickets, but flights are too expensive because it's the season".

"Berlin?"

"Yeah", you reply absent-mindedly.

"I can take you. I can go there earlier".

"Don't you have the show in May?"

"They've asked me to choose the date, and I haven't decided yet", Yoongi stretches his arms, then falls on the side like a cat, pressing the top of his head to your ribs as his hand tickles them under your other arm. You shift. He knows you don't like tickling too much and does it when he wants a reaction. You clutch his hand shortly to tell him to stop, and his palm settles.

"But we have to go for three days then".

"I can't get time off work. On Monday I need to be back".

"Tell them you're sick".

You brush it off. It's not a big deal anyway. Yeah you haven't been to concerts in years, but you're not seventeen anymore. Life doesn't make it easy to constantly give in to all you desire. You don't have the power to move events like he does. Your hand instinctively touches his hair, and you manage to swipe through it once, before you catch yourself and let go. Yoongi isn't prickly at all, but that one time was more than enough. You don't need to be told twice.

"You know I can't just clear my schedule like that. They need me".

Even though your brain starts working immediately, weighing options, creating loopholes. Maybe you can say you have an emergency, or even leverage Yoongi himself telling them that since he is taking you out of the kindness of his heart, the management should give you a Friday and Monday off. He sighs without making it too sincere.

"You got time to think until tomorrow afternoon".

"Don't adapt for me".

"It's not a problem".

He leaves as usual, quickly and tidy, and you're thinking about the band. You haven't seen them in such a long time. If you get a free shot at going, you should probably take it. You shove all the other reasons deeper and out of the way because you know when Yoongi is working, he is all but absent.

By midnight, you send him a message saying you have dealt with it. He texts back a thumbs up. Asks if you need a ticket, too. Offers to go with you, and you don't take it as anything because when Yoongi is with you, he is actually nice. He is the kind of person who will offer help and then won't pout when it's accepted. You respond to him that you will go to the pit to thrash your head and slam people around, and he retracts the offer.

Then next time you meet, it's already on the private jet. You're taken to the plane fifteen minutes earlier by a security guy wearing flip-flops, while the airport is buzzing and waiting for Yoongi. You slither right through the crowd and to the gate, leaving them behind expecting the real star.

The star climbs up into the plane clutching his knitted hat in his hand and with a cup of iced coffee. Yoongi's eyes dart to the double seats on the other side where Mr Lee makes himself comfortable. You've chosen a single seat at the window, facing forward, so he crashes across the table from you, recalling vaguely that you are maybe afraid of flying. His memory is proven right when the take off begins, and he sees your face stuck to the window, hands clutching the armrests, mouth a lopsided smile like you're judging the gravity. He is sure there's something very loud going on in the airpods in your ears. He keeps observing, notifying with displeasure, that you're afraid for the most part of the flight, uneasy the whole way as the plane soars up, gaining speed and altitude, and then only mildly bothered for the other thirteen hours, only to get panicked again at the beginning of landing. As the runway approaches, he can see your chest freezing, like you are expecting to crash right into the ground, and he can't take it anymore: nudges your foot with his, pushing lightly, then leans over the table. You are too stressed to take an airpod out, so you just grab the hand that he puts out over the table, without taking your eyes off the land. The hold is so strong that Yoongi unwillingly imagines what it will be like at, say, childbirth. You will probably break his wrist.

"Why don't you drink before flight?" he asks, when the plane is firmly on the rest, as he stands up to get his bag from a nearby seat. Mr Lee leaves the plane with the manager and the stylists, to check if everything is ready.

"I get sick if there's turbulence. Once vomited all over a tiny Ryanair plane, it was horrible", you mumble. You feel positively exhausted after an excrutiatingly long flight. Yoongi had motioned towards the bed in the front segment of the plane, but you can never sleep while in the air: it's like the only thing keeping this thing going without nose diving is your pure terror.

"Jimin is coming, too. He wants to show up at the second performance", he remembers, "so you better fly back with us, too".

"Oh. The two us in one plane?"

He shrugs with a smile. Yoongi likes to note how you are a little similar to Jimin. He never clarifies in what ways; you don't work with his youngster a lot, so you have vague image of the guy. But you hear nice things about him, and like him by extention.

He hums instead of a goodbye, then leaves the plane as per Mr Lee's permission. You leave fifteen minutes later, when the arrivals hall is already clear, and the big SUV circles the terminal to pick you up on the corner. You feel happy after having survived yet another flight.

You attend your show and Yoongi attends his; only, while you're thrashing the life out of yourself in the pit to the favourite music, he is sitting like a good boy in the first row of a game, looking pretty. The next day, you would have left on your own to give everybody a surprise at work by showing up on time, but you weigh everything and realize that, if you were so terrified on a private flight, fifteen hours in commercial will be absolutely unbearable and result in some sticky mess. So you linger around Berlin, wander the city for the day after sleeping in, get cold in April weather, get caught up in the rain, eat some curry wurst and in the evening, go to see Yoongi's private performance for the lack of better things to do.

You hang around the dressing rooms before the performance, watching the stylists doll him up: it's always a pleasant sight. Brushes poking his button nose, he squeezes his eyes shut, moving the phone glued to his palm around. You know people are generally curious what the fuck he is constantly doing on his phone. Watches videos or plays mobile games. At the age of thirty-two, he already has several striking features of an old man, and the forecast doesn't look optimistic. Soon, he will start grumbling about the weather, too. His eyes dart to you as you start fidgeting with the coffee machine.

"Can I have one, too?"

"I am putting star anise in".

His stylist, a short quirky girl, turns around to give you a face full of disgust.

"Why?" Yoongi hoots. Like it's a crime.

"Experiment".

"You shouldn't have coffee now", his manager says.

"It tastes okay".

He is sent off to the tiny stage where he is going to entertain selected European fans and show off his average English. You wander around the place, expecting to see Jimin, who can't go on a week without his genius hyung's company. You heard he has a very packed month, promotions and too many rehearsals, all that while his knee injury isn't healed yet, but Jimin is always in a state of panic so he never wants to pedal back. Now he clawed three days out and darted from Seoul to Berlin to show support because he knows Yoongi doesn't feel too comfortable in Europe on his own. Even though he will never say. It's new information for you, and you have to constantly remind yourself you aren't entitled to it at all.

You find him in the smaller dressing room with monitors, observing Yoongi from a distance. There's a whole crew with the light and cameras swarming around him, while Jimin is hunched up on a chair, not even looking at the screens. His head is down, the lid of the cap hiding his face, hands in his pockets, one knee jerking up and down. You feel something like short-fused anger rise in you and don't think much before stepping in and getting into a shot.

"Hey", you look into the camera, then at the man trying to swerve around you, but you outpace him, making your way towards Jimin in little steps. You've seen this tiny guy at work often. Always running somewhere, his strong legs working. Always a smile on his face. You know much more about him from Yoongi who likes talking about his brothers. You know enough to want to protect him, which means, Yoongi always wants to protect him.

"Do you have to record him when he is like this?"

You can only see the tip of his chin, but then Jimin looks up at you, his eyes timid and glistening.

"He is upset. Is this content, too?"

You tilt your head, meeting their eyes. The crew starts grunting something quietly, cameras rolling.

"I am already in it, so I guess you'll have to delete it".

You sit down in front of him like he's a kid. Frankly, a lot of them look like kids. Most of them are only grown on paper, the age in their passports often doesn't respond to how they are. Many boys, stuck in the tender ages they have been traumatised in, by the company. Yoongi often acts like he is a mature twenty-year old which aligns with his debut age.

You put your hands on his knees and lower your voice.

"Who did this, Jiminie?"

The tone makes him chuckle immediately. He sighs like it's a relief. You're glad you have that sense of humour, coupled with your small size, that makes guys smile.

"I'm alright".

"Yeah? You just tell me who upset you, and I'll beat them up".

The recording crew retreats dissatisfied because you refuse to leave his side. Jimin throws them one cautious look and his face lights up just a little.

"Beat them up?"

"Yeah, I go to gym, bro, I punch the bag all the time".

His left knee shakes with his laughter. He adjusts the cap and takes the second hand out of the pocket of his hoodie.

"Thank you".

"No problem. I am a very angry person, I am always ready to protect pretty boys like you".

Yoongi returns to the dressing room a little sweaty, just a little agitated, his nervous system alarmed but satisfied with yet another linguistic adventure overcome without a catastrophe, and sees Jimin snicker at your words as your hands clutch his knees like he is the little princess and you're his suitor. He sees it from the door the handle of which he clutches, and he notices things instantly. How you smile, bowing to see his eyes, how Jimin's hand flies up to his neck, how his voice rumbles deeply to make him sound more manly. Yoongi also notices the tremor in his injured knee and walks over to join you.

As you see him, you stand up and give space.

Yoongi's hand caresses Jimin's head.

"Don't be upset about it".

"I let you down, hyung".

"You didn't. You're here, aren't you? I am happy you're here".

You step away quietly as Yoongi keeps comforting him, glowing in his white outfit, hair slicked back and with highlighter on his cheeks. Looks too much like a groom.

Back at the hotel, Yoongi keeps waddling in and out of the bathroom with a brush in his mouth, one hand in his hair.

"How was the concert?"

"You asked me yesterday and I told you everything", you reply, without taking your eyes off the phone.

"Right. You caught any confetti?"

"No".

"Why not? People gather them and stuff them in jars, you know. We always try to invent new shapes for confetti so that ours will have different jars with different confetti".

You look up at him. He looks like a guy you could spend the rest of your life with, and it hurts quite frankly. So cosy, handsome with his hair undone, plain white tee, one hand sawing something in his mouth with the toothbrush.

"You had coffee, didn't you?"

He shrugs.

"Why don't you ever babygirl me like you did with Jimin?"

A chuckle rumbles in your chest.

"You never show any weakness".

You see that makes him think, actually. Yoongi is probably too caught up in his life to notice such things, to pay attention to himself. He produces a short pondering hm and disappears back into bathroom. This chitchat pisses you off. He is usually way less talkative. Polite, friendly, but not very open. You don't like it when he acts like you have hope. The old grudge you have festers in you for too long, growing from a little childish sore into a sort of trauma. You avoid touching him for too long, talking to him about personal stuff. He usually doesn't respond anything, at best. Establishing limits in the beginning was kind of humiliating; he would take your hand off his shoulder softly, saying he will vacate you at once if you find someone serious. The same goes for him.

Now he gets into bed and his hand is on the top of your head, patting. His arm wraps around your waist as he pushes himself closer. These two days were too tiring and busy so you didn't have any sex, thus, it's even more intimate when he does this. You don't flinch, but instead tense your body up, bitterness a juice in your brain.

"Don't make it weird", you ask. Yoongi lifts himself up on an elbow to look you in the face.

"Huh?"

"I am uncomfortable when you hug me like this".

In the bluish darkness of the room, you can see his bewildered, surprised expression.

"Are you serious right now?"

And you know, you know his mind wanders back to that one time he flinched. Because you know he remembers.

You nod.

"I can't fall asleep with your arm on me anyway", you lie, "it's too heavy".

