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rina-teatia · 8 months ago

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Stockings, panties, skirt and heels (18+)

Summary: Everything that Gojo put on exited Getou. As usual, two idiots can't get laid in any way, but smart women save them (they are really idiots but thats funny).

Characters: Getou Suguru/Gojo Satoru, Ieiri Shoko

Tags: Past Getou Suguru/Gojo Satoru, Gojo Satoru Being an Idiot, Foot Fetish, Stockings, Student Getou Suguru, Ieiri Shoko is a Good Friend, Student Ieiri Shoko, Fluff and Humor, Blow Jobs, Foot Jobs

Notes: hi guys! my name is Rina Tea-Tia and English is not my native language. However, I really want to make friends with you and I have a lot of work on jujutsu kaisen so I hope we get along 🥺 pleeeeeeease i just want friends in fandom 😭😭😭

Words: 2934

“Holy shit! How do you wear this?!” Gojo stood on the balcony of the student dormitory of the magic college and concentrated on stretching thin tiny women's panties in different directions.

“It's fine, you idiot!”

“Ouch!!!”

Shoko threw a comb at his head, causing the panties to fall out of his crooked hands. Gojo rubbed the back of his head, nonetheless looking at her with a smile as he fixed his glasses that had slipped down on the tip of his nose.

“We don't need to put stupid gyoniku sausage! That's why they're so small. Give it here.”

Shoko was laying out her clothes after drying, and Gojo came into her room to get under her skin. However, he obediently picked up the underwear and returned them to Shoko. Probably, another girl would have been ashamed to sort through underwear in front of a friend of the opposite sex, but Shoko didn't care at all. She had already taken away some bras from Gojo, which that jerk was trying on instead of his glasses. Asshole. “You'd better go to Getou. You have nothing to do.”

“To Getou?” Gojo repeated, idly searching for gold in his ear with his little finger. “I see him every day anyway. It's more interesting here. Oh, and what is this? Tights?”

Shoko turned to look sourly at Gojo. He had pulled off the nylon stockings from the clothesline and was now stretching them in all directions.

“Fuck, Satoru, these are stockings! Give them give back! You'll tear them up!” This time the white-haired boy was hit with deodorant. Gojo didn't let himself get caught off guard again, using his technique just in time, and the deodorant froze in mid-air a few centimeters away from him before falling.

“Haha, I'm sorry. So, these are stockings? They’re so… tight. Don’t your legs hurt in them? It must be very tight.” Gojo innocently fluttered his eyelashes and returned the stockings. Shoko rolled her eyes, took her piece of clothing away from him and began to fold it carefully.

“They don't hurt me at all. Nylon stretches well and is barely felt on the skin. These are not compression stockings.” The girl herself went out on the balcony and collected the rest of her things from there so that Gojo's playful hands would not get to them. He sat down on a chair in her room with his legs spread and his arms outstretched.

“Really? Come on! How is this possible?! Is nylon some kind of material for shamans? Is it using the territory expansion technique?!”

Shoko made a face that looked like a statue from Easter Island. Sometimes Gojo amazed her with his natural idiocy beyond measure, and being in the same room with him for more than fifteen minutes became a torture. And how did Getou tolerate him on a regular basis?! Moreover, how did Gojo manage to be one of the best college students if he had brains like a shrimp?!

“Oh Gods… Well, if you want, put them on yourself. Then tell me what's so tight about them.” Shoko rubbed the bridge of her nose. These words were not an invitation, but rather another mockery, but Gojo suddenly found himself near her underwear organizer.

“Really? Thanks!” He pulled out the stockings with lightning speed and returned to the chair. Shoko only saw him begin to unbutton his pants before she turned away.

“Fuck, Gojo! It wasn't an offer! You’re a complete idiot!

“Look, have I’ve already put on one… stocking? Is it the right word?

“Are you with your pants down?!”

“Of course! They're stockings. How do I put them on with my pants?!”

“I don't want to see your underwear!”

“But if I put on my pants, you won't see the stockings on me!”

“Satoru, for fuck's sake, Gojo, darn you,” Shoko sidled over to her closet and groped for one of the skirts. The soft cloth flew to the side where Gojo was supposedly sitting, and he deftly caught it.

“Thank you!” He rustled his clothes for a couple of minutes. “It's done! That's it, you can take a look.”

Shoko turned around and immediately doubled over with laughter. Gojo looked surprisingly natural — they wore the same uniform, and in general, the combination of a women's skirt and a men's Gojo's blouse looked as if it had been intended. The stockings were black, they gracefully darkened Gojo's legs, making them even thinner and longer than they already were. By the way, his legs were extraordinary long, not crooked, almost not hairy, with a chiseled curve of the calves and fragile ankles. What a model indeed.

“What's so funny?” Gojo was grinning stupidly, his hands on his hips. “You know, you're right! In general, nothing is tight. Only a little bit in the hips, but these are stockings, not tights, so it's kinds fine. If it were tights, I think I would have died when they squeezed my balls!

“Ha-ha-ha, what the hell, Gojo!” Shoko continued to laugh. “You should try heels with these on! You look like a balding Mei Mei!”

“Really?” Gojo laughed as well. He opened the door of Shoko's closet to admire himself in the mirror. “I think we have the same foot size”

Shoko, choking with laughter, pointed to the corner of the room. There stood really beautiful high-heeled shoes. Gojo put them on and tried to walk amid both’s laughter, but almost fell right on Shoko, and she caught him by the arms.

“What's going on here? Your roaring is heard from... — Getou knocked on the door and entered the room. He froze in mid-sentence when he saw this picture: Shoko on the bed holding Gojo standing on high-heels, wearing stockings and a skirt. Both of the merrymakers burst out laughing again, while Getou looked at them in complete awe.

“Getou... fuck, Getou...” Shoko moaned between fits of laughter and waved her hands “This is not what you thought!”

“Does it suit me, Suguru?!” Gojo somehow straightened up, trying to get into a sexy pose, but he looked like a locust.

Getou looked at them both for a couple of minutes with an unreadable expression on his face. Gojo giggled, and Shoko narrowed her eyes: Getou was clearly embarrassed, his light, slightly yellowish face became a couple of shades closer to red.

“Idiots,” Getou finally told them, quickly leaving the room and slamming the door.

“Suguru! Stop!” Gojo howled, falling off his heels in another burst of laughter.

Shoko narrowed her eyes again, but didn't say anything. She thought about something, but decided not to voice her suspicions yet.

