#and then they talked about how sexuality is fluid and can shift over time

[thisismisogynoir]

Saw a Reddit thread on AskWomen about women who thought they were lesbians until they ended up with guys and if that’s not the most invalidating and paranoia-inducing shit I’ve ever seen—

[hubookunaluwawa]

happy belated valentines and happy lent !! to celebrate, here’s some poorly-written smut that’s been in my drafts for about 6 months :D

*this is meant to be the prequel for this post*

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

this isn’t the first time you’ve ever fucked someone. you’ve gotten your fair share of action over the years with a wide variety of people (usually when you’re intoxicated, as you’ve found that you can’t seem to enjoy sexual intimacy without the crutch of liquid or smokey courage). and as time went on, you grew less and less enthusiastic about your sexual encounters, eventually deciding to settle with your fingers and vibrator whenever you needed to get one off. and to that decision you remained loyal… until tonight. good thing, too, because you know for a fact that sex has never felt this good.

you can’t even remember how you both got into this situation. the last thing you remembered was sharing a blunt with a mutual friend from the party that your friends dragged you to, and now, your mouth is filled with his cock as you grind your clit on the bed beneath you. he groans above you in pleasure, and you feel your fluids start to soak the bed as his cum fills your mouth. you don’t think you can go on much longer without having his dick stuffed into your pussy, so you clamber up to his chest and start trying to grind against him.

“behave,” he mumbles huskily against your ear, grabbing your hips. he groans out in pleasure as he rubs his tip against your entrance. your pussy gets wet with slick, and you frantically grab his penis with your bright acrylics. “you wanna ride me, baby?” he asks with a teasing tone. “mhmmm,” you sigh out as you sink down onto his cock, and you begin to grind back and forth on him.

the sloppy noises of your pussy slapping against his balls begin to bounce off the walls of his room, and the overwhelming pleasure you feel from being stretched out on his thick cock is enough to drive you into a state of delirium. you think you can hear him teasing you about being eager, but your brain is complete mush at this point, so all you can respond with is prayer-like chants of “please– nghhh! can’t stop!” and “aa-ahhh need more.” and you know that there’s no more of himself that he can give to you, but you’re so preoccupied with chasing your orgasm that you can’t even find it in yourself to care. maybe it’s the weed talking, or maybe you’re just drunk off his cock, but you don’t even know where you end and he begins. all you know is that you never want it to end.

and then, he starts to lose control too, grunts turning into moans as he frantically starts fucking up into you. you both moan and grind until you’re squirting all over his dick. his penis slips out of you from the pressure of the fluids flowing out of you, but you quickly grab it and grind your overstimulated cunt on top of it until he cums onto his own chest. you bend down and lick the cum off of his body like it’ll disappear if you don’t. “tastes so gooood,” you moan as you lick up his seed.

this shifts something in him, you think, because his eyes are suddenly covered with more lust—which you didn’t even think could be possible with how he’d already been looking at you—as he roughly flips you on your back, sinks between your thighs, and starts eating you out. “what’re you doing to me?” he moans with your legs on his shoulders and his voice muffled by your swollen pussy, and you’re grinding down into his mouth as he slurps you up like a starved man. the noises coming from him between your thighs have you gripping his hair and moaning louder than you ever have before.

he inserts a couple of fingers between your folds while continuing to eat you out, and the moans that he releases from the sight of your arousal bring you closer to the edge. “fuckkk, i’ve never tasted pussy this fucking good before,” he desperately declares with swollen lips, and it’s enough to have you squirting on his wide fingers. “you’ve been holding out on me this whole time, huh? with this gorgeous pussy that’s squirting so much for me?” you try to respond, but all you can reply with is a jumble of overstimulated moans as he finger-fucks you through your orgasm and your juices splash all over his sheets once more.

you both collapse on the bed, and you let out breathless laugh-moans at the tremors that shake your body due to your climax. and for a minute, you both just lay there relishing in each others company and feeling on top of the world. but then, post-nut clarity hits you like a bitch. you jolt up from the bed with a “fuck!” before immediately getting dizzy from the sheer amount of back-to-back orgasms he gave you. he turns to you, seemingly confused and concerned by your current state.

“you good?” he asks with an eyebrow raised, head resting on his elbow as he sits up from the pillow.

“you,” you start as you try to catch your breath, “you didn’t use a condom.”

his face goes blank, and then he also jolts up from the bed with a “fuck!”

you call out a panicked “exactly!” over your shoulder as you rush to the bathroom, because you’ll be damned if a little cbd-influenced escapade ends up giving you a uti.

“ok,” he says as he starts to grab his clothes, “ok, there’s a store across the street that’s still open, so i’m gonna head over there and see if they have any plan B.” or worse.

“wait, i’m coming with you after i finish up.”

“mhm,” he shakily responds as he begins to pace around the room.

ten minutes later, the both of you are at the front of the checkout line, and you can actually feel your eye twitch when the high schooler running the register snickers at the sight of your emergency contraceptives. “that’ll be $49.99,” she says. but before you can whip out your wallet, he hands her his card. you look at him in shock, and when he glances back at you in confusion, you quickly avert your gaze.

“what’s wrong?” he asks when you both leave the store.

“nothing!” you pause and turn to him. “just wasn’t expecting you to pay, so… thanks.”

“oh, please do not thank me for that shit. that’s the bare minimum, especially after what i put you through tonight.” he’s not looking at you anymore. instead, he sits down on the sidewalk and looks straight up at the stars (friendly reminder that this man is high !!!).

“i mean, in your defense, we both got really… carried away,” you say while sitting down beside him, and you both start giggling (friendly reminder that the both of them are high !!!).

your laughter dies down, and you’re both just staring at the sky in silence. and the weird thing about it is how comfortable it is. like, the both of you barely ever spoke outside the context of your friends, and yet, you can both just sit there and enjoy each other’s presence without having to say anything. but when he does say something, you’re not mad at it at all.

“you hungry?”

“i could eat.”

[escapingrealtiylovinginsanity]

Joe Velasco: (Untitled for now) Part 1 

Part 2

  

Warnings: Sexual assault (not to reader), talk about sex and sexual situations.  

Time didn’t slow down when it happened. It felt more like flashes of a camera lens. You walk into the room. Flash. You see that you weren’t alone. Flash. The man that was on top of the woman noticed you. Flash. Her clothes ripped. his fly unzipped. Flash. She is not moving. Him lunging at you. Flash. Pain searing white hot through you, glass shattering. Flash. Him on top of you. Eyes cold and hard. Flash. You struggle underneath him as he tries to restrain you. Flash. Your hand hits a cold plastic in your purse. Flash. The weight of him falls on top of you as you press the taser trigger down holding it against him. Flash. The sound of voices outside the door. Flash. He's getting up and running. Flash. A yell for someone to call 911. 

You don’t remember exactly how you got to the precinct, but you're now sitting on an exam table. You had been asked if you wanted to go to the hospital, but you refused saying that you were okay and the EMTs had reluctantly cleared you. You knew that you would have to give a statement to the police. It shouldn’t have, but it surprised you when instead of setting you down in front of a detective to take your statement you were ushered down to the medical examiners to have evidence taken.  

The door opened but instead of someone in a lab coat, there were two detectives. A woman that you didn’t know and a man you did, Terry Bruno. His bright blue eyes were worried. Your brain felt fuzzy as they entered. Time was becoming a fickle thing and it felt like there were short but disorientating time jumps. You felt slightly woozy. You're jolted by Bruno saying your name to the woman telling her that you are a forensic tech for the department. He eyes you again clicking at his phone. Your mind blanks, trying to shield you from the memory. 

“Can you tell me what happened?” You look up at the woman realizing that she is now talking to you. She repeats herself the words echo in your mind a few times before you can understand them. 

“I was- I was at a convention for training. I-I,” You swallow hard not recognizing your own shaky voice. You try again, “I was late and was just trying to cut through that room when I saw... I saw that guy over that woman-is she okay?” 

“We aren’t sure yet. She got hit in the head pretty hard. We will know more when she wakes up.” The door opens again. Melinda walks in with another young pretty tech a few paces behind her. Melinda walked up to the table greeting you and setting her clipboard to the side. She looks you over and you shift on the table awkwardly. Your eyes bounce between the four people in the room. 

“I think you know the drill. I’m going to have to take your clothes for evidence.” You nod. “I want to do a full workup to look for fibers, hairs, blood, and other body fluids. This guy might have left something behind in the struggle.” You sat up a little straighter at that. 

“Melinda, I-” You don’t know why but you feel embarrassed. It has to be the stress of the day or strangers staring at you. You take a deep breath, and you suddenly feel the pain in your ribs. The adrenaline is starting to fade. You steal yourself, “I’m going to have DNA. I had sex this morning. I didn’t have time to shower, so.” Melinda smiles reassuringly at you.  

“That’s okay, we will just match those samples-” 

“Yeah, yeah, I know how it works. I was just...” You trail off self-consciously. Everyone was still staring at you like they were waiting for something. You wished you knew what it was so you could get them to stop. 

“I feel the need to remind you that you don’t have to do anything you’re uncomfortable with.” Melinda’s voice was as soothing as it was definitive. It was motherly, in a no-nonsense way, and like balm to your wrecked nerves. You knew the woman well. There was a lot of information sharing between your two departments. You had a coworker friendship but it didn't go to a more personal level. You supposed it would now.  

“I know,” You state simply, you can feel the tension in the room as everyone waits on your next move, “It’s okay, it’s just-it's a lot.” You are saved from having to continue explaining yourself when the door swings back open. Joe is on you in seconds, his gait eating up the distance between you. The woman calls his last name and asks him what he is doing here. Bruno takes another step back making more room for him to stand next to you. There is fear and anger in his eyes as he halts beside you. His eyes are scanning you, taking in your appearance. “I’m okay.” You assure him, or maybe yourself. It’s not a complete lie- you're okayish-Alive, breathing, most unscathed. He scoffs at the statement, obviously not liking your minimization tactics.

“So, we are lying to each other now? Have you seen your face?” His hand reaches out to touch you before stopping a couple inches away.  

“Actually, I haven’t.” You honestly didn’t know what you looked like post-attack. You weren’t sure if you really wanted to. You still mostly felt numbness in your body, but it was slowly fading leaving a deep ache on your face and right side. “I look that bad?” He pauses clearly unsure how to answer that without offending you. He chooses instead to ignore the question and start whispering soothingly to you in Spanish. He pulls you into a light but encompassing embrace stroking your hair. It sends rivulets of warmth through your chilled body. You soak in the loving contact while pressing a soft kiss to his jaw. “Wait, how did you even know I was here?” 

“I called him.” Bruno cut in, “He is your emergency contact, isn’t he?” 

“You should have called me, mi amor.” He pulled back to look over your now throbbing face again. You apologize grabbing his forearm, and he slides his hand down to intertwine with your fingers instead.  

“Hold on,” The woman who was interviewing you earlier called out. Everyone turned to face her, and it was clear that she was in charge. “You know her, on a personal level? Velasco, you can’t be anywhere near this. Matter of fact, everyone out, this needs to do this by the book. We collect the evidence. Then a statement.” 

“You kidding me, Captain? I’m not leaving,” Joe's grip on your hand tightens. You then realize the woman is Joe’s higher-up, Captain Olivia Benson. You had heard a lot about the women but had never met her yourself. She had put Joe through a hell of a time because of his past. Joe respected her but you were still a little angry with her for the pain and heartache that she had caused him. The lack of understanding or compassion. You were petty like that.

You begrudgingly agreed with her on this one. You know the strict rules of collecting evidence and keeping it from cross-contamination. it would be better for you to be alone while you did this anyway. You doubted Melinda would be able to do her job with him in here. Your normally calm and collected detective boyfriend was not okay in the sight of you getting hurt. You squeeze Joe’s hand, and he looks back at you. You tell him it’s okay. “No te dejaré cariño (I’m not leaving you sweetheart).” 

“Really, it’s okay,” You run your hand across his clean-shaven jaw. “It’s not like anything is going to happen to me in here. Melinda needs to do her job. Besides I’m going to have to leave my clothes here. I was hoping that maybe you had some spares I could wear? Maybe get me something cold to drink? Por favor Corazón.” The reluctance is written all over his face. He doesn’t want to leave. If it was up to him, he wouldn’t. His hand is still tight on yours. His green eyes are searching yours trying to find even a hint that you don’t want him to leave. You seem to reassure him because he presses a quick kiss on your forehead. 

“Okay, but if you need me-” You kiss his hand and tell him you know. The three detectives file out. Joe gives you one last glance as Bruno puts a hand on his shoulder to keep him moving forward. When the door clicked closed you felt a sigh escape you. The detectives' eyes had been analyzing and seeing Joe that upset and worried had been hard.  

“You have quite a guard dog with that one.” You turn to Melinda and smile a genuine smile. Throughout your relationship with Joe, he has proved that he showed love through actions first, and words second. You knew had you asked him to stay or told him that you wanted to leave, it wouldn’t have been a conversation, it would have simply been done.  

“You have no idea.”  

“Just make sure you lean on him throughout this. It’s clear he doesn’t want you to have to do it alone.” Melinda turns to the young tech, who walks closer with her camera. “You ready to start?”  

You try to sit still as the camera flashes in your face taking pictures. You remove your top and put it in the evidence bag that is held out to you. The tech asks you to lift your right arm. You go to do so, and a zap of pain flares up your side making you wince and drop it back down. You look down to see the entire length of your ribs is an awful shade of black and blue. That small dose of pain opens the floodgates as you start feeling just how sore and rough you really are. You pull your arm across your chest instead which hurts significantly less. Pictures are snapped. 

Next to go into a bag is your pants. Your thigh and knee are photographed. More big ugly bruises on your right side. The tech catches sight of bruising on your inner thighs and asks you to spread your legs. Embarrassment floods through you. You had never felt awkward talking about your sex life, but this was far more intimate than bragging about having hot sex on the kitchen table. “Oh, no. Those are...old. Consensual.” It feels strange to say that about bruises, but you recalled in vivid detail the night Joe had held you hard enough to leave fingertip-shaped bruises. Telling him to stop had been the last thing on your mind. 

They had run a black light over you when you were in just your underwear. You lit up like a Christmas tree on your inner thighs, stomach, neck, and chest. You blushed bright crimson, even though neither woman made any comment. You had sex that morning and a few times the night before. That was why you had been running late to your conference meeting. Even so, Melinda took samples of everything regardless reminding you that it would be better than accidentally missing something. She prodded at your injuries with more swabs hoping for touch evidence. It hurt like a bitch but you tried not to fidget. You didn’t think they would find much. You had been pushed into a coffee table and you were pretty sure that was what had caused most of your injuries.      

You are asked for your bra and underwear as well, even after your weak protest that he hadn’t made his way under any of your clothes, Melinda persisted. They too went in evidence bags. Along with your necklace and ring. You were given a loose gown to wear as she finished with scrapping under your fingernails taking clippings and combing through your hair looking for anything that may have been caught in the strands. 

The process was invasive and tiring. By the end of it, your whole right side was throbbing, and your face hurt. You just wanted to go home and lay in bed and never move again. The tech left and Joe was standing in the doorway. It was clear that he had been waiting outside for some time. It was also very apparent that he wasn't happy about not being allowed to stay. “You can come in Detective Velasco. We are all done.”  

He doesn’t waste any time in closing the distance between the two of you. He gently sets a pair of sweats on your lap before pressing a cold bottle of water in your hand. He untwists the top for you like he thinks you might not be capable, but you don’t take offense. Any unnecessary movement is something you want to avoid. You take a sip, and it feels good in your mouth and throat but doesn’t settle well in your stomach.

“While you're here,” Joe turns to see Melinda holding up another swab. Joe’s eyebrows furrow uncertainly. You know he doesn’t like having his DNA in evidence. “Just need a sample to exclude any of your DNA that is found. Open up.” He obliges and she swabs the inside of his cheek before closing it into a bottle and writing his name on the side.  

When he turns back to you, you have already shrugged on his oversized NYPD sweatshirt and were pulling up the pants. You are swimming in them and have to roll them multiple times to get them to stay. The loose fit is a relief because it doesn’t rub up against your injuries. They smell good too, comforting even if there is a slight lingering tinge of his sweat under the smell of his deodorant and cologne. You're done with the first step, now you steal yourself to face SVU and give your statement.   

[who-is-page]

I guess what I mean is that I don’t accept people who misuse or misinterpret words and refuse to accept that they are wrong when told so. I don’t accept people who try to twist definitions to suit their own wants. I don’t accept people who use their nonhumanity as an excuse to be ignorant or invade spaces that aren’t theirs (for example a polytherian trying to use system terms and claim to be a system but when confronted don’t listen. That’s not /inherently/ harmful as it’s one person but it’s wrong and annoying. Or in my personal experience, someone claiming to be a therian or a system just to excuse their cheating?? As if that makes sense). Basically what I mean is that I do not feel I can blindly support people I either know (with evidence) are not correct, or people who boarder on problematic just for the sake of being “radically accepting”. And at the same time. I accept people who get bod mods to look less human. I accept people who bark in public. I accept people who experience violent sexual urges (so long as they aren’t actually hurting anyone non consensually). I accept people who do quadrobics and walk their stuffed animals on a leash. I accept people who go dumpster diving because they’re a raccoon therian. I accept a lot of different things. But I have a limit.

I love Beastpunk for what it means to embrace animality/nonhumanity in an unapologetic way. I love Beastpunk for its complete disregard for the human social norms and how it includes those who feel like they’ve been displaced from their communities due to language shifts and such. I just feel like it’s a shame if the only thing that prevents me from being Beastpunk is the radical acceptance of things I just can’t agree with….

Anon, I pretty strongly recommend you read (re-read?) the intro essay I linked in your first ask, because it actually covers this. But for a TL;DR --

If someone is being an asshole and especially if they're using their nonhumanity to try and shield themself from criticism, you don't have to standby and stay quiet to keep the peace. Beastpunk has a mantra of "do no harm, but take no shit" and the type of thing you're talking about--at least re: the cheating thing--falls under that. Bite that person. Hard.

Beastpunk is also explicitly about embracing the history of animal-folks, up to and including alterhuman history as it is relevant, too. If your story about the polytherian isn't some anti-endo perspective wrapped up in nice language and a fur coat, then, by all means, it doesn't exclude you from being beastpunk to be critical of that and to know when someone is drastically misusing terminology. You just have to make sure that that doesn't veer into territory where you're speaking over someone about their own experiences or the ways in which they choose to understand them. Being beastpunk doesn't mean you have to accept folks blatantly misusing language (especially if them doing so isn't in good faith and is ultimately causing problems), although you do have to accept that some people might use labels in more fluid ways than you do.

Ultimately, I feel like you're confusing "radical acceptance" in this scenario with "being a fucking doormat."

[cabatboy]

HELLO THERE •w•!!

INTRO

I am a guy who slowly over the past year or so realised xe is vampirekin,,,,, then a batkin,,,, then oh maybe xe goes by xe and is actually a full therian and gets shifts,,,, oh and nope xe’s also a cat and maybe wants to get into petre

So I’m here now! to look into petre on a blog where my friends and mutuals can’t see me working things out and/or getting into a kinda stigmatised practice, fr happy to be here though dw about it <3

NAME AND THERIOTYPES

Call me Magpie for now, I’m not settled on a ‘pet name’ yet but my cat self seems to respond happily to Magpie, I think it’s due to him being a black and white cat

my kin/theriotypes are vampirekin, bat therian and cat therian! with definitely more of an emphasis on the cat atm but it’s fluid! I am looking into cat regression and bat regression specifically and get phantom limb for basically pretty much every aspect of both animal.

GENDER AND PRONOUNS

I am ‘fully male’ as far as I know and also pansexual greyaroace, but I relish the chance to get funky with it, I’ve been incorporating more bat stuff into my gender recently and I’ve been really enjoying it! just no female terms or ‘uwu soft trans boy’ stuff please, at the end of the day I may be a soft little kitty catboy but I’m still a man.

xe/bat/vamp/meow are currently the preferred pronouns, but he and they work fine as well! it’s just I hear those more in my day to day life so using my ‘weirder’ pronouns is more appreciated <3

FURTHER INFO

I am in the 18-25 age range and do not regress down to any other age! although I’m not against agere I’m more interested in petre. I also swear a lot! If any of this makes you uncomfortable, I understand completely and genuinely no hard feelings! I also have not ‘properly’ regressed into a pet before either but am looking for tips on how to do so!

I have autism, adhd, bipolar, and anxiety, and am trying to still work out and unpack if I have trauma and what it is. feel free to ask me questions or request me to tag/tonetag anything. Do not worry about me, I like to think I can handle stuff like an adult even if this is my mentally ill kitty space haha so don’t feel scared to bring stuff up with me!

my fave regression stuff are 100% pokemon, adventure time and bluey please talk to me about pokemon, adventure time, or Bluey I LOVE them!! my favourite characters are Chilli and Marceline respectively! and my favourite Pokémon is Lycanroc :3

DNI

This blog is a safe space, and standard DNI’s are in place. I talk enough about politics and life and shit on my main blog, this is just a chill space. No NFSW or Kink blogs please, no discourse or syscourse, all systems are welcome here. no TERFs, Transmeds, anti-xenogender, etc. people, anyone who thinks agere or pet play are inherently sexual, no empty blogs, no proship people, also no hazbin hotel or spongebob or jjba stuff. There’s probably more but like you know standard agere blog DNI stuff, yeah that. just like,,, this is my weird space to be weird and cringe and free and safe; don’t like don’t read if you don’t fuck w/ that.