With a sigh in between his teeth, he removes his hand but doesn't turn away yet.

"What's gotten into you?" then pause, "is it because I told you to back off once?"

It's spectacular how for both of you, that one occasion is a sharp rock shining painful white of awkwardness and unspoken spite.

"Hey, I don't need you to repeat. But you have to respect the limits, too", you say calmly. You understand his shock, because nothing this evening indicated there were any problems. But the outburst is inevitable from time to time, simply because you react to his touch the way you wish you didn't. When it's not during sex, when it's not possessive, you have to ask yourself what's the reason for touching you at all. Yoongi sniffs through his nose.

"Isn't it a little too dramatic? You're really sore about that?"

"I am not".

"Then what's the problem? We sleep like this all the time".

"After we fuck".

"So let's fuck".

You fall back on your pillow and brush through your hair.

"Fine, Jesus", he closes up, and you breathe a sigh of relief. Yoongi does this very well, removes himself, it's not worth it. It's not worth being straightforward, and because he doesn't push, doesn't try to speak to you, you understand his touch, in fact, didn't mean anything. You're one of those soft, warm breathing pillows that help the sleeping. He simply turns around on the other side and purrs like he always does when relaxing his whole body. He doesn't snore and is quite proud of it.

In the morning things are back to normal. It was a slight glitch; in the dark, you can both bury it and pretend nothing happened. Yoongi is allergic to being direct with you, it's all subtle. You see he avoids brushing hands by accident as he takes your bag and pushes it in the trunk; then by the time you make it to the airport, and you go first, he is casual and light again, happy to go home. He gives you one concerned look then says nothing, pushing the mask up his face even though he stays in the car. You go fifteen minutes before him and pass through the waiting crowd, invisible, efficient, led by the security guy in flip-flops.

Mr Lee enters the plane first, and he motions to you, looking you in the eye with a kind smile:

"Take that seat, by the window".

Yoongi follows him and nods at the double seats as well and you understand he wants to make the flight a little better for you. So you plunge in the wide seat at the window, looking outside at the greyish Berlin sky, unassuming white keeping your night trick hidden away. Yoongi sits down next to you, quite ready to fence if you start acting up again, but you don't. The fear of death is much stronger now. Jimin arrives unexpectedly because you have completely forgotten he flies back with you: he lights up the space, happier than yesterday, ruffles his raspberry-lilac hair and eases the tension. Yoongi's gaze clicks onto him and you are grateful for that. You can suffer in silence and alone. Jimin notices how wide your eyes are, and how you clutch onto Yoongi's hand that reaches out as the plane starts moving. The rain makes it worse: you look at the trees bending in the distance, thinking about how a wind like this can knock a vehicle off the course easily.

"You're scared of flying?"

He also asks this because seeing Yoongi hold someone's hand - a girl's hand - is remarkably unusual for him. He studies this clutch of interlocked fingers with curiousity, like it's an animal he thought was extinct.

"That's to put it lightly", you coo back. The plane gains speed, and you are pressed against the back of your seat. Primal horror snatches your breath.

"You know planes crash very rarely? This one definitely isn't going to. Carrying South Korea's most important producer".

His rambling doesn't help. On the opposite, it exposes how naive Jimin's thinking is. You apprecite the movement of his plump, smiling lips, trying to distract you, but he only makes it worse. The plane doesn't care who it carries; if it crashes, it crashes, killing everyone.

"The only dangerous times of the flight are the take off and the landing", he continues, thinking he is setting your mind at peace. You are well aware of that. And for now, you just so happen to be in the middle of a take off.

"Jimin", Yoongi hoots, "you're not helping".

"Sorry", he smiles sweetly, like a little shit. You chuckle at that nasty grin and look away at the window again. Luckily Yoongi's hand actually helps. If you die, you die holding the person you love. The plane dips slightly as the gear kisses the ground goodbye, and you squeeze it, begging silently. For some reason, he thinks of child labour again, wondering why he gets this specific association. The grip is so strong it hurts his hand, and he gives in to the pain, takes it, without realizing what it means.

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The sex changes slightly, and it's a sign you're doing worse. You can't help it when he is close to you, with the body you have come to know well and love a lot, you start shoving your face close to his to catch his breathing, and Yoongi seems to enjoy that, feeding into your delusion. He is a needy, universal lover, always down for some tenderness, who likes to be handled with care. Always a giver, a helper in everyday life, he replenishes the affection from you by being caressed and held tightly, without asking. Only, it hurts you when he does this - allows you to pull him closer, share a kiss that's too gentle as you come undone, because for several seconds it feels like you love each other. But it's a position that he comes to like a lot: you on his lap, faces pressed together as he hunches his back a little to be on the same eye level, to then fall on the side like in water, clutching to each other.

"We okay?" he asks out of nowhere. You look at his soft profile. His upper lip trembling a little, the lower part of his stomach contracting. You push his thigh with your knee.

"Yes? Why wouldn't we be?"

He nods like he is getting ready to jump into a well full of sharks, or go on stage. Closing his eyes for a second, then heaves himself off the bed, like he usually does. He doesn't like to linger, sensory overload of your sweaty body pressed against his. He takes a quick shower and then leaves tidying after himself, ready to work. He never has you at his place like it's too sacred, or like he has some secrets there. It's always hotels or your apartment, a car, a locked office with no windows. He says something about his home being too far away, and how inconvenient it is. He knows it's bullshit, and you know it too. You live in the same neighbourhood.

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Jimin keeps smiling and it suddenly pisses him off. Yoongi folds a napkin and attempts to make a swan out of it, but all that comes out is a plane. He taps Jimin on the shoulder and hands him his little present.

Jungkook's eyes widen at the sight of it.

"And for me? Me, hyung?"

Yoongi rolls his eyes, catching a stare from Taehyung, too.

"Is it his birthday?" the second youngest demands.

"It's not Jimin's birthday", Jungkook confirms.

"What's that for?" Jimin asks, quite pleased.

He wants to jab him playfully, so naturally, it's a bribe: stop staring at my girl. It baffles him. His guts drop. Like when he realizes two meetings clash on his schedule. In that case, after a second of panic, he takes a deep breath and calls his manager. Now, he can't call his manager and say, hey, there's an inconvenience. I don't like the way Jimin can't seem to shut up about Y/N after she touched his leg and smiled at him in Berlin. This glitch is all his. And he closes up. Feelings, undeveloped, tend to die on their own. Whether he needs them is out of question: he doesn't. He's been doing that naturally; of course he'd developed an innocent crush on someone he has sex regularly with. Without it, he wouldn't be able to do that properly. He's a feeling, inspired human, artistic: he can't do it without trust. That's how his head works at least. This kind of light infatuation adds to the sex, it makes it truly relaxing and non-stressful without needing to act on it. Of course he feels something. It's a kind of a driving force in his work, as well.

The real problem arises when there's someone else in the equation.

─────────────────────────────────────

Namjoon is focused like a hawk as you fight for your life. You hate losing; perhaps something from childhood when your cousin constantly beat you and then gloated about it; there was a saying in your family, as a game was over, if you can't work your brains, work your hands. The loser shuffled the deck back in order. You hated being the loser. But against Namjoon it is impossible. He beats you every time, although thankfully, he isn't an asshole about it. But allowing himself to throw hands in the air victoriously. You smile about it, press your jaws together, crunch your nose to laugh it off.

You rarely play cards at all, maybe only in the breaks like these, while the laptop is working and you have to wait; and the foyer is realtively empty, and the disposition is relaxed. You have a coffee at your side on the low table, and the faint music creates a comfortable bubble to lose to your friends at a game of cards. You strike the table with the rest of yours, and Namjoon smiles with dimples, pacifying you.

Yoongi takes his place.

"Rematch".

He is surprisingly bad at it. To the point where his friend is at his side, pushing him with his thigh, so that Yoongi has to scoot over on the small couch to let the giant sit next to him.

"Yoongi hyung, but there's a..."

"Shh. I have a strategy".

You observe his eyes above the cards as he glances at you. The feral looks you give to each other are fun. Namjoon hums something when Yoongi has to scoop the cards and take them to himself, losing more and more.

"The strategy sucks", he muses.

"I know what I'm doing".

It makes you concerned but you beat him in the end with a little bit of wit, and at least it's not too humiliating. Namjoon gives him a look, then turns away, and there are dimples again. The banana palm on your side throws a shade on the table as the sun moves across the sky outside. You look at them both as your nostrils grow in size.

"Oh you let me win, didn't you?"

You lean over the table to get to him and see the cards, but Yoongi moves away, then takes the deck and starts mixing.

"I wish. Maybe I'm just bad at it".

Namjoon stands up with a swing, still with that shit-eating grin on his transparent face. Thing about him, he's not good at three things: acting, keeping secrets and lying. His eyebrows give him away every time.

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For you, it's like living. The feeling of love is a familiar thing to you, especially with him. He is a warm, unique human and as long as you meet from time to time, it's only half-way bad. You have things to distract you from it, and you postpone doing something about it, like breaking this arrangement. Maybe next month. Maybe next month again.

For Yoongi, it's like falling. Like his house of cards crashing down. Carefully curated existence spinning out of control. Control is very important to him: he likes to have control over his personal affairs. He likes to know what he is doing every minute of the day. He doesn't have obsessions; doesn't have urges that control him instead. Even though he is a feeling human, he isn't a victim to his desires. Now all of a sudden the peace is tilted, and he snaps. It's like a foot catching air instead of a step. He simply doesn't have time for this, it makes no sense. Feeling in love seems to him like someone demanding giving up his work and his freedom, and he will never do that. It actually makes him aggressive, feels like invasion of his space, and he doesn't like that. How dare you clutch the shirt on his chest in your fist, making those eyes he knows he isn't able to resist, saying "let's ruin it?" Will you buy him a new one? How dare you groan at your computer in a way that makes him so hard that he hits his dick on the desk, trying to stand up? How dare you have that laugh that sounds like gripping his hand, giving birht to his babies?

Love is a thing idols cannot afford. It's nonsense for others. He, he has a goal. A point to his existence, he has something to say and something to prove. It's below him to settle like the peak of his life has been reached, and all his ambition satisfied. Far from it. He gets angry with himself when he lets you beat him in a card game because he doesn't understand himself where the impulse came from. It's not that deep.

He breaks it off. Says he doesn't have time anymore. He memorizes your eyes when you size him up and say,

"I figured".

Although there was no indication before, because you were "okay". He lets it slide, the way you let go of him too easily, without questioning it, almost with a sense of relief. He tells himself it's not his burden anymore, and it should clear his head and lighten the load. After all, the affairs like these are often doomed from the start. One of you might fall in love, or meet someone else, or just grow tired. It's not supposed to be for life. He goes back inside his mind and assesses things left after you: memory of your elbow, twice smaller than his; hairs on his hoodie; the feeling of mountains; a new type of coffee: milk, cinnamon and star anise. He's sure there's more, but the feeling of frustration, like he was about to sneeze and never did, floods him and blocks his brains from thinking.

There's also mint. He remembers it when Jimin comes in one day smelling like it. Yoongi gives him a long look as his shoulders go cold.

"Hm?"

He shakes his head nothing.