***

A little over a week has passed since that incident. Shoko smoked slowly, listlessly twirling a short strand of hair on her finger. She watched her two friends practice. She had some small suspicions about Getou, and she was still thinking about how to confirm them.

The guys had been more than just friends for a long time. They both understood that. They even confessed to each other to some extent, but it was still as if something was missing, they were shy about it and preferred to behave as usual. Or maybe it was only Getou who thought so, and Gojo was just being stupid. This six-eyed dummy was capable of intelligent thoughts only during combat, but not in interpersonal relationships. It was partly true. Shoko knew Gojo well and he sometimes cried to her about Getou's cold attitude. Gojo was sure that he was the victim of unrequited sympathy. In general, everything was difficult. Shoko hated to get involved in this, but if it wasn't for her powers of observation, they would have continued to wallow helplessly in their pile of emotional shit like blind kittens. But they had eight eyes for two!

After lunch, she stole Gojo for a conversation. Getou went to take a shower, and it was a great opportunity to talk privately.

“Suguru likes legs. Legs in stockings.” Shoko said from the doorway, lighting another cigarette. She and Gojo were walking around the college grounds.

“What?” He bowed his head in a disbelief.” What kind of legs?!

“Ordinary fucking legs. Human legs.” Shoko rolled her eyes.

“Well… good for him. And where did that information come from?” Gojo grimaced.

“He has a second Twitter profile that he thinks no one knows about. He likes all kinds of foot fetish shit from it.” She chuckled. “He didn't even close the account. And only the main Getou profile is subscribed to it.”

“Shoko... why do I need to know that?” Gojo clearly became more gloomy, he kicked one of the stones on the road. “No one wants to know what his friends are jerking off to!”

Shoko rolled her eyes even more actively.

“He's jerking off on you, Gojo. On your legs, you stupid crustacean.”

“What makes you think that?!”

“Satoru, he liked it when you put on my stockings, skirt and heels!”

“Did he?!”

“Of course not, he was just looking at you for three minutes and blushing for nothing!”

“You're lying!”

“Like I have nothing else to do! Check it yourself, if you don't believe me! “Shoko threw her skirt at him, which she didn't have time to change into after training, and then left.”

***

Getou just wanted simple peace of mind, maybe life in the forest, so that no one would touch him. However, this wasn’t possible when your friend was Gojo Satoru. Getou made himself a cup of tea and sat on the floor in a traditional pose to relax a little when the door to his room was abruptly pushed open. Gojo was standing in the doorway. In a skirt. In stockings. And, damn, on heels.

“Ha, Suguru-kun! It's me, Shoko-chan! I think my stockings are torn from behind… Can you take a look?” Gojo howled in a squeaky voice, and then walked over to Getou, who was just stunned. He was staring up at Satoru, dumbfounded. His face was flushed.

”The fuck is wrong with you?”

“Suguru—kun, come on, help me!” Gojo continued to whine. He arched gracefully at the waist, slightly lifting the skirt so that Getou got a full view of what was under, not that he wanted to, though. There was indeed a small tear on one of the stockings, extending downwards with pulled-out nylon fibers. Getou grimaced and pushed his friend's ass away from him.

“Listen, I do not know how to help you. I advise you to start with a psychiatrist.” He had to continue pushing Gojo’s ass away as he immediately tried to shove it back in Getou’s face, threatening to sit on it.

“Wa-a-a! Suguru-kun baka!” Gojo finished his attack and eventually turned around, looking at Getou with displeasure from under his glasses. He spoke normally.” Actually… I just want to check something out. Relax.”

“What? …” Getou blushed even more, awkwardly crawling back until he was stopped by the toe of a delicate shoe pressing on his groin. From this, Suguru choked on air and gasped hoarsely.

“Really?! You’re hard already…” Gojo looked genuinely surprised.

“Wh-what?! No! Satoru!” Getou felt like he was drowning in a swamp, with every jerk he got more and more bogged down and could not do anything, he fell deeper into the very essence of his preferences, secret desires and fetishes, which Gojo somehow mysteriously revealed.

Meanwhile, he took off his glasses and put them on the table. Now big blue eyes full of tenderness were looking at Getou, glowing in the semi-darkness of the room.

“Suguru...” He moved closer and pressed Getou's head against his thigh, covered with a skirt’s fabric. “Just relax. I can do anything for you. That's why I'm here... looking like this.”

“How the hell did you even know ...” Getou felt a terrible mixture of seething feelings. It was difficult for him to resist Gojo. In this form.

“I know a lot of things.” Gojo chuckled. He brazenly lied, deciding to keep silent about Shoko's role in this study.

Getou carefully hugged his slender legs with both hands, stroking their curves, slightly pulling off the nylon with his fingers. Gojo was warm, and Getou's breathing was getting faster and faster. Gojo's legs were just... something. Luxurious, perfect. He lowered his head lower to bury his nose between the guy's thighs, which he immediately pushed together like a shy girl.

“I didn't want to tell you. I was afraid to scare you,” Getou admitted, lightly squeezing the soft part of Gojo's thighs before lowering his hands down. With a careful movement, he took off the shoe that was pressing on his groin. God… Gojo's legs were indeed perfection itself. The stockings clung tightly to a neat foot, emphasizing the protruding bones and the smooth curve of the ankle. A thicker black cloth hid the toes. Getou bit his lip, his pupils dilated with delight.

“You... you really don't mind what's going to happen? This is... not quite typical. But I can try to make it nice for you as well.” Getou raised his head to look adoringly at Gojo. He nodded quickly.

“Don't ask, Suguru! I've already said that I want this!” To be honest, he got turned on himself. Getou was sitting with his head right next to his groin, looking up at him… Gojo couldn't believe what was happening.

“Then… Let's take off the heels first. They look great on you, but I bet you're already tired of standing on them.” Getou chuckled, helping to get rid of the second shoe as well. Then he unzipped his fly and lowered his underwear. Gojo's foot went back to his groin, this time the toes gently caressed the erect length. Geto groaned, clutching at the guy's hips. “Damn, you... how did you know that…”

“You want me to jerk you off with my feet?” Gojo smiled. He understood. And once again he ran his foot down Getou’s penis, slightly squeezing it with his toes, as far as the nylon fabric would allow.