But yeah if you’re in sfw petre/sfw agere/therian tumblr please give me a follow :D!!!! I’d love to have you :D

[traumasurvivorshelpingsurvivors]

hi, i wanted to get any kind of input or opinion because i think theres something really wrong with me. ive always been obsessed with labels and terms to identify myself, always switching them around and finding a new one regularly to base myself off of. right now at least i have no actual sense of identity and its very possible i could just be reaching because i tend to do that a lot but i dont remember a time where i genuinely had a hold on who i was, aside from when i had a really unhealthy obsession with one singular person for about 2 years. my entire life and mental state revolved around them during that time and to be honest, even though we arent on speaking terms anymore, still seeing them on socials messes me up pretty often.

anyway, the main issue is that i dont really know who i am or who i even want to be. i cant even really keep a name/nickname to go buy for longer than a few months only because i know it inconveniences the people around me (however few there are now). and thats another thing! im really iffy about making connections with people now because a lot about it makes me uncomfortable, like the responsibility and having to deal with another person all the time. i know that sounds really shitty, but i feel like i spent all my love ill ever have on that one person for two years and now that its gone, its never coming back. im still very lonely now but the thought of trying to fix that is really uncomfortable to me. its not that im incapable of making friends, its that after a while ill kind of get tired of them? something about consistency makes me restless and i know its shitty because im a really up and down kind of friend, like recently ive only been talking to people when i feel like it, which is one big reason i dont want to make friends and put people through that.

back to the labels and identity thing. its always kind of been there, but recently the urge to cling to some sort of label or answer for my behavior and thoughts and feelings has been so strong that i almost wish i was genuinely delusional or something. or just that something was seriously wrong with me, just so that i have something new and big to cling to. i know thats bad and unhealthy but i dont know how else to function. ive been thinking recently that i have a lot of narcissistic traits, or at least self centered tendencies. i always operate like im the main character. i always do things with the thought in mind that there will be no negative outcomes for me, and if there so happens to be one, then ill somehow weasel my way out of it. i think that everything will always go well for me, which is weird because it very much has not in the past. a lot of bad things have happened to me, but in a weird fucked up kind of way im glad they did. because now i have some sort of trauma to cling to and roll into my identity. but the flaw in that is that i need a new one every so often. i cycle through different traumas and disorders and sexualities and genders and names and everything that i really, genuinely dont know who i am. and thats why i think somethings wrong with me. because what normal person thinks and operates like this? i dont know if i fully described the reality of my situation, or if im just saying that because i want it to seem worse, but thats about it. sorry for the long ask. i hope you can get around to answering

Hi anon,

I think to some degree its okay to like labels, as they can provide us a sense of structure and being able to name things can give a lot of people comfort. It's also okay to change your identity, as identities are fluid and naturally change over time. You're allowed to change your identity as many times as you want because it's literally yours to dictate, you know?

However, there are many different possibilities as to why you may be experiencing this frequent shift in identity. While I can help explain what these possibilites might be, it is crucial to consult with a mental health professional for an accurate assessment and diagnosis.

One of the possibilities is that you could have some narcissistic tendencies, as from my understanding of NPD, it's about basically trying to regain control of feeling worthless or helpless by constructing a reality of grandiosity that can be incredibly fragile (please correct me if I'm wrong).

Also in the realm of personality disorders, the idea of having "identity disturbance" and "unhealthy obsessions" with someone is characteristic of BPD. Identity disturbance, also sometimes called identity diffusion, is described as an "incoherence, or inconsistency in a person's sense of identity. This could mean that a person's goals, beliefs, and actions are constantly changing. It could also be that the person takes on personality traits of people around them, as they struggle to have and maintain their own identity." Of course, you can experience identity disturbance without BPD, but it's still a common experience among pwBPD.

Another possibility is tired to when you said "i cycle through different traumas and disorders and sexualities and genders and names and everything that i really, genuinely don't know who i am" as it reminded me of how a system might experience their identity, especially if they don't realize they're a system. This is not me saying you're definitely a system, but the possibility of plurality could be something to explore further as well.

Ultimately, this could be something to explore further with the guidance and mediation of a mental health professional such as a therapist, who can work with you to identify more concretely why you may be experiencing these things. They can also help you navigate these feelings and provide guidance tailored to your specific needs.

It's important to practice self-care and be gentle with yourself as you navigate your identity. Please know that it's okay to take your time and embrace the journey of self-discovery. If anyone has any additional insights or suggestions, feel free to add on. Otherwise, I hope I could help, and please let us know if you need anything.

-Bun

[bullywug-n-mugwort]

.

idk why people just decide they get to invalidate someone else's identity when they are not the one with that identity and therefore don't know what they're talking about. just saw someone i otherwise respect reblog a post about how bisexual lesbian is an invalid term because each term has changed over time and claiming it's lesbophobic and biphobic to use the term [something something mutually exclusive experiences]. i usually call my orientation "queer" but i often use "bi lesbian" to make sense of my own experience. the tags of this post were full of people dunking on all imagined reasons someone may call themselves a bi lesbian, none of which reflect my own experiences and reasoning.

not that i should have to defend myself, but a lot of these comments were very fixated on the experiences of "liking only women" vs "liking both women and men." these categories obviously have social significance, but to me personally, romantically and sexually, these categories aren't super helpful. i cannot isolate traits of manhood or womanhood i find attractive. i'm into femme traits until i see a hot butch. i like certain chests, certain facial features, and any genitals. these traits don't map onto coherent binary genders very well. not to mention my attractions shift with my fluid gender. if i'm looking for a consistent pattern, i'm into gendernonconformity if anything. i guess i'm far more into women than i am men unless the man is a flamboyant twink but at the end of the day i'm not into either as much as i am a very specific weird collection of queer gender markers. (and pansexual had never seemed to fit the bill, because there are also many gender expressions and markers i am certainly unattracted to.)

does that really make me a biphobic bisexual? i wrestled with more shame at the idea that i was a lesbian, a stereotype threat for the bisexual community i love. the twink i married turned out not to be a man at all. i was struggling with worries about comphet for years because i loved them but our marriage didn't feel "right," and now that we're both practicing genderqueers it does. to me, that experience made bisexuality feel less like home than it had before. at the same time, finding like two men attractive excludes me from the lesbian community. is it such a sin to have found home in a term that made coherent my knot of comphet and dysphoria?

i realized, as many lesbians with comphet do, that i would probably never be happy in a relationship with a man, as in someone who self- identified as a man and embraced manhood. i also find astarion bg3 hot as fuck. i fail to see how these are mutually exclusive experiences.

can i guarantee that no biphobia or lesbophobia has wormed its way into my brain? of course not, but it is so strange that embracing both those terms brands you as someone who hates both. it's also strange to exclude people from terms on the basis of internalized shame. why care if some people call themselves bi lesbians? does it feel invalidating to you? that's your own work-- same as women who think afab nonbinary people are really just women who are ashamed of being a woman and therefore should continue living as "women". (ie it's not my job to choose an identity that you approve of or think is free of shame. you figure it out.) are you worried it invalidates us in the eyes of the heteros? i simply don't believe in policing our own terms to make cishets see us as more valid or understandable. it's disguised respectability politics, plain and simple.

all these terms for our identities are best fits and best guesses, grasping for connections under this big lovely queer umbrella. the person who reblogged that post is a nonbinary lesbian. why do the same people who accept the concept of a nonbinary lesbian-- a thing that should be impossible if the term "lesbian" has actually calcified as the post claims-- insist that "bisexual" and "lesbian" are concrete, immovable, and mutually exclusive identities? to be extremely clear, i support nonbinary lesbianism. it's valid. and it's a weird fucking line to draw, saying that the gender spectrum can support loosely-gendered lesbianism on the side of the beholder but not the recipients.

there was also a historical argument claiming that people are misinterpreting contexts in which bisexual lesbian was used circa early 20th century. and like... okay??? i found the term in a pdf zine from the 90's which interviewed self-identified bisexual lesbians, gleaning a bunch of different reasons for the label. some fell into the assumptions of the aforementioned post, eg bisexuals who were basically political lesbians. (i don't claim to support this stance, though i do still insist people can call themselves whatever they want.) many more summarized complicated stories like mine, people who did not fall neatly into either "mutually exclusive" category because, it turns out, gender is a fluid weird spectrum. bi lesbians whose attractions are bi and gender is lesbian. bi lesbians who were literally only into women except for one "man". bi lesbians who were trying to untangle comphet and so weren't sure which label, if either, fit. bi lesbians who liked to fuck any gender but only fell in love with "women". so anyway, fuck outta here with "history doesn't work like that" narrow target practice.

and even if that's true... again, words are evolving all the time. we've made words like sapphic and achillean to make some sense of gender. "lesbian" has on-off been used as a gender term for decades. we've invited nonbinary people into lesbianism and many understandings of gender into bisexuality. bi lesbian is another evolution of our language, and people have been shitty about it since at least the early days of DTWOF-- bechdel's characters struggled with all of the above since the 80's.

and what's the point of terms? to find community, self- identity, and sometimes practical utility, eg in the dating world. were i to date again (yikes), "bisexual" would not be a helpful self-descriptor for finding a romantic partner. lesbian would. if i wanted to hook up, bisexual would be more helpful than lesbian, and i'd have to root through lots of gender expressions anyway. so in terms of my self identity and finding communities of similar folk, "bi lesbian" is a super helpful term. if you are a bisexual or a lesbian and feel frustrated or confused by my term, that's because it doesn't apply to you. maybe just realize this isn't your thing and leave our community to explore our experiences. love you, see you later in the sapphic tags where we have things in common.

so anyway, i think it's pretty silly to see a term, imagine reasons you dislike for why someone may use it, and pitch a fit. my identity's legitimacy has no bearing on yours. leave us alone.

[repriseofthereprise]

Catharine MacKinnon speaks on the work of Andrea Dworkin

This speech was given by Catharine A. MacKinnon at the Andrea Dworkin Commemorative Conference, April 7, 2006. This original transcript was prepared by secondwaver (blog now defunct).

Andrea should have been here for this. She would have liked it, or most of it. [laughter in audience]

There’s something awful, in both senses, that is, terrible and awe-inspiring, both, about Andrea’s work having to be my topic, instead of my tool, speaking her words not only to further our work together as they were and we did, for over thirty years, but to speak about it, and about her, as a subject, and in the past tense.

Yet even at the same time, her clarity and her passion and her inspiration to all of us to go further, go deeper, flows through her words.

Her whole theory is amazingly present in each phrase that she used. As Blake saw a whole world in a grain of sand, in each of Andrea’s sentences you can see the whole world the way she saw it.

Andrea Dworkin was a theorist and a writer of genius, an unparalleled speaker and activist, a public intellectual of exceptional breadth and productivity. Her work embraced the last quarter of the twentieth century and spanned fiction, critical works of literature, political analysis in essays and speeches and books, and journalism. Her legacy includes a vivid example of the simultaneity of thinking and activism, and of art and politics. Formally, she was an Enlightenment philosopher, in that she believed in and used reason. She was interested in diginity and equality and morality, and, especially, in freedom. Her contribution as a complex humanist was to apply all of this to women, and that changed everything.

An original thinker and literary artist, Andrea saw society ordered by power and the status excrescences of its variations animated by the sexual. She pioneered understanding the social construction of sexuality, and the sexual construction of the social, long before academics dared touch this third rail of social life.

In talking about The Story of O, a book of S/M pornography, in her book, Woman Hating, she says, “The Story of O claims to define epistomologically what a woman is.” She saw O as “a book of astounding political significance.”

Largely overlooked as an intellectual in her own time, she mapped social life before the postmodernists did, finding fairy tales and pornography to be maps for women’s oppression. She wrote about humiliation and fear before study of the emotions was a big academic trend. She analyzed social meaning before hermeneutics really caught on in the scholarly world, asking what pornography means, as for example, in the preface to Pornography, “this is not a book about what should or should not be shown. It is a book about the meaning of what is being shown,” what intercourse means, to men and women, most of all, what freedom for women means.

Her first book, Woman Hating, she “wrote to find out why I am not free, and what I can do to become free.” In her later work, this emphasis on freedom was synthesized with a re-made equality, consistent with and necessary for that freedom.

Her cadences were rhythmic, her use of repetition gaining inevitability and momentum, her suddenly-shifting convergences and metaphors were telling, and often surprising, lyric and antic, fluid and explosive by turns.

Such was her skill as a writer that she gave us almost the experience of pornography without her writing–being–pornography. She could even make intercourse funny, writing of Norman O. Brown speaking of entering women “as if we were lobbies and elevators.” [laughter in audience]

And for undertaking a synchronic reading of her work as a whole and selecting some over-arching themes, I want to reflect for just a minute on what it means that we are here doing this.

The relation between the work and the life is not a new question. But the relation between who Andrea Dworkin was and how her work was socially received is. And it has, as some of us have noticed, shifted noticeably, even dramatically, since the death of her body.

Three months after she died, so unexpectedly, a prominent French political theorist in a Ph.D. exam that I was in, in Paris, referred to her, excoriating the poor student, for eliminating various notables from the bibliography, referred to her as “l’incomparable Andrea Dworkin”–this, in a country that has long refused even to translate her work!

How has the world related Andrea Dworkin’s body to her body of work? Why was it necessary to destroy her credibility and bury her work alive, only now to be resurrected, disinterred, as it were? Why can now she be taken seriously, respected, even read, now that her body is no longer here? Why this is the first conference ever to be held on her work is one side of the coin of the question of why there never was one when she was alive. Her work is as alive now as it ever was, as challenging, threatening, illuminating, inspiring. Maybe it is that she can no longer tell us that we’re wrong, but don’t bet on it. Or maybe if you engage her work while she’s alive you further her mission, and we can’t have that, now, can we?

But why was respecting her and taking her work seriously such a risk? Why were the people who did it considered brave? As the quintessential scholar of the hell of women’s embodiment in social space, Andrea’s relation to her work is posed by, as well as in, this conference. Her work guides us to pursue this question, I think, as one of stigma. Stigma is what has kept people from reading Andrea Dworkin’s work, especially in the academy, where, I must note, people are not noted for their courage. That stigma has been sexual, due to her public identification as a woman with women, including lesbian women, especially as a sexually abused woman publicly identified with sexually violated women–in particular, the raped and the prostituted among us.

Being marked by sexuality, is, in her analysis, the stigma of being female, analyzed by Andrea in greatest depth in Intercourse, a work of literary and political criticism, a work of how men imagine and construct sexual intercourse when they can have it any way they want it, as they can, in fiction. It is a work of criticism of literature, that is at the same time a trenchant and visionary work of social criticism, her most distorted, I would say, a signal honor in a crowded field, published in 1987, at, as John and I were saying, the height of her powers. Of Elma, in Tennessee Williams’ Summer and Smoke, she wrote: “This being marked by sexuality requires a cold capacity to use, and a pitiful vulnerability that comes from having been used, or a pitiful vulnerability that comes from something lost or unattainable, love, or innocence, or hope, or possibility. Being stigmatized by sex,” she wrote, “is being marked by its meaning, in a human life of loneliness and imperfection where some pain is indelible.”

If the stigma of being a woman is the stigma of the body sexually violated, it lessens some when you die. That, girls, is the good news! [laughter in audience] Before now, we have had to be kept from reading Andrea Dworkin’s work, and were, by the living, breathing existence of her sexualized body attached to it, thereby, that work was sexualized. We had to be kept from holding a violated woman’s body in our hands and having her speak to us what she knows. Especially, we had to be kept from knowing in-depth, up close, and personal, that for women, having a body means having a sexuality attributed to you, the sexuality, specifically, of being a sexual thing for use, and from knowing that the need to be fucked in order to see and value ourselves as female means living within a political system that is pervasive, cultural, organized, institutionalized, unnatural, and unnecessary. Cutting to the quick of all of this, with her customary conciseness, Andrea always said she would be rich and famous when she was dead.

Now, Andrea’s great subject is the status and treatment of women, as has been said, focusing on violence against women, as central to depriving women of freedom.

Andrea’s method was predicated on the lived, visceral body experience that women have of our social status. She mined her life, particularly, in her work, knowing what she wrote from experience. Her driving force was rage and outrage, unapologetic critique, unbridled, passionate, truth-telling. Her sensibility was tenderness, kindness, and love. Her aesthetic is political–political in method, that is, you know it’s true because it happened to you, political in voice–clear, direct, no writing for passive readers, as John noted, and no talking down to anyone.

In the rhythms you can feel her breathing. Here is a woman talking to a publisher who is trying to get her to have sex with him. Essentially, this is a woman being sexually harassed. It is from Ice and Fire.

“I want, I say, to be treated a certain way, I say, I want, I say, to be treated like a human being, I say, and he, weeping, calls my name and says, please, begging me in the silence, not to say another word, because his heart is tearing open, please, he says, calling my name. I want, I say, to be treated, I say, I want, I say, to be treated with respect, I say, as if, I say, I have, I say, a right, I say, to do what I want to do, I say, because, I say, I am smart, and I have written, and I am good, and I do good work, and I am a good writer, and I have published. And I want, I say, to be treated, I say, like someone, I say, like a human being, I say, who has done something. I say, like that, I say, not like a whore. Not like a whore, I say, not any more. And I say to him, seriously, some day I will die from this, just from this, just from being treated like a whore, nothing else. I will die from it and he says, dryly, with a certain self-evident truth on his side, you will probably die from pneumonia, actually.”

Her writing is new; this is a new voice in literature. It has new forms; it’s full of new ideas, in part because the reality she wrote, like her, was submerged and ignored. But she was interested in all the classical questions of western philosophy–method, reality, consciousness, meaning, freedom, equality, especially the relation of thought to world, and the connections between social order and human action.

She created new concepts: moral intelligence, scapegoat, woman hating, not quite the same as misogyny, gynocide, gave new meaning to the term possession. She was a profound moral philosopher, and she gave new juice to old concepts like dignity, honor, and cruelty.

But I’m going to do a reading now, today, of her as a political philosopher, a specifically intellectual reading of her work in terms of these questions. Which is not how she wrote it to be read, actually. But she certainly knew what she was doing in these terms. She did not use the word method, but she had one, and she knew it. She observed in her book Pornography: “Women have been taught, that, for us, the earth is flat, and that if we venture out we will fall off the edge. Some of us have ventured out, nevertheless, and so far, we have not fallen off.”

In the afterward of Woman Hating, she said this: “One can be excited about ideas, without changing at all. One can think about ideas, talk about ideas, without changing at all. People are willing to think about many things. What people refuse to do, or are not permitted to do, or resist doing, is to change the way they think.” She knew thinking had a way, and that she had a way of thinking, and she wrote to change the way people thought.

Central to all her work was a metaphysical distinction between what she once termed truth and reality. While the system of gender polarity is real, it is not true.” The polarity of the sexes is a reality because reality is social. Equality of the sexes is true, but social reality is not based on it, but instead on a model that is not true, that is, that the sexes are bipolar, discrete, and opposite–some of us with little, tiny feet. For example, “we are living imprisoned inside a pernicious delusion, a delusion on which all reality, as we know it, is predicated.”

And, then, similarly, on the relation actually between sex and gender–not called that–but check it out: “Foot binding did not emphasize the differences between men and women, it created them, and they were then perpetuated in the name of morality.”

She also said we “need to destroy the phallic identity in men, and masochistic non-identity in women.” Now, it is not that she thought all reality was only an idea, as in classical idealism or only a psychology or an identity in the internal sense. She analyzed material reality and ideas as equally, and reciprocally, even circularly determinative. Of reality, she wrote this: “Men have asked over the centuries a question, that, in their hands, ironically, becomes abstract: ‘What is reality?’ They have written complicated volumes on this question. The woman who was a battered wife and has escaped knows the answer.” Philosophers, take note (is my note here): “Reality is when something is happening to you, and you know it, and can say it, and when you say it, other people understand what you mean and believe you. That is reality, and the battered wife, imprisoned alone in a nightmare that is happening to her has lost it, and can not find it anywhere. A fist in your face is not just the idea of a fist in your face. Reality is relational, and that relation is unequal and social.”

She also wrote explicitly of the relation between the ideational and the material in women’s status, without using specifically those words. That is, both have to be there, and both are there. In Right Wing Women, her 1978 book, the most extended analysis of women’s status and of feminism together, the elements and preconditions of both, she said this: “It does not matter whether prostitution is perceived as the surface condition, with pornography hidden in the deepest recesses of the psyche, or whether pornography is perceived as the surface condition, with prostitution being its wider, more important, hidden base, the largely unacknowledged sexual economic necessity of women. Each has to be understood as intrinsically part of the condition of women, pornography being what women are, prostitution being what women do, and the circle of crimes–these are the crimes against women, rape, battering, incest, and so on, that she discussed–being what women are for.”

The resulting “female metaphysics” under male dominance means that rape, battery, economic and reproductive exploitation “define the condition of women correctly, in accordance with what women are, and what women do,” correctly meaning consistently and accurately, within the existing system. She also said you can’t be a feminist and support any element of this model, including “so-called feminists who indulge in using the label but evading the substance.”

Her identification with women made her especially brilliant at seeing how women’s views are reflected in their material circumstances, hence, were rational, in that sense, including in her devastating portrayal of the academic, not-Andrea, so-called feminist woman who begins and ends Mercy, one of her novels, having been sexually abused, actually, this not-Andrea woman with the arch voice, siding with abstraction, with power, and with distance.

Right wing women, she shows in her book of the same name, also side with male power, because it is powerful, and reject feminism because women are powerless, in the hope, and on the bet, that male protection is a better deal than feminists’ resistance and struggle for change. It is, in that sense, a rational choice, meaning a direct reflection of their circumstances, which isn’t to say that it’s in their long-term interest.

She saw, always, how what women think and do makes sense in light of the realities of male power. As she put about right wing women, “the tragedy is that women so committed to survival can not recognize that they are committing suicide.”

The right–this is part of her deep analysis of religious fundamentalism–gives women form, shelter, safety, rules, and love. This complex and respecting analysis completely outdistances any analysis of false consciousness.

Similarly, in Intercourse, which I am going to have to discuss, this part, she wrote complexly of what it meant that Joan of Arc was a virgin. Probably not literally, she said, but because she carried herself with the dignity of the nonpenetrated, i.e. as a man, and her dressing as a man meant noncompliance with her inferior/female status, for which the Inquisition killed her. Joan wore men’s clothes, not to flout convention, or to make a statement about women’s status, or to portray dignity (performists take note), but because she’d been raped in prison. All she had to do was say–this is Joan–that she would not wear men’s clothes, and they would let her go free. Andrea says, “she was a woman who was raped and beaten and did not care if she died. That indifference is a consequence of rape, not transvestism.”