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He also gets dreams. They aren't exactly dreams - rather, the lingering visions in his eyelids when on the brink of falling asleep. Pleasant pictures of something he regrets losing; if only there was a way to keep his emotions out of it, he'd watch your stomach contract under his hand forever. Gentle, careful knot of your belly button. The muscles in your sides flexing, soft birthmarks scattered on the skin, the tasty curve of your hip. He dreams again about that one evening when he paid a visit, but was in such a good mood that you ended up cuddling; he couldn't get enough of the sight of your ass in the underwear, squeezing, while you watched funny videos on his phone, and you laughed, thunderously, into his poor ear, snorted with laughter, your body shaking, until he suddenly started noticing the scent of your hair, too.

That's the adult way out: everybody has feelings. The choice is whether to act on them or not; you think, your feelings are only your business and nobody else's. If Yoongi asked, and you feel that at some point he was close to that, you'd tell him to fuck off and mind his affairs. You get to keep what you have inside your head.

Now, as he enters the studio with the hood on, you feel perfectly balanced and calm. Love hasn't hurt you as much as this man; he takes off the hood and you nod to the booth, and he casually follows your instructions. You step after him and hand him a sheet of paper. He's been to a facial recently, you can tell. His nose pores are clear and he's glowing, giving him a slightly pouty look. Smells like star anise. Imagining hugging him in his car as it's raining outside, hiding your face in his clean hoodie, his hair obedient under your palm, is so simple you could draw a picture if you had any talent for it.

"Read from here when you see the green light".

"I know how recording works", he chuckles, a little shy. You smile back and brush him off. He picks on the skin on his thumb and you shake his hands apart out of the habit you haven't smothered yet. However, he complies and puts them in the pockets, looking at the paper. You leave the booth and go to the laptop where you get ready.

"In Japan, women are considered superior divers", he begins reading, his voice unfiltered by his acting. Yoongi has many voices, you've heard most of them you think. The favourite of yours is the purring request he used to send straight into your ear canal, pressing his lips against the side of your head: turn to me, I want to see your face. His speaking voice betrays his origin, and you specifically asked that he drops the Seoul accent when recording. So it's authentic Min Suga, hands in pockets, hair on his eyes, head slightly moving with his own rhythm he weaves easily.

"...due to distribution of fat in their bodies and ability to hold their breaths underwater. Pearl fetching was a dangerous business and required light, swift, nimble women who could at the same time withstand the harsh underwater conditions. Very often they would swim up all blue, but pearls tucked neatly in the pouches on their waists. Gifts of the sea have never been easy to retrieve".

He is done in fifteen minutes, reading overall two pages of text. You can see he's not worried and stressed. Probably sleeps well; he unzips his hoodie and takes it off because it's a bit hot in the studio - you get cold sooner and easier than other people. As he pulls it off himself, the shoulder tugs on the hem of his T-shirt and exposes a bit of his skin, and you see a dark-blue bruise.

"Tsk".

He leaves the booth, turning his head like a mill, a little distracted.

"What?"

"That's such an asshole move".

When there's nothing to lose, as you've lost him already, you actually feel more liberated to speak your mind exactly as it feels. Yoongi is a bit lost, looking at you.

"Huh?"

"So big, as well. You told me you have no time for that business anymore?"

You actually pout, feeling shockingly indifferent. Your feelings have been, so to say, stomped upon, dull under all the cruelty.

His hand reaches for his shoulder as fingers send the impulse back into the brain, and he stretches,

"That- I'm a big boy, alright?"

You cock your eyebrow shortly.

"Could've just said you don't like me personally", you download the file containing his voice and begin renaming it according to the protocol.

"That's not it", he even puts the hoodie back on. "On the opposite, it was getting too personal".

"I agree. I am just surprised you found someone else so soon, that's all", you mutter, your eyes on your work. He hums. Retreats, it's what he does best. Slithers quietly through the door after making sure he is done here.

You tell him he is, hissing the words with a stretch, giving them double meaning.

Yoongi leaves, hands pulling on the sides of his zip-up hoodie, up and down, up and down, thinking about the idiocy of it. He's finished filming a Run BTS episode yesterday, where punishment was cupping. He's lucky he only lost once. Taehyung was roaring with pleasure as he vaccumed the fuck out of his shoulder. What would you say if you saw the back of Namjoon, who lost five times?

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Yoongi believes in karma and all that shit. Especially when he's drunk; he keeps thinking about that little misunderstanding and how your cheeks pouted as you stared into the laptop, accusing him of getting hickeys a week after he ended the arrangement. He's not feeling guilty or anything, but it's unnatural for him to not keep things straight. Although with you, he thinks, there's already so much shit tangled that he could as well just leave it be. First of all, never talked out that weird rejected hug incident; then again the breakup itself, like walking on the straight road and sudeenly falling into a manhole. He's not in the habit of leaving things piled up, but he just can't seem to learn to be direct with you. It's bad enough you make him horny like he is going through puberty again, you also tie his tongue down. He preferred to keep it deep inside of you to avoid talking at all. After all, that was the deal.

When he starts getting drunk at the Another Billion party, this awkwardness returns to him and he gathers all his might and good will to search you out and tell you what the bruise was about. He is ready to drag the other members with him so that they vouch for it; he finds he doesn't need to do so, because Namjoon and Jimin, of course, are already glued to you. Next to an ugly black-glass sculpture supposed to represent an idol throwing their arms up. Namjoon is swaying, he can't take his alcohol. Jimin is sturdier than him, but is also red in the neck; both listening to you with their mouths slightly ajar. When you talk, people around always listen, and Yoongi hates that, too. That this ability of yours, together with your body, your deafening screeching laughter, your iron grip, your moans, your fears, the mint of your lips, don't belong to him. He doesn't want any of it - but it sucks that other people get to experience it, too. He almost goes blind for a second, slapping his glasses back to his face, as the idea of Jimin knowing what the chapstick tastes like, crosses his mind.

"...that I was a huge black dragon. This is the best dream I've ever had in my life", you enunciate, making sure they are listening to you. Both Joon and Jiminie are so out of it, it makes you shake with the laughter you push down for the sake of the story.

"I was big, I felt big, I remember the feeling of absolute freedom" (Namjoon has exactly one hiccup) "as I was flying above the Aegean sea during black storm. Black dragon, black storm, the waves were gigantic".

"How did you know it was Aegean sea?" Jimin asks.

"I had this dream when I was staying in Greece. It's also my favourite sea".

"Yoongi really likes mountains", Namjoon mutters. You stare at him for a second.

"Okay?"

"Continue".

"And I was flying around, laughing out of happiness, I was so elated I actually laughed, and I was throwing these black pearls into the sea..."

"Sea and mountains", Namjoon continues, funnily, "nuah?"

"Are you sure it wasn't Black sea?" Jimin tries to ignore his hyung, putting his hand on Namjoon's chest as the leader starts to tilt forward.

"I mean you were black, storm was black, the pearls were black..."

You purse your lips because he makes a good point. In between their heads, you see Yoongi adjust his glasses and glaring at you three like you are dismembering a freshly caught deer with your bare hands.

"What's up with the nerd slut?" you nod at him, and the two turn around. The blood rushes back from Jimin's neck as his face lights up in a smile. His imperfect teeth make his smile infectious.

"Yoongi-ah", he coos softly as the cloud approaches.

"I need to talk to you", you can hear he's had a two or six, or sixteen. Yoongi is way too good at drinking, he can take a lot of it and then be drunk for a lot of time, hiding it, and only burst if someone really pushes him. His eyes are glossy behind the lenses of his glasses.

"You tired?" Namjoon becomes perceptive when he drinks. Yoongi nods and extends his hand on the waist level. You do not take it but follow him as he nods in the direction of a quieter corridor. Big hall is booming with music and it irritates you both; everybody reacts differently to alcohol: Taehyung is throwing his ass around on the dancefloor for example. It's his celebration and he is allowed. You, you get more yourself you'd say. All your impulses become sharper. Your loudness becomes louder and quieteness, quieter. Your insecurities shine, but so does your wit. Your laughter becomes irresistible, Yoongi would say, but you never asked him to know about it. His laughter is always irresistible to you, just like his word. So, even though you are sore, hate him a little, feel like aching next to him, insanely jealous, when he calls, you walk with him out of the room, plunging into the lukewarm shade of the corridor.

You sneak away like two schoolchildren trying to act tough. We need to talk. Sounds like giggling to you, and you do. His thick neck turns to you. He's been working out again lately. Of course.

"I need to make something very clear", he begins, harder than you expected him to, and your spine shivers, at the same time with your knees wobbling. You don't know if you're intimidated or upset. You must unintentionally give him a rabbit look, because he stops abruptly, looking you in the face.

"The... that? I was cranky, okay? It was one time".

You struggle to catch what he means exactly, having a moment of complete lack of clarity. All you see is his full lips letting a breath out.

"What are you talking about?"

"You know what, why have you been punishing me for that this whole time?"

Your brows go up, brain struggling, because you just keep thinking about that hickey on his shoulder. And it makes you angry that he's irritated, and agitated after drinking. You can bet you have way more beef with him than he with you.

"Big deal, I brushed you off once, you need to get over your pride some time. Like it's cracking me that that's what you've been hung up on. Becasue I told you to back off, you've been refusing to hug me for six months?"

You bang the back of your head on the window glass as you throw it up. The last thing you need right now is lectures and complaints, but it's refreshing that Yoongi would speak in such long sentences.

"You replaced me already", you hum, like it's an unbeatable argument that is made of gold.

You hope he shuts up and decides to douse the tension in one last hookup. You're down for it. Arguments are tiresome and feel unnatural with him, the guy who prefers to tuck everything in and walk away before it spills out. You realize he isn't actually talking anymore, but his eyes are studying the window behind you as if he's considering breaking it.

"And you replaced me?"

It sounds like a half question, like he's not sure. The intonation going up. Suddenly you think of whales and their gentle, lonely calls, but also, about the wind, whistling in between the crooked branches. The 'fuck it' is announced without being uttered, as your hands reach in the half-dark for his pants. He isn't wearing a belt so your fingers crush into the hem of the jeans and go straight to the button. Yoongi's palm covers them, squeezes your fingers almost with rage, stopping you roughly, but he steps closer, and the last thing you see is the frame of his glasses. He kisses you, at the same time as you kiss him, mumbling something about the last time, just to be sure, your mouth opens simultaneously with your legs. Yoongi's hand slides off yours and grabs your side aggressively, hungrily; a month was the longest you'd gone on without jumping each other's bones, so it's not the withdrawal. It's something else. You tug on his jeans, unsure to unbutton them because you've read his gesture clearly. There's people behind the door. He lifts you up with one arm and sits you on the window sill and your arm snakes around him, touching the back, fingers clinging to every inch of his thick, white, moving body. Kisses slurp in bites, his tongue makes you dizzy. He has never kissed you like that before; not when he was needy, not when he was very horny, not when he was vulnerable which didn't happen often. Guess it's one of the bright colours of making out with a human; they surprise you. The love rises from the depths of your guts, making its painful way up, and you bend and lean against him, trying to feel his body pressed to yours. Yoongi's hand clutches on the top you're wearing like he's trying to tear it off you.

