#and just like - poking him like...wait a second | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

be4chywritez · 13 hours ago

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you again? | quinn hughes

quinn hughes x fem!reader

After a disastrous first date, you and Quinn Hughes think you’ll never see each other again—until he shows up in your office… as your newest therapy client.

recs are open + prompt list

beachy’s masterlist🐚

THIS IS MY WORK AND MY WORK ONLY. I DO NOT GIVE CONSENT TO ANY FORM OF “REWRITING” MY FICS

You agree to the date because your friend swears he’s normal.

“You’d like him,” she says. “He’s low-key. Dry humor. No red flags. And he’s hot. But like… tired hot.”

“Tired hot?”

“You’ll see.”

The app profile is vague. One picture—blurry, probably a cropped group photo. Bio says:

Hockey. Golf. Mostly quiet. Good at Mario Kart.

You message him because the Mario Kart line makes you laugh. He replies ten minutes later.

Only if you pick Yoshi. Anyone else is a war crime.

You meet him at a little place you like—a bar with decent food and mercifully low lighting. He’s ten minutes late, and when he walks in, he looks…

You squint.

He looks like he got hit by a truck, reversed over, and then forced to do media availability. His hoodie is slightly damp. His eyes are red-rimmed. He has the audacity to sniffle.

“Hi,” he says, voice rough. “Quinn.”

You blink. “You’re sick.”

“I’m not contagious.”

“Right.”

“I took DayQuil.”

“...Okay.”

You both sit.

It goes downhill immediately.

You ask normal questions. He answers in fragments.

“So, are you from around here originally?”

“Michigan. But I live here now.”

“What brought you to Vancouver?”

“Hockey.”

You sip your drink. “Right. Of course.”

He nods, sniffling.

“You play professionally?” you ask, just to clarify.

He glances at you. “Yeah. Canucks.”

“Oh. I don’t really follow hockey.”

“That’s fine.”

Silence.

You try again. “So besides that... what do you do for fun?”

He shrugs. “Not much. Golf in the offseason.”

You wait.

That’s it. That’s the whole sentence.

He reaches for his water and knocks over the salt shaker.

You press your lips together. “You know, we could reschedule.”

“I’m already here.”

“You’re clearly not feeling great.”

“I didn’t want to be a flake.”

“That’s very noble of you,” you say flatly, and he huffs a quiet breath that might be a laugh.

You spend the next ten minutes trying to scrape a conversation out of someone who answers like he’s being cross-examined in court.

Eventually, you set your fork down.

“This isn’t working, is it?”

He looks up, startled. “What?”

“This. Us. The date. It’s not going well.”

He opens his mouth. Pauses. Then nods. “No. I guess not.”

You sigh. “Okay. I’m gonna go.”

“I’ll get the check.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

“I feel bad. You came out.”

You glance at him, and for a moment—just a second—you feel sorry for him. The hoodie. The puffy eyes. The way he keeps rubbing the side of his neck like he’s thinking hard about something he’ll never say.

But then he adds: “You ask questions like you’re a therapist or something.”

You raise your eyebrows. “I am a therapist.”

His face does a weird thing—like his brain short circuits and he reboots mid-sentence. “Oh. Shit. That makes sense.”

You stare at him. “Good night, Quinn.”

Two weeks later, your receptionist pokes her head into your office.

“New intake just arrived. Quinn H., 2:30 p.m.”

You freeze.

“No,” you say automatically.

She tilts her head. “No?”

“No,” you repeat, pulling up the intake form. “That can’t be right.”

You read the form. Referral: E. Pettersson Presenting concern: Work-related stress. Generalized anxiety. Difficulty with emotional processing. Client: Quinn Hughes.

You close your laptop and stare at the wall.

A minute later, there’s a knock on your door.

You don’t look up when you say, “Come in.”

You do look up when he says: “Are you serious?”

He’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed, looking like someone just told him he has to retake the SATs.

You stare back. “I could say the same thing.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Petey said you were good.”

You sit straighter. “Elias sent you to me?”

“Yeah. He’s worried about me or whatever.”

“I mean… fair.”

He glances up. “You gonna refer me out?”

You pause. “Do you want me to?”

“I don’t know.”

“I can’t treat someone I’ve had a personal relationship with.”

Quinn snorts. “We went on one date and hated each other.”

You nod. “True. Still personal.”

He looks at the wall. Then back at you. “I just— I don’t really want to start over.”

You sigh. “You could’ve led with that.”

“Not really my style.”

You hesitate. Think. One session. One session won’t kill you.

“Alright,” you say. “Let’s try. One session.”

He sits, awkward in the chair, like it might bite him. “So what now?”

You fold your hands in your lap. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

He talks more than you expected. Not easily—but once he gets going, it’s like he can’t stop. He talks about pressure. About expectations. About how he gets stuck in his own head. About never feeling good enough even when he is good enough. About how sometimes he feels invisible, and sometimes he wishes he was.

You say very little. You let the silence do its work.

At the end of the session, he stands slowly, almost reluctant.

“That wasn’t terrible,” he says.

You give him a bland look. “High praise.”

He huffs a laugh. “You’re still kind of annoying.”

You smile sweetly. “And you’re still emotionally repressed.”

Quinn pauses at the door.

“Hey,” he says. “I didn’t mean that thing I said. On the date. About you analyzing everything.”

You shrug. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not.” He shifts on his feet. “You were just trying to be nice. I was... sick. And stressed. And kind of a dick.”

You nod once. “Apology accepted.”

He clears his throat. “So, uh. See you next week?”

You smile. “Same time.”

Quinn’s slumped in your office chair, head tilted back, arms crossed. He's staring at the ceiling like he’s trying to count how many ways he’s trapped in his own head.

“I don’t get it,” he mutters. “Why is it still like this? I’ve done what you said—I've tried journaling, I’ve been getting sleep, I even stopped reading Reddit.”

You blink. “Wow. That one must’ve hurt.”

He gives you a weak smirk. “Little bit.”

You nod slowly. “Alright. You want to try something different?”

He looks at you. “Different how?”

“Out-of-office different.”

Quinn squints. “Like... a field trip?”

“Not officially,” you say. “But yeah. Come with me. I want you to try something.”

Fifteen minutes later, you’re standing outside a strip mall building with blacked-out windows and a fluorescent sign that says: “Rage Room.”

Quinn looks at the door. Then back at you. “You’re kidding.”

You don’t blink. “Nope.”

“You want me to hit stuff?”

“I want you to let go of things without overthinking them.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is this even—like—allowed?”

“Ethically? Not ideal,” you admit. “But you said you didn’t want to start over. So you get me. And I say you need to get out of your own head before you spiral into another three-day silent shame cycle.”

He huffs a breath. “You’re weird.”

You smile. “You’re avoidant.”

The rage room smells like old rubber and drywall. A speaker’s blasting 2000s emo music at an almost disrespectful volume. A wall of bats, crowbars, and sledgehammers hangs like a weapons rack in a zombie movie.

Quinn’s in a beat-up hoodie and safety goggles, staring at a pile of breakables like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

You hand him a metal pipe. “Start small. Smash something.”

He hesitates. “Like what?”

You gesture to the row of ceramic mugs lined up on a folding table. “Pick your least favorite and commit a crime.”

He gives you a look. “You get weirder every week.”

“You get quieter.”

He walks up to the table, lifts the pipe, and smashes a mug with one clean, decisive swing.

It shatters like a tiny explosion. Glass skitters everywhere.

You wait.

“…Okay,” he mutters. “That was kind of satisfying.”

You grin. “There it is.”

Twenty minutes later, Quinn has completely entered his rage era.

He’s sweating, muttering under his breath between swings. You only catch bits and pieces—some unholy mix of “fucking power play,” “media bullshit,” and “Jack gets away with this stuff.”

He’s wrecked three keyboards, a set of old plates, and a plastic printer you brought from home that’s been jamming since April.

And finally, finally, when he stops—breathing heavy, shoulders tense��he leans back against the wall and lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a groan and a laugh.

You pass him a bottle of water. He takes it, still catching his breath.

“That helped more than I want to admit,” he says.

You sit next to him, cross-legged on the padded floor. “Then why don’t you want to admit it?”

He shrugs. “It’s dumb.”

You tilt your head. “It’s not. It's physical release. Unfiltered emotion. No expectations. You don’t have to explain yourself.”

He’s quiet for a second. Then he says, “I think that’s the part I’m bad at. Not being explainable.”

You blink. That’s… unexpectedly honest.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. I’m not loud. Or charismatic. I don’t want to be interviewed. I don’t want to sell myself. I just want to be good at what I do.” He pauses. “But everyone’s always trying to tell a story about me.”

You nod slowly. “So you feel like you’re not allowed to write your own.”

He glances at you. “Yeah. Exactly.”

You let the silence settle between you for a second.

Then, gently, you ask, “So what story would you write?”

He snorts. “You always do this.”

“Do what?”

“Turn one good moment into a pop quiz.”

You smile. “I call it ‘holding space.’ You call it ‘being a pain in the ass.’”

“Both can be true,” he mumbles.

You nudge his arm. “Come on. Try.”

He sighs. Looks down at the dented metal bat in his hands.

“I think…” he starts, slowly, “...I’d write that I’m trying. Even if it doesn’t look like it. Even if I fuck it up. I’m still trying.”

You look at him for a long second. “That’s a good story.”

He shrugs, glancing away. “No one wants to hear that one.”

“I do.”

It’s out before you can stop it.

He blinks. His face shifts—something between surprised and soft.

You clear your throat. “Professionally speaking.”

“Right,” he says quickly. “Obviously.”

Another beat of silence.

“…But seriously,” he says, “this was good.”

You nod. “Next time we do yoga.”

He groans. “No thanks. That feels like a Jack thing.”

You grin. “Exactly.”

You walk out together. It’s raining lightly, just misty enough to make your clothes cling.

He stops at his car, hesitating before opening the door.

Then: “Hey.”

You turn.

“Thank you.”

You nod. “You’re welcome.”

Quinn’s quiet for a second. Then, very softly, “I don’t think I hated our first date as much as I acted like I did.”

Your breath catches.

You try to play it cool. “Because of me? Or the DayQuil?”

He laughs—low, real. “A little of both.”

“Noted.”

He opens his door.

“You’re still not allowed to flirt with your therapist,” you call after him.

“I know,” he says. But he smiles anyway.

Quinn stops coming to your sessions after the rage room.

At first, it’s just a reschedule.

“Practice ran late.”

Then a last-minute cancellation. “Bit of a travel day mess. Can we push to next week?”

Then nothing.

You try not to take it personally.

You’re a professional. You have to be. You remind yourself of this while reading over your clinical notes, chewing your pen cap like it might bite back.

Still, you can’t help but notice the shift.

He’s not just skipping therapy. He’s avoiding you.

Which—fine. It makes sense. The line got blurry. He opened up, got comfortable, probably caught himself too late. That happens sometimes.

But what bugs you isn’t that he stopped coming.

It’s that he didn’t say goodbye.

Three weeks pass.

You try to forget about him, but then Jack Hughes goes viral for doing donuts in a golf cart, and it’s all over your For You page.

Quinn’s in the background of the video, arms crossed, trying not to smile, and your stomach flips like you swallowed a rock.

You set your phone down and say—out loud, to your empty apartment— “Get a grip.”

It’s nearly 7 p.m. on a rainy Thursday when you hear a knock on your office door.

You glance at the clock. You don’t have anyone booked this late.

You open it slowly, cautiously.

Quinn’s standing there in a baseball cap and a hoodie like he thinks he’s undercover. His expression is unreadable.

“Hey,” he says.

You stare at him. “Are you lost?”

He huffs a soft laugh. “Kinda.”

You lean against the doorframe. “You’ve missed three sessions.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t even email.”

“I know,” he says again.

You pause. “You okay?”

He looks down. “Not really.”

You step back. “Come in.”

He doesn’t sit on the couch. He hovers, fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie like he’s not sure he should be here.

You let the silence stretch until it starts to fray.

Finally, he says, “I think you should refer me out.”

Your heart sinks.

“Oh,” you say, trying to sound neutral. “Okay. That’s fair. If you think someone else would be a better fit—”

“I don’t,” he cuts in. “You’re—you’re a good fit. That’s the problem.”

You blink. “Sorry?”

He drags a hand down his face. “I liked talking to you. Too much.”

You stare at him.

His voice gets quieter. “And then after the rage room… it didn’t feel like therapy anymore.”

You try to steady yourself. “We’ve kept clear boundaries—”

“I know,” he says quickly. “You’ve been... great. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But you did?”

“No, I just—” he stops, frustrated. “I couldn’t keep pretending it didn’t feel like something else.”

Something thick swells in your chest.

He finally meets your eyes. “I couldn’t come back in here and keep pretending I didn’t want to see you outside of this room.”

You don’t say anything. You can’t.

“Look,” he continues, his voice shaking slightly, “I don’t want to mess this up, and I don’t want to put you in a weird spot, but I— I want to try again. I want to go on a real date. With you. No DayQuil. No pretending it didn’t happen. Just... you and me.”

You let out a slow breath. “You understand the rules, right?”

He nods. “Six months. After termination.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You looked it up?”

He shrugs. “I looked a lot of things up.”

You stare at him. You think about your ethics board. You think about your job. You think about the way he looked in that rage room—focused, present, real—and the way his laugh got stuck in your throat after he thanked you. The way your fingers itched to reach for him and didn’t.

And you think: maybe it’s okay to want something, too.

You exhale. “Alright.”

Quinn blinks. “Wait—really?”

“I’ll refer you out. To someone I trust. And if you still want to try... after the required time... I’ll consider it.”

His eyes flicker with something bright. “You’ll consider it?”

You smirk. “You have to earn your second date.”

He grins, small and honest. “Fair.”

He stands to go.

At the door, he pauses. Looks over his shoulder.

“Hey,” he says softly. “For what it’s worth... I think I got better. Not fixed. But better. Because of you.”

Your throat tightens. “Thank you.”

Quinn nods once. “See you when I’m legally allowed to flirt with you.”

“Countdown starts now.”

#be4chywrites #nhl x reader #quinn hughes x you #quinn hughes x #quinn hughes x y/n #quinn hughes fanfiction #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes imagine #q

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punksyeet · 2 days ago

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- Inked ❥

Plot: Four letters. One word. Ugh, ugh. Tats.

Warning: Hefty flirting & lots of kisses!

A/N: ngl i’ve had this fic sitting untouched in the drafts for a little while now, but when jey posted that delicious back shot yesterday, i took it as a sign. enjoy! 🖤

———————————————————————————————

“you headed out for the night?” my co-worker, jayla, asks, beginning to sterilize her equipment.

i nod, untying my bun and letting my curls run free. “hell yeah, girl. i’m beat.”

she giggles, nodding in agreement. “we did have a lot more walk-ins today than usual.”

i’ve been tattooing for a little over five years now.

and while it’s the most fun job in the world, it can also be super draining.

for a little backstory, growing up, i drew every chance i got.

on my chalkboard that i’d use to teach my (very finely educated) stuffed animals, in my notebooks during boring high school classes, you name it.

and the second i graduated, somehow acing all of those said classes, my grandpa brought me to his tattoo shop daily to shadow him and learn about his samoan culture.

now, years later, he’s no longer with us and i’m studying art in college, as well as working part time at a downtown new york tattoo shop.

throughout these five years, i’ve worked on some of the biggest polynesian names in wrestling: both of the uso twins, solo sikoa, tama tonga, and even jacob fatu.

my grandpa was super close with the entire fatu - anoa’i family, so it’s a huge honor to be trusted by all of them with something that’s so important to our culture and heritage.

“hey, isn’t that big convention at javits this weekend?” jayla asks, causing me to look up from fixing my hoodie strings and nod.

“fanatics fest yeah,” i reply. “why?”

her eyelids lower into a mischievous look, as she begins moving her eyebrows up and down.

i pop my neck back in confusion. “bitch, why are you looking at me like that?”

“isn’t your lover boy booked for saturday?” she replies, poking at my side.

“first of all,” i exclaim, folding my arms across my chest. “he’s not my lover boy. we’re just having fun, that’s all.”

she hums and mocks my action, folding her arms and raising an eyebrow. “and second?”

“second of all,” i continue. “did you not see how many times he sold out all of his shit? that man is gonna be booked and busy.”

“girl,” she exasperates, leaning back in her chair. “that man never misses an opportunity to see you. whenever he comes out here, his ass is always walking through this door with his tongue hanging out, just waiting to get his hands on you.”

“his tongue is not hanging out!” i scold, playfully shoving her arm.

“it basically is!” she scolds back between giggles, hitting me back playfully.

i sigh, sliding my purse onto my shoulder.

“seriously girl,” she continues, getting up to throw away her gloves and ink-filled paper towels. “that man is more whipped for you than whipped cream.”

i let out a breathless laugh, shaking my head. “well, the energy is reciprocated. and i’d love to see him this weekend. but if it’s not possible, i won’t be mad either. he’s booked and busy. and i love that for him.”

she dramatically sticks her bottom lip out and dabs away invisible tears. “loving watching your future husband succeed. it’s adorable!”

“bitch i’m leaving!” i tease, turning towards the door.

she bursts into laughter and playfully whacks my butt. “have a good night, girl. text me when you get home!”

“i will!” i call out, leaving and letting the door close behind me.

my journey home is peaceful, barely any traffic on the highway.

and as if on cue, the second i enter the driveway and shut my car off, my text tone dings.

i send a text over to jayla, as promised, before heading inside and getting ready for the night.