A new concept of ideology as sexual was proposed by Andrea in the book, Pornography: Men Possessing Women. Pornography is analyzed as male ideology, for its meaning and its dynamics. The concrete harms of pornography weren’t, then, its central topic. All the evidence of that was to come. But Andrea notes that “with the technologically advanced methods of graphic depiction, real women are required for the depiction, as such, to exist.”

In asking what it means, she said this: “the fact that pornography is widely believed to be sexual representations or depictions of sex emphasizes only that the valuation of women as low whores is widespread, and that the sexuality of women is perceived as low and whorish in itself. She says, “The fact that pornography is widely believed to be depictions of the erotic means only that the debasing of women is held to be the real pleasure of sex, and it also embodies and exploits, sells and promotes the idea that ‘female sexuality is dirty.’

So how do you go from seeing to being pornography, from buying a woman in pornography to owning her, from owning pictures of her to owning her, you might be wondering. She says this: “Male sexual domination is a material system with an ideology and a metaphysics. The metaphysics of male sexual domination is that women are whores. The sexual colonization of women’s bodies is a material reality.” This ideology is effectuated sexually, a level of belief and experience never before analyzed as political and gendered in the way she did.

Now on the subject of freedom, her core concern. She notes in her piece, “Violence against Women: It Breaks the Heart, Also the Bones,” “Our abuse has become a standard of freedom, the meaning of freedom, the requisite for freedom throughout much of the western world.” She goes on to say, “as to pornography, the uses of women in pornography are considered liberating.”

The subject of Intercourse, specifically, is what freedom means for women, precisely, how it is denied by the inferiority imposed and the occupation effected thereby, “destroying in women the will to political freedom, destroying the love of freedom itself,” when it takes place under conditions of force, fear, and inequality.

She says, ” to want freedom is to want not only what men have but also what men are. This is male identification as militance, not feminine submission. It is deviant, complex.” This becomes something she terms “the new virginity,” or what might be called the new freedom. “Believing that sex is freedom,” she says, intercourse needs blood, “to count as a sex act in a world excited by sadomasochism, bored by the dull thud-thud of the literal fuck. Blood-letting of sex, a so-called freedom, exercised in alienation, cruelty and despair, trivial and decadent, proud, foolish, liars, we are free.”

This analysis converged her thinking on equality, which underwent a progression over her life. In Our Blood, the piece renouncing sexual equality, she rejected equality, which she understood there as “exchanging the male role for the female role.” There was no freedom or justice in it, an accurate understanding of the mainstream view of equality. Over time, she reclaimed and redefined equality. In “Against the Male Flood” she said, “equality is a practice; it is an action; it is a way of life. Equality is what we want, and we are going to get it.”

To clarify the relation between her freedom and the equality that she redefined, she said this (this is again in her piece for the Irish women, “Violence Against Women: It Breaks the Heart, Also the Bones”)–check this out–: “What we want to win is called freedom or justice when those being systematically hurt are not women. We call it equality because our enemies are family.”

Even with family, Andrea took no prisoners, a paradoxical result of her passionate humanism. She says this in “I Want a Twenty-Four Hour Truce During Which There Is No Rape,” a talk to five hundred men in 1983: “Have you ever wondered why we are not just in armed combat against you? It’s not because there’s a shortage of kitchen knives in this country. It’s because we believe in your humanity, against all the evidence.”

Now, her legacy leaves us a lot to do. We can learn from the richness of her thirteen volumes, we can read her work closely, figure out how her writing was so singularly effective, and we can effectuate it. We can respond to the challenges of her questions, and be changed by her interventions and fearless probing of the structures and forces and people that rule our lives, denied by most people, a denial she also analyzed.

But in the academy, you know, whole theses could be written exploring sentences chosen virtually at random, that are ripe with possibilities, such as this: “any violation of a woman’s body can become sex for men. This is the essential truth of pornography.”

Or this: “in pornography, everything means something,” overwhelmingly ignored by massive departments of Media Studies and Communications, except for a tiny branch of largely social psychologists. Or this one, an analysis of social life in gendered terms: “Money is one instrument of male force. Poverty is humiliating, and, therefore, a feminizing experience.” Now, envision an economics where the laws of motion of sexuality socially are as well understood as the laws of motion of money are understood today, and the relation between the two of them.

Or this. Racism has always been central to her analysis, as it was in Pornography: “the sexualization of race within a racist system is a prime purpose and consequence of pornography.” And she talked about depicting women by sexualizing their skin, thus sexualizing the abuse, sexually devaluing black skin in racist America by perceiving it as a sex organ.

In Scapegoat she took this entire analysis to a whole deeper and higher level simultaneously showing what a gendered analysis of racism would look like in application. Try this: “While Nazism was a male event, Auschwitz might be called a female event, built on a primal antagonism to the bodies of women, an antagonism that included sadistic medical experiments.” In Scapegoat she also said this: “Hitler tried to make Jews as foul and expendible as prostitutes already were, as inhuman as prostitutes were already taken to be.” All of this can be taken up, unpacked, deeply considered, extended, gone further with.

Andrea wanted a day without rape. She said, “I want to experience just one day of real freedom before I die.” And that was the day without rape. She didn’t get it. She told the story of her own life in many ways in her work, over and over again. In one meditation, in Ice and Fire, turning over and over Kafka’s referring to coitis as “punishment for the happiness of being together,”–that’s a quote from him–Andrea writes this: “Coitis is punishment. I write down everything I know, over some years. I publish. I have become a feminist, not the fun kind. Coitis is punishment, I say. It is hard to publish. I am a feminist, not the fun kind. Life gets hard. Coitis is not the only punishment. I write. I love solitude. Or, slowly, I would die. I do not die.”

She wrote in Intercourse of her vision of all of our sexual lives, never, as always, excluding herself. In writing of the sex reformer Ellen Key’s consistent vision of sexuality for women, in the words of Ellen Key: “based on a harmony that is both sensual and possible,” one not based, in Andrea’s words, “on fear of force and the reality of inequality as now.” “A stream, herself,” Andrea wrote, “she would move over the earth, sensual and equal; especially, she will go her own way.”

“A stream herself.” Well, maybe a raging river at flood tide, perhaps, Andrea went her own way. She even wrote what might be her own epitaph: “I am whole, and I am flames. I burn. I die. From this light, later you will see. Mama, I made some light.”

Living without Andrea is living without this special light, the one she burned her life to make. Her incandescent mind never to illuminate another dark chasm or hard alley or guard tower of male supremacy. We are going to need a lot of what she wrote about, so long ago, at the end of Lesbian Pride, in Our Blood, seeing us walking into a terrible dark storm in which she said, “Those who are raped will see the darkness as they look up into the face of the rapist” in hunger and despair.

Love for women was what we need to remember, she said, that light within us that shines, that burns, no matter the darkness without which there is no tomorrow and was no yesterday. Quoting her now, she said, “That light is within us–constant, warm and healing. Remember it, sisters, in the dark times to come.”

Question and Answer Session with Catharine MacKinnon

Clare Chambers: Thank you very much for a wonderful, wonderful address. Does anyone have any questions or comments they would like to make?

Male voice #1: You touched on, I think, race in her work, which is rarely commented on. Do you understand the, I mean, there’s an invisibilization around a lot that she did, but I’ve often wondered why that, in particular, kind of dropped off the radar screen, in people’s reading of her. Don’t you understand it?

Catharine MacKinnon: Well, a lot of women of color know it’s there, and haven’t missed it, at all. I think it’s because it would give her credibility, that pigeon-holing her as just the woman who talks about women, as if racism isn’t about women, that that pigeon-holing, you know, confines her. You know, people think that things about women are “that’s just that stuff about women. Now let’s talk about freedom, or equality, or dignity, but this about women’s just that stuff.” And it would break down that isolation to recognize the central place that it always had in her work and the indivisibility of the analysis of male dominance and white supremacy in her work.

Female voice #1: You know that there’s all kinds of lies out there about how feminists never considered issues of race, and the women’s movement was a white women’s movement, and so on,

Catharine MacKinnon: As if all these women of color weren’t there making the women’s movement before Day One!

Female voice #1: Absolutely! Absolutely! It’s the most common attack on feminism, really, and then you go back, and look at Woman Hating, which is from 1974, there’s a huge section in there on race, and how feminism came from the struggles against racism in the US. It’s an enormously powerful section, the book was 1974! So it was written in the two years previous to that, so it gives the complete lie to these very serious and ridiculous accusations against feminism, so I ..

Catharine MacKinnon: But also, also, those accusations, which, you know, in part, are valid, for pointing out that an analysis of racism in the women’s movement in general, needs to be better, needs to go further, and so on. It also makes invisible all the women of color who are the backbone of that movement. In other words, it has this double way of being racist in itself. It’s like they weren’t even there! Like they aren’t even there.

Female voice #2: One of the things you made in your talk, let me speak to something that, I’ve been thinking about how to … (untelligible) … pull up, that you said that many of her individual sentences could be Ph.D. theses in themselves…

Catharine MacKinnon: Right.

Female voice #2: … that you could take the sentences and unpack them and go… I’ve often felt that, you know, Andrea Dworkin’s work is complex, it’s very detailed, it’s very nuanced, it’s very kind of packed with meaning, and I think one of the reasons, perhaps, why her work has often been misrepresented is that people haven’t been willing to read it with that kind of complexity, haven’t been willing to read it with that kind of seriousness that often people are willing to read the work of, you know, “great male theorists,” and that they have kind of been willing to just read it of very quickly and to see sentences which are hard to understand in a nuanced way–would you share that idea?

Catharine MacKinnon: I do! You know, people were told how to read Andrea Dworkin’s work, and have remarkably, on the whole, it strikes me, accepted that. They were told, you know, simplistic lies, about what it’s about, and including what our work together was about, and so that’s then what they see, people who should know better. And especially people who make their living by reading and writing about what they read, really should read what they write about.

Female voice #3: I wondered if you could say anything helpful about the way forward … look at the situation through Andrea Dworkin’s vision of it … you’re living it, we’re all living it, in different ways … You’re an academic, you work in the law, I’m an academic, I work in … we’re all in these different situations where … we’re put in these situtations where we have to compromise, … I don’t know … we don’t have to compromise … people like Andrea …

Catharine MacKinnon: Do you have tenure?

Female voice #3: Yes, I do.

Catharine MacKinnon: Ok, well …

Female voice #3: But I’m under a gagging order by my university …

Catharine MacKinnon: Pardon me?

Female voice #4:

I’m under a gagging order by my university … I may not say why … I’m in a kind of complicated position … but, you know, I’m constantly interacting with people who make my blood boil, and I’m sure there’s lots of people here who are as well, … I don’t know … or else you don’t say anything and it makes you crazier …

Catharine MacKinnon:

Well, you know, this may sound odd, but I don’t identify as an academic. I do work in the world, which includes, when I can financially afford to do it, thinking and writing, which I, myself, I did for twelve years with no job at all, I mean no real job, just one hitch to another, to another, kind of thing. You know it’s called unemployment, in the academic world and you know if the academic world finds value in it, looking on, while I’m addressing the world as a whole, that’s up to them. So that’s what I have to say about that. I think, too, that the way academia works is that younger people think that they will sell out now just a little bit in order to get tenure so that then can say something, which is why they wanted to be in academia in the first place and what happens is, that process destroys in you the very possibility of becoming the person who will have anything to say by the time that time comes.

Female voice #4:

I didn’t mean academia is in any way special, I don’t think it is, I just think it’s one way …

Catharine MacKinnon:

Indeed.

Female voice #4:

I take your point … compromise … the very thing you’re compromising to attain … I just wondered what the hell you do … that vision of the world is so dark … atrocity … and the experience of it … is there some some maneuver that we can make that doesn’t include having to do battle with men …

Catharine MacKinnon:

Well, I actually think it’s kind of important to, and indeed to, how to say it, I think one gets a lot of self-respect out of having integrity and that that gives you a kind of energy, it isn’t called doing battle with people around you all the time, it’s called not letting every atrocity just go by you. I think a tremendous amount of women’s energy in particular goes into denying atrocities to women, and I deal with them very directly, absolutely all the time, and you know people are always asking me, you know, how can you, like, do this, and I’m like, how can you, like, not? And I don’t mean that as a moral stand, I mean that as a stand of how much of your energy is going into denying what’s going on around you, how much of it is going into holding down, holding in, shutting up, squishing, compressing, flattening yourself inside yourself? You know, you get a tremendous amount of energy out of actually letting it in and flowing back with it, letting it go through you, and feeling what it really feels like, and being changed by it, and knowing what you know and saying it and finding ways to say it and push back against it and work around it and you get a tremendous amount of energy from actually — you know, Andrea once said to me, and it like shocked me totally, to death, I think she published it, that she, how’d she say, that she had recently come to think, it’s something she learned largely from me, she said, that women have a right to be effective. Now, I had never thought of it that way, you know, but I think that we do. Like, we live here, too. And that understanding that we have a right to occupy space and, you know, to speak out and to say what we see, and that that isn’t the same thing as doing battle all the time as if you’re just, you know, smashing your head against a brick wall. It’s actually engaging with the life of your own time, as opposed to acting like you weren’t even there. [applause]

Male voice #2:

I learned one thing from Andrea, that I attribute to Andrea, and I probably mangled it a little bit, and it’s not repeated, and I wouldn’t even be able know where to find it, maybe you could help me with this, that she said that biological superiority is the world’s most dangerous idea

Catharine MacKinnon, in unison: is the world’s most dangerous idea

Male voice #2:

Where is it?

Catharine MacKinnon:

It’s in Our Blood somewhere, it’s somewhere in Our Blood, I’m certain it is.

Male voice #2:

Yeah.

Catharine MacKinnon:

John, do you know where it is?

John Stoltenberg:

I think it might be on line, actually, it might be on line.

Catharine MacKinnon:

Yeah, look in Nikki’s website. You know Nikki’s website?

Other voices in the room:

Nikki Craft’s website. The website is on the postcard. … ironically, … I was the one, we were asked, I think, for favorite quotes, and that was one that I …

Catharine MacKinnon:

About the delusion of sexual polarity and …oh, no right … about biological determinism being the world’s most dangerous idea, yeah, see now, sociobiologists …

John Stoltenberg:

I don’t want to put you on the spot, and this might be a topic for a conversation, rather than a Q & A session, but since there are a lot of teachers, or people who teach here, and the one time Andrea taught was at the University of Minnesota, she co-taught with you, and I don’t know a lot about that time, because she was in Minneapolis and I was in New York…

Catharine MacKinnon:

And she missed you very much.

John Stoltenberg:

Ah. [pause] The question was,

Catharine MacKinnon:

I remember that.

John Stoltenberg:

what you learned while teaching together, about teaching. [pause]

I think that’s my question. I think I just want to know what it was.

Catharine MacKinnon:

Yeah. Well, one really major thing we learned was that we thought that we could teach a course on pornography, and, of course, you can’t teach on a subject that isn’t there, you know. I mean, in other words, it would be like teaching about a novel and not reading the novelist. So, and, indeed, sometimes, … one’s novels … but in any case, the way we organized it was: if I’m the court, here’s the pornography, and here’s the law on this pornography, which is usually just so way wacked out, beside the point–the second, of the first, you know, it’s highly instructive, so here’s the pornography, here’s the law on the pornography, here’s the pornography, here’s the law on the pornography, and we went all the way through, Playboy to Snuff, you know, and everything in between. And what we learned is that to say pornography violates women was not excessive, and it was not a metaphor. That, what was happening was that our students were in traumatic stress, on week-by-week basis, and, indeed, a couple of them had psychotic breaks, one when she … we actually had child pornography, and that was assigned, as well, and she, just in the way one of the children in the child pornography looked, or turned, or something, suddenly, she remembered having been sexually abused on a stage when she was a child, not too long before, and pornography had been made of her. Anyway, that was her … there were five or six people who had extremely serious psychological consequences from this, and the whole class was this cumulation of traumatic stress over the term and so we learned that we can’t, you can’t do what we thought you could do and we learned how much … that’s what we learned about teaching, was that you can’t do this, you know, unless you want to violate your students, and pornography violating women was not hyperbole. And it was not an approximation. And this was before there had been any real studies on the effects on women of consuming pornography, but the men were as messed up and harmed by it as the women. There were lots of men in that class, and that’s one thing we learned–that you can’t ever assume that you control the context more than the pornography does. That the pornography is its own context. That’s what we learned. You’re surrounded by critique! You’re surrounded by law! You’re surrounded by whatever, you know, but it is still going to do what it does. And it did it. We learned that. We also learned from the people who snuck in, who weren’t at the university, and just came in and sat in the back, and the people who were, that … first of all, that some of them, in particular, the .. I mean, Andrea had always known this, but we both learned it all over again, in a whole other way, that when people … first of all, that prostituted women know everything, and that if and when their visions can be brought out, and applied that whatever it is you need to know is something that they already know. And there were numbers of them, and that there’s something about the organizing potential of the issue of pornography in relation to prostitution that broke open in that class, and has gone forward, ever since. Now we learned that about teaching, as well, both in the university, and in a university within a city. And it also turned out, then, eventually to be a lot of the people who were our students who became the organizers for the ordinance that she and I ended up writing, out of the process of our teaching together. Just a couple things that occur to me.

Female voice #5:

… I’m a radical feminist .. (unintelligible). it is dark times, difficult times .. now … don’t by any means have the answer . (unintelligible) .. to go out to just talk to people we encounter . (unintelligible).. thank you so much …

Catharine MacKinnon:

Thank you. Andrea wanted respect for her work. And this conference has that. So thank you.

Clare Chambers:

If there aren’t any more questions at this point in the presentation, on which to end. We do have a drinks reception in the common room, to which you are all very, very welcome, and I hope you will. And let us end by thanking you all for coming, and thank you again, Catharine MacKinnon.

[applause]

[therrerium-valkryonia]

All hands on deck

She was working as a part-time Obgyn Teacher being known as the bad teach, yet they we're all very respectful towards her, the pregnancy was really suprising but hard since her boyfried had decided to be a deadbeat dad and so she had to deal with the struggle and she was due anyday at this point since she was a part-timer she had half of the shift instead of nine to fives she had nine to twelves but since it was hard to make a lot of money she didn't have a maternity leave at all and so Olivia at the shcool was expriencing a heavy amount of contractions the tightness of her belly pushed the baby against her cervix and was pleasurable as she moaned in a sexual way her round hips throbbed as she moaned arching her back her big plump round breasts bounce with her movement her moans of pleasure her grip tightens holding her belly sides her pussy twitches and her hourglass bod arches itself and she groans in absolute pleasure being a happy girl but her class is about to start and the great Ai generated anime girl lookalike was saddened.

As she teaching about childbirth and pregnancy as all her students used her as an answer in well she was very happy they used her for an answer beacause well she is a good example for all her students and while she taught she looked at her watch and said "Well, it's break time!! Go on get out get some rest while ya can" All the students laughed and left the room while she put a hand on the corner of the desk and to the side grunts of pain come out her sweat drips from her head on to her gray sweater as her legs spread apart widening her black leather skirt when she loudly shrieks as her water flow down her plump thighs and she waddles to her seat and as a powerful contractions hits her and she arches her back in pain with a loud scream as she pushes hard and force the baby against her lips pushing them wide open, her vagina too her back burned her as she laid her haid on the desk while holding her belly and her brown hair goes all over her desk as she grunts bearing down with tight grip the baby crowns squeezing her vagina wide open and slowly sliding out the rest of the head but only to a full crown and she gasps in pain as one of her students comes running to her, "I'll get the ambulance" And she replies "Th- GAHH!! They're t-too far a- way" And the student runs out looking for help as she cries pushing the rest of the head out and in trying to push as hard as possible pulling her head up screaming "SHIT!! AHHHHH!!!! THIS HURTS SO MUCH!!! GYAHH!!" And comes gushing is fluid the neck came out but it was stuck, her panties stopped the baby and as she pushed the baby stopped and slid back in a loud cry came from Olivia as she got up to stand but fell to her knees cause of the huge contraction hitting her body as she cries.

The baby slides out stretching her vagina wide and bulging her underwear but as she cries loud in pain her brunette hair soaked in sweat tearily waiting for help as the stuck baby slides inwards sending a burn through her abdomen throbbing her legs as no one comes to help and crawling to her seat circling her belly in her arms as she had a deep breath and bore down arches her back in pulling her back slowly ripping her panties as all her students return after two hours and she had began pushing hard and ripping through as tight as her panties we're and she stood up with pain, her back belly and pussy burned as she walked to the presentation holding the head under her skirt continuing her lecture on pregnancy and childbirth showing the process of crowning and saying "Wel- Welcome b- ba- back and so l- let's con- tinue o- on the le- Hoo Haa lecture." And began talking about how the process works.

After an hour of talk, "Thi- is Huuuu the h- head in h- half c- cr- crowning as t- the mot- mothe- p- UShes t- to a f- f- full crown" As she began to leak down her thighs into her black socks and to the shoes as the presentation goes to the baby's head coming out as the baby's head in her own panties began tearing through saying, "We mov- to th- HaAAaa next p- process of the baby going to come out" Sitting down holding the underside of her belly as the baby snapped the cloth and as she plays the video and gasps and falls from her seat to her knees catching the baby into her arms onto her chest pulling her gray sweater to reveal her plump breasts feeding the baby as to stop the crying and pulling a tie out and tying the umbilical cord grabbing the scissors and cut it off pulling the placenta out gasping for air and sitting on her chair and continuing the lecture as she hid the baby and walking out after her shift ends getting in her car and sighing in relief.

[la-lauren]

Sexuality is nothing but a curse. More on that in a bit.

First, I am trying to be more cognizant of when I’m lying to people. Tonight, I backed myself into a conversational hole. I was asked what it is about Taylor Swift that makes me so drawn to her, and it reminded me of how often the church drilled it into my head that I should always be ready to answer if anyone were to ask me about my faith. I stumbled through my answer, much like I would if I were asked about Christ then or now.

I couldn’t bring myself to say, “I see queer themes in her writing, especially of the closeted variety, that make me feel like she might possibly understand life through my lens. I’ve also watched how she interacts with fans, and I see her brain working overtime to figure things out, and I’m the same. In short, I’m projecting massively, and the things I like about her are the things that are in myself — the difference being her ability to use it for good.” After lavendergate this past week, I’m not sure how good we’re talking, but the sentiment remains. My insecurities are her strengths.