"Do they know it was once covered all over in my cum?" he grunts against your cheek, and your spine shakes like he's done a spell on it. Tiny shivers under his fingers. You grab his neck.

"I don't casually go around telling that to people".

His warm, hard hand sneaks under the fabric, fingers count the ribs, then pinch them, and his mouth slides lower, across your cheek and to your throat. You wish you could stay there forever. The blue and green in your inner mind, darkness around, and Yoongi clinging on you like he's turning during the full moon. You hear his glasses click against the plastic as he takes them off, then his hand returns to the small of your back and presses. He smells so familiar already that it feels like it's going to be your doom; you know all his scents, you're afraid. Eros by Versace, white vanilla detergent on his clothes, blueberry chewing gum, the leather of his car, cloudberry conditioner in his hair, and the skin smell, the clean smell that he has, the perfume no one can replicate and you can't explain. Unfortunately you love all of them, really love in the most genuine way, and it makes you sob all of a sudden, but you mask it as a moan. Yoongi hisses, letting go of your neck, and his hand makes its way up to cover your mouth. In the dark you see his eyes as he kisses the back of his palm. Can he even love you the way you have come to love him. Is he capable of that, with his fixation on his work. Constantly caught up in thinking about how to round up the beat, and how a bridge will come out, his head poking out above the chair, is he even capable of loving someone. He pulls you, your legs made of wool, deeper, looking for an empty room with a lock, and, preferably, optionally, without a cctv hidden somewhere in the foot of a desk.

You barely pay attention to the room; the dark eats away at it. You two, connected at the mouths, hands on each other's ribs, in each other's hair, stumble backwards, like a limping monster, trying to find a place to land. The space around spins; there's nothing but Yoongi, and if he pulled you after himself into a chasm, you'd only clutch his hand tightly. He kicks something behind you, and your calves feel the soft of a couch, and it's the signal to turn. Yoongi crashes onto it, making the vision you've had a fraction of a second ago, reality: you fall, fall into the darkness, guided by his well-studied hands, tracing the veins on the backs of his big palms, a little dry. The shape of them holding you tightly is something you want your mind, drunk or sober, to never forget. You might not have him after this, tomorrow, but now you land on his lap, knees spread, his hand on your back under the crop top, scratching lightly with his short-cut nails. His fingertips are the best - slightly rough from guitar, but sensitive; Yoongi has memorized all the spots on your body, dividing it into "yes-no-maybe" zones for scratching. He knows the "yes-yes" zone just around your spine, it makes you arch your back as you grind your hips against him. You like him for not being too chatty during moments like these; his breathing lets you know. The hardening of his cock is obvious through two pairs of jeans. Falling apart, you think about the mess of it all: you don't have any spare clothes, no extra underwear, and this one is already no good, soaked through. Your hands grab the back of his head again and hold on for dear life as Yoongi guides your hips against his, forehead pressed to your collarbone, your gentle mid-sized giant with dry, soft hair and prominent neck muscles. His shoulders, lean, strong, work under your hands, wet mouth grabbing at your breast through the top. He can't see shit without his glasses or lenses, and especially so in the relative dark, where the only light comes through the windows from the nearby buildings; so sensory study is all that's left to him. When Yoongi is ready to undress, he usually produces a sort of a tired sigh-groan, and then his fingers start pinching at your flesh. But now he doesn't. The alcohol is spinning your head, the heat in your core pooling, and you sort of forget where what is. The only thing that matters is to find his puffy lips again, bearing the taste of mint and whiskey. You raise yourself to deepen the kiss, and Yoongi pushes you back hard, lifting his own hips to connect. The breath is caught somewhere in the ribs, shiver crunching the body, but his hand steadies you in comforting strokes. You are trying to breathe, you really do, but it comes out in gushes, sometimes audibly, as your fingers trace his beautiful face. Yoongi is so good at making you come undone; you barely control your own body, he becomes the puppeteer at the thunderous wave of your feeling. The arousal at this point is animalistic, coming up to your throat, making you mumble. Not talk - talking is banned in between you, but the unconnected shreds of words dripping off your lips, that he catches with his teeth, are okay.

"I want you".

"No, I want you more".

You feel his shoulder flex as he lifts your hips, depriving you of the pressure of his groin, and you immediately whine.

"Oh no, I spoiled you", he whispers, Daegu words blurring with each other, his voice a soft purr. He turns you, pushing on the stomach, and you lie down, and his hands start working immediately, mouth at its favourite activitiy: tracing the lines of your shuddering stomach. Yoongi undoes the jeans and pulls them down together with the underwear. His fingers plunge immediately into you, without a warning, and you produce a silent shriek. Hands searching for him, nails digging into the massive of his shoulders. Yoongi likes the way his own words sounded: I spoiled you. Likes the absolute mess that you are, squirming at his touch, he feels appreciated, wanted, needed. He never managed to make anyone like this before; he has made a quiet unspoken promise long time ago to never tell anyone about it. About how you seem to lose your sentience when his lips are below the solar plexus. He is in love with this sensation. He wants to keep it going, but can't; he can't think; he pulls down his jeans because he wants to fuck you senseless, fuck you into amnesia, and himself; so that tomorrow the things are easier and clearer; you're a blurry silhouette for him, moving against the sea of darkness, the buoy he's swimming towards, and the tighter you cling onto him, the better. He feels cradled, he feels loved. It feels hot inside of you, incredibly tight, you always wrap your legs around his waist like a monkey, trying to push him deeper even when it starts hurting the hips. The best thing - you both cannot come easily because you're drunk, so it just goes on and on, the swimming, the touching, your sounds blooming like flowers on fruit trees. He thinks of sampling them, putting them within the underbeat, masking them, but using them; he has been trying to figure out the beat that would describe the way he feels with you: sharp hip bone in his hand, the heel of your foot on his leg, the tasty chemical of your peach fragrance that he licked clean off your throat. It's the frustration of never finding the right melody, because making music requires love, and he is too busy to allow it to himself, so he just fucks like there's no tomorrow, apologizing through his embrace, dripping feelings off the tips of his hair.

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A whole month away is good. For Yoongi. He gets to travel across all Asia and do some hiking, turn his phone off and just be completely alone. Not to think, he doesn't want to think, he wants to have his brains blank and just see pines, and the slope of the mountain, the birds soaring above, and the flowers fluttering in the wind. But the thoughts come by themselves; he realizes it's a trap that he had set for himself. Because mountains remind him of you, and he finally starts understanding what exactly makes the connection. It's the feeling of freedom, good loneliness and realness that they provide.

Relationships are promises, ruined plans, unplanned arguments, ridiculous commitments and distractions. Yoongi knows himself very well: he is not a multitasking person, and when he is in love, which thankfully doesn't happen often, he is beside himself with the feeling, and it affects work. Sometimes positively, sometimes negatively. It's been so comfortable, so well-organized - living in his independence bubble - that he is pushing the ghost away, because the ghost is whispering scary things to him. Coffee dates; he imagines sitting with you in a place in Yongsan-gu and watching your face and your beaded necklace not matching your band tee. He imagines you in his hoodies; you have stolen none of them, you always abstained from going through his things, touching him too much, and now he realizes it was because he had pushed you away that one time. He imagines you'll be trouble, headache, high maintenance. If you had been sore, had held on that grudge for almost a year, over a thing he had almost forgotten. He imagines these fights will make him feel so alive. You riding in his car, on your phone; cooking; lying in bed with one knee across his belly - all those things have already happened, but from sensual they are now turning warm. Yoongi understands he is losing, he is already taking this weight upon himself, little by little, because in the mountains he refuses to wear his earbuds and listen to music, and the silence is the ghost that follows him around, hammering the truth he's been avoiding into his brain. He imagines your hand gripping his palm, so hard that he yelps in pain, as you turn your face away, and the line of your jaw exposes the little birthmark you have on your neck. He's been kissing that birthmark in secret for months, pleased that you will never guess why he's choosing that very spot specifically.

You brew a coffee. Every time you're bored, the recipes become more and more complex, you keep adding ingredients until the coffee either sends you to heaven or is undrinkable. By now, there's cinnamon, star anise, almond syrup, and now... you're eyeing mint like it's about to jump you. Yolo, you think, and add a little mint, and it's still a success. You're becoming a coffee extraordinaire, you think; even if no one else appreciates your inventive mixing skills.

Jimin is there, of course; cruising around you like an albatross, appreciating every little thing about you. But his presence is breezy, light: he is a natural flirt and it doesn't set off any of your alarms. It seems he simply likes being around you. You see glasses case that he puts in another hand as he takes the coffee from you.

"Never seen you wearing glasses for real?" you're surprised.

"These are not for me, I picked them up from the store for hyung. He doesn't leave his little evil studio these days, got back to the 7AM schedule".

He shrugs. 7AM schedule with Yoongi means he works all night and goes to sleep at 7AM for about three hours, then gets up and goes back to working.

"He never found his glasses?"

"No".

"Somebody must have stolen them", you muse, recalling how they were left lying on the window sill.

"It's weird, normally he only loses things if they cost more than a thousand bucks", he snickers. You're expecting a feedback. Jimin's tastebuds have proven to be professionally sensitive: he is picky with food and always gives an honest opinion of the coffee. He frowns first, his huge eyes focused on the cup, full lips moving like he's chewing. Jimin is charismatic while doing nothing, and he definitely wouldn't have a problem with you, so you wonder why you can't just unlove Yoongi and fall for him instead. Or better, for nobody at all. Even in his brother's face, you're searching for his familiar features, but there aren't any. Jimin looks like a genie who will grant your wishes in the most perverted way so that you'll feel sorry after.

"It's... good?" he is, himself, shocked. "It makes me want to go to Morocco".

"That's an unorthodox review".

"You should get a patent. Name it Faux Morocco Latte and you'll be rich".

"I already have a rich inner world".

He chuckles ironically at that, keeping the cup close to his lips. His phone rings.

"Oh, there he is. I think he needs his glasses", Jimin ignores the call from Yoongi, putting his phone on the desk. "Let him wait a little, right?"

He pats you lightly on the shoulder, like he is siding with you on something. Like that one friend who is ready to smother your ex with her bare hands without needing to know the details. You are slightly bothered by it.

Yoongi lifts his arm and puts his hand into his hair, his eyes fixated on a spot on the desk. The underside of his shoulder is tense, he freezes in this position, thinking, and you can't avoid looking at him even though your eyes move. Your spot is never next to him, it's always a little away, in the back, not at the table. You do not see it as derogatory: without your work, they can't do it, and the hierarchy is there for a reason. When idols are present during the meetings with usual staff like you, everybody feels sorry for them. There go the scapegoats, the puppets, the clowns. Everybody is nice to them because they all have two features: beauty and lack of autono-

"I don't give a shit", Yoongi says calmly.

You doodle in your pad; these meetings are a must, and most often not a word is spoken about your area of work, so you just kill your time looking at Yoongi; at least something. Now everybody is looking at him.

The manager raises his eyebrows. He looks tired all the time.

"Sorry?"