“I am!.. Fuck, Satoru... don't say it like that!” Getou groaned again, his fingers gripping the edges of Gojo's skirt. “I mean… Please…”

“I'll do it for you.” He nodded. He gently wrapped his arms around Geto's shoulders, playing with his dick with his feet. He alternated between them, making the guy below shudder and squirm. Getoг did not remain in debt for long, he indecently lifted Gojo's skirt and quickly pulled off his underwear.

“Kya-ya, Suguru-kun!” He screamed again like an anime girl. Getou's eyes widened.

“You… Are you also wearing women's underwear?!” He looked up at Gojo with a dumbfounded look.

“Please don't tell Shoko...” he giggled. “She only allowed me to take a skirt.… The rest… I had to get it. She's going to kill me!

“You're just... something.” Getou exhaled. Thin girlish panties didn't cover Gojo's erection in the slightest, and he tried to shove his cock upward, but it was obvious how uncomfortable it was. His scrotum dangled to one side and without support it didn't feel secure either. Getou felt like the dirtiest pervert in the world as he pulled Gojo's woman's panties down over his stockinged thighs and got under his skirt like in a tent. He began sucking, paying particular attention to his balls. Gojo twitched and moved closer. He was trying hard too, kneading and pressing lightly on Getou's cock, from which the pre-ejaculate was flowing generously. The socks of his stockings caught the drops and rubbed them higher, the stiff nylon was getting wet and painful, especially when Gojo started to play with the head. Getou kept up with him and took the other man's cock in his mouth, choking on it every time Gojo got particularly rough with it. His mouth was filling with saliva all too quickly. Getou thrust himself more roughly, tears of pleasure running down his cheeks and saliva from the corners of his lips, the tight fabric of the skirt and Gojo's gorgeous thighs were surrounding him, he felt like the happiest man in the world, not thinking about anything.

Gojo could barely keep from cumming, the blowjob from Getou was wet, he already felt saliva on his thighs, and soon on his feet — Getou came first right on them, unable to hold on any longer. Gojo rubbed his cum over his stockings and went over the entire length of the other’s penis again. They both puffed and moaned, clinging to each other: Getou grabbed Gojo by the hips and skirt edges, and Gojo grabbed his shoulders and hair. Satoru's orgasm was also approaching, he pulled Getou away from his groin, but, not calculating the speed of his discharge, accidentally poured out on his face.

“Ah... damn it… I'm sorry...” Gojo widened his eyes in surprise. He didn't expect it, but the sight of Getou wiping his cum off his face was mesmerizing.

“Don't apologize...” Geto was clearly delighted. “To take a cumshot on my face when you look like this… It's something.” He pulled Gojo by the hand and sat him down beside himself. “You're amazing.”

They kissed, reaching for that kiss at the same time.

Shoko was sitting in her room smoking. There were aahs, oohs, sighs, juicy wet slaps and the creaking of the bed from behind the wall.

«Having fun, these perverts… God, it's hard to work as a matchmaker. They'll keep me up all night after stealing half of my closet.» — she thought, sighing and throwing the cigarette into the ashtray. «Satoru, you're going to buy me new clothes. I won’t wear panties, skirt and stockings that both of you have finished off on.»

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #geto suguru #gojo satoru #satosugu #fanfic #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #satosugu smut #gojo smut #geto smut #gojo x geto

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liminalmemories21 · 1 year ago

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Fuck It Friday - S4 Interstitial Outtake

tagged @jesuisici33 (thank you!), and for @rmd-writes because she asked for the full AU version of TK and Carlos going up to New York for Passover in S4 (this was written before the episode where they discussed children, and then cut after because it got Joss'd for so many reasons). I think there's a small bit of dialogue at the end about missing Gwyn that still got rescued and reused in the posted story, albeit in a different place (and this is why I never delete anything and have hundreds of pages of cut material).

Tagging anyone else who has outtakes they want to share. Outtakes are the best part of the after movie experience.

Carlos has no baseline for what to expect from either New York, or from a Passover seder. He's seen New York in movies and TV shows obviously, and he's learned it more intimately from the stories that Owen and TK tell. They're not staying for that long on this trip, and they're going to a seder on Saturday and Easter lunch with Enzo's family on Sunday, but TK promises that he's taking him into real New York before they leave.

Enzo makes a face at TK. "Queens is real New York."

TK snags a piece of grape from Jonah's plate. "Debatable."

Enzo rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. "Snob."

TK shrugs and doesn't disagree, just leans in to whisper to Jonah. 'We'll take you with us, you're never too young for dim sum."

Carlos has even less idea what to expect from a seder. He's read about it, but that's abstract. They're going to a seder at friends of Gwyn and Enzo's, a family TK has known since childhood. He'd made a complicated face when Enzo had told them a few weeks ago, and said with trepidation. "Is Miriam going to be there?"

Enzo had laughed so hard down the phone that he'd dropped it. "She hasn't had a crush on you since she was 15, TK. I think you're safe."

"You're not the one she tried to hit on every holiday," TK says sourly.

Carlos does his best to keep a straight face. "How old were you?"

"A year older than her." TK grins suddenly. "To be fair, I'm pretty sure I spent a lot of time at holiday dinners trying to awkwardly hit on her older brother, so you know."

"You did," Enzo says dryly. "Every adult in the room suffered from schadenfreude watching the three of you."

The seder is lovely, long, although not as long as he'd been vaguely worried it would be from some of the blogs he'd read online, and as far as he can tell MIriam doesn’t try and hit on anyone except her wife. He doesn't understand half of what's happening, but he nods at the right times, and takes the things that are handed to him, and piles his plate when they finally eat. Mostly he watches TK and Jonah, and soaks in how alike they look, and how natural TK looks holding Jonah in his lap when he falls asleep halfway through the seder. He has the same double vision he’d had at Hanukkah, of TK now with Jonah, and TK in the future sitting at a table with their children leading them through these same traditions.

Everyone tells stories about Gwen, and some about TK when he was younger, which make TK's cheeks burn red and bury his face in his hands. "You are not allowed to tell anyone at home any of this," he hisses at Carlos when the conversation ebbs at one point.

He grins and crosses his fingers and nods. "Absolutely."

TK narrows his eyes at him. "Just remember I talk to your sisters."

He nods seriously and then turns to Mrs. Fereira, “What was that you were saying about the play TK was in?” and dodges the pinch to his leg from TK.

Enzo vetoes making Jonah sit through two long religious events in two days, and they skip Easter mass on Sunday, but they do go out to Long Island for Easter lunch. He thinks Enzo might have preferred to skip that too, let Jonah nap rather than get overtired and overstimulated two days in a row, but apparently his mother was willing to let them skip mass, but lunch was non-negotiable.