I didn’t even have those fully formed thoughts at the time. I can barely remember what I said, but I did mention lavendergate and tried to gloss over it. She kept asking questions! And I was trying so hard to keep it glossy!!!! I was purposely trying to make it all sound boring so she’d stop!!! But she didn’t. And when I was talking about the divide between the queer and hetero fandoms within the Swiftie community, she locked eyes and rather abruptly asked, “are you gay?” And I PANICKED. No one usually flat out ASKS. I know it was my fault for leading her right to it. I felt my face turn to lava as “no” came out just as fast as her question. I recognized it as a lie though and backtracked. I said I’m fluid (the fuck). It’s really just code for indecisive. And I don’t like labels really. I think it’s entirely possible I could love a man, even physically. I just haven’t found him yet. 😬 it’s also likely that if I end up with a partner at all, it’ll be a man, just because men are easier than women, so if there’s hope for me at all, it’s likely with a man. And I’d be fine faking it, I think. As long as they bring other qualities to the table.

Whatever. I don’t care.

What I did care about is that she was wearing tights and a short skirt and that she came and sat next to me on the couch. The couch is LONG and she came and sat thigh to thigh with me, and in order to make eye contact while speaking, turning our heads towards each other made our faces way too close for my comfort. I shifted my body as much as I could, but I was already against the edge of the couch, so I couldn’t make much space between us. And I *hated* how I mentally had to remind my eyes over and over not to follow her legs. I don’t like to think about what turns me on because sexuality is a curse, like I said, but I guess I figured out tonight that tights are a turn on. I feel so dirty having physical responses like this. If I could turn sexuality on/off like a light switch, that’d be ideal.

Then on the train home, there were two attractive drunk women, similar clothing. Short skirts, thin tights. Long hair. One of them maybe didn’t see me(?) but she backed me into the corner of a door and plastic barrier. Her hair was in my face, and her body was pressing against mine, and I wanted to sink into the earth. I had my hand on a bar to keep myself stable, and she moved her hand right on top of mine. I jerked mine away immediately, but I had time to process how soft she was. The whole time this was happening, she was so situationally unaware, and I was having an inner meltdown from her just existing too close to me.

I will make this a read more when I wake up. It’s 5:30am, and I’m exhausted.

[littlefreya]

Vanilla Milkshake

Summer: Henry and a long time friend hangout at their usual spot when things turn chaotic because of an innocent misunderstanding...

Prompted by:  

 Oooh Freyaaaa I just *need* some scene featuring Henry and ofc drinking milkshake. 

Pairing: Henry Cavill x Unamed OFC (no description of ethnicity or body type).

Word count: 1.7K

Warnings: RPF, major fluff, friends to lovers, sexual innuendo, mild seduction, sex talk, an unwanted boner, Henry being a boomer, Henry having a meltdown. 

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it, ideas or parts it and claiming it as your own.*

A/N: So, first thing first, thanks @agniavateira for quickly beta’ing my work! And of course thanks @the-soot-sprite for bouncing ideas with me and being an emotional support. Decided to go with friends for lovers because I live for that stuff. Also, I am aware that “Milkshake” can be interpreted in several ways but for the sake of the story I went with that particular reference. Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics

Please comment and reblog if you enjoyed.  🖤

Title: Vanilla Milkshake

“I swear, this diner looks like Barbie had an orgasm all over the place.” A whimsical grin sliced between Henry’s marble cheeks. Eyeing the pastel-esque surroundings, he huffed scornfully and adjusted the cap over his nest of unruly curls. 

“Remind me again why we always meet here, young lady?”

Staring at the beastly man who barely managed to squeeze into the plastic-pink faux leather booth, she couldn’t help but chuckle. Henry carried himself with something that was both eloquent yet unmistakably feral, reminding her of a burly forest creature. Sturdy tree trunks stood for limbs, torso, and shoulders—the widths of icy mountains and a blanket of thick fur coated the entirety of his body, deeming him a dangerous bear. 

No wonder he preferred himself clean-shaven. The sharpened edge of a razor kept him a cut away from becoming ‘Henry the Barbarian’. 

Seeing him surrounded by pastel and sparkly fairy dust brought far more joy than she could ever imagine. The utter look of contempt gleamed on the surface of his shifty eyes. 

Oh, by God, how much he hated glitter!

“And what would you know about Barbie’s orgasms?” she teased with a crooked eyebrow and a comical suspicious glare. 

Readjusting his cap over the messy mane of chocolate curls, Henry offered a terrible wink and shrugged, “a gentleman never tells.”

Her fingers rapped on her thigh while she contemplated whether to allow this naughty joke slide, but then the urge to provoke him was far too great. After briefly chewing on the inside of her cheek, she broke into a wicked grin.

“Is that… like a role play you have with the missus? She’s Barbie, and you’re G.I.Joe? Because I kinda don’t want to hear about it, but then I kinda do.”

Henry’s smile gradually faded along with the playful glee in his eyes, his melancholic gaze dropping to the sparkly table. He slumped into a heavy sigh, “If by missus, you mean ‘Miss Hand’, then no… not really.”

Dumbfounded, she frowned at Henry with confusion when then it struck her; a sense of incredible embarrassment drained the blood from her head to her gut.

“Oh…”

“Yep.” Henry blurted and grabbed the menu, pretending to be incredibly interested in the kids’ meal options. 

Just in time to rescue them from a prolonged awkward silence, the waitress arrived with their order, serving Henry a hot cup of double espresso while she received a tall glass of a luscious vanilla milkshake. 

“Enjoy your drinks, guys!” the waitress smiled sweetly and kept her eyes glued to Henry as she walked away. But the gloss of the waitress’ flirtatious excitement was lost on him; drenched with greed, Henry’s blue sapphires were fixated on the generous scoops of ice cream and the dark chocolate swirls that decorated his companion’s dessert. 

“Henry, my eyes are up here!” she provoked and grabbed the straw between two fingers while throwing an amused glance at his simple cup of coffee. Henry followed her gaze and scoffed before raising the cup to his mouth and blowing to cool his drink.

The way his lips pursed together and his finger stroked the ceramic surface did not escape her observation. A sudden tingle swam down the length of her spine once it resonated in her mind that kind, charming, and beastly Henry was now single. Here they were, long time buddies, but now sitting together felt less comfortable than before. Her limbs felt like pins and needles while staring directly at his eyes was as risky as staring at the sun.  

“Cheers,” Henry mumbled and took a sip from his cup. 

Almost jolting in her seat, she stiffened and then grabbed her straw.

“Cheers.”

Giggles came from the other side of the diner. Among the retro gumball machines and rounded plastic bar stools, the waitress and a colleague leaned against the counter and stared at Henry, who turned his head for a brief moment and tipped his head.

Their giggles turned even louder.

She frowned. 

“So, have you been single for a while?” she heard herself asking with a rather urgent tone. Right away, a look of contrition crept on her face as she regretted her verbal onslaught and lack of sensitivity. 

Henry directed his gaze back to her and watched as she slowly sipped from the milkshake and then suckled the cream off her mouth. 

Absentmindedly, he licked his lips. “Since May. How about you, weren’t you with…?”

“No, ended, dodged a bullet.” she spat and pumped the straw up and down the thick beverage. “My milkshake brings all the boys… except it doesn't.” she sighed.

Henry frowned and shook his head with confusion. “What? You never told me you make your own milkshake. How come I never had some?” 

Her face abruptly froze, her eyes rounded with surprise before she snorted so loudly the waitresses stopped their whispering.

“Umm… Hen?” she called out, trying to hold herself from bursting into chuckles as her friend accidentally asked for a very sexual favour, “you honestly don’t know what ‘milkshake’ is slang for...?”

“Uh…”

“Omg, you’re such a boomer.” 

“No, I was born in ‘83! I’m a millennial. But please, indulge me.” he begged and crossed his arms together.

Clearing her throat loudly, she did her best to fight the wicked grin that stretched on her already painful cheeks and wrapped her fist around the straw. “So you know... how… certain male bodily fluids are sometimes white and creamy...? And when you perform a certain motion it’s like you’re shaking it…?”

Henry blinked and became silent. An unbidden rush of blood pooled at his groin as he watched her thumb graze over the tip of the straw and her fist pumping it into the smooth liquid in a slow, gentle motion. Wickedness glazed her eyes, but he tried to dismiss it as nothing but their usual playful banter; yet his adam’s apple bobbed up and down while his shoulder tensed at the oddly arousing sight of her performing a sinful act on a milkshake. 

There was an unmistakable stir in his cock and for once, he was thankful for narrow spaces as it hid his predicament.

Leaning forward, she opened her mouth and swirled her tongue around the straw. She went deliberately slow, making him watch while she playfully licked and suckled the tip until finally wrapping her lips around it and taking a generous sip.

Henry gawked utterly smitten, unaware that his jaw was nearly at the floor.

And to make things worse, she moaned—not too loud—but definitely enough to make his shaft harden more.

She wasn’t sure what stirred this whimsical boost of confidence, only that seeing the large, handsome man pale at her provocations made her feel like the most powerful woman on earth. She also gathered she’d regret it forever and a day once they’ll part ways, but it was too late for that now.

Gingerly she pulled back, though not before allowing a single drop of cream to trickle down the corner of her lips.

“Oops,” she smirked casually, wiping the cream with her fingertip and sucking it clean. 

“Please stop…” 

It was then when she noticed that Henry’s playful mien was all but gone. Far from amused, he glowered with a clenched jaw. “If you’re going to keep doing that, I’ll have to leave,” he stated matter-of-factly. 

A rush of panic made her freeze in her spot, the same needles that pricked her skin were now setting jolts of electric bursts. “I’m so sorry, I crossed the line,” she said and covered her mouth with shame, “did I offend you? Do you want me to leave?”

“What? No, no, not at all.” Henry’s voice softened right away, and he reached a hand in the air, as if trying to stop her from leaving. The last thing he wanted now is for her to think he is angry with her. If anything, he wished they could spend more time together, not because of his obvious arousal, but because for the first time in a long while, he was having fun.

Still, she looked at him so utterly distraught.  

“Then…?” 

Henry scanned the diner as if trying to make sure no one was staring or taking any photo and then shifted in his seat uncomfortably. His eyes altered between his spread thighs and her several times, trying to signal toward his… trouble.

“Oh...” she gaped. 

An odd sense of pride began to permeate her chest, battling over the burning embarrassment that flamed up her neck and cheeks. At this point, she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to feel, only that it was definitely the most awkward hangout they had to date. 

Problem was, she never knew when to shut up. 

“Is little Henry hungry?”

Hearing those words, his brows dropped to an irritated sulk. “There is nothing little about it.”

“Ha! Prove it!”

It was as if the entire diner and perhaps the world fell into silence. Had the clatter of the dishes being washed in the back kitchen not rung their ears, she would have thought she grew suddenly deaf. 

“I didn’t mean it… sorry, I’ll stop,” she mumbled slowly and pressed her fingers to her mouth while shaking her head at her stupid behaviour. That was it, this was to be the last afternoon she would ever hang out with Henry and right now, she couldn’t even bring herself to look at him.

Henry chewed onto the inside of his cheeks, trying to stop the words that came faster than his thoughts.

“You didn’t?... Because I’ll definitely be up for proving...”

She blinked at his words and tilted her head, hoping that he won’t notice the wild tremors that shook her limbs, “What was that?” 

“I... yes? No?...I… fuck!” 

Henry lowered his head and slapped his palms across his face, rubbing back and forth with an utter meltdown while mumbling, “Forgive me,” a couple of times. He couldn’t care less of what the waitresses or whoever was watching would think of him; all he cared about was to make her feel comfortable around him again and maybe… even make her like him?

“Henry?”

Soft and warm her voice called to him, slowly pulling him from his anguish like a sailor being rescued from a sunken ship. His blue sapphires shone, an ocean of confusion and anxiety still pooling within while he peered back at her face that was now smiling at him a mixture of comfort and exhilaration. 

“Would you like some of my milkshake?”

[snackhobi]

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

Taehyung goes through a lot of different phases.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jesus Christ.

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

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

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

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

And then you have a miniature breakdown at Pickles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

… Anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

(You have the backbone of a chocolate éclair.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How’s your shoulder feeling?”

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

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

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

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

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

--

Your luck doesn’t last.

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

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

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

“What do you think sounds best?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He just shakes his head.

“Okay,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Taehyung?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(You’re going to die.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry.” He sounds genuinely apologetic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

(It’s not cool.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Better?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(What is he doing?)

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

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

“Taehyung.” Your voice is high and faint.

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

“Taehyung,” you repeat. Your voice shakes.

He hums, low and indulgent. “Yes?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(But.)

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

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

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

“Taehyung.” Almost pleading. 

“Yes, love?”

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

(You’re not.)

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

Before you can think, you nod.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Anything you want,” he murmurs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course you want to.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Let me move.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, Tae,” you beg. “More, please.”

“Whatever you want, sweetheart.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You got edible massage oil from your course?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You really are perfect,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, fuck—”

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

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

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

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

“‘M sorry,” he murmurs. 

You pause.

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

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

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

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

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

There’s a pause. “Really?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Taehyung?”

“Yes, angel?”

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

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

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

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

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

--

(“Hey, Pickles.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

taglist: @beyoncesdragon​

[jimilter]

riptide (m) | k.sj. | (1/2)

one | two

pairing:  kim seokjin x reader

rating:  m (18+)

genre:  angst | smut | established relationship!au

summary:  It takes a foolishly trivial incident to unravel how astonishingly little you and Seokjin actually understand each other. It has you questioning your relationship, and him? Well, he’s questioning his whole life.

warnings:  swearing + implied alcohol consumption + realistic relationship problems + mentions of insecurities, jealousy, complicated mental dispositions + emotional distress + sexual situations (unprotected penetrative sex, dirty talking, a bit of manhandling, fingering) + mentions of masturbation + a ton of miscommunication (refer to the summary smh)

word count: 12.3 k

note:  it’s FINALLY done, y’all! came up to be a monster of 25k words, so i decided to split it into two. i’ll drop the other part next week. this took a lot more time, energy and re-writing than i’d thought it would. i began writing this in january - it’s been five excruciating months! 😩 i really hope y'all will like this one~ 🥺💜

💟 YOUTH – 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7

— masterlist

— feedback is always appreciated!

riptide (n) – a dangerous area of strongly moving water in the sea, where two or more currents meet.

Lady, running down to the riptide - Taken away to the dark side - I wanna be your left hand man.

The turn of events has been so fucking hilariously impossible that Seokjin has literally been rendered speechless. Which doesn't happen often, mind you. What can he do, he is just extremely witty—he always has something to say about everything, usually and preferably with impeccable comic timing. Especially when it comes to you. 

This, though. This completely baffling scenario, right in front of him, has him gaping like a goldfish with no words to say.

"Final call, Jin. Gawk at me for five more seconds and I walk out of here," you threaten, an elegant arm poised at your waist and gorgeously plump lips pressed into a thin line. "Say something?"

And Seokjin still cannot formulate a single word, because what the actual fuck? How can you even think that he could ever— 

"Alright." You catwalk out of his bedroom, leaving him blinking into space.

He jumps the next second, leaping after you. "Honey! How would—what—I can never—why do I even have to say—will you wait? You’re being so ridiculous, right now, I hope you know that!"

If he wasn't in such a fix, Seokjin would physically cringe at his speech. It was better when he was just gaping.

“Honey! Stop being so overdramatic, you’ve known me and you’ve known Jimin! For years! Stop acting like you seriously don’t know what happened, here!”

You don't stop, though, gliding down the stairs and hopping over the haphazardly tossed items in the living room as you exit out of the house.

And then you're gone. You're really gone, over something so fucking ridiculous, that Seokjin still has no words to say.

All he knows is that his girlfriend of five years has finally gone crazy enough to jump to conclusions of such high magnitude of stupidity.

And, that Park Jimin is a dead man.

It all begins on an unsuspecting Sunday morning, when the entire house is smelling of weed, stale booze and some worse fluids. 

Last night, Seokjin vacated his own bedroom for the boys to smoke up in at Jimin's request, because that is the only well ventilated room of the house. He spent the night in Yoongi's room with earplugs in, dead to all the chaos in the house—as he often does on party nights—to catch up on his beauty sleep. He cannot afford any unbecoming dark circles or, God forbid, breakouts.

And no, that's not a comedic moment, he really does need his face looking perfect this week for reasons outside of personal gratification too, because he has a shoot on Tuesday. He especially took a leave from his part-time job at the Mexican restaurant downtown where his girlfriend, you, work full-time, on a Tuesday—saying goodbye to all the amazing tips always forwarded to the cooks on Taco Tuesday—for this. Nothing would mess up his face.

Not to mention that one very important audition for a very gigantic project he's been looking forward to. They're yet to announce the date, but it would be this very month. He hasn't really told you much about it, planning a huge surprise for later when—if, actually, but he prefers to be unrealistically optimistic in every situation possible—he bags the coveted position, at the end. He hasn't really decided upon much, other than a long drive and a picnic date to one of those grasslands on the city's outskirts that you love so much. Oh, and bringing up the prospect of moving in together in an apartment with just the two of you. 

He's pretty certain you must not remember him raving about the opportunity, because it has been months since he did that. He then proceeded to be covert about all the mini auditions and trainings he underwent to prepare for the final audition, and he is confident you have not connected the dots.

But that is all a discussion for later — he doesn't even know when he would be auditioning. 

The crux of the whole matter is that he needs to keep looking as flawless as he can until that audition happens.

So he has slept like a baby, last night, while the rest of his friends have partied, including two out of three of his housemates—Hoseok and Jimin—along with Taehyung and Taehyung's girl. Namjoon had foregone attendance in lieu of the Halloween party, next weekend, that he knows he would definitely be forced to attend because Hoseok is hosting. Yoongi, his third and final housemate, escaped the house altogether to spend a night of music-making with Jungkook in his dorm.

So, in the morning, when Seokjin is moving around his kitchen that seems to have been hit by a tornado, checking the fridge and mentally praying that his baggie of smoothie ingredients is still in good shape—a scream echoes around the house.

Seokjin freezes. That sounded a lot like…you.

Immediately alert, he runs out of the kitchen and into the drawing room. Hoseok is hanging upside down on one of the couches, something that looks a lot like undigested white sauce pasta puddles on the ground, inches from his new, fiery red hair. Seokjin grimaces.

"Kim Seokjin!" your screech tears the silence.

Seokjin twists on his heels, looking up in the direction of his bedroom. It really is you. And you're in his bedroom—the room he did not occupy last night.

God only knows what kind of a scene you have walked in on. He hopes these idiots didn’t have an orgy up there, although he really can’t put it past them.

Not waiting another second, Seokjin rushes up the stairs and pushes through the doors to his bedroom. His mouth falls open on an audible gasp.

You stand next to his bed, dressed up elegantly in a navy dress that ends above your knees—which makes him wonder if you are here for an impromptu breakfast date—with one hand clutching his duvet that has uncovered what looks like…

…a head of long, dirty blonde hair.

Who the fuck?

In his bed?

"Hey, Honey!" Seokjin's voice is a squeak. "You… you here for a date?" he manages out of a suddenly parched throat.

You roll your eyes. "Uh huh. A fact you would've known if you looked at the texts I sent you last night." Your eyes are narrow at him. "This explains why you didn't, though. Busy night, Jin?" 

He balks at your words, at a loss. How could you even think it was him, when you know all about Park Jimin and his escapades?! 

Seokjin's blood boils. Fucking Jimin. There is going to be blood on Seokjin’s hands. 

In the midst of it, the blonde head shifts. 

Soon after, as you two watch, a pair of brown eyes with smudged makeup emerge from inside Seokjin's bed—and the audacity?! There’s makeup all over his covers! Jimin will pay for the dry cleaning. The face is followed by a whole, tiny woman of five-something feet who is, thankfully, covered in a shirt.

Seokjin is almost not breathing when the blonde starts to give him a dreamy smile, his gaze switching between her and you. And it’s extremely stupid, because he hasn’t seen this woman before, ever, in his entire life. But he catches the way your arms fall to your sides and those elegant, dainty fingers of yours ball up into fists as you look at the blondie’s face.

Fortunately, the girl recognises him at last before her grin could turn fully dopey, and with a squeak, jumps out of the bed. “You’re not—um. Hi. Sorry, I, uh. I’ll get going.”

And surprisingly, she does exactly that in less than a minute, leaving you to stare down at Seokjin.

“You know, it’s really unbecoming for a girlfriend to keep finding girls in her boyfriend’s bed every other week and not be given an explanation, ever.” Your tone is teasing, but your eyes are taunting. “You shouldn’t always be so dismissive, you know? What if I start getting ideas? I don’t think you even remember how to make up with your girlfriend, at this point, because I never fight.”

That is when Seokjin starts gawking. And literally doesn’t stop until you’ve left the house.

“I don’t get it,” Jackson says, stuffing cold noodles into his mouth and chewing on them without closing it. “Do you think he cheated on you, or do you not think he cheated on you?”

You look at your best friend with your face twisted up in disgust. You swear to God you would never have agreed to make friends with this guy on your mother’s insistence when the Wang family moved in next doors to you, had you known he’d turn out to be such a barbarian a decade later. Twelve-year-old Jackson had been such a decent kid—studious, elegant, well-mannered. What went wrong, along the way?

You exhale, shifting on your chair, very wary of any dried up fluids that you might come in contact with. “I know he did not cheat on me, Jax, the very notion is completely ridiculous.”

Jackson stops chewing and looks away from the WWE match playing on the TV to squint at you. “I’m…confused? Wait. What is the problem, then? What are you mad at him for?”

To be completely honest, you aren’t quite certain yourself.

But you do know that you don’t feel good. And that this feeling has been building up over a couple months, but you have only really acknowledged it head-on, today, in all five-something years of your relationship. Five years, seven months and eight days, to be exact, but that’s kinda besides the point.