Yoongi leaves his hair alone and places his hand on the desk, wrist caught in a hair tie.

"I said I don't give a shit about the deadline".

Namjoon purses his lips producing dimples. His silence indicates that he agrees with Yoongi. One by one, Bangtan Boys usually stand behind each other, but it always takes a first brave mouth to say something outrageous. Taehyung is rubbing his lower lip absent-mindedly. Yoongi's eyes are puffy, he gives the manager an unaffected shark-like stare that masters openness and simultaneously, stubbornness of a rock.

"It's there for a reason".

"We had discussed the update, and Taehyung hasn't slept in three days".

Taehyung doesn't even hear him.

"What about you?" manager asks softly, trying to lead Yoongi away from his deadly determination.

"I'm working. I'm fine".

His eyes start searching the room, landing everywhere except you. You cross your legs and go back to your pad.

"A week is fine", Namjoon adds, to defuse the tension. After a little back and forth the manager gives up. He always does; he's not the real boss here. Everybody gets up, the important people first: manager leaves the room pacing, hurrying to implement the schedule corrections, J-Hope leaves darker than a storm cloud, which is unusual for him; you gather your things from the floor: you're in a habit of just putting your bag and phone next to the chair since you're sitting at the glass wall. The line at the door gradually disperses and you walk to exit the meeting room but Yoongi turns his head, still sitting, and looks straight at you with a completely different stare. He doesn't say anything, so you just look at him and move on, but Taehyung closes the door in front of you like he didn't notice, and walks away. You see his back through the grey-transparent glass.

"Y/N", Yoongi sounds tired, more tired than he did a minute ago. His back hunched, he is softer, more undone.

"Huh, CEO?"

In spite of himself, he gives out a smile, and his teeth scrape over his lower lip, which makes you wince.

"What do you want?" you say quickly, colder, trying to wrap yourself up, zip up, close up. His hand reaches out but you're too far away, ready at the door, wondering what kind of games he is playing. The fatigue is obvious on his face but thankfully it's not your burden anymore. It does pull on your strings though, so in an attempt to keep up the strength, you frown.

"You win", he says. His words are round, it's the best shape. "I lose".

He stands up, and you want to roll your eyes, not with annoyance, but with an overwhelming feeling of unwillingness. The labour of trying to get over him is draining you like there's a huge gash somewhere that's dripping blood. Every time he is in close vicinity of you, the stream becomes only bigger, it's mentally tiring. Fighting feelings is exhausting. Yoongi is reaching for you, his face an impression of quiet need, and you try to avert his arm, a crusty cut on his elbow, gently. He goes for a timid hug with one hand and you grow stiff, putting up your shoulder. You end up straining your neck, chin up while Yoongi performs the softest forced hug. He needs to press his forehead into you, because he hasn't eaten in twelve hours, and he is so frustrated and a little terrified, and you are the smell of home.

The man of few words. His actions speak much louder.

What's even louder is the music that's on the USB he shoves into your hand. You listen to it at home, sitting away from the laptop like it can see your embarrassed face going through motions. The beats are clean, the rawest you've heard. Yoongi has his own way of polishing music that always makes it crisp like the air in January. They have no words, because it's Yoongi. But the beats, the melodies, talk to you. They sound like the night you met, when you caught rain on your hand to soothe it. Sound like his voice filling the space of his car, and like the hiss of the coffee machine, like the shuffling of your sheets, and like the streets, muffled by the windows, hooting outside. His melodies sound like the wind and the voices of pine trees, their ancient blood singing inside the hard bark. Sound like the sea. The music he has written and named after you sounds like he is diving for pearls and swimming up, panting, like he has given up to something. It's the crack of your hip getting back into place, and the click of his phone, the purr he produces when falling asleep. It's his flowers. The dark circles under his eyes mean he has gotten over the block, and two days after giving the USB to you he calls, and there's an audible strain in his voice, because he is learning to speak:

"I can't give you all those things that are normal, you know".

"Like what?" you are spiteful, although you understand his regret. He doesn't even go grocery shopping. All food is delivered to his house. Last time he got to walk around the city, he got ecstatic and wouldn't stop talking about it for weeks. He was like a child, describing the feeling of the asphalt in Gangseo-gu next to the botanic garden under his foot; you felt deeply sorry for him. Right until the point he mentioned having to borrow the jet again, because he wants to go visit a friend in America.

"Like walking home from a bar at night together, like, holding hands".

"Sounds like it's your fantasies".

"That's all I have".

You tell him you don't want to be the glaring vortex hole in his schedule, sucking in meetings, messing up sleep, putting a strain on the well-spinning parts of the mechanism. He replies it's too late for that. And for once, he actually sounds happy.

─────────────────────────────────────

He points his finger:

"The line where the red roofs end? That's the Osaka Bay".

"If I get a really good start", you muse, "and have like a very big umbrella, can I jump and glide all the way there?"

He thinks about it seriously. Squirms his face in the sun like a sleepy cat. His black eyes blink.

"You'll fly for around seven seconds".

His hand touches the side of your head and then slides down to your shoulder, then moving your closer, pressing you into his side. The air is so fresh that it's putting you to sleep, and the tears in your eyes, provoked by the wind, make everything around seem blurry. Like you're in a cartoon. Like it's a dream. The sea far in the distance shines in separate flashes of sunlight.

"There was no need for that", you mutter, cosying up next to him, clutching on his big arm. His neck smells like aftershave and raspberries. The curse hisses in between his teeth, fingers pinch your cheek lightly. Then go back to your shoulder and start drumming a rhythm; writing music off the closeness of you. You leave the slope of the mountain together, at the same time.

#yoongi x reader #yoongi imagine #yoongi angst #suga x reader #yoongi smut

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em1i2a3 · 3 days ago

Text

Paper Crown

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader! x Bucky Barnes

Summary: Coincidentally, everyone is having sleep issues one night, and they come to you to seek out your comfort.

Warnings: Fluff, Angst (kind of), Intimate Touching (non-sexual though), Lots of Cuddling, And a bit of Awkwardness.

Author’s Note: I may or may not do more with these three…Hint double hint. But I absolutely loved the idea and the awkwardness that could possibly ensue if you were two people’s comfort person…I certainly wasn’t kicking my feet and giggling while writing this lol. Enjoy <3

Word Count: 3,021

Your room was quiet, steeped in a hushed, amber-tinted glow that felt more like a lullaby than light. The old wall sconce above your desk buzzed faintly, its filament flickering with the kind of uneven rhythm that should’ve been annoying, but had long since become familiar–softer than silence, steadier than thought. In the far corner, your salt lamp glowed like a dying ember, casting a low, rose-gold hue that melted into the walls and floor, giving every surface the illusion of warmth even in the late-night chill.

Outside, the rain whispered steadily against the windows, not a storm, just that persistent, needling drizzle that clung to the glass like it didn’t want to leave. It pooled in the corners of the sill and slid down in slow, meandering rivulets, tracing lazy paths through the city grime. That sound–soft static and water–was usually enough to soothe your mind into stillness. A constant, familiar hush that blurred the edges of thought and wrapped around your senses like a shield.

You were tangled up beneath a fortress of heavy blankets and layered throws, their weight pressing down over your shoulders like an arm curled around you. The fabric smelled faintly of lavender, mint, patchouli and clean laundry, warmed by the heat you’d trapped beneath them hours ago. In your hands, a worn paperback sat open on you, its yellowed pages fanned gently with the curl of time and use. The spine cracked softly each time you turned a page, and the cover–creased at the corners and faded from sun–bore the faint scent of a used bookstore: paper, dust, and someone else’s perfume.

You had picked it up weeks ago from a little shop in the middle of the city, fully intending to read it the same night, but life had its way of pushing things aside. Now, here in the glow of your room, with the rain curling around the windows, you were utterly immersed. You barely noticed how tense your shoulders had gotten, or how your legs had gone numb beneath the blankets–you were too deep inside it, clinging to each word like it might disappear if you blinked too long.

You shifted onto your side, blanket sliding off your shoulder slightly, and flipped to the next page with the kind of reverence usually reserved for sacred texts. The next line of dialogue was already calling to you–and then–

Knock Knock

It was soft, barely audible, and if it wasn’t for the fact that you were in total silence you would’ve missed it. You froze mid-breath, eyes lifting from the page, heart ticking a little–not from fear, but from anticipation. You knew that knock. There were only two people in the whole compound who ever knocked like that.

Bucky or Bob.

It was always a surprise to you who would walk through the door.

For the past couple of months, you had been the unofficial comfort person for them–Bucky and Bob, two men stitched together by grief and guilt and the kind of quiet loneliness that didn’t always show. They never came on the same nights, never overlapped. It was like they had an unspoken agreement, or maybe some sixth sense, knowing when the other needed you more, without actually acknowledging the fact that you were being shared between them. And somehow, you always had space for it. For them. It had become routine for you–curling up with one of their bodies pressed to yours, listening to the soft cadence of their breathing drift into sleep, their presence grounding, warm, and achingly human. Sometimes you would speak to them, but oftentimes they were too distracted to even respond to you.

Both of them had their preferences, sometimes Bucky would slide his vibranium hand beneath your top, just to trace the skin of your back or stomach, like it was a way to soothe himself. Bob on the other hand seemed like he fully wanted to melt into you, most of the time the two of you looked like one monstrous pile of tangled limbs–exchanging breaths and knocking noses by accident from how close you would get. You didn’t have a preference for either person though, you were just glad that they had so much trust in you to actually come and seek out the comfort that they needed.

You cleared your throat softly, closing the book with care and slipping your bookmark into the page before whispering, “Come in.”

The door creaked open a few seconds later, just enough for a sliver of light from the hallway to pool across the floor. Then he appeared–Bob, soft-eyed and sheepish, shuffling into the glow of your room with an uneven gait. His light brown hair was pulled back into a loose bun, a few strands escaping to cling to his temples. He looked tired in the way only he could: like he’d fought off sleep for hours before finally giving up and walking down the hall to you. The shadows beneath his eyes were gentler in your lighting, made less hollow by the way the salt lamp warmed the edges of him, casting him in honey instead of sorrow.

He wore a plain white t-shirt and black joggers, both slightly wrinkled, like he’d been curled on top of his bed before coming here. The cotton clung faintly to his chest and arms, stretched just a little around the quiet strength he always tried to make smaller than it was. His feet padded quietly across the rug, and he smiled at you, tentative and crooked.

“Hey, stranger…” You greeted softly, watching him step further into your room, closing the door behind him. He wrung his hands together, fingers twisting with nervous habit, something he had always done in moments like these–in moments where he needed to ask something of you.

“Do you…Do you mind if I sleep here tonight?” His voice cracked just slightly near the end, like he was preparing himself for a different answer that he usually got. You let out a breath of a laugh, warm and fond.

”When have I ever said no to you?” He gave a tiny shrug, toeing off his socks gently.

”Well…I thought I’d ask, just in ca-case you wanted some time alone…Or something.” He replied quietly.