Enzo looks at Carlos as they pull up to the house and says, "I apologize in advance for literally everything."

TK snorts and reaches for Carlos's hand. "I'm calling this payback for that first lunch at Tia Lucy's." Carlos considers that, and decides that's probably fair.

He gives up trying to remember anyone’s names or relationships about three people in. At some point he gets handed a plate piled with so much food that he thinks he’s not going to need to eat for a week after they leave. The woman sitting next to him snorts at the look on his face and volunteers her name, if not her place in the extended family, although he thinks she’s one of Enzo’s nieces. “I’m Emma. Sorry about the family.”

He smiles and takes a bite of the lamb and wonders who made it and if he can get the recipe. “Don’t worry. My family is a lot like this too.” It explains a lot about how easily TK had weathered that first lunch at Tia Lucy’s if he’s got this kind of experience under his belt.

She gives him an evaluating look, decides he’s telling the truth and says, “Well, in that case I guess apologies for taking you away from your family on Easter.”

He eyes the way TK has been suborned into a game of snakes and ladders by a group of kids, and the way Enzo’s alternately watching TK lose to a bunch of seven year olds, and keeping an eye on where Jonah’s trying to pet an elderly long suffering cat. “You’re not.”

She gives him a sharp look and then nods with satisfaction and offers. “Nonna practically adopted TK, you should probably expect an interrogation at some point.”

He tips his fork to her. “Thanks for the warning.”

She shrugs. “He looks happier than I think I’ve ever seen him, and Enzo likes you, so you’ll probably do just fine.”

He doesn’t get interrogated by Nonna Luisa exactly, but she does ask for a rundown of his family, and job, and prospects and then starts telling him stories about a younger TK, and Enzo, and Gwen, and he thinks that means he passed. TK seems to soak up the stories, even as Carlos can see how they weigh on him. He nudges his thigh next to TK, letting him borrow whatever strength he needs. TK reaches for his hand, thumb against his pulse point and draws him into the story that Enzo's sister is telling about the time Gwen tried to make lasagna.

"Wait," he says, "I didn't think your mother cooked."

Enzo's sister snorts at the same time TK does. "She really really didn't," TK confirms.

Enzo's sister's laughs so hard as she repeats the sequence of phone calls from Gwen that half the story gets lost, and Enzo comes over to investigate what's going on.

His mouth twists in a rueful grin when he hears. "She wouldn't even let me see what she'd made when I got home, took the trash out before I got there, and ordered Ethiopian from a place down the street. She said she loved me, but she was never doing that again and if that was a deal breaker I should pack my bags and leave now, like she somehow thought that I had missed that the two of you lived on take out, and whatever your babysitter made you in the afternoons."

TK grins, and it's only a little melancholy. "You spoiled us both when you moved in."

Enzo reaches out to ruffle his hair. "Well, I had to bribe you with something to let me stay."

Enzo has classes on Monday, but they're not leaving until Tuesday morning, and they take the time to go out to Gwen's grave. They take Jonah with them, and Carlos keeps an eye on him as he toddles around the cemetery while TK folds himself down next to the temporary marker. The unveiling will be in late July, and Carlos has already put in for vacation time to come up for it.

He takes a few steps away to give TK privacy to talk to Gwyn, and crouches to take the stick that Jonah solemnly hands him. He turns at TK's voice, raised just loud enough to carry.

"Hey, Jonah, come say hi to Mom."

He takes Jonah's hand to help guide him over to the grave, and then lets TK settle Jonah on his lap. Jonah squirms a little, and doesn't really understand what they're doing here, but he catches enough of TK's mood to settle for long enough to obediently say hello to Gwyn and Carlos feels his heart clench when Jonah offers TK a small rock he has clenched in his fist. He can see the tears on TK's lashes, but his voice is somehow steady when he tells Jonah, "That's perfect, honey. Do you want to put it on her grave?"

Jonah looks a little dubious, but puts it on the marker and then looks at TK for approval. TK kisses the top of his head. "It's a way for us to remember her," he explains to Jonah. He scrubs surreptitiously at his eyes and pushes himself up. He looks at Carlos. "You want to talk to her?"

He nods, and squeezes TK's hand as TK stoops to pick Jonah up and walks a little bit away for them to look at the buds on the fruit tree nearby. He sits on the ground in front of the grave, in the same place TK had. He's never really done this before, never really had anyone that close to him who's died. He feels a little awkward, but, "Hi Gwyn. Your son asked me to marry him, and it was the best day of my life. I know I screwed it up a little after that, but he's got more patience than most people give him credit for, and he's got so much patience with me even when I don't think I deserve it." He puts a hand on the ground. "I promise you, I am going to love him for the rest of my life, and I am going to try every single day to make him happy." His voice catches in his throat. "I wish you could be there, to dance at our wedding, and tell me you told me so, and make him laugh. But, even if you aren't there in person, I know that you will be there in TK, and in Jonah, and in the memory of every person you met and loved, and through me for him. And, I am so grateful for that. I don't think I have words for how grateful I am for him, and that you trusted me with him. I won't let you down, I promise.."

When he looks up, TK's watching him with a small tired smile. They go to lunch afterwards at the tiny dim sum shop on Spring Street, and they cut up a dumpling into little pieces and let Jonah gum at them. The owner remembers TK, and looks sincerely upset when he tells her that Gwyn passed, and brings them out a plate of bao they hadn't ordered, and when TK says thank you Carlos can hear the tears in his voice. "They were her favorite," TK says when they're alone. "I can't believe she remembered that."

When Carlos suggests they just go home after lunch TK only makes a token objection. "I was going to show you Manhattan."

He nudges TK towards the subway, and hopes he's remembered the right one. "We'll be up here a lot more times, you have years to show me New York. Right now I think we all need naps, and he nods at Jonah who's already conked out in his stroller.

TK's mouth twists with amusement. "I think I envy him a little."

They're playing blocks with Jonah when Enzo gets home that afternoon, and he makes a face as he sits down on the carpet with them. "I am too old for this." He points a finger at them, "Let this be a lesson, have your children when you're young. Or," he reaches out to cup the back of TK's neck, "acquire them when they're past the age of crawling on the carpet." TK grins and ducks his head, and offers Enzo a hand to lever him up off the carpet.

TK gets quieter the later in the evening it is, but it isn't until after they've put Jonah to bed that he says, "I really miss Mom."