You’ve had at least a few months’ worth of buildup that has gotten you to this point, you would admit. Especially after Seokjin had to cancel that visit to your hometown at the end of June, for your parents’ thirty-fifth wedding anniversary celebration because he had an important audition for a big-brand ad film. The cancellation was acceptable, but his offhand comment that, “thirty-five isn’t even that special, we’ll get them a huge gift for their fiftieth,” stayed with you longer than it should’ve. Things got okay-ish when you reminded yourself how Seokjin never really thought too hard about things he said, always being a humorous, unattached clown in every situation. But this morning's dismissal has pushed you over that edge. You straightaway goaded him, claiming he doesn’t remember how to make it up to you, and all you got in response was his shock and being called “ridiculous” and “overdramatic.” Fun.

You were most certainly joking, if a bit caustically, when you said what you did. He could have taken it as a joke and laughed it off. He could have taken it as a threat and comforted you, said it was Jimin that used his room, and maybe kissed you. You already knew what had happened when you saw the girl, anyway. But this was probably the third time this situation had happened, this month. 

Sure, you are understanding and really do know Jimin and what all he gets up to, but is that really supposed to be such a given? Asking your boyfriend to hug you close and kiss your forehead when you discover a girl in his bed just as you were about to cuddle the lump of sheets thinking it was him, is not too much to expect, is it?

Granted, Seokjin has never been extremely expressive, but still. It feels like he’s consciously trying to keep you at a distance, these past few months.

You don’t have the complete grasp of the storm of thoughts in your head yet, but you want to try and explain it to Jackson the best you can. 

“It was about respect, in a way, I guess,” you quietly mumble, and Jackson turns the TV off, now sitting cross legged on the couch to face your chair. He puts away his takeout container to frown at you, probably gleaning how serious this is for you. “He stood there, without saying a single word, expecting me to stop being mad. Almost willing me to stop being mad by making these big, incredulous eyes at me. Like it was that horrible of his girlfriend to demand for an explanation when she found a girl in his bedroom. It was just the two of us, I wasn’t making a scene in front of anybody. He just—ugh! He could’ve simply asked me to not be mad, said it was Jimin who spent the night in the room and maybe even laughed about it, or plotted Jimin’s murder—I would’ve joined in—but no. He acted like I was being stupid, told me not be ridiculous and dramatic. And that made me feel really stupid.”

Jackson winces. “And why do you think you were not being stupid?”

You exhale. “I wasn’t. Because I wasn’t actually accusing him of anything, and five years down the lane, he should know that now. I just wanted him to say it and not scold me when I tease-taunted him. He always expects me to know everything. And even though I always do, it gets tiring sometimes. These weird thoughts get to you — that maybe you’re being too understanding and he’s using that to his advantage, you know?” You look down at your lap, playing with your nails. “It’s just…um. I wanted him to coddle me, I guess. To treat this as something big because I was throwing a tantrum about it and, just, I don’t know—try to cajole me? Assuage me with his words, maybe? But he didn’t. Because he hasn’t done that in forever. Because I never need him to, because I always freaking understand everything!” A sob leaves you.

Jackson pats the place next to him. “C’mere, you dumdum, and stop hyperventilating,” he mumbles, hugging you to his side when you move to sit on the couch. “I don’t exactly understand how the relationship dynamics work, but from what you told me, I get that you wanted attention? Some loving? And instead you got disappointed looks because Jin expected you to be mature and rational about it — the way you always are — and that too with his fucking eyes and some low-key insult words? Is it something like that?”

Wow, Jackson really paraphrased all that amazingly. “Yes, actually. It’s exactly that.”

Jackson sighs. “Y’all have been together a long time, babe, so I guess it’s kind of a given that you’d get to a no-bullshit point. Which is why he hasn’t done that in forever, because y’all probably don’t need that kinda stuff between you anymore.”

“I get that, it’s how a relationship matures. But I’m pretty certain that it’s not supposed to make me feel like this,” you sound slightly muffled, having stuffed your face into Jackson’s hoodie-covered chest. “I feel—I feel like we got too comfortable and now he’s just started to take me for granted. And I also feel like I’m being too needy. Am I being needy and annoying? He’d hate me if I told him all this, won’t he? Half of the reason we’ve worked out so well is because we’re both career oriented and don’t waste time overthinking stupid shit.” You gasp. “Oh, no—would he leave me? He’s used to his girlfriend being mature, not needy—”

You are cut off when Jackson pulls you away by your shoulders, giving you a serious look. “Wait, wait, stop. What did you say? Not the needy part, you’re allowed to be needy once in all the damn three-sixty-five days y’all stay busy for. The…taking you for granted part. Pretty big of a thing to say, babe.”

You sigh. “We haven’t been on an actual date in months. Seokjin thinks there’s no need for that extra effort when we spend lunch breaks at work together, everyday. Outside of the restaurant, our meetings involve our entire flock of friends by default. It’s been three months since we slept together.” You sniff, hating having to impart such a private detail of your life. “So no, I don’t think it’s that big of a thing to say, at all.”

“Wow.” Jackson gives a slow whistle. “You’ve really been bottling up a lot in there, huh?”

You shrug. “I guess. It never made me feel underappreciated, though. Sure, I was irritated at some occasions and disappointed at others, but… Today I feel horrible, Jax.”

“Did you share anything with Byulyi?” he asks, referring to your flatmate and good friend since college.

You shake your head. “She already has a lot on her plate, right now. She got rejected by the photographer she wanted to intern with, so it’s back to freelancing for her.”

“Yeah, that must suck.” Jackson grimaces. Then he looks at you. “You need to take a break, hun. Sit back, today, and have tacos and beer with me. Reset your inner thoughts. Talk to Jin tomorrow. Although, I must say, it’s kinda depressing that you have to actually tell your boyfriend that he’s being a bad boyfriend. Isn’t that kind of shit supposed to be realized on your own?”

You purse your lips. “I guess, yeah. But…don’t say that he’s being a bad boyfriend, Jax. I don’t think he even realizes something is wrong.”

“And that…doesn’t make it worse?” At your raised eyebrows, he concedes with a roll of his eyes. “Fine, fine, in any case — maybe try to hint at it before you dive straight in with the kill? See if he reacts?”

“I don’t know, Jax. What if he doesn’t? He’s really not the best at taking hints and reading signs, or that kind of subtle stuff.”

“Then you can just say your shit. All I’m saying is, give him a chance to figure it out on his own. He’s probably really clueless why you reacted so big on something so small, this morning. If you drop hints, maybe he’ll feel it out.”

You nod, somewhat amazed at how sound Jackson’s advice seems. “How are you doing this, Jax? Being a love guru all of a sudden?”

Jackson scoffs. “I’m just tryna put myself in Seokjin’s shoes. If I was in the situation he’s in, this is what I’d like to happen — be given a window to figure out what’s wrong. You’ve been together a long time, hun. It really shouldn’t be that difficult for him.”

You shrug a shoulder. “I won’t be too sure about that. Why does it even matter if he can or cannot, though?”

Jackson seems to be mulling over something before he drops his chin to his chest. “Because you’re supposed to be partners, hun. If you can tell what’s up with him with a single glance, why can't he? Not being good at taking signs is not a good enough excuse. My gut says that he’d be able to, though. And that knowledge will make you feel infinitely better, trust me. It’ll be reassuring to learn that he really knows and understands you well, won’t it?”

You nod, slowly, but you still have your suspicions. Seokjin has just been the kind of guy whose emotional depth goes to a certain extent and then just — well, stops. There are things that he feels and realizes and sees, and there are things that he doesn’t. It isn’t even something he does, you believe. It’s just how he is. Certain feelings just don’t fall in his orbit. And you’ve never found there to be anything wrong with it when he’s been an immaculately amazing boyfriend and tended to every single one of your needs, always. Well, you have never actually needed emotional consoling, too, so you haven’t had the chance to audition him for that. You keep yourself too busy for all that unnecessary mental pressure. It comes as a surprise, but you have never cried on Seokjin’s shoulder in all these years of your togetherness. You’ve kept your head straight and chin up, even during your college exams. And so has Seokjin, because you’ve never seen him cry, either.

Lately, though, things have been kind of weird. The gradual transformation into your professional lives that began after college, has been drastic in the past few months. Seokjin has been constantly prioritizing his career over you, and you have been understanding about it because you agree with it — to an extent. Seokjin believes it all the way through, though, and you have known for a while that you would hit your limit at some point, and would try to bring him back to yourself. Today morning, it seems, you hit that limit. 

You felt dispensable. 

You hate this feeling.

To be very honest, you know you can get over this. You can give it some time, remind yourself of how much your Jin loves you, believe that he is eventually going to come back to you once he settles, and be understanding about the entire thing. 

You can — but you really don’t want to.

Something tells you that this feeling of getting too comfortable will only fester and take a worse form as time goes by. You can wait it out, sure, and hope you aren’t being a pushover as he works on building his career. You are building your career, too, after all, and at least some of it has been for each other. 

The thing is, your plans with Seokjin are long-term—marriage, kids, white-picket fence, and all that. And you believe that if you are sensing a problem now, you better deal with it now before it has the chance to change its form and affect you both when you are at a more responsible point in your life.

Mind made up, you look up at Jackson, immediately grimacing when he forwards a greasy hand to pick up a taco for you. “I don’t…I don’t like tacos. And may I exchange the beer for scotch?”

“You work at a Mexican restaurant, and you don’t like tacos,” Jackson deadpans.

“They mess up my skincare.”

“Oh, fuck off! Have a spinach smoothie with a drink, why don’t you?”

You purse your lips to hold back your laughter at his ire, your own worries forgotten in the moment as Jackson gets up to get you a glass of scotch and some healthier snacking alternative.

“You're a dead man.”

Jimin stops dead in his tracks, arms frozen in the act of putting a t-shirt on. He blinks at Seokjin with big round eyes. “Hyung?” he mumbles, a picture of unblemished innocence, especially when he covers his toned torso with the oversized t-shirt he was in the process of getting into. “What—what’d I do?”

Someone who doesn’t know better would never believe that this young, innocent, frazzled haired fairy-boy could ever do any wrong. But Seokjin knows better. “You chaotic womanizer,” Seokjin nearly hisses, "you've gotta learn to clean after yourself. Honey found a girl in my bed. A girl—in my bed.”

Jimin had the decency to drop the innocent act. “Oh. Oh.”

Seokjin raises a brow. “Oh? That’s it?”

"Yeah, well, I clarified to her that it was a one time thing when we got to it. She was obviously expecting something more if she didn't leave when I told her to. Disappointed but not surprised." Jimin is frowning when he comes to sit down on the couch next to Seokjin. “Sorry you two had to see that. You clarified to Honey noona that I’d been the occupant of the room, though, right?” 

“I—what?” Seokjin scoffs. “Why would I even need to do that? She knows that already, obviously. She’s been seeing you for over five years, or have you forgotten?”

Jimin squints. “I mean…okay, fair point, I guess. Why’re you so worked up, then? Did something else happen, too? Where’s she, now?” Jimin looks around the living room as if looking for you.

Seokjin sighs. “Well, I couldn't really get much out before she was storming out of the damn house, altogether.”

Jimin blinks. “Storming out? Why? She… um, was she mad?"

Seokjin opens his mouth – and then shuts it. Was she mad, indeed. "I don't know. She looked kinda mad, yes. But maybe she was in a hurry?" 

"Why would she be mad? Did you try to call her? Text her? It's unlike her to react so big on something so small." Jimin bites down on his lip, looking lost in thought. 

Seokjin shakes his head. "She didn't pick up or text back."

“There’s definitely got to be an underlying reason for her being like this. Are you sure you guys haven’t been fighting, hyung?” 

Seokjin sighs. “Yes, Jimin, I’m absolutely certain that there hasn’t been any fighting of any sorts between the two of us before today.” He pauses. “Well, she was slightly irritated that I didn’t check her texts last night, but she knows I go to bed at eleven on days leading up to a shoot, so that one’s on her.”

Jimin looks genuinely concerned, which, in turn, makes Seokjin concerned. Jimin isn't the type to stress over stuff if he can help it. Sure, he cares about the boys and would always be down to do whatever he can for them, but his throwing-caution-to-the-wind way of life causes him to not take most of the things in life seriously.

You’ve been like an older sister to the boys ever since Seokjin started dating you and introduced you to them. They all have their ways of showing their respect and affection to you. Well, maybe not Jungkook because he can’t get over getting unnecessarily intimidated by Seokjin enough to relax around you. 

Jimin, especially, always seems to be affected by any tension in Seokjin’s relationship. Everyone can see how it upsets his entire life when you two are fighting, although he’d never admit to it. He doesn’t need to, because it’s pretty obvious when he becomes a cranky six-year-old who hates the world. 

Right now, he has a guilty frown on his face. "I should've seen to it that Suzette left before I went to shower," he mumbles as if talking to himself. “Shouldn’t have trusted her to leave just because I told her to.” He looks up at Seokjin with troubled eyes. "I'm sorry, hyung."

Seokjin can not believe himself when he shakes his head at Jimin's apology—this little demon causes so much chaos in all their lives that any apology coming from him should be justified and welcome. But this one isn't really on him. "It's not entirely your fault."

Jimin's demeanor changes a bit and the attitude Seokjin is used to witnessing makes an appearance. "Right? That's what I was thinking, too!" Jimin exclaims, some of the concern on his face lifting. "You have to talk to Honey noona and make things right, though, hyung. She’s the only womanly touch in our man cave. We’d all be barbarians without her.” Jimin looks very wary and kind of nervous.

“It’s funny you would crave her ‘womanly’ presence when she’s rushed off because of a woman that you brought home.” Seokjin scrunches his nose. "And I said it isn't entirely on you, because it is partially on you, Park Jimin. You borrowed my room to smoke up in. Why couldn't you take your Suzy back to your own room?"

"Suzette," Jimin corrects under his breath while shaking his head. "Yeah, I should've, but… your room just felt like a better choice during the high," he finishes in a mumble, dragging a hand down his face. “Hyung,” Jimin says with a pout on his lips, “the last time you two fought was two years ago, remember? On your birthday? When Hobi hyung dumped cake in noona’s hair and she had her first shoot for that bigshot magazine, the next day?”

Seokjin nods with a sigh. “She yelled at me for having stupid friends, and I yelled at her for caring more about the shoot that having a good time on my birthday. Yes, I remember.”

“And then she didn’t visit us for a whole week. Please don’t let that happen, again.” Jimin looks up at Seokjin with big, round eyes. “I can’t take that kind of unrest in my life."

Seokjin briefly wonders, if Jimin’s nightly conquests were to see this side of him, would they run in the opposite direction or be more attracted to him? Jimin definitely needs someone in his life that would bring out this side in him and stay to provide him the emotional comfort he requires when he gets like this. 

“I will try not to, Jiminie, but…” Seokjin shuts his eyes. “I seriously do not understand her actions from the morning,” he finishes in a mumble.

“Maybe she’s—maybe she’s worried about something else? Some other aspect of her life?” Jimin suggests with wide eyes. “And she’s just projecting onto you.”

“As sound as the explanation is, I am literally involved in ninety percent of the aspects in her life,” Seokjin says with a twist to his lips. “I would know if something was wrong anywhere.”

“That’s cocky of you to say,” Jimin snarkily comments with narrowed eyes. At Seokjin’s raised eyebrows, he amends, “That’s cocky of you to say, hyung-nim.”

Seokjin scoffs, but then he shrugs his shoulders. “It’s true. We work at the same restaurant, we’re scouted by the same agency. Even her agent is best friends with mine—she gossips a ton about how Honey passes up so many opportunities and pisses her agent off. Her friends are, well—” Seokjin stops short when it hits him. “Wang. Wang could know something!”

Jimin is looking at him skeptically when Seokjin meets the younger’s eyes. “I just think you should have a simple talk with noona first before digging around.”

That is sensible advice. Seokjin nods as he pulls his phone out.

“Just find out what’s been troubling her, hyung. You two are rational people, I’m sure you’ll work it out.” Jimin pauses to scratch the back of his head. “Just please don’t let this be another fight like that one?”

“Don’t worry,” Seokjin finally says with a pat on Jimin’s shoulder as he finishes sending off another text to you, “this one is nothing like that fight.”

Turns out, this fight really is not like that one. Or any other fights Seokjin has ever had with you, in fact, because you’re giving him the silent treatment. 

You’ve never given him the silent treatment. 

Not even when you were students and didn’t have a load of time on your hands and used to waste precious sleep hours arguing over stupid shit that would probably resolve itself if you just slept on it and looked back at it with a fresh state of mind. Not even then did you forego talking.

Needless to say, Seokjin is distressed.

You drive to the house to pick him up at your usual time, the next morning, after not having responded to any of his calls or texts for the entire day. Seokjin is aghast as he gets into the car.

“Honey! What is going on? Why didn’t you—where have you been?”

You simply start the engine and take off. “Busy,” you murmur after a while.

Soekjin’s head is close to exploding. “Busy? Doing what?”

Your face remains stoic as you weave through the morning traffic. Seokjin looks at you. You’re dressed up in your waitressing outfit that consists of a shirt, skirt and tights, and being who you are, Seokjin can proudly say that you would stand out to be the most well dressed server in the field. You’re always pristine and tidy — no accidents happen to you at the job ever. No spillage of drinks or ketchups, no soiled hands being wiped down on your skirt. Nothing even ruins your manicure. 

It is something that Seokjin has always tried to keep up with, this cleanliness streak of yours. Because he has always assumed you would expect it out of him, too. You were attracted to the cover model version of him, after all. It is quite natural that you would have those kinds of expectations. And Seokjin has always been more than happy to deliver. It has become a part of him, in fact. He doesn't even chew with his mouth open even when he's among the boys, anymore.

It has, somewhat, made him practical and less emotional in life, too, but he doesn't really think of it as a bad thing. You have always been practical in life – the most ambitious girl he has ever met, someone that has always prioritized her career and goals over everything else. Seokjin has admired that since college, and has tried to show you that he has similar priorities even if he has had to work on thinking from his mind more than his heart.

But when you are already by his side, what does he even need his heart for, anymore, when it's already yours?

Now, looking at you sitting with a morose expression on your face as you give him the cold shoulder, Seokjin is just as much in love with you as he was when he first met you.

“Stuff,” you say with a shrug, after some extended silence. “You should know about that, right? Your schedule’s always busier than mine and I never complain.”

Your sharp words have him reeling. Whatever do you even mean by that? “Uhm, okay. Fair enough. But… did you really not have the time to respond to a single text?”

“It gets impossible sometimes, Jin, you know how it is.”

Seokjin frowns. He does know that, but he doesn’t feel okay. Something is very off with you. It is as if you’re saying something else and expecting him to discern a different meaning out of it. 

He doesn’t understand why, though. You, of all people, should know how terrible he is at decoding signs.

He sighs.

Seokjin, after his conversation with Jimin yesterday, had decided to ask you about the morning’s incident, head on, whenever you called him back. But you didn’t, and this is the first opportunity he’s had to talk to you, so he decides to bring it up, now. “What—what happened yesterday morning, babe? You got really mad and stormed off, and… I mean, you’ve got to know the girl had been Jimin’s companion for the night, right? You know him, how he is!”

You say nothing, hands tightening a bit on the steering wheel. Seokjin looks down at his own hands.

“You know I was only surprised at your words because we really do not have the time to be discussing silly things." He shuts his heart down when it tries to tell him to go soft. He knows it isn't something you would appreciate. "After five years, you know what I’m capable of right? You can never start getting ideas, because that would be insane and stupid. I’m already so supremely occupied as it is between two jobs, when would I even have the time to cheat, right?” he jokes, snorting to himself.

You’re still quiet, but your tongue comes out to moisten your lips. It is a nervous tick of yours which Seokjin recognizes very well, because with your skincare and scheduled regular application of lip balms, your lips never need the extra moisture.

He frowns. Was he too straightforward? But this is exactly how you communicate with him! “Hey, is everything okay, babe?”

You exhale, noisily. “Everything’s fine, Jin,” you finally say with a roll of your eyes. “And you’re right. I know you wouldn’t cheat. You don’t have the time to chat me up, how are you gonna pick someone new to impress, huh?” 

Your snort sounds lacking in humor, but Seokjin still gives a couple of stilted chuckles. Even so, he's still somewhat relieved. “Right. Just so we’re certain, that was a joke, right? I mean, it would be really ridiculous of you to think that I would—”

“Yes, Jin!” you cut him off with a deep frown. “If I wanted to talk to you about something, or accuse you, or confront you — I’d do that without you having to prompt me. Stop obsessing over yesterday and stop trying to explain yourself. I know it was Jimin’s doing.”

Seokjin feels immensely relaxed at the conviction with which you say the last sentence, certainly, but something is still off. “Why were you ignoring me, then?”

“I just didn’t have anything to say to you.” You stop at a red light, the last one before you reach the restaurant, and turn to look at Seokjin with really vacant eyes. He doesn’t like your stare one bit. “We’ve been together five years, babe. If neither of us have got anything of significance to say, I’d rather not text too much, if that’s okay with you? I’ve got a busy schedule to work around, too, you know?”

Seokjin wants to remind you that both of you had something of significance to say after you left his place in anger, but chooses to just roll with whatever you’re playing at. Maybe he's thinking too much. He nods. “Sounds alright to me.”

“Great,” you breathe out, somehow looking disappointed along with the preexisting sorrowful expression you had on your face.

You really do not have a concrete explanation for why you acted the way you did with Seokjin, this morning. 

You were supposed to hint at being mad, not blatantly try to give him a taste of his own medicine. It could turn out to be a good thing if he eventually starts to miss you and reaches out, sure, but playing mind games never feels right to you. But when he started to joke about not having time to cheat, and something just turned off in you. He really could’ve seriously reassured you of his love. That would’ve been actually comforting. But no. He chose to joke about that, too. You didn’t feel like putting in all that energy anymore, after that.

Now, you sit down in the break room to check your phone during your ten minutes’ rest break. A text message floats at the top of your notifications.

Jax 🚽 Hey How’d it go?

With an exhale, you decide to call him back. Your fingers are too tired to type, and Jackson is sure to launch off into a rampage of texts the moment you tell him you’ve tried to turn the tables on Seokjin.

Seokjin is in the kitchen, his usual rest break not being for another hour, so you don’t have to worry about him walking in.

“Hey!” Jackson jovially greets you as soon as he picks the phone. “Did you get my text?”