”I would’ve told you if I did.” You commented, already shifting the blankets back for him. Watching as he moved carefully like he didn’t want to possibly disturb the sanctity of your room. He tiptoed towards your bed, slipping beneath the covers slowly, like he was easing himself into a body of water. The moment he settled beside you and adjusted slightly against your memory foam mattress, you placed your book behind you on the nightstand and turned onto your side to face him.

He took a few deep breaths–each one a little steadier than the last–before mirroring your position, turning onto his side to face you in the hush. You opened your arms for him without a word, and he slid into the space like he belonged there, like your embrace was the only place his body remembered how to breathe.

His legs tangled with yours under the blankets in a natural sprawl, his limbs looping around you until you could hardly tell where one of you ended and the other began. One of his arms slid beneath your side, the other curled around your back, palm splayed between your shoulder blades. He was the pure embodiment of heat, all soft cotton and quiet strength, chest rising and falling against yours in a rhythm that slowly began to match your own.

Your fingers found the tie that held his hair back away from his face, and you unfastened it slowly, allowing the strands to fall loose in messy waves. They slipped through your fingers like warm silk as you threaded through them slowly, brushing the mane of hair gently with the patience of a saint. He nestled even closer to you, humming at the sensation, burying his nose into your shirt with a quiet exhale, warming the fabric.

Then, in a barely there, incoherent mumble that you had grown used to, he said “Always smell…Nice.”

You smiled at the comment, and rested your cheek against the crown of his head, breathing in the tea tree oil conditioner he used for his hair before folding yourself around him like he was something to protect, continuing to run your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck.

His breath deepened again, lashes fluttering against your shirt, muscles relaxing into you like melting wax.

You were just beginning to slip into that warm, floaty drift of half-sleep, your body starting to give itself over to stillness, when–

Tap. Tap tap. Tap.

Your eyes opened at the familiar rhythm, lids heavy with sleep but not enough to miss it–tap, tap tap, tap–that cautious little code of his. You blinked once, and brought your gaze toward the door, your hand still resting in Bob’s hair, your other arm curled around his waist where he lay folded into you.

Bob stirred against your chest with a faint sigh, just enough to press his face deeper into your shirt, but not enough to fully register what was happening.

The door opened a crack.

Then a little wider.

And there stood Bucky.

His silhouette cut a dark shape against the dim hallway glow, his hair tousled from sleep or tossing in bed, his black t-shirt clinging to his shoulders and biceps, and the familiar flannel pajama pants–blue, slightly rumpled, soft from years of wear–hanging low on his hips. His bare feet were silent on the hardwood, his black vibranium arm glinting just slightly in the low light.

He stopped in the doorway, startled. You watched his expression shift–guarded first, then confused, then…Quietly resigned. His wide blue eyes landed on you. Then Bob. Then you again. You could see the flicker of understanding behind them, like this wasn’t a shock but still something he needed a second to register.

“Sorry,” He murmured. “I can come back.”

He was already beginning to turn, hand reaching to pull the door closed when you whispered, “Wait…No. It’s okay… You can come in.”

Bucky hesitated for a moment, his hand tightening around the handle of the door, almost like he was considering listening to you. Then you felt Bob move against you, groggy but aware, head lifting slightly from your chest.

“Who is it?” He mumbled, voice rough with exhaustion, his words more vibration than sound. Your fingers halted in his hair for a moment as you glanced down at him.

”It’s Bucky…Is it okay if he joins us?’ There was barely a beat of hesitation before Bob gave a small sleepy nod against you, letting out a little sigh.

”Sure…I don’t want to im-impose on him getting sleep…” He commented, his words slurring with drowsiness, “We’ll have to deal with him if he’s grumpy tomorrow.” You huffed out a soft laugh, affection blooming in your chest like a second heartbeat.

“You’re definitely right on that,” You whispered, shifting him closer to you as he settled back into his place, his limbs going heavy against yours again, taking in slow pulls of air. You tilted your gaze back up to Bucky’s, seeing that he was still processing what was going on in front of him. You gave him a small nod.

”Come on, don’t be shy.” You whispered, motioning for him. He lingered in the doorway for a moment longer, eyes flicking to Bob curled against your chest, then back to you. He looked hesitant–like standing on the edge of something too tender to touch, unsure if he had the right to interrupt and intrude on something that was already so full of connection. But your expression didn’t waver, and the look in your eyes was welcoming and so warm…

So he took the plunge and crossed the room in a few quiet strides, the floorboards creaking just slightly beneath the heavy weight of his feet.

”Should I…” He started pausing near your light, “Should I turn this off?” You nodded.

”Yeah, that would be good, thank you.” The wall sconce flicked off with a tiny click, the room dimming all at once into shadow. The only light that remained spilled in through the window: soft, fractured glows from the city skyline–orange neon and cool blue flickers dancing faintly across your floorboards, the edge of your desk, and the lower halves of the curtains. It painted the room in a hush. A kind of peace that wrapped around the three of you like another blanket. You heard the gentle rustle of fabric as Bucky approached. Then the whisper of the comforter being tugged back. The mattress dipped slightly behind you, and you shifted just enough to give him space as he slid beneath the blankets.

Then the covers were drawn back over all of you–tucked in again, sealed into this private cocoon of silence, breaths, and body heat. Bucky settled in behind you, moving gently to adjust to the positioning without taking up too much space. His vibranium arm slid over your waist. It was cold at first, but it warmed quickly against your skin due to the heat that was entrapped beneath the covers–which was mainly caused by Bob’s overheating. The metal arm rested just slightly higher than Bob’s, like a second tether holding you in place. A quieter claim. A mirrored need.

Then slowly he slid his other arm beneath your pillow, seeking your free hand in the dark. You met him halfway, your fingers relaxing easily into his as he laced them together–skin to skin, his warmth grounding and familiar. His thumb stroked once across the back of your hand, then stilled, his chest expanding slowly against your back, before shifting downward, nuzzling himself closer until his beard grazed against the space between your shoulder blades. His breath was hot and steady through the thin cotton of your shirt as he melted into your body completely. Bob let out a small, breathy snore–just a little noise fluttering against you. You gave Bucky’s hand a soft squeeze beneath the pillow.

“You okay, Buck?” You whispered, your voice muffled by the hush of the blankets and Bob’s hair that was sticking up every which way beneath your chin. He nodded against your back, the scruffiness of his cheek dragging along the fabric of your shirt again.

”Definitely better now…” He murmured, his voice low and raw in that sleep-soft way. “But I don’t know how you survive this heat…Feels like the tropics.” You huffed a sleepy laugh, pressing a little closer to Bob just to prove your point.

“Imagine how it feels being pressed against it every other night, basically…You get used to it after a while.” Bucky gave a slow hum, almost like a chuckle trapped deep in his chest.

“I guess that’s true ’cause you got used to me…” He commented. At that, Bob shifted slightly, dragging his leg further between yours. His cheek nestled into the curve between your chest again, and you could feel the unmistakable warmth of drool beginning to soak through your shirt. You sighed, amused, and tilted your head toward Bucky.

“You say that like you’re a burden or something…” You whispered gently, brushing your thumb along the back of his hand. “Which isn’t even close to the truth.” Bucky didn’t say anything right away. Instead, his vibranium arm slid lower over your waist, the plates flexing softly before his palm splayed wide across your stomach. He tucked himself closer into your back, his breath slowing as he melted into you with a quiet intensity.

“Well…” He finally replied, barely audible, “…I’m glad you think that way.” Another snore rattled out of Bob–louder this time. He shifted again, adjusting his face against your chest, arms tightening around your waist again, not to pull you away from Bucky but to get even closer–if he could manage that.

A slow, sleepy smile tugged at the corners of your mouth.

“I think we should do this more often,” You murmured into the dark, the words barely more than a breath.

Bucky shifted behind you just slightly–enough for his nose to nudge against the curve of your spine. His hand squeezed yours gently, voice quiet and low against the shell of your ear.

“It’s not as awkward as I expected it to be…” He admitted, and you could feel the grin he tried to hide against your shirt. “So I wouldn’t object to the idea.”

You smirked, your voice light despite the weight of the bodies wrapped around you. “Well, I guess we’ll have to run it by Bob in the morning then…”

There was a pause.

Then, muffled against your chest, Bob let out a little grunt of awareness. “Good for…Me.”

That sent a puff of laughter out of both you and Bucky, breathy and brief and a little stunned–like the sound surprised you as it escaped. Not loud enough to disturb the peace of the room, but just enough to feel like a thread of gold had stitched its way into the quiet.

You closed your eyes, letting your body relax again between the two of them, tucked between metal and muscle and tangled limbs, feeling every inch of warmth and closeness.

Bucky adjusted his hold, pulling you just a little closer, while Bob let out another soft, sleep-heavy sigh and nosed further into your chest, content.

Outside, the rain whispered like a lullaby.

And inside, you drifted into sleep wrapped in everything that mattered.

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thatonegrimm · 6 days ago

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Hello! I know you already did drabbles with an ADHD reader but could you do one again but where the reader easily forgets things? And the Saja Boys just quietly help reader like taking the item with them because they knew reader would forget? But not in a bad way,just pure fluff?

I hope you know what i mean,i know i can write things in a confusing way😅

Thank you already and have a great day!♡

Thank you for the request! I absolutely have this problem constantly lol so no not confusing at all. Here you go!💌

🌙Saja Boys x Forgetful ADHD!Reader

You forgot your keys. You forgot your charger. You forgot where you put your phone—again. But you were never truly unprepared. Not when they were around.

-------------------------

🧿 Jinu

“Where’s my—” “Check the left pocket,” Jinu said without looking up from his book.

You blinked, patted your jacket, and—bam—there were your earbuds.

You turned slowly. “How did you…?”

“I put them there before we left,” he said, finally looking at you with a calm little smile. “You forgot them last time.”

You stared. “I’m scared of how well you know me.”

He shrugged. “I mean… we’ve left the apartment five different times this week, and each time you forgot at least one item. I’ve started packing spares.”

He gestured toward your bag. “You’re also out of gum, so I put in two packs.”

Your heart squeezed. “That’s not normal boyfriend behavior.”

Jinu adjusted his glasses. “I’m not a normal boyfriend.”

And as you looped your arm through his, he quietly handed you your water bottle—the one you definitely didn’t realize was missing yet.

-------------------------

💪 Abby

“Wait,” you froze, halfway to the bus stop. “Did I bring my—”

Abby held up your phone.

You blinked. “I swear I had that—”

“You left it on the counter after checking the weather,” he said casually. “Also, here’s your ID and that pen you like.”

You looked down. He was already holding your tote like it belonged to him.

“…Do you always do this?”

“Yep.”

You narrowed your eyes. “How do you even notice every time I forget something?”

He smiled, soft and shameless. “Because every time you look around all lost like that, I wanna fix it before it makes you sad.”

You actually melted a little.

He reached into his hoodie pocket again. “Oh—and here’s your hair clip. You left it in the fridge somehow.”

You buried your face in his chest. “Abby, I love you.”

“I know,” he grinned. “And I love being your walking lost-and-found.”

-------------------------

📚 Mystery

You were frantically digging through your bag outside the studio.

“I know I brought it,” you muttered. “I had it on the table, then I grabbed my notebook and my snack and—”

Mystery held out your USB drive.