Carlos curves a hand across his knee, anchoring him, and Enzo reaches out a hand to TK and holds it firm when TK takes it. "I know, kid. Me too. Every day."

When he comes back from brushing his teeth he finds TK standing in the bedroom, staring at the framed pictures on the dresser. It’s a timeline of TK as a kid, with Gwen, with Owen, with Enzo, in the middle of a pack of kids he thinks he recognizes as younger version of the people he met yesterday, a prom picture of TK with another boy in a tux, both of them looking gangly and awkward. He comes up behind TK, looping an arm around his waist and peering over his shoulder. “You were a cute kid.”

TK twists his neck to smile at him. “I think Enzo’s cherry picking the pictures. I know Mom and Dad showed you all the embarrassing ones, don’t lie.”

He grins. “Yeah, possibly.” He drops a kiss to the back of TK’s shoulder. “What are you thinking?”

TK sighs and traces a finger along the edge of a picture of him and Gwen at a restaurant somewhere, both of them grinning and laughing. “I keep thinking it’ll get easier, that some day it’ll feel like less of a shock to remember that she’s gone. But then Dad’ll say something and I’ll think I have to tell Mom that, or there’ll be something I want to ask her about, or something I want her to tell me how to do, and I’ll remember that I can’t and it’s like hearing Enzo say it for the first time all over again.”

He steps up closer behind TK, tucking his body closer. “It hasn’t even been a year yet, sweetheart. Give yourself time.”

“There was so long when I never imagined that I’d get married, not really. But Mom always thought I would.” He turns in Carlos’s arms to look at him. “She said she knew you were the one, even if we never got married that you were the one. She would have loved helping us plan the wedding.”

Carlos raises an eyebrow and says dryly, “Because what this wedding needs is more opinions.”

TK grins. “Yeah, but she would have fought with Dad, and it would have been epic and we could have done whatever and neither one of them would have noticed until it was too late.” He stops abruptly, swallowing hard, and Carlos can hear tears thick in his throat. “She’s never going to see me get married. She’s never going to meet her grandchildren.”

And Carlos aches for him, and folds him closer and lets him cry, and curls up with him in bed when TK will let him coax him under the covers.

TK hugs Jonah for a long time the next morning, until Jonah wriggles away, but comes back with a handful of acorns that he holds out to TK. TK looks at them bemused, and Enzo stifles a laugh. “He collects them. It’s an honor if he’s giving you one.” TK nods and takes his time picking one out and says thank you.

Enzo hugs him too, whispering something in his ear that makes TK hold on for a moment longer. And then Enzo hugs Carlos too. “Thank you for coming up.” He looks at where TK is squatting next to Jonah. “I always forget how much I miss him until I see him again.

“We’ll be back in July,” Carlos promises, “and then we’ll see you for the wedding.”

Enzo nods. “Gwyn really loved you. She was so sure that the two of you would end up married. I like to think that somewhere she’s gloating, and annoyed that she can’t make bank collecting on all the pots she had a finger in.”

Carlos laughs, and TK looks up, and then pushes himself up. “We need to leave, or we’re going to tempt fate getting to the airport on time.”

#tarlos #911 lonestar #S4 Interstitials #outttake

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lothlorienlover · 9 months ago

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Archaeologists have long suspected that some of the "heads" on Easter Island had a buried body. At the same time, the "giant heads," several meters high, were thought to be an exception. In fact, if these heads had an underlying body, they would have had to be real stone giants, at least 20 meters tall, to meet the proportions.

...

Recent excavations have shown that the "giant heads" on Easter Island are actually buried "stone giants" whose heads emerged from the earth.. How did statues weighing several tons end up almost 20 meters deep? If they did it on purpose, how did they manage to do it without breaking them? Easter Island is little more than a small island. Where did they get the manpower to bury dozens and dozens of "stone giants" in the middle of the Ocean? Unanswered questions.

...

The Egyptians were able to do similar things, but they had the manpower of an empire at their disposal. What labor force did the islanders of tiny Easter Island have at their disposal? The same thing happened in Nan Madol. A mysterious people built a metropolis on a small island in the middle of the Ocean. Of course, it is possible to do that. But provided you have the manpower of an empire. But what manpower was available on a totally isolated island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean?

...

The same thing happened on the border between Turkey and Syria. An entire megalithic complex was completely buried, no one knows by whom, no one knows why. This site has been called "Göbekli Tepe," meaning "the belly hill." But under that hill is one of the deepest mysteries of humankind. Recent studies with georadars have revealed that there are dozens of sites similar to Göbekli Tepe "buried" many meters deep. Was it a civilization unknown to us that later disappeared due to a natural cataclysm? Or what?

...

More evidence of a global flood.

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dream2bu · 11 months ago

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HISTORY TO BE REWRITTEN?

...

Several scientific articles appearing in the famous scientific journal Nature tell us that over 10,000 years ago a series of comets passed through Earth's atmosphere, shattering into thousands of pieces. The Earth was hit by a veritable bombardment of fragments that struck at least four continents. Nothing was ever the same again. There was a real "Apocalypse" in prehistory, which wiped out an unknown number of "homo sapiens." Do the ruins of Easter Island correspond to those of Göbekli Tepe?

...

The article continues in the book:

HOMO RELOADED - The hidden history of the last 75,000 years.

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nyahkmenrah · 1 year ago

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Plural nation, I feel like sharing my experiences as a fictive that formed in childhood. This will be a bit long so I’ll put it under the cut. And NATM nation, idk if this will interest you but if you want to know what being a fictive of Ahkmenrah is like, feel free to read :).

For a little background, I’m one of the oldest alters we know of. There’s a few before me, but I was among the first 5. I split sometime shortly after the release of the 2nd movie so in 2009. The body would have been 7ish. Prior to that, the first movie we didn’t catch in cinemas, but we did have it (totally legally) on a USB that we watched religiously. So NATM was very much a childhood movie for the whole system.

My first memory is sometime after the movie was released and we saw it in cinemas, we’d gotten some of the happy meal toys. I so vaguely remember holding the Octavius on the squirrel toy, the way it felt and the smell of the McDonald’s playground. I pushed it down the slide, watched it go flying off the end (rip Octavius I just fucking launched you). Later that day I remember taking our sisters toy, the Easter island head one and sitting at the coffee table with it.