“I did, yes,” you respond in a calm voice. “I’ve been looping milkshake mugs through my fingers since eight am, they needed some rest, so I decided to call.”

“Yeah, no, it’s cool. I was in a really boring class, anyway. So. How'd it go?"

You pull in your lip between your teeth. "I… I kinda ended up telling him I am a busy person too and that we shouldn’t text that much."

You hear silence instead of the outburst you'd expected. 

"Jax?"

"Are you actually gonna try to play a mind game with the dumbest human being you know on earth?" Jackson so very eloquently asks, his interpretation making you pinch the bridge of your nose. “He’s never even gonna figure it out!”

“I know how it sounds, okay?” You exhale. “I honestly don’t know what came over me.”

“Okay, alright, one thing at a time. So, no coddling?"

"Not a single soft word. Just more expectations of me understanding, and claiming that anything but that would be stupid of me. He acts like I'm supposed to know everything about him and everyone in his group of friends," you mutter in irritation. “As if those dumbasses know the first thing about themselves.”

You realize you're being a bit harsh, because his friends – basically your younger brothers, at this point – are a bunch of clueless idiots that love, adore and respect you. You shouldn't be badmouthing them, Seokjin’s growing callousness towards you isn't their doing. It's his own. 

You sigh. You really miss how things used to be when you were in college.

“Uh, I think we need to rewind a bit. What happened? What triggered this?”

It makes you smile a little when Jackson asks that. At least your best knows you’re not wholly clinically insane. “Well… I drove him to work. He…" your brows lower at the recollection, "he was the first to bring up yesterday morning. And yet again, he gave me the same you've got to know this and that crap, and then he tried to assure me in the dumbest possible way. Do you know what he said, Jax, do you?”

“Um, do I wanna know?”

“He said, and I quote, he doesn’t have the time to cheat. Jackson Wang, are you hearing this? He really straight up said he was too busy to cheat on me and so I should rest assured! Who says that?!”

“He must’ve meant it as a joke—”

“Yeah, he said that, too, and then very immaculately added that it’d be ridiculous of me to think otherwise. I have lost count of how many times the words ridiculous and stupid came up.”

“Goddammit.”

“Goddammit is right,” you mumble, morosely resting your head on your palm.

“What did he say, by the way? When you told him to text less?”

You give a wry chuckle. "Well, he said it sounded alright to him."

"Son of a bitch. You – you two are messed up, man. Messed up bad. Why the hell can you not just say shit you really mean and actually want to instead of saying shit you don't? You don't wanna text less because you're busy, you want him to dote on you because you miss him!" Jackson sounds beyond frustrated. "And it doesn't fucking sound alright to him! It sounds scary, it sounds confusing, it sounds like something you would never say to him!" He groans. "But none of you would say that shit to each other! You’re choosing to be evasive and fucking plastic instead of honest, and falling deeper into your mess."

You reel from the onslaught of his harsh words, eyes widened and breath stuttering. Jackson isn't usually the type to pay so much attention to your relationship problems. But this time, you guess, he has garnered the depth of your unhappiness and thus has gotten so involved.

You realize he is right. Nothing good can come out of any turned tables, because Seokjin is, anyways, not even going to be able to work out the problem by himself. He may even go around talking to his friends about how you were being cold with him and not giving him any time, and still not realize he has been doing the same to you. He is thick like that. 

When his friends tell you tales of his compassion, you're unable to relate. You've never seen that side of him. He has probably grown up from that emotionally overwhelmed high school graduate who had made friends on a whim, the night of his graduation.

You certainly don't appreciate the emotional abstinence, though, and would very much rather prefer if he would open up a bit more. It would help you be more open with him, without fearing him calling you "stupid" in response.

But it’s still alright, you accept him with that thick brain of his, because he’s still only ever going to be the only one for you.

"How are you two gonna get around to having a proper chat if you just keep building more walls between you both?" Jackson asks after the long pause from your end, this time softer. “I’m sorry, babe, I was wrong. Giving him signs and making him realize shit won’t work. It was stupid of me to suggest that. It’s probably why you ended up being so caustic with him.

“No, no, it was all me, Jax. I could’ve chosen to not listen to you, but my ego got in the way, I guess. It’s not exactly easy, telling your boyfriend you’re feeling neglected. I mean, what if he laughs in my face and tells me I’m being paranoid? What if he thinks I have no regard for his career — or mine — because my priorities don’t align with his?” You bite your lip, shutting your eyes as your insecurities attack you.

“Hey, no. None of that is gonna happen if you really share with him what you’ve been feeling. No hints, no sarcasm, you’re gonna have to tell him point blank. Allow yourself to be raw. He’s the love of your life. You don’t have to protect yourself from him, right?”

You sigh. “Yeah, I know. You’re absolutely right, Jax. But I really have no idea how to even approach him, at this point. He’s either too busy with shoots, or with the guys, or some meeting. I cannot do this on call, because that always leads to misunderstandings.” You bite down on your lower lip, contemplating. “But I’ll figure something out.”

"Yes, you will. You always do. So, that’s good then. In the meanwhile, can you at least clean up this latest pile of poop? The talking less thingy is gonna make you two more distant, hun."

You scrunch your nose at his metaphor, but then your shoulders slump. "I don't know, Jackson. The way he so impassively agreed to it would make me sound really stupid if I take it back. And given what he keeps saying, he really doesn’t want me to sound stupid."

Jackson gives a snort at that. “Hah, funny. But listen. At the end of the day, he’s your boyfriend. You're gonna have to really decide if you're trying to get your boyfriend to give you more love, or if you're fighting a battle of egos and would like to bend him to you."

You bite your lip. “You make me sound manipulative.”

“You yourself confessed you let your ego come into this, one time. Don’t let that happen again. I’m trying to make you realize that complicated problems can have simple solutions, too. If only you’d communicate. Just talk to him soon, please, and make him understand why you’re hurt. Don’t carry on with this stupid cold war, okay? You gotta figure out exactly what you want, first.”

“You know what I want, Jax. You’re literally the only person that does, actually,” you remind him with a sigh.

“Oh, he is, isn’t he?”

You freeze, eyes bulging at the familiar voice. “I’ll… I’ll call you back,” you mumble before you disconnect the call and turn to look over your shoulder at Seokjin’s unreadable face. He stands with his arms crossed, still in his uniform but without the apron. “Jin… what—uh…”

“What am I doing here?” he scoffs, lips curling in distaste as he stares you down. “Well, I was going to the loo when I saw you sitting here. You looked upset, so I thought I’d check in on you on my way back.” He clicks his tongue, a dry chuckle tumbling out. “But apparently, you’ve got other people doing it for you, already.”

You wince, shutting your eyes. The one time he was finally going to give you some much needed attention — you sent a bad message his way. 

“So. Good to know there actually is someone who knows what you want. Would’ve been easier if it were me, though, given how I stand to be the one that is to deliver.” Seokjin sounds pissed off, and despite your irritation, you really want to make him understand.

You rub at your forehead. “Stop talking like that, Jin, it was just Jackson.”

“Wang?” He seems to seethe more, for some reason. “Of course, it’s fucking Wang!”

You frown, standing up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Seokjin looks at you incredulously. “You—do you not see how this looks? You have problems with me, Honey, but you choose to discuss them with him? Who’s he, your therapist?”

“He’s my best friend, Jin, someone I trust,” you grit out.

Seokjin seems to take it the wrong way, his agitated expressions slowly fading into a blank stare. “Oh. You trust him, as opposed to…” He trails off with a shrug, but the implication is as obvious as it can be.

“Jin—”

He raises a hand up, palm facing you as he looks away. “If you need some time apart, you should tell me in plain words. You know I’m not good at reading signs.”

Seokjin gives you a blank stare before turning around to leave the area. You stand rooted to your place, jaw dropped and eyes wide.

Some time apart? Has he lost his mind? 

He really is a huge freaking idiot who cannot pause to think what implications his words have. He seriously doesn’t recognize what all his “don’t be ridiculous/overdramatic/stupid” speeches do to you. You realize you should really make him understand. This has gone on for way too long.

But maybe you should take some time to yourself to cool off before that. You don’t want to say the wrong thing in your rage and complicate things further.

You sigh to yourself as you slump back into the bench you were sat on before.

You’d set out to tell your boyfriend you were feeling neglected, but you ended up making him think you want to be apart. How the heck did you get here?

You belatedly recall Jackson's words.

Why the hell can you not just say shit you really mean and actually want to instead of saying shit you don't?

You’re choosing to be evasive and fucking plastic instead of honest, and falling deeper into your mess.

Your usually dumbheaded best friend was right on this one, you realize. You should’ve just talked like a normal human being instead of letting Seokjin’s words get to you and get pissy in retaliation.

You give a weary sigh. 

Seokjin is grateful for the sudden busyness he’s got on his schedule, or he would explode from all the pent up frustration you have been causing him. 

He realized he wasn’t as upset with you as he was irritated, right after he walked away from you on Monday. He dropped you a text with some excuse of needing to stay back so that he wasn’t forced to ride with you in the car again, and later took the bus home. 

You had told Jackson Wang about what was troubling you, but not him. It made Seokjin feel upset, incompetent and more than a little insecure. Seokjin absolutely hates feeling insecure. Especially about you. You’re the singular most precious entity in his life — not that you are an entity, per se — and anything that seeks to threaten your position in his life or his position in yours, makes him lose his shit.

So it was understandable that he jumped to unfairly disproportionate magnitudes of conclusions that day. When he thought about it, later, he could easily tell that you are just mad at him and not actually contemplating leaving him, not even for a little while. Not that he’d just sit back and have you do that so easily.

Seokjin also hates overthinking, but that is all he did for the entirety of his Monday. 

Monday, though, was the last time he had time to overthink. Life got exponentially busier after that.

Immediately after his shoot on Tuesday, he received his agent’s call and was informed of his jam packed schedule for the remainder of the week. He was pulled into two separate magazine ad shoots on Wednesday, a perfume ad film drank up all of his Thursday, and today, a hair product ad film needed him to report to a sunrise point in the city at the ass-crack of dawn. The sky was still dark when he rode across the city with his agent at nearly four in the morning. 

And now, the afternoon sun beats down on his car as he drives back alone, his agent staying back to tend to some business. Stopping at a red light, he reaches for his spinach smoothie with one hand and his phone with the other. Ugh, he feels beyond tired.

Blearily, he looks down at the device around a yawn, fingers habitually reaching for your chat.

He took a week off from the restaurant and dropped you a text, late Tuesday evening, informing you of the same.

Honey✨❤👸 Hm, kay. Good luck x

Unsurprisingly, that stands to be your last message in his inbox. It’s been four days.

Sighing, he swipes a hand down his tired face and exits out of the message app. He went to bed at nine o’clock, last night, and owing to the way he has trained his body to sleep on command, he did manage to get a sleep of nearly six hours, too. But it was fitful and plagued with nightmares featuring you. 

Knowing he doesn't have to be at the restaurant until Monday and that his next gig isn’t until Wednesday, he cannot wait to get back home and drink his weight in alcohol before he sleeps his way through the weekend.

Just as he has moved past the intersection, his phone rings. 

Honey✨❤👸 calling...

He nearly spits the smoothie he just sipped at.

Coughing, he roughly jostles the plastic cup back in the holder and pulls up to a side of the road to pick up the call. “Hey,” he breathes into the phone, embarrassed at his desperation.

“Jin. Um, hi.” You sound awkward, as if you…have been compelled to call him due to some reason.

He is immediately worried. “Honey? Is everything okay, do you need something?”

He hates himself for being so concerned when you have been neglecting him for so many days – yet again, despite your spat at the restaurant – instead of finally talking to him about what’s bothering you, but he can’t help it. At the end of the day, you are the love of his life. 

“Yes, yes, I’m okay. It’s just, um. Can you pick me up from the restaurant?” you sound nervous.

But, Seokjin realizes, I was right. You do need something. He clears his throat. “Uh, okay, I guess,” he agrees before stopping short when he realizes the time. “Wait, it’s barely even two. Why are you leaving?” he asks, confused and a little concerned. You work your shift till five every day and till eight on weekends.

“Tomorrow is Halloween, Jin. We’re closing for the weekend, remember?”

Seokjin’s mouth falls open on a gasp. He really had forgotten. “Oh. Oh, okay. Yeah, I’ll be there in five, wait up.”

He swerves the car into the lane and takes off in the direction of the restaurant. 

He laughs at himself. He has been so caught up in work that he literally forgot Halloween. He wonders if this is what actual adulting is.

He is stopping before the restaurant within three minutes of your phone call, eyes immediately spotting your delicate figure standing on the sidewalk with your hands crossed against your chest.

You step down from the curb when you spot his car, and walk towards him. He watches your elegant legs as they beautifully fall in a straight line. Even when exiting your job as a waitress, you’re every bit the elegant model he met in college. Your hips sway tantalizingly, and something akin to longing swirls in his chest.

He composes himself quickly when you cross the car to get into the passenger’s seat. You awkwardly clear your throat as Seokjin busies himself with starting the vehicle, unsure if he should initiate conversation.

“Um, sorry about this. You were probably getting ready for shoot,” you finally say. “Byulyi dropped me off today. She wasn’t picking her phone up. I was trying to get a cab for half an hour. And the bus stop’s really far—”

“Hey, stop. It’s okay. You should’ve called me sooner.” Seokjin catches your apprehensive gaze on his oversized hoodie when he chances a glance at you. He sighs. “I was returning home from shoot, actually.”

He feels you stiffen, and he feels even more mentally drained at this. You used to be updated with his schedule to the tee — just short of having an actual copy of the calendar his agent carries on him. And the same goes for him with your schedule. This feels so wrong.

You are quiet for a while, your hands fidgeting in his peripheral vision.

“How—how was it?” you finally say, voice coming out like a croak.

Seokjin shrugs his shoulders. “The usual. Blinding, tiring, exhaustive. I did okay, I guess.”

He feels your gaze snap up to drill holes into his skull. Your eyes are wide when he checks. “Okay? Since when do you do anything less than amazing at shoots, babe?”

He feels endeared at your casual use of a pet name. “I had to get up at three in the morning and go through a skincare routine. Then drive across the entire city to get to the location, because they wanted to capture actual sunrise. I was more tired than excited by the time they rolled cameras, so.” He shrugs. “Can’t really say I gave my best today.”

You nod at his admission. 

Seokjin almost jumps when his phone rings, again.

Jiminie calling...

He feels you shift in your seat. His mouth sours at the reminder of that Sue girl that started off this entire tussle between you and him. Fucking Jimin and his conquests. What happened to the shy and more than a little glum looking freshman he let into his living space, three years ago?

Your hand suddenly reaches forth to accept the call, putting it on loudspeaker, immediately. Seokjin gapes at you, momentarily looking away from the road. 

“Uh…hyung?” Jimin’s confused voice echoes in the car. 

Seokjin snaps out of his daze when you gesture towards the device. “Wh—Jimin, hi, what’s — what’s up?” he stumbles his way through a haphazard greeting.

“Hyung, I needed a favor. Are you on your way back from the shoot, right now?” Jimin asks, and Seokjin sees you freeze in your seat.

He feels a perverse sense of satisfaction. Yes, take that! Park Jmin knows of my schedule better than you do! This is what you get for ghosting me! “I was, yeah. What is it?”

“Oh, great! I kinda need your help, hyung. My tire gave out. Could you pick me up from the Kappa hall?”

Seokjin scowls. “Yah! Who am I, your butler? Hop on a damn bus!”

He notices you pursing your lips, no doubt finding his agitation humorous — you always do. 

“Hyu~ng,” Jimin whines. “I would take the bus, but the next one leaves in forty-five minutes and I need to be back within an hour!”

“What? Why?”

“I started on my sem project really late, hyung, and now I gotta spend any time I can spare at the rehearsal hall. I’m meeting a choreographer here in an hour. Please help me out!” Jimin is still whining, and maybe his reasoning is kind of alright, but—

Seokjin is tired to his bones. He literally cannot drive all the way down to your apartment and then drive back to the university campus to pick Jimin up.

He sighs, wearily. “Jimin… I’m really tired.” 

“And I’m really desperate, hyung! Dancing is tough! And the subject I've chosen, tougher. I haven't done ballet since first semester, Freshman year! I have to work my butt off and be done in under two months."

Seokjin exhales, feeling beyond exhausted. But then your finger is tapping on the screen and the call has been muted. Seokjin’s surprised eyes fly up to meet yours. You look conflicted, biting down on your lower lip as you shake your head with a frown.

“You should go home and rest, Jin. Leave the car with me, I’ll pick him up.”

“Hyung? Say something?”

Seokjin blinks. “You…”

You roll your eyes. “I’ll pick him up, yeah. He’ll drop me off and drive back to your place.”

“Hyung?! Did you put me on mute, or what? I can't hear a thing!”

“Tell him you’ll be there in ten!” you say, unmuting the call.

“I’m in the car, the network must have glitched. I’ll, uh… be there in ten?” Seokjin nervously finishes off, looking at you in question. You give him a nod, blinking slowly. “Wait up, okay?”

“Oh my God, thank you so much, hyung!” Jimin practically squeals through the phone. “I’ll be in the ice cream shop across the building. I love you, hyung-nim!”

Seokjin rolls his eyes and disconnects the call. He looks at you from the corner of his eyes as he takes a right, now moving in the direction of his apartment instead of yours. “You sure about this? Jimin, um, knows. About our…” Seokjin doesn’t want to call it the f-word, because he would like to believe that you two aren’t actually fighting. “You being upset, I mean,” he settles for the easier alternative. “He might ask questions.”

You give a small huff of wry laugh. “I can handle it, Seokjin. I’ve known Jimin for almost three years now.”

Seokjin doesn’t like it when you address him by his full name. And so, his lips remain pursed for the remainder of the ride, only parting to tell you to “drive safe and text me when you finally get home,” and then he walks inside his apartment without looking back.

He hears his car come to life and then speed away. He shuts his eyes, leaning against the kitchen counter. Gathering his emotional as well as physical bearings, he opens the refrigerator to rummage through some leftovers to munch on while he breaks out a six pack of Budweiser. 

Before his fried rice has even reheated, Seokjin groans at the sight of an all too jovial Hoseok entering the kitchen with a glint in his eyes. “No, Hobi. Not now.”

“What? I didn’t say a word, hyung!”

Seokjin winces, shutting his eyes just as the microwave beeps. “I don’t have enough energy to deal with your general aura, right now,” he mumbles, extracting the piping hot glass bowl. He leans down to open one of the compartments beneath the kitchen table to get to the beer that he’s been dreaming of for nearly an hour, now. “I’m dead on my feet and—woah!” Seokjin gasps, cutting himself off.

Hoseok hops into the kitchen, coming around to stand behind Seokjin. “So you found ’em,” he says around a chuckle.

“Found ’em? This is you?” Seokjin whips his head around to glare at Hoseok up from his crouch. “Why is my liquor closet resembling a liquor shop, Hobi? Why do we have all this—” he turns around to read the labels, cursing under his breath. “Why do we have,” he pauses to count, “five bottles of Tequila and eight bottles of Vodka?”

Hoseok frowns in concern. “Eight? There should be ten, hyung, check again.”

Seokjin actually gasps, this time. “What the hell, Jung Hoseok? Explain yourself before I start throwing hands!”

Hoseok smacks a palm against his forehead, taking Seokjin by surprise, yet again. “Tonight’s the Halloween party, hyung! Did you actually forget?”

Seokjin screws his eyes shut, letting his head roll back with a frustrated whine. “No~o, don’t tell me it's tonight. Halloween’s tomorrow, right? Why is the party tonight?”

“Yes, hyung, Halloween in tomorrow, which is why it would be stupid to hold the party when Halloween is ending.”

Seokjin finds the logic to be very severely flawed, but his energy is draining out fast and he cannot keep up with this quarrel. There’s no point, anyway. He’s known about this party for nearly a month. And Hoseok isn’t going to postpone a whole party just because Seokjin is tired.

“You look tired, hyung. You should rest. Recharge yourself before the party, okay? There’s plenty of time.” Hoseok pats Seokjin on the shoulder with a kind smile.

“I’m not even in the mood to party, Hobi,” Seokjin mutters, reaching behind all the glass bottles to extract his pack of cans. 

Hoseok scowls at Seokjin. “Because you’re upset about your fight, I realize that. All the more reason to party, hyung! Take your mind off it for some time, why don’t you? You don’t even have to dress up, come as yourself.”

“I’d rather just drink myself to sleep and not wake up for the next twenty four hours.”

Hoseok blocks his path as Seokjin moves to exit the kitchen. “Is Honey coming?”

Seokjin sighs, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t know, Hobi. Did you invite her?”

“No, hyung, because you said you would.”

Seokjin clicks his tongue. He completely forgot. “Then she isn’t coming.”

Without listening to his protests, Seokjin trudges upstairs with his food and beer. He will be forced to come down for at least a couple shots, he is certain, so he better make as much of the time he has on his hands as he can.

These days, it seems to be becoming a pattern for you to do things without really understanding why you do them. 

You nibble at your bottom lip as you recall how gaunt and pale Seokjin had looked when you sat in the car. You had been really self-centered as it is, not really keeping in touch with him for four days, and then reaching out when you needed help. You couldn’t bear to think, on top of everything, that he had driven you home despite his extreme exhaustion while you sat back selfishly and let him drive around the city to pick Jimin up when he looked like a ghost.

You shake your head at yourself as Jimin jogs down the road to enter the car, ten seconds after you texted him. 

His gaze is slightly hesitant when he meets your eyes, even though his smile is nothing but genuine. “Hello, noona. How come you are…” he trails off, gesturing around the two of you.

You start the car, shrugging one shoulder. “Seokjin came to pick me up. Now you’re gonna drop me off.”

Jimin gives you a huge smile, before his eyebrows suddenly lower. You look away, veering onto the road. “Wait. Were you in the car with him when I called?”

You chuckle. “Yes.”

“Oh,” Jimin mumbles around a small laugh.

You hum to yourself as you drive, distracting yourself from the thoughts that keep encircling your head. Seokjin is your boyfriend, no matter how mad you might be at him — you love him and care about him. Which is why you have tried to help him out. Not to mention, you felt slightly guilty, as it is, about calling him to pick you up. Why is your gesture of goodwill bothering you, then?