You blinked. “Wha—how did—”

“You always forget it on Wednesdays,” he said simply.

You paused. “It’s… Friday.”

He tilted his head. “You worked on Wednesday. That’s when you pre-packed your bag. You forgot it then.”

You stared.

He just blinked. “You also left your lunch on top of the microwave, so I put that in too.”

You weren’t sure whether to laugh or cry.

“…You’re like a ghost but helpful.”

He handed you a sticky note.

On it was a reminder to eat, a cartoon doodle of you with sparkles, and the words: ‘Don’t forget. I’m proud of you.’

You cried.

He didn’t react. Just offered gum.

-------------------------

💋 Romance

“Okay, I have my phone, my wallet, my—wait, did I bring my lip balm?”

Romance reached into his coat.

You gasped. “How—?!”

“You always forget it,” he said, twirling it dramatically. “So I’ve started carrying the mint one and the tinted one, just in case.”

You frowned. “That’s… kind of insane.”

He grinned. “You’re worth it.”

You shook your head, but then he tapped his chest.

“And yes,” he added, “I’ve got your charger. And your reusable straw. And your appointment card. And your notes for your presentation that you left on top of the toaster.”

You just stared.

Romance cupped your cheeks gently. “You forget things. I remember you.”

Your heart actually short-circuited.

He kissed your forehead and added with a wink, “Don’t worry, love. I plan to carry you, too.”

-------------------------

🔥 Baby

“Where’s my—”

“Don’t even ask,” Baby muttered, tossing your water bottle at you.

You caught it mid-air. “Wait… when did I forget this?”

“When we left,” he said, pretending to be annoyed. “Like always.”

You opened your mouth. He held up a finger.

“Yes, I also brought your charger, your allergy meds, and the folder for your meeting that you left next to the cat.”

You squinted at him. “I don’t even own a cat.”

“Exactly,” he said. “That’s how spaced out you were.”

You stared.

He stared back.

“…You love me.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he grumbled.

But later, when you pulled a random notebook out of your bag, you found a scribbled message on the first page:

“You probably forgot why you opened this. That’s okay. You’re doing amazing anyway.”

You never let go of that notebook again.

-------------------------

You might leave things behind. Your phone. Your meds. Your notes. But never love.

Because the Saja Boys are already three steps ahead—quiet hands, soft hearts, and one million tiny reminders:

You’re not a burden. You’re just loved.

Exactly as you are.

-------------------------

M-List

#kpdh x reader #saja boys x reader #baby x reader #jinu x reader #abby x reader #mystery x reader #romance x reader #kpdh #kpop demon hunters

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nightingale-prompts · 9 months ago

Text

Space Fae- DCxDP prompt

So ending up in another dimension wasn't necessarily part of the plan. The plan was to stop the portal from being opened and letting countless demons flooding the mortal realm.

Constantine had said portals were finicky and interrupting the summoning can throw off the destination that the portals go to. But not the hell sounded pretty good.

So Tim might have "accidentally" ended up on the other side of said portal after attempting to see what was in it. He didn't actually think he'd fall in.

On the other side, he ended up in what he thought was a lounge. It looked like one or maybe it was a living room.

Regardless 4 tall luminescent figures looked at him from their reclined positions.

Their bare starry skin was bearly covered by translucent shawls. Their bodies were dappled with constellations against their colarshifting skin, it was like looking at space itself but cut out and melded to humanoid forms. It was clear they felt no need to cover themselves when they were so radiant as is.

The figure in the center of the room who was reclined on a fainting couch laid her eyes on him. Her eyes were a glittering blue surrounded by amber lashes. Her long hair was a metallic copper that moved like molten metal. She was the tallest as she stood up reaching 10 feet. You'd think she was a goddess at first glance. Her shroud covered her head to toes stopping short of the floor. She donned copper rings and necklaces around her with form.

The other 3 figures gazed at Tim with curiosity.

The tallest male had red patterns of stars on his skin like a dying cosmos against his dark skin. The main difference between him and the tallest female was her skin glittered with hues of purple stars against the black space. But he was mostly void. His eyes glowed like blazing red dwarfs determined to not go without a fiery blaze of glory. His ashen-tinted shroud was wrapped around his hips with a silver pin. His hair was a metallic silver. The only part of him that caught the light. He crossed his arms as he stared down at Tim at 9 feet tall.

The smallest girl stood only 7 feet tall. Her white hair flowed upwards in a ponytail that moved like a cloudy mist. Her skin was a bright cluster of colors like fireworks. Her skin was so bright the black spaces of her skin didn't exist yet because the space she embodied was so young and new. She mainly shined shades of blue and white of new stars Her green eyes were so bright they glowed a mint green. Here shroud was tied around her like a dress with a golden chain. She bounded towards Tim only to be stopped by the last of the figures who leaned down to meet Tim's gaze.

The last one was male...kind of. Male and female of these beings were judged only by their outlines so far and their way of wearing their translucent coverings. But this last one was neither but completely breathtaking. Their Lazarus green eyes framed by silver eyelashes like fresh powdery snow. Their long white locks reflected like the morning sun shining off untouched snow making holographic like rainbows ripple down the hair. His skin was a swirling mass of cloudy green stars. The center of their body made up the center of a rotating galaxy around a star. His shroud was tied in a toga that fell off one shoulder. He accessorized with jade bracelets and earrings that glowed eerily on his arms, legs, and neck.

The 8-foot-tall being placed a finger under Tim's chin and smiled kindly. He said something to the others and a language he didn't know. It sounded like humming.

There was something in that sound like it promised everything Tim had ever wanted could be found here. Limitless knowledge, love, and someone who understood him in every way.

Then Tim was thrusted back into his dimension with faint memories of his time there. Learning, flying, a warm embrace, and the faint taste of nectar on his lips. The memories faded to vague dreams when he crossed the threshold and only minutes had passed since he left.

#dc x dp #dpxdc #dc x dp prompt #dp x dc prompt #danny fenton #danny phantom #tim x danny #tim drake #red robin #deadtired #dead tired #brain dead #jazz fenton #dani fenton #dark danny #dani phantom #danielle phantom #dan fenton

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starstruck358 · 7 months ago

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yippie got her and hoshi done!

#the star queen tam #hoshi-19 #tint and mint #tint and mint and the star queen #my art #my original characters

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tinted-mint · 2 months ago

Text

What A Delight. To See. YOU!

#ena dream bbq #digital art #digital drawing #medibang #fanart #ǝna #ena fanart #dream bbq #suspicious man #scopophobia #tinted mint art #ena joel g

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gracie-eilish · 2 months ago

Note

YAY INBOX OPEN!!! pretty please 😣🙏🏻 experienced or clingy billie in a relationship with reader but she's shy or like touch deprived 😼😼😼

just touch me

warnings: contains smut and a wholeeee lotta kissing.. this got super fucking long lol

summary: it’s your first time hooking up with your budding situationship, billie. it’s been a minute for you so you wanna take it slow. that is until you’re met with touchy, clingy, romantic, soft billie…

The afternoon had fallen softly into a quiet, amber-tinted evening that hummed with the possibility of something intimate. Billie had come over earlier, hood up, cheeks slightly pink from the chill outside, a bag of snacks in her hand, and a sleepy smile on her face.

"Hi, mama," she smirked, walking through the doorway and burying herself in a hug. You snorted at her immediate attempt at flirting. "Hi Billie," you replied between giggles.

You had ordered takeout and half-watched a movie while sharing a blanket on the couch, while your legs tangled up beneath it and your bodies edged closer with every shared laugh.

You were still laughing at one of her dramatic reenactments of a scene she hated, when her voice softened and she leaned in, eyes sparkling.

“You’re so cute when you’re giggly,” she murmured, brushing her nose against your cheek.

The kiss that came next came naturally, like breathing. It always did. You could kiss Billie Eilish forever and never get tired of how she tasted like mint and sugar and felt like warmth. Her fingers traced your jaw, your neck, your waist, curious and slow, like she was trying to learn you all over again.

“Wanna go get cozier?” Her voice was low, kind. The kind of tone that asked a question and also whispered, only if you want to.

You nodded, and she took your hand without hesitation, leading the way with that little sideways smile of hers, the one she wore when she wasn’t quite sure what would happen next, but hoped it would be something good.

Inside your bedroom, the world narrowed to just the two of you and the soft hush of the room. The blankets were rumpled from this morning, and Billie crawled onto the bed with a sleepy smile, waiting for you to join her before reaching out her arms.

"C'mere."

You smiled and crawled into the bed beside her and it was like everything else melted away. She pulled you close, her nose brushing yours, her fingers tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. And then she kissed you, so slowly and sweetly, like she had all the time in the world. And you melted into it, your hands finding the shape of her shoulders, the curve of her neck, the softness of her hoodie under your palms.

The kisses picked up, hungrier now. Her lips moved against yours slowly, but her hands were less patient. Still respectful, still gentle, but clearly craving more of you.

She shifted slightly, pulling you closer until you were pressed chest to chest, her hand sliding under your shirt, warm fingers skimming over your tummy.

That’s when it happened—you froze. Just for a second. Enough for her to feel the difference.

Billie pulled back, immediately attuned. “Hey love,” she whispered, brushing your hair out of your eyes. “Too much?”

You shook your head, then gave a little shrug. “I just… I haven’t done anything in a while. Not since my ex. And we broke up like a year ago. And you… You’re more experienced than me anyway.”

Her expression softened, and she leaned in to kiss the corner of your mouth. “Thank you for telling me, baby. Seriously.”

You looked up at her. “I don’t know if I want to do more tonight.”

She didn’t hesitate. “That’s totally fine, lovey. We don’t have to. We can just kiss. Or just cuddle. Or literally just lie here breathing. I’m good with all of it mama.”

That made something melt inside you.

So, for a while, that’s what you did. You kissed and held each other, Billie’s hands roaming in quiet patterns over your arms, your back, the curve of your hip. She didn’t try anything more. She was just there, gentle and warm and all yours for the night.

But the longer you kissed her, the more you felt your body shift. Something deeper stirred beneath the quiet comfort, something warmer, something wanting. Billie wasn’t rushing you. She wasn’t even asking. She was just being—soft lips at your jaw, breath warm on your neck, her fingers exploring the safe places you’d let her reach, never crossing a line unless you pulled her with you.

And maybe it was the way she murmured your name between kisses, like a promise. Or the way her hand drifted across your waist, not under your clothes this time, but pressing with reverence. Maybe it was just the way she waited—for you to meet her there.

Whatever it was, your fingers curled into her shirt and you found yourself whispering, “I think I want more.”

She paused, her breath catching just slightly. “Are you sure?” Her voice was barely audible, like she was afraid to break the moment by saying it too loudly.

You nodded, your nose brushing hers. “Yeah. With you… like this… I’m sure.”

Billie’s smile was slow and tender, and she kissed you again, deeper now. Not hurried, not demanding. Just full of meaning. Full of care. Her hands found your skin again, and this time, you didn’t freeze. You sighed, arching into her touch, letting her explore you like you were music she wanted to memorize by heart.

Everything about her was slow and warm and good—the kind of good that didn’t need to be fast or perfect. Just honest.