The next thing I remember clearly is climbing on a rope climbing frame and drinking a juice box with some cousins (I eventually found actual pictures of this in a photo album, we unknowingly caught one of my first proper fronts on camera). I was definitely a kid back then, I’d split in the mind and body of a child and I acted accordingly.

But those two early memories I have, I didn’t actually know who I was yet. I hadn’t really realised that I wasn’t in my own body and world yet. I was just focused on being a kid I suppose, I’d been pulled to the front to play, to have fun and distract from everything else going on at the time. But I remember the moment I realised who I was so, so clearly.

I was sitting in front of our old, boxy TV in purple winter pyjamas, watching the first movie again. And when on screen pulled the wraps off my face and start talking, something just clicked. That’s me, that guy on TV, that’s me. I remember being really confused, but I was still in a kids body and it was late at night so I guess we were just too tired to really react much. But I went to bed that night suddenly aware that I was too short, and too young, not a boy in this body, my eyes were the wrong colour, my skin was the wrong shade etc.

No joke only a few weeks later, the host went on a school camp. That camp is significant because it’s what influenced our headspace. The host had so much fun and loved that camp so much the brain basically copied the layout and made a proper headspace with it. THAT was when I actually got to interact with the other alters we had at the time, got to see myself in the right body internally and kind of pieced together why I was here and what had happened.

I’m the one that would front whenever the others were too stressed or tired. I was a protector in a way, I stopped us from getting too overwhelmed by coming to the front to play or isolate depending on what we needed at the time. I started to become a very prominent system member as we got to be an older kid. I was the one who got us obsessed with Hello Kitty and bought the history books home from the school library, I was the one who’d always suggest NATM as the sleepover movie, I was the one who helped pick the dining room decor when we moved (it’s ancient Egyptian art obviously). I was subconsciously trying to make the environment around me more familiar to me, more fun and relaxing by doing things I enjoyed.

Exomemories started to develop as we got into the preteen years I’d say. I was suddenly recalling things that happened to my character in an almost first person way. The same way you recall an event that happened in your childhood. It’s distant, you know it happened but you can’t picture it well. The more the host (and I) explored fandom spaces and the third movie had come out by then, the more I started to remember. I think us being older and able to have more complex brain functions paired with the hyperfixating on my source was what kicked off the brain forming exomemories. But it was around this time I started to really realise that I’m not real.

I am, Ahkmenrah the introject is. But Ahkmenrah the character, isn’t. Ahkmenrah is a pharaoh that isn’t real, made for the movie franchise. He’s fictional and yet, I’m him. All these people I remember and care for, they’re fictional too. I’m just a brain function with the personality of the fictional pharaoh, and I’ll never see my friends and family again because they’re now even real. That whole identity crisis kind of fucked me up for a bit. And the oncoming gender fuckery didn’t help either. I always knew I was bodily male and fronting in an AFAB body, but the realisation that I didn’t really mind it is what gave me an oh shit moment. In the end I just settled on demiboy adjacent, but that was a whole trip to go through.

By the teenage years, I’d grown up, the body had grown up and the host was becoming aware of the system. The co host was the first one to talk to them, but I was close behind. It was an odd feeling, I was talking to this person I’ve shared a body with for years. Someone who’s talked to me under the assumption I was just a daydream they were having for years. We know practically everything about each other but we’re just now formally meeting. My role had kind of shifted by now, I more held onto childhood memories and interests. But I’ve always been a rather frequent fronter, so I was one of the alters who helped the host explore the system as a whole more during the system awakening.

And then finally, as an adult in a now adult body who understands plurality and why I’m here the way I am, I can honestly say that I don’t mind being a fictive. Yes it has its downsides, the identity issues, the exotrauma, the not matching the body etc. but I was put here for a reason. As a child, the host saw my character and thought ‘they can help me. I can trust them’. And I split to help, to have fun and handle stress by unwinding and having alone time. I’m here because I was seen as someone who was strong enough to get through something difficult and I made out out the other side. I care for the system, they’re my family, my lovers, my friends. And I know that if they were to meet my sourcemates, all of them would get along with each other amazingly.

I have two found families, my sourcemates and my system. Being fictive isn’t so bad, because at the end of the day I’m here because a child looked at me and thought ‘he can help me’. And I did, I’m glad the host trusted me to help them.

#oh boy this is a ramble #endo safe #fictive blog #introject blog #introject #fictive #plural things #plural blog #just system things #multiple system #system blog #system #multiplicity #osdd #alters #plural system

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darkthingshappen · 2 years ago

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📚 - A bedtime story for Ben?

A Bedtime Story for Ben

Bed loved his father’s voice. Growing up it had always been a reassuring part of his life. His dad was a good dad. He encouraged him, taught him, loved him, and valued him. Ben wasn’t an athlete, but his dad never made him feel lesser for it. He took him to science competitions and bought him books to feed his brilliant mind.

Ben could recall his father reading the Christmas Story each Christmas Eve to their family. He recalled his dad doing the same on Good Friday and Easter Sunday. His dad was a wonderful reader. Even with simple Bible stories, his dad did all the voices. Ben was certain that God must truly sound like his father’s voice.

Ben hadn’t opened his eyes yet. He knew if he did, he’d have to face all the torment, hurt, and destruction that had been wreaked across his life and the life of his family. Jake was okay, mostly. They were still in the hospital, but they were both safe. Jake would have to be in the hospital for a while yet. Ben was going to be discharged in a few days. There was much to be done and cleared, but at least he was finally hydrated and on the mend - physically at least.

Ben’s bandaged hands ached and throbbed from where Volkov had put a nail through each of his palms. The doctors had said there might be permanent nerve damage there. But he was alive. Jake had a bullet go through him, but he was alive. Ben could deal with a few nails.

He was lying to himself. He knew what had happened to them was bad. Bad was an understatement. He was staring down years of therapy and recovery.

Ben tried to focus on his dad’s voice. He was softly reading from his Bible. Not just any passage, one of Ben’s favorites. It was the story of Joseph from Genesis. Ben had always found it enthralling. He himself was named after Joseph’s only full biological little brother. His dad had already passed the part where Joseph had been wrongly accused and thrown in prison. He was on to the best part of the story. The… what was that word his professor had taught him… one of the only words he’d picked up in an English class that he’d thought fascinating. What was it… The divine or unexpected turn of events for a sudden good.

“Eucatastrophe,” his mind finally supplied and his mouth said. Ben hadn’t realized that he’d said it out loud. Not at first. But his dad stopped reading. Ben opened his eyes.