———————————————————————————————

it’s been another long shift of appointments and a couple walk-ins.

i’m exhausted, and i can confidently say that the only thing keeping me going all day has been the thought of reuniting with him.

“alright i’m outta here girl,” jayla announces, gathering her car keys and purse. “have fun with your man.”

i shoot her a death glare, to which she responds with blowing me a kiss and darting out the door.

i roll my eyes, smiling, and get back to disinfecting my chair.

just minutes later, the sound of the shop’s front door being pulled open and sneakers squeaking against the tile floor make my heart stop in my throat.

he’s here.

“appointment with the finest lady in the world?” josh calls out.

i roll my eyes, a smirk plastered on my lips. “no problem. let me go get her.”

he snickers, places two starbucks cups down on the counter, and walks over, immediately pulling me in for a hug.

his woodsy, almost vanilla like scent fills my nose as i rest my chin on his shoulder.

“missed you bae,” he exclaims, his hands lingering my waist as we pull away.

“i missed you too,” i reply, running my hands through his curls. “how’s everything been?”

he nods, licking his lower lip. “been good. how bout you, ma? you look good.”

“thank you,” i reply sweetly, heat immediately rushing to my cheeks. “been busy, but i’m managing.”

he smiles softly. “hell yeah you are, baby. i’m proud of you.”

i smile back and place a quick kiss on his lips.

“got your usual by the way,” he announces, tucking a curl behind my ear, nodding towards our drinks. “you still like that shit with enough caramel to make you drop dead after the first sip, right?”

i roll my eyes, playfully swatting his arm. “you’re such a hater.”

his smile turns into a smirk, gently pulling me in by my face for another kiss.

“come on playboy,” i exclaim, taking his hand and leading us to the chair once we pull away. “let’s finish that back.”

he chuckles, stopping once we get there to remove his shirt.

my panties are immediately soaked at the sight of his body, his biceps and chest about ten times bigger than the last time i saw him.

“like what you see, girl?” he teases, flexing his arms. “been workin’ out just for you.”

fuck he’s huge.

“don’t flatter yourself big boy,” i lie, rolling my eyes.

he smirks and lays down flat on his stomach, getting comfy on the chair.

i take a seat next to him and, as i’m putting a fresh set of gloves on, he looks over, laying his head on top of his folded arms.

i wipe down the area we’re about to work on with a baby wipe, before turning on my tattoo gun, the buzzing sound immediately filling the room.

“look at you with all your supplies n shit,” he coos, watching me. “you look like such a pro, baby.”

i smile at the compliment, kiss his temple as a thank you, and pull up instagram to begin my livestream.

he whips out his phone and joins immediately, angling it against the backrest so he can watch it.

“hey everyone!” i greet my already hundreds of viewers.

a bunch of his fangirls immediately flood the comments.

Omg I know that back from anywhere! 😻

HI JEYYY 🥹

The duo is back 🙂‍↕️❤️

FOUR LETTERS ONE WORD UGH UGH YEET 😍🙌🏼

His back 🥵🥵

he chuckles, watching the comments roll by.

i begin the process, stretching out his skin with one hand and free-drawing with the other.

about ten minutes in, he joins the live as a guest to show his angle and the comments go nuts.

JEYYYYY 🥹😍

The man of the hour and he looks so fine! 😮‍💨🤤

YEET! 🙌🏼❤️

“wassup yall? yeet!” he greets them, gritting his teeth to show off his gold grillz.

i smile to myself, listening to him interact with fans.

one question catches my attention though.

“don’t yall think they would be so cute together?” he reads the comment aloud.

i look up and raise an eyebrow at the camera. “bold of y’all to assume i’d ever date his goofy ass.”

his jaw practically drops open and i snicker in response, playfully whacking his butt.

the comments laugh at my response, quickly agreeing and dissing josh for his goofiness.

he sucks his teeth, laying his head back down. “man, yall are some damn bullies.”

eventually, we end the live and i lean over to grab his face and kiss him.

he kisses back, making sure to blow raspberries onto my lips before pulling away.

“bitch you’re gross!” i yell, wiping my mouth with my sleeve.

he laughs, digging his face into his arms before i can wipe it back onto him.

———————————————————————————————

“this shit straight fire mama,” josh compliments, flexing his back in one of the full body mirrors.

i smile, watching him, while taking off my gloves. “it looks amazing.”

“it really do,” he agrees, pulling out his phone to take selfies. “you did your thing with this, bae.”

i blush at the compliment, sitting back down to sterilize my tools. “thank you.”

“nah thank you,” he replies, walking up from behind me and wrapping his arms around me. “your talent is crazy, you know. gramps taught you well.”

my smile grows even wider, doing my very best to blink back tears. “that means the world to me, baby. thank you.”

he smiles and leans in, pressing a deep kiss to my temple.

i lean into his touch and reach up with one hand to hold his face, turning it to mine, and press my lips to his.

“you know i love you, right?” he asks once we pull away.

i nod, biting my lower lip. “mhm. i love you too.”

i brush our noses together before looking back down and finishing up cleaning.

by the time i’m done, josh is back in the mirror, admiring the finished piece all over again.

“you gonna let me wrap that up within the next hour?” i tease, folding my arms across my chest.

he chuckles, walking back over.

i grab some plastic wrap, just enough to cover the newest section, and stick multiple layers to his skin.

once he’s all good to go, he thanks me and puts his shirt back on.

“now,” he begins as we walk back up to the front of the shop. “how much do i owe your pretty self?”

he pulls out his wallet from his sweatpants pocket while saying that last part.

“josh,” i reply, throwing my purse over my shoulder. “babe, we do this every time. you know my grandpa never liked to charge you or your family. so i won’t either.”

he sighs, stepping closer. “baby, this shit took hours. i wanna take care of you. you deserve it.”

i shake my head, cupping his face. “it’s really okay. i promise.”

he smiles softly and leans in, pressing a sweet kiss to the corner of my mouth.

“at least lemme take you out for some dinner?” he suggests, stroking my sides.

i pucker my lips to the side, rubbing his biceps. “waffle house?”

his smile widens, a mischievous look coming over his eyes. “you know me so well.”

i giggle as he pulls me in for yet another kiss.

“let’s roll pretty girl,” he says, holding out his hand.

i take it and we head out.

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accidentcache · 14 hours ago

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Deeeee can you write something fluffy with touya? i just broke my own heart by rewatching the eps abt his past, and that 1 season 7 episode where he fights the whole todoroki fam.

WHY DO I DO THESE THINGS TO MYSELF. he just needs a hug :(( and some kisses

ILY MAMA <33 i hope you and baby are doing well!!

i waited until i had something cute to say abt him and none of the feral animalistic shit i usually say <3 content warnings: obviously post reveal, emotional intimacy, touya has emotions oughghha, short and sweet

the bathroom is quiet. in front of you, your boyfriend sits on one of the dining room chairs you dragged in front of the sink, bringing his head just below yours and eye level with the mirror in front of him. he's watching you in the mirror busy yourself with the dye brush and scissors, leaning back into the seat like he's trying to relax-- but he can't.

your eyes have caught his four times now. every single time they dart away-- like you're scared to look at him or something. he can't stop how his fingers drum along the fabric of his jeans, taut around his thigh.

his tongue pokes the inside of his cheek. "you gonna keep avoiding it or say something?"

your eyes finally meet his in the mirror and he can visibly see the tick in your jaw. he'd call you out on the attitude but this conversation does need to happen at some point. you lean a forearm onto the back of the chair and tug softly at the ends of his hair. "are we trimming this?"

he eyes himself in the mirror. aside from his usual scarring, the only thing different about his appearance is the stark white hair that's greyed at the ends from years of black dye. and yeah, he's got some minor cuts and scratches, more burns that you've already scolded him about.

he doesn't look that different.

his lip curls a tad. "trim it."

your eyebrow lifts for a second before you shrug and push the dye set to the side.

in all the years you've known him, dabi has never told you why he dyed his hair. it took him a while to even trust you with the secret, but never told you details on why.

you found out a week ago who dabi really was. and for some reason, you still opened the door for him when he arrived at your apartment door. and if you caught his brief expression of surprise when you opened the door, you never acknowledged it. he doesn't know whether he's thankful or worried about that.

once his hair is wet and the scissors are in your hands, dabi finds himself oddly and somewhat relaxed once you get to work. little by little, the grey-ish darkened strands disappear from the mop of hair on his head. he's starting to feel more weird about seeing the hairstyle he hadn't seen since he was sixteen.

"if it's worth anything," your voice is always far too gentle in these moments with him, he thinks. nothing too sweet, but savory and warm. "i think you look good with white hair, touya."

dabi stiffens in front of you. that name is still too raw, still too fresh to be used openly like that. even in the privacy of your own bathroom. even in the intimacy between the two of you. it's weird and raw coming from your mouth. he's not used to it.

your hands pause with the current cut and they drop to the back of the chair. you want to grasp his shoulders, but his body language tells you that you've crossed a blurred line. you chew on the inside of your cheek as your eyes trace his tense features in the reflection. "sorry," is all you can think to say.

when dabi exhales, the breath of air is shaky leaving his lips. his lips press together in a firm line and his hand reaches back to grasp yours, pulling it to rest on his shoulder. you can feel him relax-- albeit not very much, but he still eases up when your thumb caresses his shoulder.

his thumb runs along your knuckles and when his eye meet yours in the mirror, he actually smiles a little. it's one of those cute, genuine smiles that he rarely ever gives you; the one that makes your chest squeeze and flutter like the first time you stumbled into him in that random alleyway years ago.

he doesn't say anything else, but he doesn't need to. he never usually does, his actions speak for him. and with the way he slowly softens over the following few hours, you know he appreciates your comments.

#cache money!#i love him dearly #sobs violently #lowkeyremi #bnha #mha #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #mha x reader #bnha x reader #touya todoroki #touya x reader #touya todoroki x reader #dabi mha #dabi bnha #dabi x reader

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taelepathii · 3 days ago

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₊˚⊹ ᰔ grabby hands ᰔ₊˚⊹

synopsis: mack might be a little too enamored with that dumpy you drag around :)))

a/n: i’m sorry loves for the long wait..writer’s block went a little crazy. I also apologize for it being on the short side, I just wanted to get something out for yall. && let me know if yall want a tits obsessed ver. thank you for any likes or reblogs that are very appreciated <33 I hope you enjoy!!

warnings: MINORS DNI (i’m not responsible for your media consumption), talks abt readers ass, mack being an ass man, cowgirl position, talks abt doggy, fluff, basically mack being a menace and just obsessed with THAT ASSS

I wholeheartedly believe mack would be an ass man. it’s not like you dont have great tits..because i mean theyre the perfect size. but you constantly catch mack biting his lips staring at your butt. he especially loves it when you wear those booty shorts, where your cheeks poke out. or in jeans, obsessed with the way they mold to your body. heaven forbid you wear your swimsuit or panties around him because you got like 10 seconds before he’s pouncing on you like a rabid animal. and you love every second of it, especially his facial expressions. raging from his mouth being agape, eyes wide in a mix of surprise and adoration, the green orbs following every movement and jiggle of your behind—to him biting his bottom lip, making it perfectly swollen and redden.

so not only does this man constantly have his eyes locked on your ass but his hands can’t seem to leave it alone either—often finding themselves tucked in the back pocket of your jeans or just resting a cheek, sometimes giving a squeeze. One time you were innocently standing in your kitchen, leaning against one of the counters, doom scrolling through tiktok and then out of nowhere— smack! the abrupt movement causing your phone to slip from your fingers and land on the surface below it, your face frozen in complete shock as to what your man just did. and he had the gull to look like he was a blameless kid, a grin threatening to break out upon his lips. and the spanks didn’t stop there. they happen when you’re laying belly down on the bed, when you’re cuddling….

and when you’re riding him reverse cowgirl. it’s like your ass has its own gravitational pull. his fingers dip into the plush of your sides and cheeks, eyes wide—watching the way your fat ripples every time your ass meets his jerking hips, the area of where you guys meet wet with your mixed arousal. this and doggy are his two favorite positions to have you in—of course because of the perfect view of your ass. he’s so whiny too, always seems to beg for you to not stop, eyes glassy and face flushed. your pussy greedily sucks him in, clenching around him when one of his high pitched noises reaches your ears. a guttural moan rumbles from his mouth, and you feel his dick starting to twitch in you, him coming closer to his release. you reach down between your withering bodies and rub tight circles on your clit, pushing you over the edge, white, hot heat bursting throughout your body. your hole becomes grips him with immense strength, and he comes fast and hard to the allluring sight your ass and the feeling of your pussy.

yeah he’s obsessed with your ass for sure.

#macklin celebrini #macklin celebrini fic #macklin celebrini imagine #macklin celebrini x reader #macklin celebrini smut #nhl fic #nhl imagine

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silverandarsenic-hcs · 11 hours ago

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I fucking LOVE ex-catholic V

Everything he's ever known, all of the friends he had, the chosen family he created, are all taken from him the moment he accepts the position. He knew that was the sacrifice, but happily agreed even though it would hurt. All he has ever wanted in this life is a purpose, for a place in this world to be his and his alone, to be understood, and that is what Sister's letter promised. Power. Status. The Bloodline. Family. He sees leaving the church not as abandoning his station, but taking the role he was always meant to. It was the path God created for him. Only, things are not how he thought they would be. He thought very little about what type of church this was, with all the hopes of parents and siblings and aunts and uncles and cousins and love swirling around in his eager mind.

It is a stranger, in passing, on V's second day in the ministry, who reveals the fate of his family. "Ciao, their ghost is in the garden right now." She says. "Pardon me, ghosts?" She sort of looks around and snickers to herself, and leans in. "Sister and Nihil. You know... someone told you, didn't they? Ah, well, now you know. Follow me and we'll get started..." He takes no time to process this, as if he wanted any. Too much to do, too many real living things to worry about, too much to learn, he tells himself, and walks right over the shards of his tiny broken heart with every step he takes.

He asks every single day when he can meet Copia, and loses more hope each time someone says "soon" or "later" or "shouldn't we get back to work now, Papa." V wants what he came for, and that is a family, and though he desperately wishes to go back to his old life, cannot leave without it. He sees pictures, but can't tell with all the makeup on and all those heavy lights if they look as similar as he things twins ought to. Maybe his voice sounds different in person. Maybe when they embrace for the first time he'll finally feel better. "No, I doesn't want to see Primo and Secondo's corpses instead. Not even the replicas you bring out on tour, but very nice of you to offer. Thank you, I would love to see Terzo's decapitated head one day, but- what's that? Someone is calling me." V pukes in a nearby plant pot when no one is looking.

The strangest adjustment of all is other people's manners. He was used to being referred to in passing as "Your Eminence," and not "Papa" or "Your Unholiness." People still bowed their heads when he passed, that was the same, but they smiled at him. No one was afraid of him. No one was hiding from him. They smiled. At him.

He was whipped as a boy for asking questions - but he'll never let anyone see the scars. Now he has venues across the world, which is so much bigger than he thought it was, full of people waiting to hear his voice. He was shunned for his unsettling movements and staring, and now people love how creepy he is. He no longer has to wear contacts, because that white eye he detested all his life was a symbol of greatness in his new home. That powerful bloodline he was supposed to be a part of. Decades of strength, charisma, and honor. The desires he fought hard to keep inside are being pawed at like loose threads, and each time someone pulls, he feels even more exposed. Every part of him was under a microscope, but for the first time, rather than poking and prodding at him with a scalpel or tweezers, people were reaching out with their hands to touch him.

They brought V in because they thought he would be more like his siblings, and he is, just not the one they hoped for. A terrified Cardinal. Hadn't they been through this before? When he flinched, someone would lean forward and whisper "He was with the Catholics..." to the room, like he wasn't even there. He only defended himself and those Catholics once, and never again.

He gets down on the prayer kneeler he brought with him, in front of the gigantic stained glass window in his new office, and pressed his palms together to pray. Only, it feels so silly now. He wants to ask God for advice on how to move forward and be strong for the people who believe in him, but his voice catches in his throat. He wants to ask how he can make his brother like him, what he can do for him, how he can best serve his family's honor, but he keeps quiet. He wants to confess that he has made a mistake, and he's sorry, God, for straying from your light, but he was blinded by the promise of purpose, and he knows that searching for ones He wants to tell the stars, at the very least, that he feels as lost as they do out there in the sky. It is dark for him too, now, even when the sun is out. His lips tremble when he tries to part them.

It isn't that he feels that God is no longer listening to him, or no longer believes in God, but he is in another man's house, now, and knows that someone else is listening too . His confessions are no longer only between him and God anymore- but what if they never were, he wonders? What if the other man had been listening all along, biding his time, waiting for V to come to the other side? What if he had been wrong all along? And to counter, what if he had been right all along, but these contradictory thoughts are the Devil playing tricks on him, and he should leave immediately. But no, he's supposed to be following the Devil now. Worshipping the Devil. Satanized. It's a headfuck.

The next morning he's woken up by several people packing his bags, and for once blissful moment he believes they're kicking him out, until he's told that Copia is coming home soon, so now it's time for him to go somewhere else and start the real work.

#i can and will go on with this story line eventually because it's canon to me now #oh i really went off on this one forgive me #twenty two seconds of v TALKING and i lose my mind #ghost #ghost bc #the band ghost #ghost band #papa v #papa v perpetua #perpetua #ex-catholic perp #copia #cardinal copia

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gimmethatagustd · 3 days ago

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call me baby | kth + jjk

Amidst a heartless divorce, Taehyung, a renowned film director, desperately tries to hold himself together. Enter Jungkook, the Kim family's devoted nanny, who has had his eye on Taehyung for years.