The air around you buzzed with anticipation, the heat between you growing gradually, sweetly. Every kiss made you ache a little more, not out of impatience but out of how much you wanted to give in to her hands, her mouth, her love.

And in that quiet, breathless space between words and touches, Billie whispered, “You’re beautiful like this, you know that?”

You smiled against her lips, your hand sliding up her back. “So are you.”

"Seriously though.. Your face is all flushed and glowy, and your lips are a little swollen... We should make out more often." You snorted at her last statement, hiding your face for a second in her shoulder.

"Noted. I'll definitely add that to our list of things we can do," you both dissolved into more giggles until they turned to just smiles.

"Are you still sure, angel? I don't want you to feel pressured in any way to do this. I know it's been a while for you, and I don't wanna rush you." You could have melted into the floor at her statement.

"Yeah, love, I'm sure. But uh.. I um.."

"You what, doll? Say the word and I'll make it happen."

"Actually... I wanna change."

"Change? Like your clothes? You know those usually come off right?" You couldn't help the snort that came out before you nodded, biting your lip shyly.

"Yes, I know that you goose. Just wait here." You kissed the corner of her mouth before scampering towards your dresser, grabbing something from the back of your top drawer, and heading to the bathroom.

In the bathroom, you slipped on a pretty matching set. A delicate, lacey set you had bought a few weeks ago with Billie in mind. This wasn't your first time having sex, far from it. However, it would be your first time with a girl you really cared about. After you and your ex-boyfriend broke up last year, you had a few flings... and then came along Billie. You just had a feeling this one... this one would work.

You stepped out of the bathroom, shutting off the light and leaning on the doorframe. Billie was still lying on her back, one arm behind her head, until she turned to look at you. The candle burning on your bathroom counter flickered behind you, framing your silhouette.

"Baby..." she barely whispered, practically bouncing as she sat up fully, her eyes never leaving you.

"You like it?" You tried to sound confident, but your nerves made your voice about seven octaves higher than you wanted. She reached a hand out softly, flicking her middle and ring fingers to beckon you closer.

"C'mere," it was barely a whisper. When you reached her, she took your hand so you could get up on the bed and straddle her hips steadily. She only let go of your hand to then run both her hands up your thighs to your waist, softly sitting there, rubbing your back a bit too.

"You, my dear," she started. "You look like Aphrodite." Her voice was soft and low, her eyes were wide and sparkly, and her breath was hitched and light.

"Oh! Oh, um," you were distracted by her wandering hands playing with your bra straps around your shoulders.

"Bils, I don't wanna ruin the moment, but um.. what exactly does she look like?" Billie fully threw her head back, cackling at your question, making you giggle a bit too.

"Sorry, doll, I didn't mean like 'oh you look like her, you both have dark hair' or whatever," she flushed a bit before continuing. "Aphrodite is the goddess of love..." she trailed off, hoping you caught her drift. There were three words she wanted to say right now, but couldn't get out quite yet.

"Let me love on you, baby girl," she whispered directly in your ear, kissing right below it, making you shiver. "I'll talk you through everything if you want, I know it's been a while for you."

"Okay," you breathed out, tilting your head back so she could continue her kisses on your skin.

"Let's get you comfy, pretty girl," Billie said between kisses before leaning back so she could help you lie down. She fluffed the pillow a bit before guiding your head down onto it and kissing your cheek.

And then your jaw..

And neck..

and collarbones...

"God, you're gorgeous," she mumbled more to herself than anything, but the red flush on your cheeks told her you heard it.

"Can I take this off?" She asked softly, tracing her fingers on the light embroidered flowers on your bra.

"Yeah, baby."

Baby. The name struck her in the gut. She had used it on you since day one. You, on the other hand, were reluctant to use such an intimate nickname with her. Sticking with love and lovey as a safe bet. Baby.

She tucked a hand behind your back a bit, looking for the clasp, when you grabbed her wrist to stop her. Confused, she leaned back, only to watch you unclasp the bra from the front, revealing your breasts to her like a precious artifact kept hidden in a box, being revealed for the first time. You sat up slightly to shimmy your bra down your shoulders and fling it to the side.

Her brows furrowed watching you, the same way her brows furrow when she's holding back tears or she's experiencing something so heart-wrenching.

She situated herself on your hips so she could lean down and kiss your breast once.. twice.. three times... until you were softly squirming under her grasp. She sucked and bit softly at your one nipple while she kneaded and played with the other in her hand.

"Bils," you gasped, eyes fluttering shut as you grasped the sheets next to you.

"Shh sh sh, I've got you, doll. You ready for more?"

You nodded, chest heaving softly. "Please.. just touch me."

Together, you slowly took off Billie's clothes, leaving her naked in front of you. You took in her perfect body for a few minutes, fingers tracing her tattoos delicately, giggling softly when she shivered from the feeling.

"As much as I adore the feeling of your hands all over me, I want this to be about you, angel." She pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then the other corner, and then directly on your lips. Your hands found their way into her dark hair, pulling slightly to keep her close.

Her hand drifted delicately down your torso until it found the waistband of your panties. She pulled away just enough to look you in the eye to silently ask for permission. You smiled softly and nodded, lifting your hips to assist her as she pulled your panties off of you.

"Alright mama, you're in complete control here, kay? If anything feels uncomfy, or you want more or less, or whatever you want, you tell me. Okay?"

"Okay." You seriously thought you were in a dream. A year ago, you were dating a loser who basically fucked you and then knocked out next to you. Forget about finding the clit, motherfucker didn't know the clit existed. And now you couldn't tell if you were on earth or in heaven because of this girl, who was showering you with love, and comfort, and patience.

You gasped softly when you felt her fingers on your clit, rubbing soft but tight circles on the bundle of nerves.

"Fuck," you whispered, letting you head fall back onto the pillow, eyes fluttering shut.

"You're so wet, baby," Billie purred into your ear, letting two fingers dip into you just at the tip. She spread your wetness around, making sure everything was lubricated before even asking if she could go all the way.

"Wait," Billie sat up immediately, a concerned look on her face. You interrupted her before she could even start to fuss.

"Want the strap.." Your voice got quieter with every word, confidence dwelling. Billie's heart swelled.

"Can I stretch you with my fingers a bit first? Maybe we do strap another night, I don't wanna hurt you."

"Billie, I trust you right now more than anything else on this planet. I'm gonna be honest, I have no idea what we are. But I do know that I don't think there's another woman on the planet who will ever be as loving and patient as you are being right now. I don't want this to end tomorrow, and then I have to be uncomfortable with someone else. I wanna be uncomfy with you... You bring comfort to my discomfort. I want it with you."

The silence between you two was palpable, and Billie looked like she could cry. With a kiss to your lips and not another word, she got up and went to her dresser drawer, and pulled out her strap, fastening it to her hips.

Before she could even get back on the bed, the two of you had resumed making out, but the energy shifted once again when you flipped her over so you were on top.

Billie didn't question it, letting you do what you wanted. Like earlier, she took your hand softly so you could maneuver yourself, straddling her hips until you were sitting on top of her strap, snug up against her.

"Go as fast or as slow as you want to, okay, princess?" She said gently as you sat up on your knees, situating the dildo at your entrance. You nodded and leaned in to kiss her as you started to sink down.

Maybe an inch down, you flinched and hissed at the stretch, it had been a year after all, and your own fingers and toys just didn't do it how you needed. Billie grabbed one of your hands, letting you squeeze as hard as you needed, while the other traced soft shapes on your hip, hoping your muscles would start to relax.

You two sat like that for a bit, you up on your knees slightly sunk down on the strap, Billie holding you up, fluttering tiny kisses to your cheek and neck, both of you squeezing hands..

After a bit, you started to move again, slowly sinking further and further until you bottomed out on her, sitting directly onto her thighs.

"Shit Bils," Your voice sounded much more sexy and husky in you head, but all Billie heard was moany whines she knew would float into her dreams.

"You feelin good angelface?" You couldn't even form words once you made eye contact with her icy, hooded eyes. She was biting her lip, and her nose scrunched up a bit when you barely let out a breathy confirmation to her question.

"Need some help?" You nodded again, letting her guide your hips forward to where you were grinding down on her strap.

"Jesus Christ.." Your forehead made contact with her shoulder.

Your pain soon became pleasure, and your confidence grew. Soft rolls of your hips turned into you slowly bouncing on her strap, letting it hit her own clit perfectly.

The room became a filthy symphony of slapping skin and harmonizing moans, with just a twinkle of a creaking bed.

"You are so fucking hot, holy fuck Y/N," Billie let one of her hands creep up to your breast, pinching your nipple ever so slightly, making you groan and throw your head back in pleasure. Something primal came over her; she never wanted anyone else to ever see you like this.

"You starting to get close, doll?" she purred.

"Fuck. Yes," you responded between slams down onto the dildo. If this wasn't your first time together, Billie would have called you her little bunny about a thousand times by now. The way you so confidently and seductively took your pleasure from Billie, switching between rolling your plush hips and bouncing up and down on her.

"Wanna cum together," you gasped out, bringing your own hand to her breasts, toying with her perky untouched nipples making her cry out.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum if you keep doing that pretty girl,"

... Naturally, you kept doing it.

Neither of you had to say anything. The flush of your skin and the increase in pitch between your moans told the other you were both close.

"Billie?"

"Yeah- fuck.. Yeah, doll?"

"Can I tell-oh my god - Can I tell you some- something?"

"Right now? Shit.."

"Uh-huh,"

She giggled a bit between her moans.

"What's up- ohhh. What's up little lady?"

"I think, " You groaned in pleasure, tightening on her strap. "I think I'm falling in l- fuckkk. Falling in love with you." You threw your head back for a second before looking back up to see Billie's face.

"Babygirl," She whined out. She couldn't even tell if it was emotions or pleasure. But the slight smirk on her face told you it was at least good.

"Y/N... I'm so in love with you."

Euphoria.

Both of you hit your climax at the same time, neither one slowing down, to drag it out as long as humanly possible, only stopping when you began to wince from overstimulation.

"Okay, okay. I've got you, I've got ya." Quickly but comfortably, she helped you sit up so she could pull out. Only for you to flop right back down into her arms.

For a few minutes, you both sat in comfortable silence, holding each other close and basking in the afterglow. Until...

"Baby?" Billie squeaked out.

"Mmm hmm?" You didn't even lift your head off her shoulder.

"Did you mean that? Are you really falling in love with me?" That made you sit up fully.

"Oh Billie.." You pushed some sweaty hair out of her face, cupping her cheek. Billie raised her hand to hold yours to her face, nuzzling into your hand.

"I've been falling in love with you since the day I met you."

With that, Billie pulled you into a kiss you swore only existed in fairytale movies. She cradled your head in her hands and kissed you so fiercely yet delicately like you were made of glass.

When she pulled away, you both smiled at each other.

"My girl..?"

"Your girl."

The two of you fell asleep that night tangled up with each other, leaving no space for air between your bodies. Not even being sweaty from sex, or hot and steamy from a quick shower, there was no breaking you two away from each other… this truly was the beginning of something beautiful for both of you.

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