“Morning.”

“Morning.” Ben looked at his dad. “Why did you stop? You were just getting to the good part.”

“I didn’t know you were listening.”

“Can you finish it?”

Jacob Adkins smiled and continued reading the story of the young man that had gone through hell to come out on top and save his people.

Ben drifted in that soft space of safety and comfort as his father’s voice washed over him. The familiar story and victorious ending made him feel warm and fuzzy. It wasn’t lost on him that the themes of slavery, familial betrayal, mercy, and a God that had a plan even in the darkest of times hit very close to home. Did Ben feel angry at the turns his life had taken? Yes. There was no denying that. Could he do anything about it? Not really. He would have to heal and process all of it. But he wasn’t alone. He had his family. He had Zoe. He had their future together - a future that he’d thought he’d never get to see just a few short days ago. And things were moving so rapidly on that front.

Ben’s was comforted in his own eucatastrophe. He’d thought for sure he and Jake were going to die on that island. That he was never going to see his mother and father, his Zoe, their family. But here he was, surrounded by them and waiting for the best days of his life to start. It was almost overwhelming. Yes he had a long way to go, but he would get there. They all would. There would still be trials and tribulations, there would be court cases and testimonies would have to be given. But it was going to be alright. Just like it was alright for Joseph.

His dad smiled at him as he took off his reading glasses and closed his Bible.

“I love you, Benny.”

“Love you too, dad.”

There was a knock at the door of the hospital room and Zoe, with her wild red hair curling around her face and her blazing green eyes peeking out to gaze at both of them.

“Come on in, Zoe. I was just finishing up reading to Ben.”

Zoe smiled and her nose crinkled in a way that made Ben’s heart skip a beat. A beat that they all heard. Ben smiled while the other two laughed. He wasn’t ready to laugh yet. But he would be. Eventually.

Tags: @i-can-even-burn-salad @peachy-panic @deluxewhump @arwenadreamer @whumpcereal @melancholy-in-the-morning @dont-touch-my-soup @whumpsday @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @oddsconvert @melennui @susiequaz12 @morning-star-whump @crystalquartzwhump @whump-and-other-things @mylifeisonthebookshelf @reflected-pain @hold-him-down @quietshae @quietly-by-myself @there-will-always-be-bloodblood @whumping-seven-days-a-week @hiding-in-the-shadows @mj-or-say10 (I hope I’m not forgetting anyone - please let me know if I am and I’ll fix it. I’m still getting used to this)

#asks #answered asks #brother's keeper #brother's keeper asks #ben adkins #benjamin adkins oc #aftermath of kidnapping #aftermath of captivity #aftermath of torture #whump #whump community #whump writer #parent caretaker #jacob adkins senior

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fortunefavorsthebrave-dude · 2 years ago

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opla thots through eppie 5 so my brain don't explode:

i'm actually very pleasantly surprised. largely the stuff that is bad is stuff i expected and a lot of things are much better than i expected so like helleth yes we win

kobyyyyyyy perfect 100% i get why they're tying the marines in more for story purposes and idc honestly bc i get to see koby

helmeppo also good tho i could have done without seeing his full cheeks

as a fan there are a lot of small moments that really don't impact the overall story much but i did miss. like toppling the morgan statue. or sanji being present for the mihawk fight to see that devotion to a dream that motivates him to get on the sea. or the catboy being changed to a catgirl that one made me mad. but again does not affect the overall thing so w/e.

casting is so stupid spot on perfect and i've been saying that the whole time but good lord every new character is so insanely good

that said. they really desexied benn beckman. rip king.

why are luffy and usopp the only characters allowed to be fun. where is weird fun hardass grandpa garp. where is any major zoro dumbass moment. he's had a few but we can do better. oh my god i just realized jango wasn't here WHERE IS HE FUCK YOU. THE MENTION OF MIRRORBALL ISLAND IS NOT ENOUGH.

they did largely forget one piece is a comedy which i literally voiced as a worry out loud with my human mouth like an hour before i started watching. pain.

the design is largely extremely good. the costumes fuck every single time. cgi looks better than expected so i'm pretty pleased.

that said. the fishmen look like fucking dogshit i cannot take them seriously. i appreciate that they're using practical effects but my god they're so so so bad just for the fishmen.

on the other hand. enamored with the dendenmushi. they're real and they're vile and i want one soooooo bad

impressed that luffy's fx don't look way worse the only one i think looks bad is balloon and that's. tough.

kuro was very good what a little freak

buggy was. fine. i didn't love him like everyone else seems too i just think they took him in the wrong direction a touch

mihawk looks so good but i hate his accent he sounds bizarre to me

lotta brits in here i was not expecting. not the worst but like. huh.

i keep seeing folks in the tag praising the colors and how it's not dark and muddy and i don't think we were watching the same show. the clothes pop and sometimes they'll light a scene but any scene in the dark even a little bit is so washed out and bad looking it's got that netflix stank all over it like most of the circus tent and garp's ship and the final syrup village fight are dark jumbles

also why did we need two goddamn episodes for syrup village. that seems excessive. i feel like they could have cut things differently and ended up with more time for like. actual adaptation stuff.

zoro crying on the dock was so perfect no notes iconic moment

i did tear up when sanji first appeared so. there is that.

also when zoro one handed lifts that big safe. okay king!

zoro is too smart also in ways that he shouldn't be it's bothering me so much. like when he translates usopp's big wordy bullshit he does not know what those words meannnnn

that said. which way is port. it's to the left. ah okay. stands there and does nothing because he doesn't know which way left is either. also gets lost on his way to a house that's ten feet away and visible. more of this we need more of this so bad.

easter eggs so good so fun. cavendish wanted poster. island of weird animals in the end credits. certainly more i didn't catch. mwah we love it.

dialogue sucks shit also the worst element of the show is by far the writing where like the plot is fine the way they rearranged things doesn't bother me if i wanted the exact story in order i'd read it again but the actual lines they write are mostly so stupid bad and generic. every so often they hit on a good one but it's generally lifted straight from the manga.

they didn't even get gold roger's speech right. he didn't say he left it all in one piece. that's the fucking. it's the whole thing of it innit.

oh i need to mention cabaji specifically weird they gave him so much focus and backstory but he looked PERFECT i was hollering

i miss reggie tho

usopp asking a gay man and an aroace man if they think a girl likes him. they do not know bro.

also i love every shipper being like WE WON listen man i'm a shipper too and the only folks who won were the usokaya hets out there everything else is just as canon as it's always been (read: not even a little bit lmao)

now that said. opla usolu is Something which is wild bc i have never once been on this train but it hits different. not enough to make me abandon aroace luffy but still.

okay one more thing. zoro being in the stocks for 0.5 seconds to keep his job that he abandons immediately anyway instead of being there for weeks in exchange for the safety of a little girl sucks. it takes away so much of his character and feels like such a critical misstep to me but i'm also the zoro guy so idk.

anyway. overall very excited to finish the season and hoping we get more. it's surpassed my (admittedly low) expectations despite my issues with it and it's worth sticking with for sure.