Pairing: DILF Taehyung x Nanny Jungkook

Rating: Explicit

Genre/Trope: Sugar baby/sugar daddy, age gap, domestic fluff, smut, angst

Word Count: 8,461

Content Warning: Divorce, infidelity, phone sex, hand jobs, anal sex, daddy kink, sex toys

A/N: Happy 1-year anniversary to this fic! This was supposed to be a standard little PWP and then I made it lowkey depressing. 🥲 (and everyone asked, are we supposed to be surprised??)

Soundtrack: Isabel LaRosa - older

The most fucked up part about being a film director married to one of the most prominent actresses in mainstream cinema is having to still cast her in films after already signing the divorce papers. Second on the fucked-up list would be the forced joint attendance at premieres, galas, and other red-carpet events, with all the reporters asking the same goddamn questions:

Was their split amicable?

Have they told their daughter yet? Their goddamn six-year-old daughter who can barely tie her shoes and has never heard the word divorce before in her life?

How do they manage to work on set together?

Is Taehyung upset about the fact that his soon-to-be ex-wife is already in a relationship with the lead actor of a film he fucking directed? Amidst allegations that she was cheating on him with said actor during filming?

Of course not! Why would Taehyung be upset? It’s only that he is the reason Eunji and Sunwoo ever met each other. He chose to pair them as the main love interests in what critics have referred to as the catalyst for a new era of the modern love story, and he encouraged Eunji to take the lead role despite her belief that she wasn’t talented enough.

Of course, Taehyung isn’t upset. He’s a romantic! How could he possibly be upset about true love? The scowl Taehyung wears as he rips off his suit jacket and kicks off his black leather Louboutin Chelsea boots in the foyer of the mansion, which he still shares with Eunji, isn’t from being upset. He just has to sneeze.

“Taehyung,” Eunji calls to him as she gingerly tiptoes toward the grand staircase across the foyer, heel straps threaded through manicured fingers adorned with thin gold rings on all but the one that matters. “Can you pay Jungkook, please? Cash, this time. He said he was having issues with KakaoPay.”

She doesn’t bother looking up from her phone as she climbs the staircase. She had barely looked Taehyung in the eyes all night, aside from during their obligatory photo op on the red carpet, this time for the premiere of a film he hadn’t directed.

They’re gorgeous together, Taehyung and Eunji, tall and lean with angular faces and piercing eyes that they’ve passed on to their daughter, Yuri. Growing up poor and raised by a single mother, Taehyung was taught the value of hard work and humility. Still, even he knows that he and Eunji are the film industry’s power couple—that they were the film industry’s power couple. Everything the Kims touched turned to gold, except for each other. Eunji shines just as brightly as she did when they met fifteen years ago, but now Taehyung crumbles like ash between her fingers.

Taehyung waits in the foyer until the creak of the floorboards tells him that Eunji is in Yuri’s bedroom. Only then does he follow in Eunji’s footsteps up the stairs, taking the opposite direction down the hall.

Taehyung’s bedroom reminds him of a mouth full of missing teeth, with white walls and empty crevices around every corner. One half of his king-size bed is made. The double sink in the attached bathroom is bare on one side. Only one robe hangs on the hook beside the shower.

He likes to poke at the empty crevices just to feel how groundless and gummy it makes him when he does. Lately, he has made a habit of running his fingers across the ornamental dresser next to the door of the walk-in closet. There are shapes in the dust that covers the dresser’s surface, one rectangle where Eunji’s antique jewelry box used to sit, others small circles and squares where she threw rings and makeup compacts whenever she was too tired to properly put them away. Taehyung links each shape with his finger, drawing little crossroads between them, and doesn’t think about how Eunji has left him with the dust—in the dust.

In the kitchen downstairs, Jungkook is washing dishes. He’s wearing loose sweatpants and a black hoodie with the sleeves folded past his elbows because Eunji keeps the house freezing in the summer. On the island counter is his laptop and a tattered leather-bound journal flipped open to messy notes. When Taehyung leans his hip against the counter, he reads the English alphabet repeated in Jungkook’s swooping handwriting in the journal and notices a podcast in English paused on the laptop. Beginner’s language learning may seem trivial, but it’s more than what most twenty-two-year-olds Taehyung knows are doing with their time.

Jungkook’s hair is a weak shade of green, pale like the mints Taehyung enjoys flicking around his teeth with the tip of his tongue when he’s trying to mask the smell of cigarette smoke on his breath. It never works; the minty burst a scent as weak as its color. Taehyung thinks if he sucks on multiple, it’ll make a difference, as though a minty smile is a bandage strong enough to clot the bloody wound in his marriage.

That part of him has been amputated now. The only thing worse is knowing that other people know how miserable this has made him.

Jungkook knows, probably better than anyone else. The nondisclosure agreement he signed before Eunji hired him prevents him from ratting Taehyung out for being lonely, but he knows, probably even more than Taehyung does.

“Welcome home, Mr. Kim,” Jungkook greets as he dries his hands on a towel. They own a high-end dishwasher that Jungkook refuses to use. “Are you hungry?”

“No, no, I’m fine,” Taehyung holds up his hand when Jungkook opens the refrigerator to reveal the leftovers from his dinner with Yuri. “How was she tonight?”

“Perfect, as usual, though she’s still doing that weird picky eater thing,” Jungkook says what Taehyung already expects.

It feels domestic, Jungkook putting away the remaining dry dishes while Taehyung fiddles with his gold cufflinks. They often end up like this at night when they cross paths, Jungkook getting ready to leave and Taehyung finally coming home, both needing a quiet moment to wind down from their uniquely stressful days.

Few people in Taehyung’s life don’t expect him to do something. Life is a performance, even if he isn’t an actor. Everyone expects something interesting, something worthwhile. Jungkook expects nothing from Taehyung; nothing feels better than the relief he feels when so much weight is lifted off his shoulders.

“She gets the picky eater thing from her eomma.”

Jungkook hums in acknowledgment of Taehyung’s comment but doesn’t respond.

Taehyung should tell Jungkook that he doesn’t need to finish cleaning the kitchen when it’s far past midnight on a Monday night, and he’ll need to be back at the Kim residence to take Yuri to school in the morning. He doesn’t, though. Just watches and fiddles and ignores the ache in his hip from the edge of the counter pressing against his hip bone.

“Do you need help with that, Mr. Kim?”

“Oh, no, I—”

Jungkook gently swats Taehyung’s hand away and grabs the sleeve of his white button-up shirt. Taehyung wonders how touch-starved he must be to shiver when Jungkook’s fingers brush his inner wrist as he removes Taehyung’s cufflinks. They’re elegant little gold pieces Eunji bought him for their first wedding anniversary. There’s no way for Jungkook to know that, but Taehyung feels judged when Jungkook drops the cufflinks in his open palm with a hard stare, as though he does know.

“There,” Jungkook says quietly, and Taehyung wonders if he imagines Jungkook’s fingers lingering against his palm just a second longer than necessary.

It’s been two years, yet not enough time for Taehyung to have learned how to read Jungkook, especially when they spend such little time together, just these little moments of gentle small talk and light touches that Taehyung ignores with the expertise of an acclaimed actor.

“You should go home,” Taehyung replies when Jungkook lifts his tattooed hand to his face, covering a yawn.

Jungkook shrugs with a cheeky grin that makes Taehyung’s body grow warm.

“Sometimes, I feel like I might as well ask to become a live-in nanny, considering I’m here all the time.”

The corner of Taehyung’s mouth twitches, a swell of affection making his body betray the melancholy muddling his brain.

Rolling his cufflinks around in his hand, Taehyung considers whether they need a live-in nanny. Between Taehyung and Eunji traveling for work and Taehyung’s habit of locking himself in his home office for weeks at a time while he juggles conference calls and passion projects, he knows Yuri’s family life is unlike most children’s. She doesn’t care, has never known any other way of life. Between kindergarten and Jungkook, her time is well-structured and enriching.

“Would you want to be one?” Taehyung doesn’t know why they’re speaking so quietly. The house is massive. No one can hear them.

Jungkook wets his lips, the tip of his tongue brushing over the metal hoop pierced through his bottom lip. Taehyung drops his gaze to focus on rolling his loosened sleeves.

“Well, I actually wanted to talk about—” Jungkook is interrupted by Eunji’s shrill voice slicing through the quiet.

“Taehyung!”

Cringing, Taehyung twists to face the kitchen doorway, his back to the counter and his hands at his hips to squeeze the edge of it.

Eunji is still wearing her wine-red dress from the premiere like a porcelain doll dipped in blood, but now she’s in sandals and carrying one of her many designer purses Taehyung never remembers the names of. She runs her fingers through her jet-black hair and fluffs it over her shoulder.

“Yes?” He tries not to breathe in the sweetness of her perfume.

“I’m going out,” Eunji tells Taehyung but looks at Jungkook, “I’ll be back before Yuri’s ballet class in the afternoon.”

It’s nearly one in the morning.

Taehyung inhales to speak, but Eunji is gone between blinks. Her goodbye sounds like the front door’s lock clicking once it’s shut.

“She’s going over to Sunwoo’s.”

When Taehyung turns his head, Jungkook seems closer. He mirrors Taehyung and leans his hip against the island counter. He’s slightly shorter than Taehyung but bulkier in his upper body. Something about Jungkook’s physique reminds Taehyung of how much older he is. His late thirties haven’t been unkind, but he misses his youth now more than ever.

“I know.”

“They’ve been fucking for almost a year, Mr. Kim. Sometimes here, but normally in other places.”

Taehyung twists to face Jungkook once again. Their hands slide into each other as he readjusts his grip on the counter.

“I know.”

Now.

He knows now.

Tension builds like anxiety washing over Taehyung’s nervous system, an almost electrical feeling that sparks from where Jungkook’s fingers drag along the back of Taehyung’s hand. They follow a protruding vein up his exposed forearm before he hooks his index and middle fingers in Taehyung’s sleeve, right at the inside of his elbow.

“You deserve better,” Jungkook tugs lightly, but Taehyung’s arm easily gives, letting Jungkook pull him forward. “You realize that, right? That Eunji noona isn’t worth the bullshit?”

What’s the bullshit? An arduous divorce procedure that Eunji will pretend won’t turn into petty arguments over whether Taehyung gets to keep all the jewelry he bought her or if she gets more time with Yuri since her schedule isn’t as busy? Or does Jungkook think Taehyung will try to win Eunji back?

The thought makes Taehyung laugh, dark and shallow.

“I appreciate your concern, Jungkook,” Taehyung pulls his arm out of Jungkook’s grasp, “But what goes on between Eunji and I isn’t worth the bullshit, either.”

“I know that,” Jungkook snorts and Taehyung thinks it’s stupid that it hurts his feelings. “But you’re so… Respectfully, Mr. Kim, you don’t pay attention.”

Taehyung doesn’t, apparently. If this divorce has taught him anything, it’s that he doesn’t.

Sighing, Taehyung squeezes his cufflinks until their corners bite his palm and pushes himself away from the counter. He’s tired, and thinking about Eunji before bed is the best way to prevent himself from sleeping.

“I’ve told you, you don’t need to be so formal with me,” Taehyung runs his free hand through his hair, ruffling the strands, thick with gel, until they fall across his forehead.

Chewing his piercing between his front teeth and bottom lip, Jungkook watches him intently enough to make Taehyung’s stomach flutter.

“I could give you something better, hyung,” Jungkook whispers, his fingers hooking through one of Taehyung’s belt loops.

Taehyung knows a proposition when he hears one, but he struggles to comprehend this one. Jungkook is young, with a good head on his shoulders and a future of possibilities. He has a life beyond the Kim home that isn’t tainted by divorce and abandonment.

“I do not doubt that,” Taehyung murmurs, unable to look Jungkook in the eyes. He drops his gaze to watch Jungkook twist his belt loop between his fingers to tighten his grip.

“Okay,” Jungkook’s tone is mocking, with a twinge of amused curiosity.

Taehyung shouldn’t be surprised when Jungkook cups his jaw to force him to look him in the eyes.

It’s been years since anyone looked at Taehyung the way Jungkook does now, with a gaze that slithers down his body, just to flit back up and remain steady on his mouth when he parts it slightly, suddenly breathless. Jungkook’s fingers tug on his clothes harder than before.

Taehyung has no reason to follow Jungkook’s lead—except that he hasn’t been touched in so long, and Jungkook is pretty. His eyes crinkle, and his nose scrunches when he smiles, exposing prominent teeth that give his face an innocence that starkly contrasts with the rest of him. There’s something soft about him despite his hard edges. Funny, how Taehyung initially thought Jungkook, with his tattoos and facial piercings, would be more of a bad influence on Yuri than her own parents.

“Okay?” Taehyung doesn’t know what he’s asking and gasps because Jungkook has him backed against the counter.

He should be more intelligent. Isn’t he? He can’t think with Jungkook’s thick thigh slotted between his legs, his mind too foggy from the draw of Jungkook’s cologne to consider how suddenly this has escalated.

“Will you let me?” Jungkook seeks permission for something Taehyung doesn’t understand.

He gives it to Jungkook anyway.

Despite how rough Jungkook is as he digs his fingers in the hair at the back of Taehyung’s head to hold him steady, his whimper when he slots their lips together is so soft that Taehyung feels dirty from how the sound makes his cock twitch. He’s noisy as he sucks Taehyung’s bottom lip into his mouth, nipping and flicking his tongue over it.

It isn’t difficult for Taehyung to remember the last time he was kissed, though the memory quickly spirals because it begins with a kiss and ends with, “Taehyung, I want a divorce.”

Kissing Jungkook won’t end in divorce, but Taehyung can’t keep himself from thinking about Eunji’s words, how they flayed him open with sharp precision, each syllable slicing off a piece of his heart. He thinks about them whenever he smokes his cigarettes, a more frequent occurrence now that he and Eunji live separate lives, Eunji hardly around enough to pester him about the smell.

Taehyung wonders if Jungkook tastes cigarettes when they part their lips to roll their tongues over each other, flicking and pressing back against each other until their lips are slick with spit.

Cigarettes and kisses, water and oil in Taehyung’s failed marriage. The less time his lips spent kissing, the more often they curled around a cigarette butt.

“Stop it,” Jungkook hisses into Taehyung’s mouth, “Stop thinking about her.”

Taehyung wants to tell Jungkook that he can’t. They’re in his kitchen, in the house he still shares with his soon-to-be ex-wife and his daughter, who is fast asleep upstairs.

But his words melt into moans as Jungkook grinds his thigh against Taehyung’s cock.

“Oh, fuck,” Taehyung tilts his head back to let Jungkook leave wet, hot kisses along his throat.

“You sound so good, hyung,” Jungkook grabs a handful of Taehyung’s shirt to untuck it with a hard yank so he can slide his palm against the warm skin of Taehyung’s waist, “Feel good, too.”

Jungkook’s fingers dip lower, brushing along the edge of Taehyung’s Calvins and leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“Can I touch you?” Jungkook pants against Taehyung’s lips while he fumbles with the button of his slacks.

The sound of Taehyung’s cufflinks clattering onto the marble floor gets lost beneath his moans.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Taehyung’s stomach swoops and dips as Jungkook unzips his slacks and wiggles his hand down the front of his underwear. His cold touch makes Taehyung’s cock twitch and jump, just as unsteady as the rest of his body.

“Always knew you were big,” Jungkook smirks, his teeth pressed against the curve of Taehyung’s jaw, and strokes his cock in one long, smooth movement that gathers the slippery precum that dribbles from Taehyung’s slit and drags it down to the base.

Taehyung can hardly appreciate the praise and can’t come up with a single coherent thought. He quivers. Jungkook has to force his legs farther apart with his thigh because Taehyung’s knees buckle by the third stroke.

It’s a tight fit because neither of them pulls Taehyung’s slacks down far enough to get his cock out, but he likes the restriction for some reason. It feels wrong, like something quick and dirty, too secret to risk getting comfortable.

It is wrong, quick, and dirty, a secret Taehyung has no option but to keep.

But Jungkook is pretty, and he watches Taehyung with innocent doe eyes that shine brighter than the polished gold cufflinks sprinkled on the floor as Taehyung moans and pants, the build of his orgasm turning his insides to lava. The innocence is a facade, but Taehyung thinks they’re both getting off on pretending.

Taehyung slips his hands under Jungkook’s hoodie and the t-shirt beneath it to rake his nails across his skin, searching for the perfect section of smooth skin to dig into as his orgasm shudders through him.

“Jungkook,” Taehyung panics, bucking up into Jungkook’s hand.

“Already?”

No one has touched Taehyung like this in nearly a year. He rarely touches himself like this.

Taehyung cums with Jungkook’s mocking laughter huffed along the curve of his ear. He nearly bends backward over the counter, dragging Jungkook with him. He pulls back, like he's trying to run from the pleasure.

Unphased, Jungkook cups Taehyung’s balls with one hand to stroke them while they pulse, keeping his other hand rolling tight circles with his palm over the head of Taehyung’s cock. It does nothing to contain the mess, but neither of them cares.

Once Taehyung calms, Jungkook wipes his cum-slicked hand on his thigh. Taehyung’s brain is too floaty to be upset about cum getting on slacks that cost over a million won.

“I think that’s the fastest I’ve ever made someone cum,” Jungkook looks over his shoulder as he teases Taehyung on his way to the kitchen sink to wash his hands.

Jungkook’s comment makes shame curl in the pit of Taehyung’s stomach. The level to which Taehyung enjoys it concerns him.