This is what you do for people you care about. Seokjin would do the same.

Your train of thoughts suddenly comes to a screeching halt.

Would he? Would he, really?

“You okay, noona?”

You jolt back from your thoughts, wide eyes turning to look at Jimin. “Wha—yes, yeah, I'm fine.”

He cocks an eyebrow at you. “You’re gripping the wheel really hard.”

You look at your tightly clenched fists, and immediately ease them. “Oh, uh. Sorry. A lot on my mind, I guess.”

“Understandably,” Jimin mutters, looking out of the side window when you turn to look at him.

You purse your lips and press down on the accelerator. 

A few beats of silence pass between you two before Jimin clears his throat. “Can I say something?” he asks you in a soft voice, looking nothing like the seductive persona he puts forth to get ladies falling in his bed. 

You exhale. “Sure.”

“You, um. You are not just hyung’s girlfriend, you know?” he says slowly.

You scoff. “Of course, I do. I am also the very best server my restaurant has ever seen and the best struggling model you’ll ever meet, on the side.”

Jimin snorts, before giggling with his eyes closed. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

You do. But you do not want to face it. You want to be selfish, for once. You do absolutely know that you have been ignoring all the boys in your anger at Seokjin, but you absolutely do not wish to do anything about it. Not until you’ve resolved this tense air between you and Seokjin.

“You are also a part of our little family,” Jimin quietly finishes.

You suck your lips in at that. The word “family'' really gets to you. 

He’s right, isn’t he? 

All eight of you — well, nine, now, with the addition of Taehyung’s girlfriend — have been a family since the day you met these guys.

You smile as the memories start to filter in.

You had had a giant crush on Seokjin since the very first time you saw him in your Freshman year. Well, having a crush on the guy wasn’t that unheard of given how handsome he was. It also helped matters that he modelled for the cover page of your university’s journal within his first month in college. What surprised you was his reciprocated interest when you both finally got to know each other, thanks to Byulyi. Your current roommate was majoring in photography back then, and somehow roped the two of you into modelling for her portfolio. Seokjin asked you out during the sixth month of your Freshman year.

You recall being introduced to Yoongi in your Sophomore year, when he entered your college as a Music major. You found him laid back, calm but really sassy, and fun to be around. The three of you often hung out together, and you took immense pleasure in singling Seokjin out with the two of your sarcastic back and forths.

In your senior year, Hoseok transferred to your college as a Sophomore, and Taehyung and Jimin entered as Freshmen. 

Hoseok was literally the most lively person you’d ever met in your life. There wasn’t a single moment of boredom next to him. He was easily given the responsibility of planning all your outings and parties, henceforth — a position he still holds with full competence.

Taehyung was usually found to be lost in his head more often than not in his initial college days. He was confused about his major for two entire semesters. With inputs from the group, when he eventually picked Art, he eased into college life. After that, he came out to be one of the weirdest and unwittingly funny guys in the group. You still don’t get how he was the first amongst all the boys to find him a girl.

Jimin was a really quiet and reserved individual, at first. He very rarely interacted with you all, choosing to stay holed up in his dorm room, instead, that Taehyung had forced him to share with him. You suspected he was recovering from a recent heartbreak. It became evident when he started dating someone within a week of getting into college, only to confess it was a rebound when he got dumped. The whoring around that began after the whole debacle is yet to cease, though. Obviously. 

Hoseok comes from a really well-off family, and had brought along with him the four-bedroom apartment he currently resides in with Yoongi, Jimin and your boyfriend. His uncle gave it away to him, rent-free of course, and he proposed to share it with the rest of the guys. Seokjin and Yoongi were immediately on board, more than eager to leave the chaotic dorm life behind. Taehyung, contrarily, decided he wanted to get the whole college experience and refused to quit the dorms. Jimin, then, left the dorm he shared with Taehyung to move in with the elders.

You met Jungkook immediately after your graduation on the boy’s eighteenth birthday. He instantly struck you as a smart kid, really good at singing as well as art. Yoongi disclosed he wanted to be a music major in your college, and you tried to encourage Jungkook about it, but the guy could hardly even look at you. It was cute but also hilarious how much he was scared of Seokjin, and by principle, you.

You believe that is still true. Now that you think about it, you're pretty sure you haven’t seen Jungkook ever actually relax around the two of you.

“Noona?”

You blink, coming back to the present as Jimin calls out to you. You take a deep breath, the memories hitting you with tender emotions. All these people are really precious to you, aren’t they? The bunch of you really are a family, aren’t you?

A sad smile swims up to your face. You miss the boys.

When he calls again, you turn to look at Jimin, questioningly. 

“Please don’t be mad at hyung,” he slowly says, looking down at his lap. In this moment, he looks quite unlike the Jimin you are used to and reminds you of, instead, the one you’d first met. “He might lack tact, sometimes, but he really loves you a lot. You’re his whole world. Whatever it is that you are angry about, you should tell him about it. I don’t think he would be able to figure it out by himself.”

This, you agree with. “I’ll try, Jiminie.”

“We all miss you. Especially Hobi hyung and I,” he says with a lopsided excuse of a smile. 

You resist the urge to fluff his hair. Jimin and Hoseok have been like the younger brothers you never had. You miss them, too. 

He suddenly chuckles. "And Yoongi hyung hides it well, but I think he's the one that misses you the most. No one helps him roast Jin hyung quite like you do."

You roll your eyes. "Of course not. It's a waste for Yoongi to even try to find a better partner at roasting Jin."

You spot your apartment building and pull up to it. 

“I’ll try to talk to Jin as soon as I can, Jimin, I promise. Don't worry so much about it,” you say as you step out, patting the boy once on his head. "I miss you all, too."

You give a small wave and faint smile to him as he drives away.

tagging: @shrimpmsg​

note: so! a lil bit of backstory and the infamous halloween party - how we feelin’ so far? the next part is ~12k words, too, and i’ll post it next wednesday, wait around~ 😘💕

SECOND PART OUT NOW: read here!

© jimilter | 2021

[marvelmusing]

Biology Lessons

Alpha!Modern!Laszlo Kreizler x Omega!Fem!Reader

My Masterlist

A/N: I was curious about the biology of A/B/O and ended up reading a lot of Wikipedia pages, 3000 words and a small Alpha Laszlo obsession later here we are

WARNINGS: 18+ content, unprotected smut, A/B/O dynamics, reader has female anatomy but no gender specific pronouns have been used (if there have been please let me know)

You and Laszlo had been together for two years. During this time you had been intimate on plenty of occasions, however you’d always ignored your secondary sex. When together, you were just two lovers, not an Alpha and Omega. You had limited experience with dealing with your biology and Laszlo had respected your decision to stay on your suppressants. He, in turn, had begun taking some of the weaker forms of suppressants. The kind that reduced his rut to a few days that he spent at John’s house. This situation worked well, until you reached the point where you changed your mind and wanted to come off your suppressants. You trusted Laszlo to help you through it and he was more than eager to take care of you.

“Have you ever had a heat?” Laszlo asks you. The two of you are sitting in his downstairs office at his house. The fire crackles in the hearth, casting a glow over Laszlo’s face as he watches you. Your eyes wander as you think about it.

“Once or twice when I first presented. But I started on suppressants pretty young.” He frowns a little, and you know his medical side disapproves. “We never learnt much about it in school.” You explain, trying to justify your decision. He nods immediately,

“Of course. The education system is curated for the success of Alphas. That, and sex education regarding Omegas is still often considered taboo.” He places a hand on your knee, “That’s not your fault, drágám.” You nod, keeping your focus on the hem of the robe you’re wearing - Laszlo’s bathrobe. “Would you like me to explain it to you?” Your face warms at the thought, and you shake your head.

“You don’t have to.”

“No, but I’d like to. I think you deserve to know about yourself.” You give him a small nod. He smiles kindly at you and beckons you closer. When you approach him, he pulls you into his lap. “What would you like to know?” He asks you. You shrug slightly, fiddling with your fingers.

“I don’t know.” You admit quietly. He hums in thought, before asking you,

“How would you describe my scent?” You nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck as you inhale his scent. He smiles softly, his hand resting at the back of your neck, knowing that his scent will take the edge off your nerves. Your eyes flutter open as a small smile tugs at your lips.

“It’s like the citrus soap from my grandmother’s house, and the smell of new books, and your office, and like home.” You tell him and he squeezes the back of your neck affectionately.

“You smell like a field of fresh flowers, clean linen, and warm sugared tea. Soft and sweet, and safe.” He admits. You smile up at him as you lean your temple against his shoulder. He taps your nose gently with the tip of his finger. “The scent receptors in your nose pick up my scent and your body’s response depends on how appealing you find it.”

“Very appealing.” You admit against his neck and he hums affectionately.

“This is what helps you decide on my suitability as a mate. As well as other factors such as aesthetics, personality, and overall attraction.”

“That, and you’re one of the kindest, most loving men I’ve ever met.” He looks down, never used to the praise you always give him. His smile widens as he leans in to kiss your cheek.

“Enough flattery from you. It’s time for our lesson.” He tightens his hold on you as you smile at him, resting his weaker hand on your thigh. “Heat cycles occur once every season, so usually four in a year. The heat itself lasts between five and ten days, but that depends on the person.” His thumb skims across the skin of your bare legs lightly. “While Omegas can be sexually active outside of their heat, it is much more pleasurable during their cycle.” You’ve always loved listening to him talk, but hearing him explain all this to you has your body melting against his as your eyes remain fixed on his lips as he speaks. “Did you know that, as your mate, I may be able to trigger your heat?” You blink at him in surprise. You didn’t know that. “It isn’t always possible, but would you like me to try?” He asks, noticing your interest. You nod cautiously, and he takes your hands as he guides you off his lap, before pulling you towards the centre of his office. He sits you down on his desk with your legs parted, and he stands between them. He places his warm hands on your thighs, and nuzzles his nose against your neck. “You know where your scent glands are, yes?” You nod. You tap your finger against the ones on each side of your throat, then bare your wrists to him to show him the areas. You frown before mentioning,

“There’s another pair, I think, but I don’t know where they are.” He smiles proudly at you,

“Correct. There is one here, and here.” He tells you, trailing his fingers along each of your thighs. “They’re a little different from your other ones, which is why most people forget about them.” He squeezes your thighs tenderly as he continues his explanation. “Their main purpose is so that when you go into heat your slick will smell of your Alpha, and tell everyone that you’re taken.” You swallow the whine in your throat, but he knows the effect he’s having on you already. “How long have you been off your suppressants?” He asks you. He knows the answer of course, but he wants to see if your mind is still functioning.

“Around two weeks.” He nods,

“The perfect time to trigger your heat. That is of course if you want to?” You nod hurriedly,

“Please.” He steps closer,

“All I need to do is apply a little pressure here,” the pads of his fingers press against the glands in your thighs. He smiles at the sight of your head falling back, bearing your neck to him. “A little stimulus here.” His tongue moves across the pulse of your throat, sending a shudder down your spine. “And for you to take a nice deep breath.” You do as he says, your body responding instantly to his pheromones. He smells the change in your scent and smiles. “There you go, good Omega.” He coos. You whine at the warmth spreading slowly through your body as you cling to your Alpha. “You should be feeling rather warm now.” You nod your head a few times in agreement. He hums, “And I can smell your slick already.” He nuzzles his lips against your neck, and you whine for him. “By triggering your heat, we’ve skipped the pre-heat nesting stage. But don’t worry Omega, I’ve prepared the bed for you, and you can fix it up just how you like it tomorrow.” You’re beginning to pant and a shimmer of sweat is coating your skin as your fingers tug at his clothing. His words certainly aren’t helping either. He cups your face. “But right now, I think my Omega needs my knot, yes?” You nod hurriedly,

“Alpha, please.” You loop your arms around his neck, wrapping your legs around his torso, and he hooks his hands underneath your thighs. He lifts you from his desk and takes you up to the bed. When you see the bed set up, a large number of pillows at one end, blankets bunched up the sides, and the whole place smells of Laszlo’s cologne. “Laszlo.” You whisper softly, as the sight pulls on your heartstrings.

“I wanted everything to be perfect.” He admits, leaning in to kiss you.

“You’re here, it couldn’t be more perfect.” You tell him through the kiss. You can feel his grin as his mouth moves against yours, the back of your legs meeting the bed, and he guides you down carefully. He pulls at the belt of the bathrobe, letting it fall open and taking a moment to admire you. He pulls away to remove his clothes, and you whimper at the lack of contact. You take this moment as an opportunity to slip the robe from your body, abandoning it on the floor. You turn onto your stomach, hands smoothing up the bedsheets to rest above your head. Hips shifting needily, you arch your back, your knees digging into the mattress. Once he’s undressed, Laszlo looks back at you and his jaw nearly drops, though he’s quick to recover.

“Such a pretty picture, my beautiful Omega, already presenting for me.” He settles between your open thighs, leaning his body over yours. You rut your hips back against his, desperate for any sort of friction. You feel his smirk as his mouth moves across your shoulder. His hand descends between your thighs, fingers pressing against your warm folds. “And you’re so wet already, drágám.” He slips his finger deep into you, drawing a needy gasp from your lips.

“Laszlo, Alpha, please.”

“More?”

“Yes, yes please.” He removes his finger, leaving you whining, your hips chasing him. His hands curl around your waist, squeezing you gently as he tuts.

“Patience Omega.” But you don’t have to wait long, as he lines himself up to your entrance. In one fluid motion he’s filled you up, your eyes squeezed shut and your back arching against the mattress. “Such a perfect fit.” He moans against your neck, his accent getting thicker as you take in every inch of him. He kisses your shoulder delicately.

“Tell me when I can move, édesem.” You take a few gasping breaths, trying to become accustomed to the haze filling your mind. He notices your struggle. “Relax Omega. Let me take care of you.” A tiny whine catches in your throat, then you’re nodding.

“Please, Alpha.” His forehead presses between your shoulder blades as he moves in and out of you. Every single one of your moans and gasps has him nearing the edge of his restraint. Whilst Laszlo wants to focus on you, his need is slowly growing and he wants to ensure you want this.

“Drágám, darling Omega,” he rasps out. “I don’t think I can hold back for much longer.”

“Don’t, please. Don’t hold back.” That’s all it takes for his pace to increase. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your thighs as he pushes you closer. You press your forehead hard against the plush of the mattress as you feel his knot pushing against your entrance. You whine, desperate for him to fill you completely. Growling against the skin of your back, nails gripping onto your hips, he drives his hips harder against yours. You don’t feel the thin red lines trailing down your thighs as you clench around him. “Are you ready for my knot, Omega? I know you’re close.” You can’t reply. Your mind is completely lost to the feeling of your Alpha taking you to pieces. “I need you to come, so my knot can stuff you full.” As soon as he knows you’re about to come he pushes his knot into you. Your eyes roll back, and you come hard with a broken cry. Only a moment later Laszlo comes as well, his lips grazing down your spine as he does. His knot swells, ensuring none of your slick escapes. Your body goes slack as the two of you attempt to catch your breath. You feel Laszlo’s breathing tickle the skin of your back as it slowly returns to normal. He shifts his weight slightly. “This may feel a little odd.” He warns you. He takes hold of your leg and moves it to the other side of him, effectively spinning you around and lying you down with your back to the mattress. You gasp a little at the change in position, his knot still holding deep inside you. “Now this is better.” He remarks, leaning down to kiss your lips. He takes your hands in his own, letting them run down your spent body. “Can you feel how full you are?” He pushes your hands over your abdomen, your fingers skimming over the bulge caused by his knot. “You did so well Omega, letting me fill you up like this.” He leans forward, nuzzling against your neck. “Such a brave Omega.” He coos. His praises and gentle touches soon have you coming back to your senses. Laszlo notices when the haze has cleared from your eyes, and gives you a soft smile.

“Hi.” You whisper.

“Hello.” The two of you stay in each other’s arms for a while, simply enjoying the close proximity to one another. You rub your fingers over his chest, before reaching up to curl them into the hair at the back of his neck.

“Laszlo,” you say softly, tilting your head back to bear your neck to him. “Can I have your mark?” He seems a little taken aback by your request.

“You- you want…”

“To be yours.” You watch his eyes darken slightly, and he claims your lips again. When he pulls away you’re breathless again.

“You’re sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.” You tell him. “That is, of course, if you want me.”

“Édesem, you are my world.” You both share a tender smile. He cradles the side of your face before tilting your head back. He nuzzles his lips gently against your throat. “With your current level of endorphins you shouldn’t feel too much pain…”

“I love you.” You interrupt him, your smile wide.

“I love you too, drágám.” He presses a soft kiss to the mating gland at your throat, before sinking his teeth down. You clench your teeth, nails digging into the sheets at the sharp sting of your skin breaking. Then, a wave of pleasure rolls through you as your bond snaps into place. You feel Laszlo lapping at the small wound. “All good?” He asks you. You nod with a smile.

“Though, if you bring up that saliva is a natural healing agent I will kick you out of bed.” He chuckles.

“Before I get my own mark. How cruel.” You frown at him.

“What?”

“Alphas also have a mating gland.” You nod, your frown still present,

“I didn’t think- I’ve never seen-“

“Very few Alphas feel the need to wear their mate’s mark. However, I want the world to know I’m yours.” He smiles, watching the primal urge shimmer in your eyes, though he senses your lingering hesitance. “It won’t hurt me, drágám.” Your eyes flicker down to his neck, and he leans closer. “Right here.” He guides you to the spot against his throat. You cup his face carefully, taking a moment to nuzzle against his neck, breathing in his scent. “Don’t be scared Omega. Take what’s yours.” You sink your teeth into his throat, sucking gently at the break of his skin. You feel him shudder against you as your bond strengthens. You trace your tongue carefully along the wound. He leans down to kiss you again, your first kiss as a mated couple. You share a few more slow, loving kisses before Laszlo pulls away. He reaches down towards the bottom of the bed, pulling out a towel and lying it beneath your hips. You frown lightly at him. “Can’t have our nest getting dirty, can we?” Your face morphs into an affectionate smile. Your mate really does think of everything. You whimper when he pulls out, but he rubs your thighs reassuringly and presses kisses over your face. You giggle softly and he beams at you. He ensures the majority of the mess is soaked up by the towel before discarding it. He presses a kiss to your temple, “I’ll be right back Omega.” He’s gone for under thirty seconds, but you both feel the pull of your bond. When it’s fresh like this you can’t be parted for long. He returns with some wet wipes, and begins to clean the two of you up. The coolness soothes you, pushing the heat symptoms even further away. You smile softly at Laszlo and he shares your smile as the two of you spend a moment admiring one another. He throws the wipes away and settles down by your side. You nuzzle against him, purring contentedly. He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Get some sleep drágám.”

•*•*•*•

Early the next morning, Laszlo is stirred from his sleep by some sort of movement at his side. The bedroom is still in semi-darkness, the sun hasn’t quite risen into the sky yet, but there’s enough light to see by. The sight before him warms his heart. You’re adjusting a pillow beside you, tucking it under the quilt to secure the wall of your nest. You have one of his shirts tucked under your arm, and nuzzle into one of the pillows.

“What are you doing, Omega?” He asks, his voice still thick with sleep. He can feel your blush as you mumble,

“Just getting comfortable.” He chuckles softly, pulling himself closer to you. You immediately melt into his arms, your body lying flush against his chest. He trails a hand down your spine, and despite your shiver, he can feel your body heat increasing.

“Ready to go again?” He suggests. You pout, the tiredness behind your eyes creeping up on you despite the slick gathering between your thighs.

“M’ tired.” You mumble against his chest.

“I know you are.” He coos, guiding your hips towards his. “But all you need to do is be a good Omega and keep me warm.” You sigh in relief at the feeling of him filling you, eyes fluttering shut as he continues, his accent thickening. “Yes, that’s all your heat-ridden body’s good for, isn’t it?” He feels you tighten at his words and he groans against your neck. “Don’t worry Omega, I’m going to take such good care of you.”

[palaceofpassion]

Figured I'd take my shot with a second one, Ruby's suprised when Penny brings Jaune home to have him play the role of the happy couples stud. After all it's only logical that they birth strong child and who better.

"Ahhhn~ Yes yes!"

Ruby stared awkwardly at her ceiling as she bit down the bile forming in her chest. Her eyes closed tight as she rocked back and forth on her shifting bed, hoping to ignore the sounds of delightful pleasure happening behind her. "More! More! I'm breeding ready!" Her fingers grasped tightly onto her bedding, her teeth gritting as she tried to ignore the sounds of her wife... being fucked... being rutted... being mated by one of her closest friends. The sticky squelching sounds of bodily fluids exchanging with one another, quickly threw off her concentration. And yet, she knew she had to fight back the tears.

When Penny had come to her, talking about how she'd wanted a child. Ruby had, incorrectly, assumed that she wanted to go to a donation center. She HAD NOT expected for Penny to want to be bred, and creampied. She hadn't expected her loving wife to be stuffed by a big fat cock, or having her being dicked down. She hadn't expected Penny to bring her best friend over. So when she found Jaune at her door, a bashful look on his face as he asked the question.

"Hey Ruby, Penny called me, do you know why?"

Something had been wrong... something had been VERY wrong. And she could feel it in the pit of her stomach.

So when Penny came prancing over... wearing... wearing a sheer silk nightgown... one that didn't hide ANY of her lady bits... Ruby felt her heart drop. "Friend Jaune! I'm glad you could make it!"

"Hey Penny."

Jaune's smile didn't make her feel any better.

"Penny?" Ruby turned towards her wife, "What's going on?"

"Oh! I had mentioned wanting to have a child, remember?"

Ruby of course nodded, "Well friend Jaune is here to help!" Then when Penny turned towards Jaune... a twisted smile on her face... one that exuded sexual desire... one Ruby herself had never seen before. She felt her heart crack.

"Okay but... why?"

"Oh... didn't you discuss this?" Jaune turned back to Penny. "Penny, if Ruby is uncomfortable with this I don't think I want to go through with it."

"What? What are you talking about?"

“Well Ruby!” Penny quickly turned towards her, grabbing onto her hands and pulling them towards her heart. “I was hoping that we’d have friend Jaune here to be the father of our children.” Ruby blinked, confused at first.