If Jungkook is bothered by how mute Taehyung is, he doesn’t show it. If anything, Taehyung thinks the whole situation seems funny to Jungkook, like he’s getting a kick out of making Taehyung cum on himself and regress into a fumbling, breathless, mindless version of himself fueled by the desire to be touched in a way no one wants to touch him anymore.

It’s rather pathetic.

Cheeks burning and body still suffering an occasional tremor, Taehyung is afraid to speak when Jungkook returns to stand between his legs with his hands gripping the edge of the counter at Taehyung’s hips.

“I can’t believe Eunji is going to miss out on that,” Jungkook prods Taehyung’s clothed, soft cock with his knee.

“Shit, don’t,” Taehyung curls inward from oversensitivity, “I, she—”

Jungkook’s lips are pillowy and smooth when he isn’t biting and sucking Taehyung’s. They shut Taehyung up and make him melt against the counter. Jungkook is hypnotic, his presence somehow all-encompassing, all-consuming when it usually isn’t.

Or is it? Taehyung thinks he can’t remember what it was like to know Jungkook before this.

The difference twenty minutes make.

Taehyung’s eyes fly open when Jungkook breaks the kiss to pluck Taehyung’s wallet from his back pocket. He’s got that cheeky, lopsided grin that makes Taehyung feel weird as he counts the bills inside, pulling out just a little more than what the Kims owe him for the day.

“A little extra won for the additional services,” Jungkook winks, tossing Taehyung’s wallet on the counter, “I’ll see you in the morning, Mr. Kim.”

Taehyung sees Jungkook in the morning, hardly five hours later, but only briefly.

They squeeze past each other through the front door. Jungkook, with his backpack slung over one shoulder and his hair tousled from little sleep, and Taehyung, with a suitcase in one hand, a duffle bag strapped across his chest, and the rim of a disposable paper cup of English breakfast tea clenched between his teeth. At the same time, he tries to stick a wireless earbud in one ear.

“Hey, I know you forgot, but I have to be in New York for the next two weeks,” Taehyung snaps once he takes the cup from his mouth.

Taehyung gives Jungkook an apologetic look when he realizes it sounds like he’s getting pissy at him, and not Eunji complaining in his ear that he is so inconsiderate of her time, like as if Taehyung should schedule his life around Eunji’s extramarital affairs.

There’s little time to feel embarrassed by the memory of the night before when Taehyung needs to get on a plane and Jungkook needs to prepare Yuri’s breakfast before school. Still, Taehyung’s stomach dips so low that his groin pulses when Jungkook grabs his waist to steady him after he nearly trips down the stairs leading from the house’s front door.

“Eunji, listen, no—Listen to me. I told you a month ago that I need to tour the premises before I can just sign off on the—”

Taehyung is scouting the perfect location for his upcoming movie; shouldn’t she be excited for him? Instead, the beep of Eunji ending the call ricochets in Taehyung’s skull.

“Do you need help, hyung?”

How many times in the past two years has Jungkook asked that question?

Taehyung holds his breath when Jungkook presses his palm flat against his chest, curls his fingers around the strap of his duffle bag, and lifts it over his head to carry it on his own shoulder. Their fingers brush on the handle of Taehyung’s suitcase, and his body remembers the pleasure in the kitchen, their hands intertwined against the counter.

Late, the Kim family’s chauffeur finally pulls up to the house in a nondescript black car. He rushes to help Jungkook with Taehyung’s luggage, carrying it as if it’s precious cargo, not two weeks' worth of underwear and a high-end camera that Taehyung could buy a billion times over.

“Tell Yuri I said I love her,” Taehyung grabs Jungkook’s wrist when he turns to jog back up the driveway, “She didn’t want to wake up when I went into her room.”

Jungkook’s gaze lingers on Taehyung's lips, his eyes lidded and heavy with sleep. Unsettled, Taehyung tries to divert his attention elsewhere.

“You’ll call?” Jungkook asks.

The air around them is tainted by the smell of car exhaust, but Taehyung is engulfed by the fruity and sweet aroma of Jungkook's shampoo. His chauffeur has already slipped into the driver's seat, and the heavily tinted windows make it difficult for Taehyung to tell if he and Jungkook are being watched. The question hangs in the air, soft and warm, like Jungkook's breath brushing against Taehyung's cheek.

They're standing too close.

“Yeah, I’ll call,” Taehyung squeezes Jungkook’s wrist before he lets go to open the car door.

As the chauffeur drives away, Taehyung leans against the window, watching Jungkook standing at the end of the driveway until they round the corner and he can no longer see him. With a heavy sigh, Taehyung lets his head fall back on the seat and wonders why it feels like he has just made a promise he can’t keep.

Contrary to what most people assume, Taehyung hates traveling. He likes to travel, experience the world, and live beyond what he’s accustomed to, but he hates the act of traveling—planes, cars, buses, etc. Taehyung hates it all. He can’t stand transitory spaces, moments in time when he’s not quite where he once was but not yet in the next place he needs to be.

“Oh, so like your marriage,” Namjoon points out in the middle of Taehyung’s rant, much to Taehyung’s disliking. “Divorce proceedings are like a liminal space. You’re still married, but you’re not together. One foot in the door, the rest of your body out. Or, well, your body is still in the door. Eunji just barely has her big toe still across the threshold.”

“Can you shut up?” Taehyung glares at Namjoon over the rim of his glass before taking a sip, hissing once the amber liquid washes over the back of his throat. Bourbon isn’t Taehyung’s drink of choice, but Namjoon said it’s “distinctly American” and thus a requirement for their trip.

Were multiple glasses of Bourbon a requirement, though? Taehyung��distinctly thinks not. Yet here he is, both forearms crossed against the sleek, black marble counter of some high-end cocktail bar, with rosy cheeks and an open tab.

“Am I not wrong?” Namjoon slams down his glass, empty aside from melting ice cubes.

“For as long as I have known you, you are always wrong.”

Ignoring Taehyung, Namjoon beckons the bartender and asks her for another round of drinks in Korean. The woman’s gaze slides from Namjoon to Taehyung, who kicks Namjoon in the shin and nearly throws himself off the barstool he’s perched on.

“Sorry, it’s a mess up here,” Namjoon laughs as he taps his forehead and tries ordering in English this time, his smile all sweet and dimpled.

Namjoon’s entire face is red, and sweat beads along his hairline. Despite the chilly air outside, it’s hot and stuffy inside the bar. Crowded yet calm, the bar patrons respect the quiet atmosphere, with its dim lighting and dark furniture, that seems to mute conversations. Even Taehyung and Namjoon, both easily boisterous, are subtle in their playful bickering.

“Did the rest of the crew leave already?” Namjoon asks as he looks over his shoulder at the booths and tables.

“Didn’t you hear Wonho say they’re going back to the hotel?”

It takes a second for Namjoon to react. Taehyung wonders if they’re both too drunk to properly communicate with each other anymore. His lips are beginning to tingle, and that’s never a good sign.

“It’s not even that late,” Namjoon pouts. He hands his credit card to the bartender in exchange for the next round of drinks anyway.

Taehyung doesn’t want another drink. He’s exhausted from the jetlag that a fourteen-hour time difference triggers, and he’s spent the past few days talking nonstop. There’s always something. As Taehyung grows older, he realizes he desperately wishes for less.

“Are you even listening? Did you hear what I said?” Namjoon shoves Taehyung’s shoulder hard enough to tip his barstool.

With a panicked yelp, Taehyung clutches the edge of the bar counter to hold himself upright as the stool wobbles.

“You’re going to knock me on the fucking floor,” Taehyung grumbles.

Namjoon watches Taehyung with glossy eyes when he asks, “What are you thinking about, Tae?”

Namjoon waits for a response with a sense of earnestness as if he genuinely cares about what’s made Taehyung so quiet. He does care; he’s not only Taehyung’s colleague as a fellow film director, but he’s also one of Taehyung’s dearest friends.

“Yuri hasn’t wanted to talk to me since we got to New York. She has only called me a handful of times,” Taehyung admits with a sigh. He runs a shaky hand through his hair as he speaks, “We spoke on the phone two days ago, briefly, and she told me she blames herself for everything going on with Eunji, as though she thinks she has done something to make Eunji and I no longer love each other.”

Taehyung reaches for the receipt and pen in front of Namjoon to sign for the expenses. He doesn’t bother paying attention to the cost; he only mentally processes it enough to calculate a tip before he tosses the pen on the counter.

“Six years old, and she’s already carrying the burden on her tiny shoulders. This is exactly why I said I didn’t want to fucking tell her about the divorce.”

“Taehyung…” Namjoon clasps Taehyung’s shoulder, digging his fingers into the tense muscles through his shirt. “Yuri just doesn’t fully understand what’s going on. She’s trying to make sense of it in her own way. Kids don’t understand how life can just… change like this, with no warning, no reason apparent to them.”

Namjoon is correct, but that reality doesn’t make Taehyung wrong. Yuri is young and impressionable, and she doesn’t understand, which is why she’s vulnerable to such terrible thoughts. Taehyung insisted that these things be kept a secret, but Eunji had other plans.

Before Namjoon can say anything further, Taehyung’s phone vibrates loudly against the bar counter.

“It’s Jungkook,” Taehyung mutters, reaching for his coat hung on a hook below the bar counter. He doesn’t wait for Namjoon to follow him as he shoulders past the other bar patrons until he can step into the chilly night. It’s still noisy. New York always is, but Taehyung feels less distracted when he can lean against the cold brick at the corner of the building and focus on accepting the incoming video call.

“Appa!” Yuri shouts, her little voice cutting through the sirens ringing in the city streets.

“Hi, baby. How are you doing?”

“Good! Jungkookie oppa took me to the park! There was a doggy named Mouse, isn’t that silly? We should get a puppy and name it something silly. Like, well, um, I need to think about it.”

Taehyung smiles as Yuri rambles on, waving her arm in every direction as she shows Taehyung the park they’re at. He can’t see Jungkook in the video, but he can hear him giggle with Yuri when she says something particularly amusing.

Yuri is dressed cutely, with her hair in evenly parted pigtails, and wearing a sky blue puffy dress she refers to as her “princess dress.” Sometimes, Taehyung thinks Jungkook does a better job raising Yuri than he does.

As most children are, Yuri is easily distracted. She quickly loses interest in describing every special rock she finds at the park and eventually passes the phone to Jungkook so she can “make new friends” and test out how many spins on the swingset it will take for one of them to throw up.

“Hi, hyung,” Jungkook’s smile shines in the midday sun, his eyes sparkling with the warm rays of light. Taehyung can’t stop himself from smiling, too.

“Jungkook-ah,” Taehyung nearly whispers his name, still too aware of their secret. “How is everything?”

“I know she’s been kind of stubborn, but she misses you,” Jungkook says. The wind ruffles his minty hair, lifting his bangs and giving him an angular look. “I miss you, too.”

“Jungkook…”

“Hyung,” Jungkook rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling, and Taehyung is, too. “Just tell me you miss me.”

“I do,” Taehyung obliges, and it isn’t a lie.

Every business trip away forces Taehyung to remember the fact that his days are better when he gets to spend those sacred quiet moments with Jungkook at the end of the night. In that transition period, the two of them come and go. He misses that, even without the handjob.

They’ve been through this already, earlier in the New York trip. It’s wrong to talk to Jungkook like this, someone so much younger than Taehyung, someone who works for him.

It’s also wrong to deposit a little extra money in Jungkook’s bank account every time he leaves Taehyung little reminders of how much more Jungkook could do to remedy the lonely ache in Taehyung’s chest every night he goes to bed alone.

It’s so, so wrong, but Taehyung doesn’t put an end to it—and he could. He could ignore Jungkook’s call later, when he’s back in his hotel room and Jungkook has put Yuri to bed for a nap. He doesn’t, though. He could end the call when Jungkook tells him again how much he misses him. He could tell Jungkook to stop when Jungkook moans into the phone and tells him that he’s touching himself to Taehyung’s rich, smooth voice.

Taehyung could end all of it because it’s wrong, but he doesn’t.

Instead, when Jungkook calls Taehyung during the New York trip, Taehyung lies in the dark hotel room as warmth spreads from his chest lower until he can’t ignore his cock stirring in his boxers with each of Jungkook’s moans.

“Hyung, I can’t stop thinking about how incredible you sound when you cum,” Jungkook whimpers later when Taehyung and Namjoon have returned to the hotel and gone their separate ways. “I’d fucking listen to that all night, every night.

The cool air in the hotel room blows against Taehyung’s chest, making him shiver, but the heat pooling in his stomach is enough to keep him warm.

“Where are you, Jungkook-ah?” Taehyung can hear rustling in the background.

“In your bed. Eunji noona took Yuri out shopping.”

Taehyung lets his head fall back on his pillow as he closes his eyes and imagines Jungkook sprawled on his bed, the one he’d shared with Eunji for so many years. He wonders if Jungkook would be even prettier than she was when Taehyung had her underneath him.

“I don’t believe you,” Taehyung lies because he knows Jungkook will send him a picture. He doesn’t directly ask for one, though. He hopes that makes him less bad.

Taehyung’s cock is a heavy burden fisted in his hand. Slowly spreading precum, he runs his thumb along his slit and thinks about the heat of Jungkook's mouth. He can practically feel them engulf his cock, stretched lips swollen and bitten red. He wants to know what Jungkook tastes like, what his name sounds like as a whimper or a moan spilling from Jungkook's needy mouth.

“Ohh, fuck, I’m gonna cum,” Jungkook moans through the wet, sloppy sounds echoing over the phone. “Please, daddy, let me cum. Tell me I can cum.”

“Daddy?” Taehyung nearly chokes. Shame tightens his chest when his cock twitches at the pet name.

“You like that, daddy? Do you like when I call you daddy while you imagine you’re fucking my mouth? God, I wish I could taste your cock.”

Jungkook is cheeky and mocking, even when he’s praising Taehyung. Taehyung likes how shameful that makes him feel, too. He lets out a breathy sigh and draws his bottom lip between his teeth as he pumps himself harder, slightly picking up the pace.

“Tell me,” Jungkook hisses in what sounds like an attempt to hold back a whimper.

“You can cum, Jungkook-ah. You can—”

Taehyung presses his palm against his mouth to keep quiet when he cums, knowing Namjoon’s hotel room is right next door.

The rub of Taehyung’s meaningless wedding ring, which he still wears out of depressing habit, dragging along the throbbing veins of his cock is what finally sends him over the edge. He cums into his hand as he imagines what it would feel like to sink inside Jungkook. In reality, his cum is messy and hot as it drips down his pulsing cock and between his fingers, making his useless ring stick uncomfortably to his skin.

Taehyung is so fucked.

If someone told Taehyung he’d become a renowned film director, get married, have a child, get divorced, and become a sugar daddy before he turned forty, he would have laughed in their face.

Now, his bank statements from the past few months reveal an embarrassing pattern of purchases of children’s toys, payments to his lawyer, and seemingly random purchases that always end up in the hands of Jeon Jungkook.

Taehyung’s money isn’t endless, but the likelihood of it ever running out is slim. He supposes he could live off of royalties alone and never pick up another film project for the rest of his life. It’s not about the money, though. For other people it may be. Capitalism destroys art, though, and Taehyung prefers to keep thoughts about his finances separate from his film passion projects. If he considers his art his paycheck, he’ll never want to create anything again—and what kind of life would that be?

Money is different for a twenty-two-year-old with dreams of making it big. The English language learning and desire to brush up against fame aren’t just for fun. After nearly two years, Taehyung finally learns that Jungkook’s true passions lie in acting and film production. Jungkook has goals, and Taehyung, as the seasoned professional between them, can’t possibly sit back and not help.

If Namjoon looks at Taehyung funny when he asks him to babysit Yuri while he attends yet another obligatory celebrity event, this time with Jungkook, well, there’s nothing Taehyung can do about that. If Taehyung is going to be a proper mentor, he must ensure that Jungkook ends up in the right rooms with the right people.

The fact that they have phone sex practically every night because Taehyung is too afraid to fall asleep alone and Jungkook likes the money he gets out of it is beside the point. Ever since that night in the kitchen, nothing physical has happened between the two of them. Taehyung and Jungkook maneuver with and around each other as though they don’t practically fall asleep to the sound of each other coming. Jungkook is sweet and caring to Yuri, as always. He gets along well with Eunji despite the tension that Eunji brings with her into every conversation. When he’s with Taehyung, he’s polite and cheerful.

It’s strange, living a double life. It makes Taehyung feel even slimier, but he doesn’t stop.

The thing is, Taehyung should have known that what's done in the dark always comes to light.

Taehyung’s desk is littered with to-do lists. Some are on looseleaf paper, others on sticky notes or scrap paper ripped from notebooks or crumpled in the back of desk drawers. An artist type in the most terribly stereotypical way, Taehyung has yet to master the arts of time management and organization. He even maintains a digital to-do list attached to his work email account calendar. However, that one is a bit more successful than the physical to-do lists that get accidentally thrown out or left in the pockets of his slacks to disintegrate in the washing machine later.

The digital to-do list is ideal because it’s more reliable and makes a cute little sound whenever Taehyung marks an item as completed. The application cheers him on whenever he completes more than five daily tasks.

Five may not seem like much, but when Taehyung spends half his office days on conference calls, arguing about salaries and film sets, he needs something to motivate him.

For now, he clicks through an old list of tasks on his to-do list to watch the virtual confetti rain down his computer screen while two of his colleagues argue over the phone. Taehyung is working from his home office, so he keeps his wireless earbuds in rather than put the call on speaker phone, not wanting the loud conversation to carry out of his office and disrupt anyone else who may be home.

Barely five minutes into the phone call, Taehyung already wants to hang up. He has more important matters to deal with, like buying a new condo in the city so he can have a good excuse to get out of this goddamn house.