“But… and I’m sorry no offense Jaune.”

“None taken.”

“Why Jaune?” She didn’t mean any offense by it… in fact… well Jaune had been a long time crush of hers. She’d only never made a move on him because of how anxious she’d felt about the entire ordeal. He had been one of the first people, if not the first person other than her family to accept her for who she was. He’d always been there when she needed him, and she’d always felt safe.

She had never been sure if those feelings were that of love… or of something else. But she’d held back, especially as Weiss had ended up falling for him. And now they were married, speaking of, “Wait, what about Weiss?” Maybe she could pull the plug here and now?

“I’m right here.”

Ruby nearly jumped out of her skin at the sudden entrance of her childhood friend. “What?! Don’t suddenly do that! What are you Blake?!” She was so flustered by the sudden arrival that she didn’t even notice the dry look Weiss had bestowed upon her.

“No. But I’m already aware of the situation.”

Oh… maybe she was here to say no. “So… you’re not okay with it right?”

Weiss simply shook her head, “No, I’m not okay with it.”

“Oh thank go-”

“I love it.”

“What?”

Weiss beamed brightly as she placed her hand upon Jaune’s shoulder, ushering the taller man down so she could pull him into a deep kiss. Ruby felt her face flush hot, the public display of affection proving to be a little too much for her still naive mind. “You see Ruby.” Pulling away Weiss brought her attention back to her, “I love the idea of my Jaune here breeding other women.”

She didn’t miss the little shudder that ran through her old best friend. “Just… it's so enticing, watching him push them down, breeding them like the dirty sows they are. Filling their needy wombs with his rich virile Arc seed. Oh, you’ll both love it, I assure you.” The woman stroking her rounded belly, proof of their 8th child.

Honestly, Ruby wasn’t so sure she WOULD love it. But, she wasn’t even sure she could say no anymore, not with Weiss' sudden intervention. “Uh… Weiss what’s that?” She’d suddenly noticed the strap attached to Jaune’s shoulder, now that Weiss had brought attention to it.

“Oh, it’s a camera darling. To commemorate the event.”

Her brow crinkled in as she frowned at the sudden realization dawning on her. This… this wasn’t going to end well for her and she didn’t like it one bit.

“Now then, a few questions.” Weiss hurried them in the door, tugging Jaune along with her, who gave Ruby one last sorrowful glance.

“Have either of you ever been with a man before?”

“I have not friend Weiss!”

Penny raised her hand, a pleasant smile that would have normally caused her heart to race flashed across her face. Though now it only proved to make her feel… ill inside.

“Excellent!” Weiss clapped her hands together, “It’ll be an interesting experience.” Ruby felt her heart sink when Weiss turned her attention back towards her. “I assume you’re both alright with this then? I don’t want you to be uncomfortable after all. And I know Jaune doesn’t want you to either.”

“Yeah.” Jaune nodded, “I want this to be a fun experience for everyone involved… oh uhm… you’re not both lesbians right? I’d honestly feel bad if you were.”

Ruby WASN’T a lesbian persay. She wasn’t even sure what she was, she just liked who she liked. And at one time it HAD been Jaune, but now she loved Penny.

“No. Both Ruby and I are fine with both sexes.”

Ruby nodded meekly in response.

“Okay perfect, well I promise that Jaune will make this an experience that neither of you are going to forget.”

“Yeah.” She felt a hand press down on her shoulder, “Ruby, again, if you don’t want this please say something.”

She felt her heart swoon just a tad at Jaune’s concern. Her chest rose and fell and her face grew just a tad bit warm. Turning her attention towards Penny, she knew she COULD say yes. But seeing how happy and excited her wife was, how into this Weiss appeared to be… and… this could be her chance to get with Jaune for once… well it couldn’t be all bad?

No! It WAS FAR WORSE than she could have ever imagined.

“Oh yes! More please! More!”

Ruby sat there, silently sobbing to herself as her wife, her precious wife with whom she exchanged vows of solidarity with, was now on her back. Her hands tightly grabbing their bedding sheets as her best friend, and childhood crush, pounded her like she belonged to him.

She dared not look, the sounds of slapping flesh already being far too much for her to handle. Her lips trembled as she tried to silence out the sound, and she may have succeeded or at least she would have if Weiss hadn’t shifted closer.

“You know Ruby~” Her tone sent a terrified shiver down her spine, “I was the one that got Penny interested in this whole ordeal.”

“Wha?”

She looked up trying to say something, but found a single finger pressed against her lips. “Isn’t it amazing?” Weiss turned her attention towards Jaune and Penny, forcing Ruby to follow her line of sight.

Ruby’s heart dropped, tears began to trickle downwards as she SAW… no she could smell it, hear it, FEEL it… her beloved wife was on her back, her face… oh gods her face… it was contorted into the most twisted of pleased slutshammed faces she’d EVER seen before. “It was pretty easy getting the idea in her head, I told her it’d be easier to have a child if someone ACTUALLY bred her.” She heard, but did not see Weiss chuckle, too enraptured with the terrible scene in front of her. “It really was easy, your wife is suuuch a slut. She’s just so naive~” When she felt Weiss’ icey could fingers wrap around her shoulders she tried not to flinch. “It really didn’t have to be Jaune, I could have SO easily convinced her to sleep with ANY man.”

“B...bu...but why?” Why then? Why was this happening, why her? Why Jaune?

“Its simple~ I just LOVE seeing my husband fuck little stupid sluts silly. I mean just look at how happy Penny is.”

Ruby HATED how right Weiss was, Penny was… she was FAR happier than she’d EVER been when they had sex. “A silly little toy could never match up to the real thing… look at it… look at her stomach.”

Ruby could see it, she didn’t NEED Weiss telling her. She could see her wife’s belly inflate as Jaune’s… his cock pounded inside of her. Her stomach ballooning as he penetrated her over and over and over and over. The big meaty head of his cock skewering her so much smaller body, the thick bulb protruding through the other side.

“Penny Darling.”

“Y..yesh!?”

“Ruby wants to hear what's happening. She wants to know how much you love having my husband’s COCK inside of you.”

“Oh! OoOooKaaY!”

Ruby KNEW Penny didn’t mean anything by it, but she was just so excited. “Look Ruby! Jaune’s… oOooH hiiiiis hiiiis BIIIiIiIGG! CooOoCCCK! Itssssssszzzz! Its Puuuushiiing against MmyyyYy Ceervviviiix!”

Ruby could see it from here, the shape of her uterus forming on the outside of her skin. “HeeeEesssss hiiiiittttting mmmeeeeee soooo Sooosososooo deeeeep!”

“You want deeper though right?”

“YYyyyEeesssh pleeeeaassee!”

“Darling, can you please put her into a mating press for me?”

“Yeah!”

Jaune’s voice came out exasperated, his focus solely pushed upon her wife. Ruby was FORCED to watch as Jaune pulled on her wife’s legs, pinning them back and showing the extreme flexibility that came with the once gynoid. “WhoaooOh!” He’d pulled her legs practically behind her head, forcing his cock even deeper as he rose her lower body.

“Look at it, look at how DEEP his cock is going inside of her!” Weiss simply smiled, “You’d never be able to do that Ruby, but it’s okay.”

SMACK SMACK SMACK

His pace grew faster and faster, the bed underneath them started to shake as he unleashed sound defeaning thrust after sound defeaning thrust.

Ruby couldn’t believe it, she couldn’t take the emotional damage that she was feeling as her best friend pushed her wife into ecstasy. “Gods it feels SO good to have him inside of you. Its so amazing, I don’t think Penny will be able to have it any other way now.”

THUD THUD THUD

The bed jolted up and and down as he practically pinned her wife into her own bed. Thick juicy fluids squelched from their connected bodies. Beads of sweat staining their sheets as he practically pushed his entire body on her. Ruby could hardly see her wife anymore, but she could hear her squeals of pleasure. She could only watch as a man took her from her. She could only silently regret her decisions. And still why did it have to be this way, for Weiss’ sick pleasures?

“You know.” She flinched as Weiss’ hand fell upon the pit of her belly, rubbing gentle circles above her womb. “It doesn’t have to be this way.” Ruby gave her a betrayed look, scrunching her face together. “We really DID come here to help you two have fun~ And… well I’m sure Penny would LOVE if you both got pregnant together~”

Ruby meant to open her mouth, “After all, it’s not fair, now is it? Just letting Penny have all the fun?”

Ruby bit her lip, turning her attention as Jaune pulled up onto his legs, squating down on her wife and slamming his cock one last time into her depths. She could SEE his balls inflating, she could SEE the pulsing of her stomach as the bulge of his cock quite literally throbbed. She could see her wife’s belly inflating in front of her, “See?”

Weiss turned her attention back to Penny.

“Penny describe what’s happening.

“MmmNnn~♥ Fri...Fri… Ma...Mate…Br...bree...breeder J...Jaaauuune iiiisss filling My… my wooomb, with Prec...precious life giiiving seed! I can FEEL my ovaries drinking the… the preciiious fluiiids! I… I’m… I’m breeding ready!”

Ruby felt Weiss release her, shifting over towards Penny. “Oh Darling, you’re going to be JUST the most gorgeous pregnant woman.” Ruby watched Weiss run her finger over the outline of her wife’s uterus, tracing the very shape with a single soft touch. “Mmmn~ I can’t WAIT to see you nice and full. I bet you’ll have twins AT LEAST.” Weiss of course turned her attention back towards her husband, “I bet you can’t wait right? You LOVE it when women get pregnant with your children, you’re just raring to go again, right?”

Ruby turned her attention to Jaune, who had been mostly quiet this entire time. Surely he wouldn’t betray her? He’d been hesitant from the start after all! “Yeah… it’s REALLY hot... and…” No. “We should go again, I can dump a few more loads inside of her, just to make sure she’s nice and knocked up.”

“Yes please!”

“Perfect.”

Time seemed to still as Ruby did something she truly didn’t expect of herself, “STOP!”

All eyes turned to her as she flushed red, one that ran down the length of her unclothed body. “I… I…” She grit her teeth, “I’m next!”

“Perfect~”

Little did Ruby know, but she’d fallen into Weiss’ Trap, one she’d never be able to escape from.

[ohheyitsokay]

out or in

this takes place in my ‘poly frontier’ universe

pairing: Will “Ironhead” Miller, Santiago “Pope” Garcia, Francisco “Catfish” Morales, Ben “Benny” Miller and a female reader 

wordcount: 2.5k

warnings: all fics in this series are 18+, poly relationship domestic, romantic, and sexual intimacy. strong language, both implications of sex and brief explicit sexual content, mostly fluff

summary: a collection of moments about always choosing the ones we love

>>

It’s a romantic little outing – a walk to the park, flowers tucked behind ears, a gazebo by the pond. Santiago looks good with flowers in his curls, and they stick well. He’s got that look in his eyes, the one that says he thinks of the two of you hung the stars, and his broad shoulders look void of weight in the evening sun.

Will can’t keep his hands off of you, which is strange, but not unwelcome. He keeps running his hand through your hair or pulling you into sudden hugs, and it makes Santi smile.

The three of you are waiting for Frankie and Ben to come, settling into the white benches and enjoying the dappled lighting that sways with the vines overhead. Your Ironhead practically pulls you into his lap as your other lover goes in search of ducklings. Watching him, Will kisses your temple, your cheek, the side of your neck.

You close your eyes, just for a moment. It’s mandatory, really, because these moments are few and far between. Soft noises from the nature around you, smells of flowers and the musk of your lover, and most of all, his open affection. When was the last time his confidence overrode his calculating brain?

When you open them again, a woman is walking by, chattering on her phone, and her heels slow when she catches sight of Santi.

The pillars of the gazebo shroud you from her, and Will holds you tight as you watch her hang up, a twitch in her hips. You miss her greeting, but not the way Santi turns towards her, his face polite and neutral.

“I’m just here with them,” he waves and points, and you see an incorrect realization on her face as she glances shrewdly. The two of you are wrapped up in each other, his hands wandering even still – she thinks she knows.

“So you’re the third wheel?” the woman all but purrs, eyes fluttering in a way that makes you roll your own. So fixed is she on the warm tone of his skin and the stubble across his jaw, that she misses both the darkness of his eyes, and approaching footsteps.

“Not at all,” his words are simple and you grin.

“Like hell you aren’t,” Benny says, slipping an arm around his Pope. They came up less than quietly, watching without your patient interest. Will huff’s a laugh, almost proud at the kiss and raised eyebrow his brother gives the woman, who’s stepping back, suddenly uncertain.

She turns to Frankie, mistakes his soft edges for vulnerability, and changes targets. Hes handsome as a warm fall walk, and she drinks him in. All shy backtracking and twirls of hair, she reaches for his arm, playing all the right cards for sympathy.

But his eyes, deep and brown are unwavering as he shifts away. You see his mouth move – a quiet nope, with a p that pops, and the both you and Ironhead shake with silent laughter.

No one explains as she sputters and spins, trying helplessly to say have a good day, and as she near runs away and you feel a little guilty.

Mostly, though, you feel lucky as you see your eager boys making their way over and loved as they’re already reaching for you.

“That was fun,” Will pulls Frankie close to replace your warmth. Arms around Santi's neck you laugh again, feeling matching rumbles at your front and back.

“We should go out more often,” Benny says, resting his chin atop your head. You can hear the mirth in his voice, but of all of them, he thrives in awkwardness the best.

“Great idea, Ben.” Frankie doesn’t even have to roll his eyes.

“It’s fun confusing people,” the blonde defends, pulling back to flap a hand. Of course he thinks so, and of course Catfish disagrees.

“As long as the people who aren’t confused are us,” Will catches Santi's eye, and you feel him rumble again, squeezing you.

“I agree.”

-

Will walks in to see you completely on top of Frankie, sleeping against his chest. It’s a welcome sight, after a long, long week, and his layers shed as Frankie beams at him. The smile is void of gloating or even teasing, filled only with a hard earned joy. He loves the moments you crash into him, drawing out the weight on his mind and replacing it with you.

“That seems a little selfish,” his watcher teases, his deep, dry voice making you stir a little.

Frankie pulls an understanding face and shifts, letting you slide between him and the back of the couch, opening up for the other man. Your eye peaks open long enough to see Will’s smile, before you feel him, warm and close.

He’s taller, but it’s a practiced fit, and the couch was bought specifically for all of their width and height.

The man beneath you let’s out a groaning breath, like the weight of one of his loves hadn’t been quite enough. Silence fills the air, thick and warm as cocoa on a chilly evening, the three of you taking slow, indulgent sips. Hands rub shoulders and slide over unwinding muscles before they still, thankful for the heartbeats just beneath the surface.

And then the moment slides away, as Frankie remembers a story from work – his excitement is contagious. His deep eyes are bright, the lilt of his voice exaggerated by the animation that fills him head to toe, and you climb over them to find a glass of water. You'd already heard the story, and you need to wake up for the evening.

Santi’s in the kitchen, shrugging off his jacket, and hes pulling you by the hip into his arms. His skin is cool from their air outside, and he seeks your warmth with playful pleading, rubbing his nose along your cheek, your neck, and blowing puffs into your hair. The squeaks you make only spur him, happy kisses following the pre-made path, and he laughs, really laughs, for no real reason.

“Come,” he says, after finding your lips once more, “it’s almost time.” And you wake fully, checking the clock. He’s right, and both of you rush back to the others.

Ben’s fight is on the screen, and your boys are sitting, telling you for the thousandth time how rude it is that they cut off spectators.

“I know, I know,” you shush Will with your mouth, a chaste, chiding kiss, and he softens, pulling you back down. The sleepy satisfaction is long gone, dissipated by his talk with Frankie, and their inevitable excitement as they traded bits of wisdom. Now, it’s time to watch his brother, and to feel the bones in your hand creak as Frankie winces at every punch.

The fight is a short one, and you’re almost glad you didn’t drive an hour for it – your sweet Benny hardly gives the other guy a chance. He blows a kiss at the camera, and Santi says, “Mine,” before sticking his tongue out.

“How do you know?” Frankie protests, reaching over to smack him.

“Hush, he’ll call in just a minute,” you scold, snipping a budding argument, and rolling your eyes. “You can ask him then, if you want.”

You were right – and he called you, probably well aware of the bickering he caused. Speakerphone is mandatory, as deep voices shout their approval.

“The kiss was for all of you,” he says. “Minus Will.” He rolls his eyes, as Frankie makes a triumphant noise.

Over the responsive banter you change the topic.

“How soon will you be home?”

“Why baby, the whole crew there, and you still miss me?” Tonight’s win had gone straight to his head.

Will appears behind you, rumbling, his hand sliding up you shirt in a single, fluid motion.

“Watch yourself,” he said, loud enough for the phone to catch it. “I’d say we’re doing just-"

“- Fine,” the others catch his drift, lowered eyelids and knowing smirks making their way around. Just as fluid, Frankie pulls at you, settling your core over his thigh, his dark eyes asking for permission. Denying him is unfathomable – their touches already perfectly placed and hot.

The gasp leaves your lips before you even think to stop it.

“Fuck,” Benny’s voice is lower, even through the phone. “Don’t you dare!” The command falls flat, his damage done. Bra shoved away, Will rolls a nipple between his fingers as Santi’s hand palms you through the fabric as best he can, always eager to join the torture.

“Hurry up then,” he adds, watching you grind and melt beneath them, knowing the other man is already regretting his words.

“No fair!” you hear the slam of his locker and grin, already too far gone to stop their antics.

Frankie coaxes you off his thigh, hands busy as he began to rid your of your clothes. You’re slick with want, holding whatever you can brace yourself against, as they lovingly remind him what he’s missing.

“Would you rather we let you listen, hot shot?” it’s both a taunt and an offer, and you see wide eyes and feel eager twitches.

There was a moment of silence, before Benny’s curse cracks into the air, needy and nearly breathless.

And you’re suddenly glad you got a nap in earlier. If the last five minutes are any indication, it’s going to be a long night.

-

“No, but thanks for checking again,” you say, trying not to sound sarcastic. Benny is using his best puppy eyes, even pulling down the thick scarf his mama gave him to pout at you.

“But I made us the coolest fort, you said so yourself!”

“My love, it’s cold.” You respond, kissing his surprisingly warm cheek. “The others have already tried.”

You wave at Will over his shoulder as he packs yet another snowball for their war. A hit to the back of the head is a fitting distraction, and Ben kisses you quickly before he runs off to his corner of the yard.

And as much fun as it could be to watch, you close the door to the freezing air, knowing if you don’t, the next one will be coming for you.

You end up by the window, catching glimpses through the thick white frost, as you Google new winter recipes. And you’re thoroughly wrapped up in a distraction when a hand slips into yours

“Oh, hello,” you grab at it, trying to warm the fingers between your palms. “Too cold for Catfish?”

He nods, sighing as you try to thaw him.

“Come,” you say, leading him to the kitchen. He’s like a bear, lumbering after you, thickened with winter layers, but with meek obedience and eyes filled with adoration.

“Cocoa, love?” it’s hardly a question.

“Please, Frankie?” He kisses you in confirmation, seemingly growing even lager as he glows with pride. No recipe you’ve ever found gets the spices as perfect as he can, and it’s his joy to brew if for you all.

Before, though he turns the kettle on, heating water for the bottles, knowing any moment what will happen. And he’s never wrong. The door opens with a gust of chill wind, making snowflakes cling to their winter beards.

Just as the hot water bags are filled, and the rest finds its way into a footpan, Santi trudges through the door, huffing with laughter but with spikes of pain shooting from his knees. You help him settle into cushions, resting his joints, as Will and Benny tumble in, shedding soaking layers and telling you the final battle.

Passing out steaming mugs you kiss their cheeks and they know the truth – adventures should be taken and fun should be had, but nowhere was better than right here with you.

-

It happens rarely: waking up perfectly encompassed by your loves. Someone’s elbow was always poking or beard would tickle, and the first to wake would inevitably wiggle and jostle limbs.

But when it does, it’s bliss.

Your tucked into Will’s side – his beard is soft and smells like books and clean linens and the way it feels when rain pours down after weeks of drought.

Frankie is behind him, pressing close, and Santi is near a second skin, he’s sandwiched you so tightly. You can the shape of Benny beyond Frankie's fluff of hair, and for once, you don’t feel the need to move. Deep breathes a contented mid-dream murmurs push away the reminder that one of you must leave – a least for long moments.

But then you notice the pace of the heart beneath your hand, and prepare yourself for the rub of his jaw along his temple. Your Will would never risk the movement of kissing you before he knew you were awake.

“Good morning,” your voice is barely audible, just for him.

“I love you,” his response is just as quiet, but equally filled with love.

Neither of you says anything else, just shifting ever-so-slightly to kiss each other, unable to resist. Then you settle again, cherishing the squeezes and pacified rumbles, and dreaming of drifting off again.

You know he won’t - can’t, with a stupid Saturday meeting on it’s way, but you wish he would. All of you hate when he’s robbed like this, hate that he has to count down the minutes and then untangle himself and climb away. Feeling his heart race pick up again, you know he’s anxious. It goes against his nature to disturb, to break a perfect moment.

“Stop thinking so loud.” Benny groans, quiet, but not quite so in-control. “Here.”

He flops, pawing the end table before finding Will’s phone and tossing it to him, before settling forward against Frankie again. The whole time his eyes barely opened more than a hair, awake exclusively for the greater good.

A small, conflicted noise grumbles in Will’s throat, but then, to your amazement, he frees a hand and begins to draft an excuse.

“Tell them it could be an email,” Santi’s voice is thick with sleep.

“Because it could be,” Frankie adds, reaching for the phone. His eyes are puffy, wincing at the brightness, but if Will doesn’t call off the meeting, someone has to. Huffing, the man beneath you snatches it back, making incomprehensible comments about how he’s the only one who knows what to say.

You shift to kiss him again, shocked in spite of yourself. All this time, he’s never called in sick, no matter how deeply he’s been tempted. But more proud than anything.

It’s a perfect morning – too good to spoil. He sends it and tosses his phone, satisfied sighs and sleepy high fives making him chuckle. And you pull the blankets back in place, tucking in the joy for a few hours more.

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