Too distracted by his colleagues, Taehyung doesn’t hear the knock at the door, nor does he notice someone slip inside his office until they’re picking at the stray papers scattered across his desk.

“Hyung, your office is a disaster,” Jungkook says, amusement flickering like sun rays in his eyes and with a twitch of his mouth when he holds back a smile.

Muting himself on his phone and removing one earbud, Taehyung slightly tilts back in his desk chair to stare at Jungkook.

“I’m on a call, Jungkook. Do you need something?”

Jungkook rolls his eyes. Nightly orgasms and a little more money in his bank account have turned Jungkook bratty. Taehyung hates that he likes it.

“Eunji noona brought Yuri with her to her halmeoni,” Jungkook reaches for the removed earbud, but Taehyung pulls his hand back before Jungkook can snatch it.

“So?”

“So,” Jungkook rolls his eyes again, “I’m bored.”

“And what exactly am I supposed to—” Taehyung cuts himself off as he scrambles to unmute himself when his colleagues address him on the call, “Yes, Seojoon, I already sent those documents to Bogum last week. The executives at Park Enterprises said security clearance wouldn’t be difficult to obtain once the cast is finalized.”

Returning the earbud to his ear, Taehyung gives Jungkook a stern look before focusing on pulling up the documents on his computer. They’re highly technical, with lots of legal jargon that even Taehyung wasn’t well-versed in, so he has to review the document with his colleagues.

“I assume they’ll all have valid passports?” Taehyung scrolls through the files, searching for the correct section to review.

Determined to make his problems Taehyung’s, Jungkook maneuvers around Taehyung’s arms until he can forcibly sit in his lap. On another day, it could be cute and maybe even send Taehyung into a little panic attack, but Taehyung isn’t in the mood when he has frustrated coworkers in his ears.

Get off, Taehyung mouths to Jungkook because his phone is out of reach now.

Jungkook leans with his back against Taehyung’s chest, and his legs spread to rest on the outside of Taehyung’s thighs. When he turns his head, his lips brush against the base of Taehyung’s throat.

“No,” Jungkook whispers before giving Taehyung's throat a gentle kiss that makes goosebumps spring across his skin.

Jungkook’s weight feels nice, even more so if Taehyung just sits back and lets Jungkook get comfortable. Taehyung is too on edge for that, though, especially when Jungkook wiggles to get comfortable and inadvertently grinds his ass on Taehyung’s crotch.

Hissing quietly, Taehyung squeezes Jungkook’s hip to still him, but Jungkook giggles and does it again. He leans forward to grab the edge of the desk and gyrates his hips, grinding down on Taehyung in slow circles.

“Jungkook,” Taehyung whispers, fingers digging into Jungkook’s skin to tighten his grip on his hip bone. When he tries to reach for his phone to mute himself, Jungkook snatches it and sets it near the corner edge where Taehyung can’t reach it.

“Are you mad at me, daddy?” Jungkook asks quietly. “I just want to spend time with you. Real time with you, not just on the phone.”

Jungkook is wearing skimpy athletic shorts just like his homemade crop top, which exposes the toned expanse of his abdomen. It’s a shame that Taehyung can’t even appreciate it since Jungkook isn’t facing him, but he does have a full view of how firm Jungkook’s ass is as he rubs Taehyung’s now fully hard cock through his slacks. Each roll of his hips hikes his shorts up further until they’re at the crease of his thighs, putting his legs on display.

“You’re always so busy,” Jungkook whispers against Taehyung’s throat when he leans back again.

“It’s on page fifty-eight,” Taehyung’s voice cracks on the last syllable when Jungkook grabs his hand off the mouse and presses Taehyung’s fingers against his ass. Taehyung feels something round and knobby between Jungkook’s cheeks, not needing to see what it is to know that it’s a butt plug.

Taehyung takes a deep breath as Jungkook curls his fingers around the waistband of his athletic shorts and uses both their hands to pull them down his thighs so Taehyung can see the diamond nestled between his cheeks.

“I thought you might want to know where your money is going,” Jungkook smirks when he looks at Taehyung over his shoulder.

Taehyung thinks he might start crying if his coworkers don’t stop asking him to read parts of the legal document out loud to them.

It’s clear that Jungkook has turned this into a game. He twists around in Taehyung’s lap to rub his palm against the hard bulge in Taehyung’s slacks and grins when Taehyung tries not to look at him while he reads off the computer screen. Every time Taehyung opens his mouth to answer his colleagues’ questions, Jungkook squeezes his cock.

“Can I have it, daddy?” Jungkook rubs the head of Taehyung’s cock through his slacks as he pulls down the zipper, “Please?”

Taehyung shouldn’t do it. He’s already struggling to breathe properly on this phone call, and his forehead and the nape of his neck are damp with sweat. He can’t even put himself on mute. Jungkook is twenty-two. Jungkook is their nanny. Taehyung shouldn’t do it.

Jungkook leans forward to brush their lips together as Taehyung lifts his hips so Jungkook can pull his pants down far enough to release his cock. If having Jungkook half-naked in his lap wasn’t enough torture, when Jungkook turns back around, he guides Taehyung’s hand to the jewel sitting pretty between his cheeks. The plug makes a wet, squelching sound when Taehyung pulls it from Jungkook’s stretched hole, lube dripping from it in sticky strings that smear Taehyung’s desk when he puts it off to the side. One of his colleagues asks him a question, but he’s too mesmerized by how Jungkook’s shiny hole flutters now that it’s empty.

“Give it to me,” Taehyung thinks he hears Jungkook whine.

Taehyung swipes his thumb over a glob of lube that leaked down the inside of Jungkook’s thigh and uses it, along with his own precum, to slick up his cock. He takes too long, though, and Jungkook swats his hand away to grab his cock and line it up himself.

Rather than go slow, Jungkook drops onto Taehyung’s cock with all his weight, making his ass slap against Taehyung’s thighs and ripping a moan out of his throat so loud that Taehyung immediately ends the phone call.

“What the fuck, Jungkook?” Taehyung wants to be stern and wants Jungkook to understand that he can’t just fuck around like that with Taehyung’s job, even if Taehyung encourages it.

But then Jungkook leans forward to lift his hips and drop back down again, enveloping Taehyung’s cock in his wet heat. Taehyung’s other complaints immediately morph into moans so breathy and pathetic that he shocks himself.

“I feel good, don’t I?” Jungkook whimpers as he fucks himself on Taehyung’s cock even harder, using the desk to give himself momentum. “Tell me, daddy, tell me.”

“Fuck, baby, you do,” Taehyung flings his head back and bucks his hips to meet Jungkook with his own thrusts.

“Mhm, you wish you had me sooner, don’t you?” Jungkook’s voice takes on a higher pitch, something whiny and cute. “Could have been fucking me instead of wasting your time being sad about noona.”

The chair creaks and scratches against the floor as Jungkook bounces on Taehyung’s cock, filling the office with the sound of their moans and wet skin slapping together.

Taehyung nods fervently, his head rolling and lolling as Jungkook uses him, drawing breathy moans from Taehyung, little “ah, ah, ah’s” that make him feel lightheaded because he isn’t inhaling.

“Yes, fuck, yes, yes,” Taehyung’s arms fall limp at his sides as he lets Jungkook control the pace.

“You like when I fuck you, hyung?” Jungkook sounds so smug as if he knows he has Taehyung right where he wants him. Taehyung can’t even care to feel ashamed of how easy he is.

Taehyung nods, his voice caught in his throat.

“Touch me. I wanna cum, please.”

“Yeah? Fuck, baby, fuck,” Taehyung reaches around to fist Jungkook’s cock as he feels his own orgasm build. It dips and burns the pit of his stomach almost as quickly as it had that first night, all those months ago.

“I could give you something better, hyung,”

As touch-starved as Taehyung is, he holds off until after Jungkook cums with a cry that makes Taehyung glad there’s no one else home.

It’s messy and loud, and it takes too long for Taehyung to come down from his high. He feels sluggish, even after Jungkook climbs off him and strips his shirt, using it to clean himself off before tossing it to Taehyung. It’s been so long since Taehyung has felt so content, not just satiated from physical pleasure, but from shared intimacy—even if it will make him feel slimy later.

“If I didn’t work out so much, that position would have been too hard to maintain,” Jungkook mumbles against Taehyung’s chest when he climbs back into his lap.

He’s unfazed by their current physical state and never seems shy about the fact that he’s fucking his boss, the father of the kid he cares for. Taehyung wants to be free like that, unashamed, unapologetic. Eunji is; she’s even worse. It’s a bunch of bullshit, just like Jungkook said.

“How are you so casual about this, all the time?” Taehyung asks quietly, eyes closed so he can try to think through the fuzz in his brain.

“I don’t know,” Jungkook shrugs, “I like you, you like me. What else is there?”

It feels too simple, but Taehyung likes it. He thinks back on how much of a hopeless romantic he is and how his films revolve around finding love, or at least acceptance and intimacy. Does Jungkook love him? Taehyung feels too silly to ask, but he thinks if this were one of his films, he’d want it to end just the way they are, cuddled up despite the mess they’ve made of each other, without shame.

“I’m not like her,” Jungkook likely mistakes Taehyung’s pensiveness for sadness. “I won’t do you the way she did you.”

“The thought never crossed my mind, Jungkook-ah,” Taehyung murmurs against Jungkook’s forehead, lips brushing a light kiss that can’t begin to convey the swell of affection Taehyung feels for the man he cradles against his chest.

@rkiveslibrary @mar-lo-pap @remmykinsff @likecrazy22

#bts fanfic #bts smut #bts fluff #bts angst #taekook fanfic #taekook au #taekook smut #taekook angst #taekook fluff #gimmethatagustd #call me baby #taehyung x jungkook

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kinda-indecisive · 2 days ago

Text

And the second part of my first request on this blog!! Thanks again Anon for the request!

(Note, MC only tips with Xavier in this because he surprised her, otherwise she was doing great lol)

⋆ ˚:;｡+⋆ ˚+｡:｡:. Miss Hunter pt II ｡:.⋆+.｡;｡+⋆ ˚

You (MC) remind the guys that your profession requires strength.

Part 1: The Xavier, Sylus, and Caleb Editions!

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Xavier

“Xavier come on!” you groan, shaking your boyfriend’s groggy form among the blankets and plushies the two of you have hoarded and turned into a comfy little reading nook in the apartment.

He waves a heavy arm at you, murmuring, “Just five more minutes.”

“You said that 30 minutes ago, Xavie,” you whine, giving him a big push that flips him over from his stomach and onto his back. Still, he looks up at you between heavy lids and simply falls back asleep.

Groaning, you flop down on top of him. You don’t even peer at him to see if your sudden weight on him woke him up. You know very well it likely had zero effect on him whatsoever.

Burying your face in the plush of his sweatshirt, you grumble to yourself about missing the grand opening of the new arcade. Sure, things were probably going to be crazy expensive and the lines long and boring. But you and Xavier had planned to go to the grand opening anyway, and he owes you a night out after the two of you were called in for a surprise mission the night of your last big date.

Leaning back and looking down at him, he continues to sleep peacefully. You take the collar of his hoodie between your fists and give him a little shake. He snores lightly.

He could very well be faking it. He’s teased you this way before.

Deciding to test it out, you huff, “Alright, I’m going to invite Jeremiah to go with me instead.”

Pushing yourself off the floor, you turn and wait one second, two…

Still nothing.

Damn. He really is passed out.

Sinking into the beanbags, you stare over at your sleeping beauty. You two have honestly had an extremely busy week of back-to-back missions. A few days in, you weren’t entirely certain there were any other Hunters on the Unicorns team other than to two of you left, only to learn that they all were swamped with missions as well. Protocore smuggling, small Wanderer fighting circles (most of those guys got torn up by their own ‘pets’ before you’d even arrived and you’d been there for cleanup), and illegal protocore modifications all within the same week.

Truly, you are exhausted. But your stubbornness is likely what’s keeping you up and insisting you follow through with the plans you’d made what feels like ages ago.

There’s not actually anything wrong with staying in and snuggling.

It would be a bit more comfortable, however, if it were done in the bed instead of on the floor.

“Fine, Xavie. Let’s stay home,” you grumble, giving him a little nudge, “But let’s go to bed. Your back is gonna hurt from sleeping down here.”

He is unresponsive. You poke his cheek. He scrunches his nose a little, sniffs, then returns to his dreams once more.

Standing up, you stare down at him. This situation would be comical if you weren’t so exhausted. But exhausted or not, you’re still going to get your boyfriend tucked into some blankets whether he likes it or not.

“Xavier, don’t make me pick you up.”

No response.

“Alright, I’m gonna do it.”

Still, nothing. You’ll take that as a go.

Rubbing your hands together, you walk a circle around him, trying to figure out some kind of technique for what you’re about to do. Despite his light and fluffy appearances, you know damn well that Xavier is deceptively solid as a rock. Sure, you could get him in the air, but one wobble will send you both careening to the floor. You don’t exactly want that to happen, though you’re uncertain that even that would be able to wake him up.

After careful consideration, you figure out your game plan. Grabbing a sheet from the bedroom, you lay it out on the floor. Rolling Xavier over onto it, you peer at him, watching for any movement, before grabbing the edges of the sheet and dragging him toward the couch.

When you get to the couch, you prepare for the first lift. You figure it’ll be easier to get him from the floor to the couch, then from the couch into the air.

Kneeling, you slide your arms between him and the sheet and lift. You hoist him past the first checkpoint. Feeling weirdly comfortably steady, you decide to test your limits and bypass using the couch for assistance. Taking a deep breath, you manage to push up off your knees and onto your feet.

Triumph. Pure elation and triumph course through your veins along with a sense of smugness. He was never going to believe you accomplished this feat. Whether your knees were shaking a little or not, you had the full weight of your boyfriend in the air, bridal style.

In the midst of your smugness, you miss the way Xavier’s eyes peel open, a deep frown between his brow as he notices the sensation of being suspended.

“Whashappenin’?” he murmurs, voice slurred with sleep as he starts to try to stand up. You squeak in surprise and his eyes widen in pure horror as you sway backward, manage to find your balance for a brief moment, before suddenly swaying to the side, “Bunny?”

You let out another squeak and gravity takes you both.

Xavier’s arms are around you instantly, spinning you around at an alarming speed and cushioning your fall, the air getting knocked out of him.

He looks up at you in surprise and confusion, and you feel your face heat with embarrassment.

“What was that all about?” he breathes.

Pushing off of him, you bury your face in your hands, “I was going to carry you to bed, but you woke up and ruined it. I had you in the air for a whole 20 seconds. And I would have been able to do it, too, if you didn’t wake up!”

His brow scrunches as he combines your story with the feeling he had woken up to. To your utter surprise, he starts laughing.

“It’s not funny, Xavier. We could have been gravely injured. What would we have told the doctors? What would we have told the Association?” you groan in embarrassment.

“I would have told them that my partner and I were injured in the line of duty,” he says reaching out and pushing a few strands of hair out of your face, “That my partner is so brave and strong that even while suffering from exhaustion, she lifted and carried me out of harms way for a whole 20 seconds.”

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Sylus

Luke and Kieran snicker across the table from you. As soon as you’d arrived this evening, they started talking smack about the Hunters Association and how ‘Deepspace Hunters never face anything truly dangerous’—insisting that the work they do is much more important than ‘dispatching a few Wanderers’ every day.

Having just woken up, Sylus made sure you weren’t genuinely mad at their teasing. Discovering that you are just arguing with them for arguing's sake, he settles at the head of the table, paying little attention to the three of you as he taps his tablet screen with his glasses at the edge of his nose.

“Whatever. If we were fighting one-on-one, I bet I could take you both down one after the other, right now,” you challenge, making Kieran snort.

“Did you hear that, Boss?” Kieran asks.

“Let’s have a rumble, then,” Luke suggests.

Before you can respond, Sylus shuts the idea down with a still-tired glance at the three of you over his glasses, then returns to his tablet.

“Fine, no rumble,” you grunt, “You two got lucky, this time. But any other time, any other place…”

“Bet not,” Kieran says, smugly crossing his arms over his chest.

“Oooooh,” Luke leans forward excitedly, “A bet?”

Squinting at them, you know they’re setting a trap. However, the way they’ve been talking smack all evening, you do have the desire to put them in their place. After a minute of scrutinizing them, you accept, “Okay, deal. But if we aren’t allowed to fight… what about arm-wrestling?”

“Psht—” Luke groans, “Arm wrestling is boring. We need a bigger feat of strength than that.”

Sighing, you shrug, “Fine. If you can think of something better, go ahead.”

“Hmm… no battle, no guns…” Luke muses, resting his head on his palm as he brainstorms, “Oooooh, I saw this challenge online the other day. A bunch of gym bros showing off for clicks.”

Kieran straightens up in his seat, “That is an interesting bet. No offense, Boss Lady, but you’re not gonna win this one.”

“Just tell me what you want and I’ll let you know what I can and can’t do.”

You watch the video they show you with intense concentration. And, after a moment’s consideration, you nod, “Alright, I’m in. I bet I could do that to any one of you, no problem.”

Luke grins, “We’ll take you up on that bet. I say that if you fail, you owe us—”

“—one big favor. Each.”

Squinting, you take another look at your opponents. They’re both strong, though not nearly as muscular as Sylus. And they’re tall, though not as tall as Sylus. You’re pretty sure that, with the right technique, this will be easy.

“Fine, you’re on!”

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Allowing you some time to stretch in prep for what they believe to be an impossible feat, the twins discuss among themselves who will be the participant. You had insisted it was no big deal to you, you could make quick work of either of them.

Now, they return to you with barely restrained smiles on their faces.

“We thought long and hard about it.”

“And we finally decided.”

“You said you’d be able to lift ‘any one of us’, right?”

“That’s why we nominate—”

“—the boss man!”

Sylus strolls in as they make their announcement. He sees the surprise on your face and looks to the twins for an explanation. Before they say anything, however, you take a defiant step forward, “Deal!”

The twins cheer and Sylus continues to stand by the door with a slightly irritated expression, “And what exactly is this deal?”

Not even a minute later, he’s sitting on the edge of the highest table surface in the house, which happens to be the kitchen counter.

“No Evols. No cheating!” Luke chirps, Sylus sending him a dirty look and shutting him right up.

“I told you I can put an end to this silly bet,” Sylus says in a quiet voice, “No need to be stubborn and go through with it.”

“That sounds an awful lot like you doubting me, Sy,” you huff, getting into position with your back between his legs. In the mirrored splashback along the kitchen wall, you make eye contact with him. After a moment’s hesitation, he nods at you in this reflection. A silent ‘go ahead’ as he scoots closer to the edge of the counter.

Mephisto flies into the room when Luke and Kieran hoot and holler, watching as you secure the enormity of the Leader of Onychinus on your back and take step forward. You struggle with his weight for half a step, terrified of tipping backward and ending up with you both on your backs. But you steady yourself with a stubborn determination that makes the twins cheer even louder. You take another step and you’re suddenly holding all of his weight without any help from the countertop.

Luke and Kieran walk a circle around you, examining for any traces of Sylus’s Evol being used and finding none. As soon as they admit defeat, you walk back as steadily as you can and drop your enormous boyfriend back on the counter.

“Alright, the show is over,” Sylus announces, and the look in his eye makes him not have to repeat himself as the twins continue to hoot and cheer as they disappear down the hall. As soon as they’re gone, you slump to the tiled floor. Long legs stand at your side before Sylus squats down beside you, his expression amused and adoring, “You were right. I may have underestimated you this time. I won’t make that mistake again, kitten.”

“You are not light, Sy,” you pout.

He grins, “I apologize. I might’ve slimmed down a little if I knew your pride was on the line.”

“Shuddup,” you murmur, causing him to chuckle, dotingly low.

“You won the bet. I’m proud of you,” he says, reaching out and surprising you when he begins to knead his fingers into your back. “The twins are gone now, so let me take care of you. We don’t want you getting sore from your feat of strength, do we?”

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Caleb

It is a bit early when you creep out of your room. Moving around the house, you expect to find your boyfriend somewhere. Sure enough, you locate him in the living room, still in his pajamas. He’s reclined on the couch, his nose scrunched ever so slightly as he reads over what looks like sheets and sheets of paperwork. He looks busy.

Not wanting to interrupt him, you back out of the room as quietly as possible… only to hear him clear his throat expectantly, that ever-present teasing tone in his voice when he asks, “And where do you think you’re going?”

Walking back into dim lamp light of the living room, you shrug nonchalantly, “I was going to ask if you wanted to go to the gym with me, but you looked busy.”

“It’s 5 am, Pips,” he scrutinizes.

“Okay? And I woke up with a lot of anxious energy,” you frown, “I have to burn it up somehow.”

He stares at you for a minute before tilting his head ever so slightly, “Is there something you need to talk about?”

You give him a weird look before shaking your head, “Nope. Just wanna get a workout in, yeah?”

He nods, humming softly before shifting all the papers off his lap, “Alright, I’ve got some time to spare. Let’s go.”

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Focused on your exercise and the beat of the music in your headphones, you don’t notice a pink-cheeked Caleb walking up to you until he’s directly by your side.

He grins when you squeak in surprise, wiping his hairline with a rag and tossing it over his shoulder.

“Caleb! You scared me!”

“You’re super focused on your exercise today.”

Biting your lip, you huff a little as you drape your headphones around your neck and walk over to the bench to grab your water bottle. Taking a couple sips from it and wiping the sweat off your lip, you shrug as you look up at him, “I’m not any more focused than usual.”

“You definitely are,” he quips, giving you a sideways glance, “Someone might think you were heading off to battle, with the look you had in your eyes a minute ago.”

“You’re making things up,” you roll your eyes, taking another sip, “How long has it been? We can head home now, if you’re too tired.”

“Hey, I’m ready to do a few more reps if you are,” he shrugs.

And so you get back to work. All the while, you can feel the way Caleb keeps an eye on you.

But even after upping your reps for the morning, you still have an anxious energy around you that makes even Caleb tentative to approach you, as if that would stop him, “You sure you’re alright?”

Glancing at him, you nod, “I’m fine.”

Silence. Then, “So... when are you planning on telling me about the super dangerous mission you have coming up?”

You spin on your heel, mouth hanging open for less than a second before you snap it shut, “I don’t even want to know how you found out about that. I’m fine. In body and mind, I’m the best I’ve been in a while. Don’t even worry about it.”

“Yet you’re out here training like you’re going into the Wanderer Hunting Olympics,” he says, following after you, “Clearly you’re worried you’re not up to the task. You gotta know your limits, Pips. And if this mission is already wearing you thin, no one will think any less of you if you back off a little. You can even use me as an excuse—”

“I’m not worried about the mission, Caleb.”

“You don’t have to act tough—”

“Seriously, I’m not.”

“Then what is the issue?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

He stares, “You know, I’m not entirely sure you weren’t replaced by a crazy person. You tellin’ me not to worry about it? Not gonna happen.”

You sigh, “Caleb—”

“As a matter of fact, I’m going to hang from this bar until you tell me what’s up.”

“That’s a horrible idea.”

He ignores you, reaching up and adjusting his grip a few times before pulling himself up and doing just as he says.

You cross your arms and glare at him. He continues to ignore you. Frowning, you glance at your watch. It’s been about 15 seconds. You’re sure he can get over a minute comfortably, but still, he’s being ridiculous on purpose.

So you let him surpass a minute, glancing up at him. He raises his eyebrows at you, but otherwise doesn’t say a thing.

At the minute and a half mark, you start to feel bad. And at two minutes, when his cheeks are pinker than they were before and most of his weight has shifted to his bionic arm, you stand and point to the floor.

“Caleb, get down.”

He doesn’t speak, only gives you a head tilt as if asking if you’re ready to talk. The both of you are stubborn. You know he won’t let himself down without your compliance. But you’re not going to crack.

His cheeks turning pinker by the second, you walk over and stand between his legs. Putting your arms around his thighs, you start trying to yank him away from the bar.

“Pips, what the—” he sputters, trying to cling to the bar as you yank him further away.

“Let go or we’re both going to fall.”

You take another step forward and give his legs a good yank.

Surprised, his grip slips and he gasps as you manage to find a balance with his entire weight on your shoulders. You keep him in the air for a good two to three seconds before uses his Evol to lighten the load on your back and he clambers down.

“Okaaaayyyy so that was insane Pip-squeak! Can I even call you that anymore or am I the Pip-squeak now?” he laughs, his face flushed with a different kind of heat, “I guess I know why you’ve been doing all those extra reps lately.”

“I told you it’s not the mission I’ve been thinking about,” you snort, failing at holding back your giggles.

“I guess I should believe you then, huh?” he hums, face still flushed as the two of you sit on the bench. Stretching your arms and shoulders, you grimace before giving him a little nudge him with your elbow.

“So, the thing is… literally the second day into the mission, there’s this big plushie release at the mall that I’m going to miss…” you murmur and Caleb nods along like he isn’t hearing anything new, “This is, like, a super limited edition plushie, y’know?”

“Of course I do,” he agrees, “That’s why I preorded one of them ages ago. Like, back when they were first announced. I figured that even if you bought one, then you’d end up with two.”

You whip around and stare at him wide-eyed and in love, crashing into him and giving him a big, sweaty hug and smooch as he laughs about how silly you are.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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yandere-paramour · 2 days ago

Text

When Vivien Throws His Back Out

The fucking African Violets.

Streptocarpus ionanthus. African Violets. Blue, Purple, Pink, White, Red, and Multicolored, all with fuzzy leaves. Likes lots of light, although not direct. Lots of water and warm, humid conditions. Do not get the leaves wet.

Realistically, Vivien knew this wasn’t his fault, but he still felt like it was his fault.

Sunny days were perfect. Vivien would arrange the pots in the wooden beds outside under the awning. Sunlight, only a little bit, would shine on the leaves, making them dapple in a beautiful green mosaic. The swirling colors would brighten the street, drawing people inside, and Vivien would make approximately 15% more just from these walk-ins.

Rainy days did the opposite. When it was pouring, Vivien had to lug everything inside, straining under the weight of 30 pound pots. Customers would hurry past the shop, only taking a second or two to enjoy the dryness of the awning and not even thinking of coming in. It was hell to deliver. Overwatering could easily damage live flowers and would drown delicate bouquets.

But this was unexpected.

Vivien knew the shop was old, a little one-story that sold houseplants and bouquets but contracted with a company that sold larger, hardier vegetation, but he thought it was sturdy. He hadn’t had any problems until today. When he came in that morning, his balls had dropped to his toes, fearing the loss of profits from the loss of the fucking ceiling.

Over night, the rain must have overwhelmed the ceiling, and part of it caved in, causing a large slab of roof to fall directly on the peace lilies. Luckily peace lilies were the kind of plant you would bring as your tap-out in a boxing match; they were perfectly fine, covered in dust from plaster. The problem was the African Violets. A tiny trickle of train had fallen on them, ruining every single one.

It had been hell spending the entire day calling repair companies, cleaning and apologizing to the peace lilies for his oversight, and cursing the goddamn heavens for ruining the sensitive snowflake African Violets. The thought of unnecessary plant death saddened him, and mostly, Vivien was mad at himself.

By the time he got home, he was in no mood to be cheerful.

But you were there.

You had gotten home first. Vivien had honed, acute hearing, and he heard you through the apartment door before he unlocked it. You must have started dinner. His heart ached. As angry and upset as he was, his love for you shimmered and roiled in his lower gut. His dick twitched, swelling with blood that would be better spent in his brain. Vivien shook his head, adjusted himself, let himself inside.

The kitchen smelled like garlic and thyme, and you were in the center of it, watching TikToks on your phone. You looked up as he walked in, and the growing smile on your face made him weak in the knees.

You went to him immediately, wrapping your arms around his thin frame, “You’re back! I missed you! I started dinner and-“

Vivien wanted to melt into your arms, to kneel at your feet and worship you the way you deserved, but the second your hands clasped around the small of his back, he hissed. You dropped your hands immediately and stepped back immediately, worried.

“No wait,” Vivien tried to pull you back, “I’m sorry-“

“What happened?” You looked concerned, trying to move behind him to see his back, “Are you hurt?”

“There was-“ You lifted up his shirt to poke at him and Vivien wanted to sob, “I hurt my back at work, but I’m fin-“

“Come on,” You shut that shit down immediately, “Go shower. I’m gonna put the chicken in and then I’ll come to you, okay? Let me help you.”

Chastised, Viven just nodded his head and shuffled toward the bathroom. Direct, concise orders. He could do that.

Vivien turned the shower as hot as it would go, stripped, and gingerly stepped in. The bundles of eucalyptus and lavender over the shower made it smell both medicinal and relaxing, and Vivien’s shower ferns perked up at the promise of fresh steam. He hissed as he stepped in. This was hot, way hotter than he preferred, but he hoped and prayed the heat would help loosen the tense muscles in his back.

Every step hurt like hell as he agitated the sensitive muscles. He was in so much pain that he would probably have to break into his stash of pain medicine as well. He hadn’t even taken the opportunity to jerk off, that’s how much pain he was in.

Vivien collapsed onto your bed face-first in just a towel. The shower had helped a little but it still hurt. Muffled, he heard you coming in the room and grunted so you knew he was there.

“I brought you something to drink,” You held a straw to his lips and the sweet peach-passionfruit concoction he had mixed on Sunday filled his mouth, “Are you okay? Should I bring you the pills?”

“Please?” His voice sounded a bit more pitiful than usual and Vivien’s ears burned, but you were gracious enough not to comment.

You brought him the pills and he swallowed them eagerly, gulping them down with a swig of juice.

“Are you hungry?” You stroked his wet curls.

He wasn’t, not by a long shot, “Uh-“

“Vivien,” Your voice had a note of warning.

“N-No… I’m sorry, I know you cooked and it smells great but… it hurts,” His voice shook.

“It’s alright,” You stroked his cheek, “I’m not mad. You know I won’t force you to eat.”

Right. Right. You wouldn’t force him. You would never do that. He wasn’t there anymore.

“Right.” Vivien closed his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath, “Sorry. Got caught in a weird place there.”

“Can I touch your back, love? I want to make sure you’re not hurt too badly.”

Vivien’s breath hitched as you slowly pushed the towel down his waist, exposing his lower back and the beginning crack of his ass. As much as he wanted you to touch him there, now wasn’t the time. But you wouldn’t hurt him. Not on purpose.

“Is it bad?” He asked, fearing the answer.

“I’m not seeing anything, but your muscles are tight. Did you lift something too heavy?”

“… probably. Sorry…” Your fingers on his back hurt, and he bit back some pained groans.

“Wait here.” You left him for a second, disappearing in the steamy bathroom and coming back with a small tube.

“W-What’s that-“ He started to move, to turn over, but you, pressing a hand at, thankfully, his shoulder, kept him down.

“Stay still. I’ll be gentle,” You gave a few comforting rubs on his back as you popped open the tube, “It’s gonna help, I promise. Just relax.”

As much as he wanted to jump up, to roll over and fight and protect himself, Vivien forced himself to stay down, submissively staying on his belly. As instructed, he held himself still, but he couldn’t make himself relax. He hoped you wouldn’t be mad about that.

You didn’t even mention it. He loved you so much.

“Good boy,” You praised, taking a glorious glob of the cream and applying it to his back.

Vivien bit back a moan. He knew what this was! This was a glob of the numbing cream, the expensive cream. The cream you sometimes used on his hole or that he used on yours after you both had sex. It was $20 for the tube, and you were using so much, massaging the gel into his back as you murmured soothing things to him. As the pain died down, Vivien relaxed into the pillows with a sigh.

You kept up the massage for a lot longer than was necessary, coaxing Vivien’s tense muscles to loosen and his mind to quiet, “Better?”

“Mhm. Thank you.”

You applied a heated wrap to the area, wrapping the sticky sides around Vivien’s thin hips. Preventing a snake in the grass from poking you in the ass later, you pulled some boxers on him. He was quiet now, his earlier panic melted away into a dreamy relaxation as the lidocaine cream and heated pad soothed him. The lines in his face relaxed, making him look younger than he was, like a child.

“Tired?”

“Mhm.... that okay?”

“Of course. Do I need to set your alarms?”

He slowly shook his head, “Day off.”

“Alright,” You stroked his drying hair, “I’m gonna eat and get the kitchen cleaned. Try and rest and I’ll bring you some more juice in an hour or so.”

Vivien nuzzled into your head like a puppy, but he moved to lay properly on his side of the bed. He was already half asleep, and the pad was heating up nicely. With the cream and the ibuprofen, he would be healed by morning. You flipped on the tiny tv and turned on The Office, something he had seen a thousand times and could probably recite by now. Michael Scott would be a good companion to doze to.

As Scott yelled something about turtles, you covered your boyfriend with the blanket and he murmured his thanks. Quietly, you turned off the light and left the room, leaving him to rest.

African Violets. Devotion, faithfulness, and loyalty. All seemed applicable in this situation. If he could, Vivien would have dropped to his knees and kissed your feet. He was always trying to take care of you, but once again, you caught him off guard, swooping in to take care of him so kindly and effortlessly, like it wasn’t any hassle at all to comfort and soothe his fear and pain.

He would have to get you something as thanks, something small to serve as the proxy for showing how grateful he was for your presence and love. Almost immediately, he began scrolling through his brain to search for the right flowers to show his appreciation and acknowledgment.

As long as it wasn’t African Violets, the fucking pansy-ass flowers.

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wistericaine · 1 day ago

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ruined oat milk | theodore nott

serial killer!theo x writer!reader | fluff but in a dark way | wc: 582

summary: writer!reader confronts theo about the dead head in the fridge

tw: mentions/references to death

“You have about two seconds to explain exactly what is going on here.”

Theodore looked at what was inside of the fridge with a blue tint washing over his face, fear and dread running through his veins at the sight.

He hadn’t wanted to keep the head away from their home. Away from the fridge and disposed of somewhere else. Yet he had to bring it home last night, where it now rested beside the oat milk jug.

Would this mean that you and him were done? Were you going to pack your bags—expose him to the Aurors and turn him in? Theo’s heart was pounded against his chest in dread, not wanting you to leave him ever. His mind was racing with dependance, thinking about all of the ways that he would have to keep you with him. Maybe a mind altering spell of sorts, something that would remove your memory of it.

“I can explain—” he stuttered out.

“I don’t care about how you got the head, I already know about that—” you said, waving your hands around before pointing at the milk jug. “I’m asking you to explain why you brought it here. Into our kitchen fridge—I mean, do you know how dangerous that is?”

Theo’s mouth opened to continue his explanation, going to spit out word after word to convince you to stay, before it shut right after. “You—” he murmured quietly. “You know?”

“Of course I know,” you said to him. “You keep your journal near the couch all the time—your handwriting is very pretty by the way—but I needed some research for my writing.” you said to him. “I’m not sure how I didn’t see it earlier to be honest, especially with how much you know about killing.”

“Well—” he stuttered out again, “Wait, do you not care?”

“You kill Death Eaters, I really don’t care about them much. What I do care about is the fact that there’s a decapitated head sitting next to my oat milk!” you whined out, waving your hands dramatically to gesture at the head once more. “My oat milk is going to be forever ruined because of this—and I really wanted to make tea. You have five seconds to explain this.”

Theodore looked at you with a look one could only consider religious—though a religious man might consider him blasphemous with the way he wanted to worship you instead of God. “You are the best woman I have ever met in my life.” he murmured in awe.

“This isn’t helping my oat milk.” you said, poking his stomach. “Speak.”

He chuckled quietly, wrapping his arms around you as he looked over at the head in the fridge. “I was going to dispose of it earlier—there’s something specific in there that I think might help me find more Death Eaters.” he explained quietly, hands squeezing his arms in anxiety. “Though I suppose sleep deprivation causes you to confuse fridges.”

“You better get me new oat milk.” you said, shaking your head.

“I feel like we’re brushing past the whole ‘I’m a murderer’ part of this conversation.” Theodore muttered out confusedly. “How are you not bothered by this?”

You shrugged confusedly—and Theodore was positive that you probably didn’t know yourself. “I’m a writer, you’re a resource.” you explained to him. “Plus, how else would I get accurate descriptions if it weren’t for you.”

“Ah, so I’m becoming your scientific journal.” he chuckled quietly to you.

You giggled and nodded. “Course you are.”

hello everyone, i hope you guys enjoyed! just another small drabble here! i thought i'd write something about how writer!reader confronts theo about being a killer, but if you want i can write a fic about how she finds out herself <3 thanks so much for reading!

nav . masterlist . library blog . side blog

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intrepidacious · 2 days ago

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four: groundhog day [2/2]

» time after time series: chapter four

this is a repost of my time loop fic in shorter parts for greater reading convenience. please refer to the series masterlist for more context.

series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 5.2k

chapter warnings: description of a panic attack; this writer is still grappling with the events of endgame and the nature of time travel; underneath the banter, tensions are rising. please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

Before the loop, it’s been a while since you’ve been to any library. For the first time in a while, maybe all your life, you’ve enjoyed owning most of the books you read instead of lending them from somewhere.

So it still feels kind of like a novelty, setting foot into the Schwarzman Building. Even if it’s through the back entrance while the security guard is on his lunch break, enjoying a bit of sunshine on the steps outside.

It’d be so much easier if you had your powers, you think as you watch Bucky get through the locks you show him, more discretely than he probably has to. Stopping the flow of time has always come easiest to you, and in situations like this one, it was your most useful asset. You would have simply halted time and slipped past opened doors while everything waited for you to will it forward again.

Instead, you wait for Bucky.

The routine of it all is calming by now, in a way, his tongue poking his cheek in concentration, the only sound either of you makes the quiet clicks of keyboards and doors and locks until you can finally enter the reading hall through a small, unassuming stairwell leading up to the third floor. He seems to get a little quicker at it every day, as if his body retained some form of muscle memory from the countless redos as well.

The last door opens.

It’s not quite as impressive as entering through the marble-tiled entrance hall on Fifth, you suppose, but when the smell of pages and dust hits you again as you ascend the stairs, you can’t help but release a small, content sigh.

You’ve not been to the Main Branch often, and not in a while, but usually when you’d peruse the countless rows of books, there’d be groups of children and tourists dotted between the densely packed shelves, the reading tables filled with overcaffeinated students and academics and librarians and the usual array of curious caricatures omnipresent in any library. It’d been quiet, sticky, lively, like a school library during finals week, and you didn’t hate it but it wasn’t quite like this.

It’s blissfully quiet.

Every step you take creaks softly as if you’re about to break through the wooden floorboards. Your pace only stays determined until you reach the main reading room, because you can’t help but stop in a spot of sunshine and close your eyes to breathe it in, this peaceful stillness of life and the wonderful, familiar smell of books. Just for a second.

When you open them again, Bucky is staring at you.

“I haven’t been in here since 1936,” he told you five days ago.

“Hasn’t changed a bit, I bet,” you said.

The way he tilted his head seemed so precious. Like he was walking through his memories right in front of you. “Well, I definitely remember the gift shop. And the computers.”

“We need to go downstairs,” you say now, shaking your head to resettle yourself in the never-ending present.

“What are we looking for, exactly?” Bucky asks, following you with his hands still in his pockets.

“Anything we can find on the astral plane. Which, sadly, isn’t a whole bunch.”

You can’t risk using the internal searching system on the library computers when you’re not even supposed to be in here, not unless you want to waste another afternoon getting caught, so the search to find even the right section has been quite tedious. There’s been a lot of running around in circles.

“Why?”

You just assume he’s not wondering why there’s not a lot of publicly available grimoires on magic shit. “Because Strange is an evasive asshole.”

There’s still no sign of life from anyone at Bleecker Street, or any of the Sanctums for that matter. Since no jet or plane would make it to Kamar-Taj in what limited hours you have, it seems the only way to reach Strange is in trying to get back to the astral dimension.

And figuring that out is a bitch.

“Weird,“ Bucky says, "that you two shouldn’t get along.”

“Fuck you, Barnes,” you snort.

You watch him stride away through the aisles with a small grin, appearing aimless, before he invariably stops in front of the same shelf. With a shake of your head, you continue walking.

"What is it with you and Voltaire,” you murmur, not intending for him to hear.

“What’s wrong with Voltaire?” he still replies.

“Nothing,” you say, looking down the next aisle over. “Dense, is all.”

“We used to have this at home,” Bucky says, pulling the volume off the shelf. “I remember my ma tryin’ to get through it, but with the four of us, she never managed.”

You turn back towards him, surprised he’s offering you this glimpse into his past. “I didn’t know you had siblings.”

It’s a half-truth. He brings up Rebecca rarely enough, but the fact that there used to be even more Barnes children is news to you. You’re almost shocked he’s mentioning it at all. Maybe it’s a mistake.

“Yeah.” Bucky’s gaze is still absent, the memories clinging to him like fog. It makes you want to wipe them away gently.

You turn down the aisle sharply, not waiting for him to follow as you push through a door.

The upstairs library is already huge, but it’s nothing compared to the countless rows of stacks hidden downstairs and underground. It’s taken you almost two days to gain some semblance of orientation in this maze, and it takes you almost five minutes to find the shelf you were looking at yesterday. It doesn’t help your confusion in the slightest that the books seem to be mostly organized by size instead of topic.

With a sigh, you carry another stack of volumes to one of the reading tables. The additional trouble with doing research on a single day with everything constantly resetting while you’re running out of time is that there’s really no good way for you to take notes. You only have so much real estate on your own skin that you can comfortably reach in a public space, and there’s a spot right below your elbow that you keep empty.

You’ve been combing through all kinds of books on mysticism, but most of it has been a bunch of baloney and esoteric nonsense. While the theory of an astral plane is already hard enough for you to grasp, the practical step-by-step guide to getting there is either decidedly under-researched or they’re deliberately keeping it from you.

You’re about to put another book to the side after it tells you to meditate when you can hear Bucky approaching from the stacks behind you.

“Any luck yet?”

“Depends,” you sigh. “Are you ready to take the next step in redefining your relationship with Jesus? Because, boy, do I have the almanac for you.”

“I’m good,” he says, and there’s the slightest hint of amusement in his voice. You bury your head in your hands.

Every day, it’s harder to look at him.

He doesn’t say it, but you see the determination in his eyes each day, the absolute certainty that today is the day. The last one.

It always is, for him, and his unexpected faith in you shatters you to the core. Meanwhile, you’re not even capable of asking for help.

“It’s not your fault, Twelve,” Bucky says, and you flinch.

“Of course it’s my fault,” you say quietly. “Who do you think got us into this mess.”

“So you set out to kill me repeatedly?”

You shoot up straight. “Of course not!”

Bucky just leans against the table next to you, flicking through one of the books without paying it any attention. You press your lips together.

“What difference does it make, though? We’re here anyway.”

“If you don’t know that already, I don’t know how to tell you,” he says calmly.

None, you think. It makes zero difference, and you both know it, even though he’s nice or smart enough to not tell you to your face.

“I’m sorry,” you say, once again, because lately all you want to do is apologize to him, no matter how many times he forgets.

Bucky frowns, but before he can say something else that will undoubtedly break your composure completely, you quickly clear your throat.

“Could you get me this one book down, actually? It’s on the top shelf and, well …” Stretching is still a struggle.

He shrugs and follows you back into the labyrinth. The silence tears at you in a way it hasn’t before, and you twist your fingers in front of your chest. You never look at your rings anymore.

“I never asked,” Bucky says casually, dragging the fingers of his right hand along the spines as you keep looking for the book you’re after. “Do you have any siblings?”

Your hands still.

For a moment, you consider telling him. About your family. About the life you used to have, before everything. It seems so long ago, now, almost like a distant dream. You don’t dwell on it too long.

“Ask me tomorrow?” Your voice is thin.

He follows your gaze to the shelf and easily picks out the book you want. His eyes are very blue when he turns back to you, his head slightly tilted to the side. “Are you gonna tell me then?”

You swallow as you slowly take the book out of his hands and hold it against your chest. “Remember to ask me,” you say, almost pleadingly, “and I might.”

He doesn’t, so you don’t. It shouldn’t hurt.

* * *

“Here’s what I don’t get,” Sam says, leaning back in his chair. “You said you only saw Strange once. Shouldn’t that happen every day, if you’re stuck in a time loop?”

You want to yell, and yell, and never stop.

“Theoretically, yes,” you say, again. “Our time, here, is looped. But Bucky’s right.”

“Hear that?” Bucky tells Sam. You both ignore him.

“Every time I go back in time, I essentially switch realities, except right now, that’s not happening because we’re stuck on repeat. That’s not true for the astral plane though, because it’s a different reality. So Strange can do whatever he wants, because he’s not part of the loop.”

“I’m getting a headache,” Sam says.

“Get in line, man,” Bucky remarks. “I’m apparently dying.”

“We’re missing something,” you say, staring at the plexiglass board until your eyes start burning.

“Sanity?” Sam suggests.

“Well, let’s think about this rationally,” Bucky says, voice only slightly laced with sarcasm. “How many other times do we know something like this has happened?”

You pull up the list of movies you already had ready for this question, pointing at them one by one. “Endless loop. Saving each other, that’s not working out so far. That one was terrible.” You let out a heavy breath of air. “I guess we could try threatening Loki and see if it helps.”

“Loki’s dead, though.”

“Mhm, right.” You scroll to the bottom. “Well, I guess that leaves blowing ourselves up, then. Can’t hurt.”

“Sounds like a Friday night to me,” Bucky says.

“Alright, lemmings one and two, let’s calm down again,” Sam cuts in. “You said it’s because of the mission, right? Why don’t you just sit this one out, then?”

You roll your eyes. “Haven’t heard that before.”

“I’m not letting the two of you go in there alone if these guys are dangerous enough to get one of us killed,” Bucky predictably says.

“I can call Torres for backup,” Sam tries. “Or, I don’t know, one of those guys in midtown.”

“Give it up, Sam,” you interrupt. “He’s not going to listen. We’ve been over this every day.”

“Well, is there any part of the mission we—”

“Any part of the mission we overlooked?” you cut him off, voice getting louder until you’re shouting. “I don’t know, because every time I think I’ve got everything covered, something new pops up, and nothing fucking changes anyway! And then we’re here again, over and over, and I’m starting to go insane!”

Alpine hisses at you from her place on Bucky’s lap.

“You do realize we’re trying to help. Don’t you,” Sam says, so calmly that your anger dissipates immediately. The usual wave of guilt hits you, instead, and you bite the inside of your cheek until you draw blood.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “It’s just—everywhere I look, there’s a roadblock.”

“I know.” Sam pinches his nose as he stares at the board. “I’m guessing you’ve tried the Groundhog Day option?”

Your heart drops.

Usually, you see this coming, but your thoughts are too muddled today. You feel the heat rising to your cheeks and Bucky scrunches his eyebrows together.

“What’s the Groundhog Day option?”

“It wouldn’t work,” you say sharply, sending Sam a glare. He seems entertained by it.

“And how’d you know that?”

“Because it’s a movie,” you hiss. “And a stupid one at that, things don’t work in real life like they do in a Hollywood film!”

“Hey!” Bucky says loudly. “No ignoring the dying man. What’s the Groundhog Day option?”

“You guys fucking breaks the loop,” Sam answers before you can stop him. Alpine jumps to the floor and parades away. For the first time, you admire her.

“Oh,” Bucky says, after a painfully long pause.

“Yeah. Oh.” You don’t meet his eye. “Like I said, it’s stupid. And it isn’t how time works.”

“It doesn’t work by you accidentally creating a loop either, though, does it,” Bucky says, nodding at your half-hearted drawings on the board.

“Bucky, I’m not going to sleep with you just in case. That’s not even how it works in the goddamn movie,” you say with a pointed look at Sam, who shrugs.

“I just thought I’d ask.”

“Hold on a second,” Bucky interjects, cheeks slightly tinged, “so you’d rather I keep dying than just see if it works?”

“What?” Your face is burning. So are his eyes. “No, I—it’s just not that easy.”

“Sounds pretty straightforward to me,” he argues.

“It’s not about the sex!” The words tumble out of your mouth to the beat of your heart. “He has to fall in love with her, that’s what breaks his loop in the movie. It’s a completely different situation!”

There’s a beat where the two of you stare at each other before Bucky’s face goes blank of emotion.

“Right.” He nods, his jaw set tight.

Something inside you curls. “Sam, could you give us a minute?”

Sam looks between the two of you uncomfortably. It’s clear he doesn’t particularly want to stay, but he doesn’t want to leave the two of you alone, either. “You sure?”

“Not necessary,” Bucky says, standing up. “I’m going for a walk.”

“Bucky—”

“Don’t,” he says, and the iciness in his voice freezes you to the spot. “And don’t follow me!”

You flinch as the door slams shut behind him.

“That went well,” Sam says.

“Really?” You glare at him. “Did you have to bring up fucking Groundhog Day?”

“Sorry that my frame of reference for breaking a time loop isn’t wider than nineties pop culture,” he says, crossing his arms. “Also, I don’t see what the problem is.”

You stare at him and his expectantly raised eyebrows. Your heart is still thundering.

“I don’t fucking have time for this,” you say, and turn your back.

* * *

When you enter the kitchen, it takes you a moment to realize that Sam is still on the phone.

“That’s nice,” he says, nodding his head to acknowledge you. “No. Nah, but I’m leaving now. Yeah. Tell them hi from me, okay. Okay. You, too. See ya.”

“How’s Sarah?” you ask after he ends the call.

“Good. She’s good.” He starts folding up the recycling and you can’t bring yourself to tell him there’s no need. “They’re hosting the barbecue again this year, so the boys are thrilled.”

“Sounds lovely,” you say, twisting your necklace between your fingers.

“It’s chaos.” He laughs. “Man, I miss ‘em. Always feels like it’s been too long.”

Even longer than he is able to remember, you think with a pang in your heart.

“Why didn’t you fly home for the holiday?” you ask.

“Because,” Sam says, rolling his shoulders, “I can’t just be uncle Sam for Cass and AJ today, I have to be uncle Sam for the whole country. That’s my part on America’s day now.” He shrugs it off. “Just how it is.”

“I’m sorry,” you say. It’s hard for you to imagine how he is able to handle all of this pressure, the scrutiny, the weight of everyone’s expectations on his back. You can barely handle your own life, and what’s that, by comparison?

“Don’t be.” His neck cracks and he sighs quietly. “Kinda signed up for this, didn’t I?”

You look at the shield, casually placed on the kitchen counter, waiting for him to pick it up on the way out. It’s always looked heavier than it is.

“Besides,” Sam continues, “pizza is almost as good as homemade hot dogs.”

You successfully swallow down your slight gag. “It’s not that far to Louisiana. There’s still time for that hot dog.”

He knows what you’re doing, and so his lopsided grin doesn’t reach his eyes. “Let’s get our cyborg through the day, alright? I’ll see her soon enough.”

He squeezes your shoulder and heads for his room to change.

His words tug at something deep inside you, long after he’s closed the door behind him. Something you have to keep locked, normally, deep in the core of your ribcage, like an unruly bird, because otherwise it’ll keep breaking free and rendering you unable to move.

You sit crosslegged on the floor next to your window, your back to the wall, just like she used to. You feel ridiculous, but that birdlike thing inside compels you and you’re weak. The back of your closet seems to scream your name, begging you to keep digging until you find the sad remnants of an embrace in a soft piece of fabric.

You ignore it.

Still, your phone finds its way into your hand, and before you can stop yourself you’re scrolling through abysmally few contacts, your finger hovering over one of them for a whole ten seconds before you press it. There’s no air in your lungs as it rings an infinite amount of times, and then—

“You’ve reached Nat.”

Her voice is like a kiss on the forehead and an ice cold shower at the same time. The room in front of you starts to blur.

“I obviously can’t talk right now, but I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. If it’s about one of the kids, try the main office. Thanks!”

“Hey, Natasha,” you say a few seconds after the beep, your voice thick. “It’s me. I just … I wanted to tell you that I really miss your voice.”

You laugh wetly, because already, it’s fading from your memory again. A tear rolls down your cheek.

“So sappy, I know, but it’s true. I miss you, and I really need you today. Every day, actually.” The lump in your throat grows. “Sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me. I love you, Nat.”

You end the call and throw your phone on the floor, not caring if it breaks.

Normally, when you cry like this, you halt the world. Your emotions aren’t for anyone to witness, not like this. Not when everything is spinning and every gasp for air makes your entire body shake.

Now, though, you’re left with no other option than to have it keep moving with you, each passing second making the temporal rift between you and her larger.

You are incapable of saving anyone, no matter your promise. Useless.

You don’t hear the knock on the door, only his voice on the other side.

“Y/N? Can I come in?”

You clap your hand over your mouth so hard even more tears spring to your eyes, desperately trying to slow your breathing. You find yourself nodding.

“No!” you shout, and it sounds pathetically whiny.

He can’t see you like this, not when you look as broken as you feel. Your insides are twisting, screaming, yearning for someone to rock you in their lap and tell you everything is going to be alright.

But they’re all gone.

You have no one.

“Please?” he says again, and something about the way he does makes white-hot anger course through you.

You barely notice yourself rising to your feet, blindly grabbing the first thing within reach and throwing it with everything you have left in you. Your lamp crashes to the floor, the screen off center, the bulb shattering into a million pieces. Your alarm clock is next, the screen only cracking before you smash it against the wall and it finally stops its incessant ticking. You sweep everything off your desk with a swing of your blood-stained pillow, not caring about the noise or the damage or anything, really.

Your actions have no consequences anymore.

Pictures and books and clothes all fall victim to your wrath for the second time, and you step on them all, kicking and shoving until there’s a crack underneath your heel and you wince.

The splintered frame hurts more than the shards. You couldn’t care less about your own face, unrecognizable underneath the broken glass, but Natasha and Steve’s wide grins have also been shattered by the fall. It’s almost poetic, in a horrible way, and when you wrap your arms around yourself and stumble backwards, you notice that you’re shaking.

“Please,” you whisper, sure it’s too quiet for anyone to hear, sure that by now, he’s long gone.

The door opens, anyway.

You don’t turn away from the picture, tears falling silently now. He gingerly steps over your mess until he’s so close you can feel him right behind you. It takes you another minute to catch your breath enough to speak.

“It’s not fair,” you say quietly, voice still quivering. “I know I’m cursed, but why is it that everyone else has to pay? Why her? Why you?”

“You’re not cursed,” Bucky says and you laugh mirthlessly.

“No, I am. I damned myself and I’m taking everyone else down with me, and I don’t even know … I don’t know how to stop this.”

“Twelve—”

“Don’t—” you start, but you don’t have the energy anymore. It’s all been drained from you. Bucky sighs.

“Powers or not, you’re still in control of your actions.”

It only makes you cry harder.

“Can I—” He clears his throat. “Can I give you a hug?”

And it’s so easy to turn, finally, and to find yourself enveloped by his arms, your fingers digging into his shirt so tightly it has to hurt, but he doesn’t say anything. His heartbeat is so loud when you’re this close, so alive, and he holds you through the next shaky fall of tears, warm and steady, hands pressing tightly against your back as if to remind you he’s still here.

At least for now.

“Step on my feet,” he tells you softly, so you can tell it’s a request, not a demand. “There are shards everywhere and you’re already bleeding.”

You do so, hesitantly, and Bucky clears the way out for both of you, slowly walking backwards with you leaning on him until you reach the threshold.

You barely notice as he sits you down on a bed, only whimpering as he carefully pries your fingers from his shirt to retreat a step from you, taking his warmth with him.

“I’ll be right back, doll.”

He squeezes your hands before he lets go, and you fall back on the bed in shameful exhaustion. You can feel your mind drifting, as if you’re in a trance, your limbs heavy by your side. Something at the back of your head seems to tingle, like a memory or an inkling.

And then you feel the pull again.

This time, instead of falling it’s like treading waters, onwards and upwards through a thick, gooey resistance in the air, fighting the urge to open your eyes, incredibly aware of every itch in your body until … you’re not.

You feel very light, somehow, as if you’ve been carrying a heavy backpack that’s no longer dragging you down. Hesitantly, you open your eyes.

Odd angles and off colors, and the still disconcerting sight of your own body sleeping in bed.

Your gaze drops to your wrist. The now familiar band of green symbols is still wrapped around it, but when you concentrate, you can feel the slightest glimmer of your powers in that empty void inside of you.

Different realities. He was right.

“You’re back, then.”

A mad laugh escapes you as you drop your hand. “Really? That’s all?”

Strange raises an eyebrow at you, his cloak flapping slightly. He’s sitting at your desk, seemingly without a care in the world, two steaming cups in front of him.

“Did you expect to be complimented for the bare minimum?” he asks, unperturbed. “Because then we’re both in for disappointment.”

“You know what?” you say sharply, straightening up. “A single nice word would be great! You have no idea, no clue what I am going through here!”

“What you are going through?” He takes a sip of tea. “Imagine how Sergeant Barnes must feel.”

Again, you feel rage bubbling up inside you. “That is all I imagine! Okay? I am failing him every single day, over and over again. And he doesn’t even really know it, which makes it worse because he still thinks that somehow, I’m going to save him, even though it’s all my fault!”

“Contrition. How refreshing.” Strange’s cool gray eyes fixate on you. “Sit down.”

You stare at him blankly.

“Don’t mistake my presence here for kindness,” he says when you show no intentions of moving. “Your powers, left unchecked, continue to be a menace to the structure of space and time, and trust me, you don’t want to start tearing that down.”

“Or what?” you say.

“Chaos,” Strange answers. “Now sit. Down.”

You sit on the edge of your reading chair, not letting him out of your sight for a second. The other mug of tea scoots closer to your end of the table on its own. A sweet, herbal smell drifts over. You eye it warily.

“I can’t well poison you without a body,” Strange says, rolling his eyes. You suppose he has a point. “Here’s the deal,” he continues. “I am going to help you in exchange for honest answers.”

“You didn’t offer your help last time,” you mutter around the rim of your mug.

“You were too busy acting tough and shouting at me to ask for it. Most people don’t react too generously to that.”

The tea is both soothing and energizing at the same time; you’ve never tasted anything like it. “So I answer your questions and you help me … how?”

“Like I said, the only one capable of ending the loop is the one who started it in the first place.” Strange’s cloak points at you. You frown back at it. “But for that, you need a stronger hold on your powers.”

“And how do I do that, then?”

Strange’s eyes narrow ever so slightly as he looks at you from head to toe. “Black tourmaline and silver.”

Reflexively, you reach for your necklace.

“A bit primitive, but effective, as it seems,” he continues. “Your own idea?”

You need him, you remind yourself. As much as it pains you.

“My mother’s,” you answer reluctantly.

“Of course.” Strange puts his fingertips together in a triangle, thinking. “That’d keep others from sniffing up your powers from miles away. Smart woman, your mother. Quick thinking. But that’s not all, is it?”

“Listen, doc, I’m not going to tell you my life story unless you give me something in return,” you say, putting your empty mug back on the desk. “What are we going to do about my powers?”

Strange reaches into thin air and his hand vanishes in a mirror crack. When he pulls it back, he’s holding a book in it that he throws into your lap. “You get to studying.”

* * * * *

“Can I ask you a weird question?” you said later that evening, staring at the ceiling. A content sort of exhaustion had started to set in, but none of you were ready to call it a night quite yet.

“Of course,” Natasha said from her upside-down position on the couch, continuing to play with Steve’s hand in her lap.

You pushed up to your elbows. “Do you believe in fate?”

“Not really,” Steve answered without so much as a pause.

“Seriously?” Nat turned her head towards him. “You don’t think there might be a reason we’re sitting here right now?”

“Sure I do.” He booped her nose with their entwined fingers. “We’re here because we chose to be here. Like I chose to take the serum and you chose to escape the Red Room.”

The quick shadows dancing across her face made you wonder whether Steve didn’t know everything about Natasha’s past, either. You sat up slowly, crossing your feet underneath you.

“So you don’t think there’s one way things are supposed to go, some grand plan or scheme or whatever, and we just … I don’t know. Pretend we can mess with it?” You fiddled around with your necklace.

“Nah,” Steve said with a tired smile. “Everyone can change something.”

“That’s putting a lot of faith in individuals, isn’t it?” Natasha asked.

“What do you think, then?”

She thought about it, wriggling her toes in the air. Her nails were painted as red as the roots of her hair. “I like the thought of serendipity,” she finally settled on.

You grinned. “You mean, you like the movie Serendipity, you sap.”

She threw a pillow at your head and you laughed. “I will neither confirm nor deny that,” she said with a charming twinkle in her eye. “But that whole 'fate or free will’ thing—I don’t know, I just don’t think there’s a clear cut answer like that.”

Steve hummed. “So, happy accidents?”

“Yeah.” She smiled at him. “Sometimes. Not fated, just fortunate.”

“I think I like that,” you said thoughtfully, pressing the pillow to your chest.

“Why are you asking?” Natasha looked at you and you dropped your gaze.

“Just wondering,” you mumbled. You were pretty sure she knew, anyway.

Nat had a way of understanding things that bordered on the telepathic, an empathy that always seemed so out of place with everything else you’d learned about her, with what little you knew was in her past.

Whether or not there was a higher power behind it, it had to be a rare miracle in a series of coincidences that Natasha Romanoff had stayed as good as she did.

Serendipitous, almost.

Later, when you lay in bed and had the world stop to listen to your own heartbeat, you kept coming back to that thought. Green wisps of time curled around your fingers like shimmering jewelry, and you asked yourself if those accidents ever felt happy in the moment or if that was something you had to conclude later.

Maybe sometimes there was no way of telling at all.

part 1 | series masterlist

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes series #marvel fanfic #mcu fanfic #time after time #tat chapter parts #groundhog day

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yushi-ni · 2 days ago

Text

ෆ NCT WISH RYO ෆ 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖿

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ masterlist

ryo as your bf!!! ᢉ𐭩 lots of fluff, established relationship, mentions of pda. nothing more than adoration and cute little things!!

omg this is my first ryo post??? i’m sorry to all my ryo friends, idek why i never published something for him yet but it’s finally here!!! this is not proofread so please bare with me!!! hope you like it 🧚‍♀️🧚‍♀️

──୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──

ʚଓ young and passionate are the best words to describe ryo as your bf. it might be a little mix between excitement - intense feelings and emotional connections as you’re both young and experiencing lots of ‘first times’ as a couple together. even though you’re young and still figuring out what love actually is, it doesn’t matter as you’re both happy and excited to learn through and with each other!!!! (he’s just so cute and loveable)

ʚଓ ryo is the type of bf who easily goes with the flow. his love is blind and mute meaning he doesn’t easily see any flaws or complains when things go ‘wrong’. he’s very focused on you and your relationship together and just wants to be a good person for you as a bf but also for himself

ʚଓ now this won’t be a big surprise but ryo’s #1 love language is physical touch, he loves hugs with every fiber of his being. his arms will find their way around your body so naturally it’s almost as if he’s magnetic to you. at first you had to get used to the almost overwhelming - constant hugs and ryo back pack, he doesn’t always realise how clingy he is (not that that’s a bad thing!!!!) but as time went by you realised it’s just his way of showing affection. back hugs - side hugs - arms loosely wrapped around your middle - greeting hugs - goodbye hugs - i’m bored and just in need of attention hugs; he has them all in store for you!!!

ʚଓ definitely prefers calls over texts. he will also text you throughout the day but he just likes to actually hear your voice and possibly see your face rather than reading your words and imagining your voice in his head. whenever he is overseas for work or maybe you’re just too busy to see each other for a while, he’ll always make sure to call you before going to sleep. just to rant about his day or whatever is on his mind that moment. also expect random - short phone calls throughout the day. he just thinks it’s so much faster and easier to call and ask you directly instead of waiting for a reply. not that you mind, who wouldn’t want random ryo calls???

ʚଓ his clingy’ness aside; ryo is definitely a very casual - down to earth bf. he’s not overprotective nor does he feel the need to be with you 24/7. yes if he could he would have had his suitcase packed and ready to move in the second you started dating (jk) but he’s actually very ok with not seeing you for a couple days if your schedules just don’t align. he’s very sure about your relationship so he’s not worried about little things like that. he knows you both still have your own life and also need space to be your own individual person which really makes a difference in the way you view each other and your life together (and apart)

ʚଓ ryo remembers a lot of small things about you and your likings. he’s a really good listener (and it also helps he loves you sm he genuinely wants to know everything about you) and at times ‘surprises’ you with how much he actually remembers. will suddenly bring up something you mentioned a while ago, ask for updates about things you shared etc etc. he’s a very thoughtful and naturally curious person so his attention is always fully focused on you

ʚଓ ok let’s be real. sometimes he’s a little menace. he is the world’s biggest sweetheart but some days he just wants to play around and ‘annoy’ you. he’s still ryo afterall. he’ll tease you, poke your sides, copy your words in a funny accent etc etc. he likes to joke around but so do you, you play pranks on each other non stop. all very innocent little things but it definitely results in a lot of laughter shared between the two of you

ʚଓ (if you’re shorter than him) he’s the shortest out of his friend group so he absolutely loves your height difference. he feels like he can protect you (not that it’s necessarily needed but shhhh don’t burst his bubble!!). will definitely poke a little fun at your short height, but with adoration ofc. piggyback rides; for the love of god, pls jump on his back and wrap your legs around his middle. he thinks you’re the absolute cutest ever and will gladly carry you around at any time

ʚଓ ryo is very thoughtful when it comes to gift giving. yes he’ll bring random small things he found in the corner store as well but when it comes to special occasions he goes all out. anniversaries - xmas - birthdays - valentines day etc etc he puts a lot of time and effort in finding the perfect gift. will also ask sakuya to help him handcraft something like matching keychains - jewellery - bags etc

ʚଓ he likes taking pics of you but more than normal pictures, quickly snapped with his phone he loves doing photobooths with you. every outdoor activity - ice cream run - coffee date etc etc he’ll drag you to the nearest photobooth. he has a little album with all your pictures together (chronical order ofc) thinks it’s a fun way to keep physical memories alive!!!

ʚଓ won’t let you pay for anything, ever. going for a coffee? he’s paying. dinner or a cute brunch? card swiped before you can even take yours out of your wallet. a plushie you want to buy? he pays, no need to protest against it. for some reason, being able to pay and ‘provide’ for you in a small way like this makes him feel more secure and ‘manly’ if that makes sense (yk???) he just likes the thought of taking care of you in such manner

ʚଓ it’s very important to him that you get along well with his friends, especially sakuya. the two are almost a buy one get one free package deal so very early on in your relationship he introduced you to all his friends, you probably knew sakuya already from when ryo and you were still ‘just friends’ but he waited with the older hyungs, he just wanted to be sure you were actually a real thing before he took you home. his members ‘validation’ and acceptance is very important for him but luckily for him (and you) they all love you. you get along with every single one of them and sometimes ryo needs to fight for your attention and time whenever you come over to the dorm, that’s how fond they are of you!!!

ʚଓ ryo is still very young and new to this whole thing of love and relationships so at times he might be a little confused about certain things. he might not understand the importance of certain things but he’s very open and honest with you and himself as well. he is very big on communication and always encourages you to voice out your thoughts and feelings whenever something happens. also when it comes to cultural differences (if you’re not japanese yourself) you might notice that he needs some time to learn and adjust to the way you do things compared to how he does them. but he’s trying!!!!

ʚଓ fights don’t happen often. yes you do have little arguments or different opinions on certain issues but a real fight has never been the case. ryo can be very blunt and expressive in the heat of the moment, his mouth is faster than his brain so sometimes he says things before he can even think about the words leaving his mouth. he genuinely doesn’t mean any harm nor would he ever intentionally hurt you but it’s definitely a little issue every now and then. sometimes the both of you just want to get your point across without realising your words might come out in a rude way. you just need a little time apart to calm down before one of you apologises to the other, you always make up quickly so it doesn’t really get bigger than necessary. once again, communication is key!!!

ʚଓ ryo is very chill and easygoing. you want to go to the zoo? ofc!!! you want to stay in and watch movies all day? he’ll order take out for the both of you. you want to try out a new restaurant? he’s always down!! it doesn’t really matter what you do, as long as you get to spend time together. even the most normal - daily tasks are more fun and enjoyable when it’s the two of you. one of his fav things are late night walks. he loves strolling through the streets when the city is a little more quiet. his hand in yours, fingers intertwined as he swings you arms back and forth, just talking about his and your day. enjoying the fresh air (as much as that’s possible in korea) and peaceful time. oh and ofcooourse it always ends with a quick run to the convenience store to get ice cream on the way home!!!!!

ʚଓ the first time he took you to his hometown was a really big deal for him. he really wanted you to meet his family and show you around his home. ngl the time prior to the trip was definitely nerve wracking for him because he just wanted this to work out and be fun for both you and him. obviously you enjoyed every single moment of the trip and his parents were in awe of you. you have only known him in the chaos of seoul, his dorm, his busy work life etc etc so seeing him in the peaceful and loving environment of his own home was so special. you could clearly tell he was relaxed and happy to be there especially now he could bring you along as well. he was a completely different person, so carefree. so now he tries to take you home whenever he gets the chance. his home will definitely become a little escape from the real world, both you and him welcomed with open arms by his parents.

ʚଓ he loves sleepovers. more than the actual sleeping part he really enjoys getting ready for bed together. doing your skincare, putting on facemasks, brushing your teeth together etc etc. it’s the innocent feeling of excitement that gets him fr. he buys matching headbands for the both of you and loves that you’re just as excited as him!!!!

#fujinaga sakuya #hirose ryo #jaehee #maeda riku #nct riku #nct x reader #nct yushi #nctnewteam #nctwish #oh sion #nct sion #sakuya #yushinini #yushi ni #tokuno yushi #yushi #jaehee nct wish #ryo nct wish

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