#sky speaks #i have more thots i just also have to go to bed #already gonna be tired tomorrow from staying up late #bc i Had to see a snaji ep before i stopped #oh i didn't mention but fight choreo is good it's fun #really most of the technical aspects are good except. the script.

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violet-hady · 1 year ago

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I never knew why I existed. I always seemed pointless. After all, every other Reaper had to do something once in a while. Starvation, Bloodloss, Malaria, different kind of Maulings, Murder... They were always busy. Suicide used to not have to do anything, but that was long ago. Now, they are the busiest ones of us all. The Reapers for deaths related to certain animals had to do less and less as their respective animals got rarer and inevitably died out, but at least they had their time. At least they had their souls they helped. They were usefull. Unlike me.

Of course, there were others like me. There were Reapers who had to collect the souls of those who died of some kind of crown-virus. But there were a lot of them, so no one was surprised when they all suddenly had to act all over the world. The same thing happened with Car-Crash, although they never were as busy.

There were those who rarely had to do anything, Reapers who were alone in their field, like Chased-Off-a-Cliff-by-a-Seagull, or Drank-Disinfectant, but they had their uses too, if rarely. They helped people.

I, on the other hand, never did.

I would have killed myself, but I could not. After all, if a Reaper died, who would come to reap them? Laughter told me not to dispair, that there were no Reapers for deaths that would never happen, and it helped, for a while. But how would they know? If I never would have to collect anyone, how could we know until the end of time, until there was nothing to die? How would I never know that I had a purpose? I could not. I could never know that.

Until that faithfull day, that is.

It was a day like every other, me wandering alone for an eternity, until I suddenly felt a sensation like no other. Something I never felt before. A pull. A pull to a specific place on the planet, and a mind filling urge to go there. There was nothing else in my head, but the realisation that I was needed there. Someone had died there. I had a purpose.

I do not remember how I got there. I must have walked, although barley any time passed between the death and my arrival. It was in the corner of a Kitchen, in a small flat on the first floor of a house of some unimportant town. I held her soul in my arms as she cried, soothing her, answering her questions about the afterlife, carrying her to see her friends, her family, her favourite stray cat, her favourie rock, the top of Mount Everest, an active volcano, her parents again, the Easter Island Statues, a penguin settlement, and every other interesting place she could think of. We had time, after all. Nobody would need me anytime soon.

Thank you, Delphie Maria Black. The day you electrecuted yourself to death while trying to stab a toaster may have been a sad one for you and your family, but it was the happiest time of my existence. Because allthough your life ended this day, you proved to me that day that I had a purpose, that I was useful. I just had to wait long enough to see it.

Each type of death has a unique type of Reaper. The Reapers of Drowning collects the souls of the drowned. The Reapers of Old Age collects those that have come to their natural end. Write a story about a Reaper for an unusual death finally having a soul to collect.

#I wrote something #Is this any good?#random ramblings

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not-wholly-unheroic · 3 years ago

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Alright so I considered making this into a nice, long essay-style post but my thoughts aren’t really that organized so I’m just gonna do a sort of bullet point list on some of the little things about Spielberg’s Hook that I absolutely love.

Hook’s Costume & Cabin

Spielberg heard that Hook canonically resembles Charles II and went all out with it! Hoffman’s Hook, more than any other, looks like a gentleman straight out of the 1700s—the glorious red and gold coat, the fancy buckled shoes, the long curled wig tied with with ribbons and bows. The detail that went into his costume is amazing and I love how beautiful it is.

Everything about this Hook is over the top. Like royalty, he refuses to step down from his “throne” above the crew without Smee literally rolling out the red carpet for him. It’s very clear this Hook revels in finery. I mean look at his cabin. The man has not only the standard trappings of any 18th century nobleman’s home but even a miniature model of the island and a dang fireplace!

Is this ridiculous opulence in any way practical for a pirate? Absolutely not. Is it 100% accurate for Hook’s aesthetic and personality? Heck yes!

Neverland Bleeding into Reality

In stories like Peter Pan where there is both a “real world” setting and a magical realm, it’s always fun to look for little Easter eggs tying the two together so the audience is never quite sure how much is real and how much is imaginary. Neverland seeps into life in London in several places in this film. For example, on the plane, the voice that comes over the PA system and announces, “This is your Captain speaking…” is actually Hook himself—Dustin Hoffman.

Then there are some shots like this one, where Tootles, hearing Nana bark in the yard, recognizes that Hook is back. You probably noticed the ship in the bottle which is a replica of the Jolly Roger but did you catch the teddy bear?

Presumably we are looking at John’s top hat and glasses and Michael’s teddy bear from the original trip to Neverland…but if that wasn’t already meta enough, this same teddy bear shows up again later in the burnt out remains of the home underground when Peter is remembering why decided to grow up.

And this one might be a stretch but…early on in the film when we are getting a look at the pirate ship, we see a broom head beside a bottle that Tink is hiding behind.

Later, near the end of the film when Peter wakes up in Kensington Gardens and hears what he believes is Tink’s jingling, we see it’s actually Mr. Smee (Or is it?!) sweeping up some glass bottles that are clinking together.

Play-Acting and the Metaverse

Speaking of meta…this film has so many nods to the original. There’s the opening play with Maggie in the role of young Wendy, the painting of Hook in the dinghy that graces the bedroom wall, the latch on the window in the shape of the iron claw, Granny Wendy reading from the novel, and the whole Great Ormond Street Hospital scene. It’s nuts. (And by that I mean I love the attention to detail.)

But more than that, the entire film is set up like a sort of play. For example, when Peter arrives on the island, he is wrapped up in the sheet/parachute and his first view of Neverland is revealed when he pokes a hole in the sheet with his finger and begins ripping it apart. He’s literally parting the curtain for the audience here.

And everybody in Neverland is playing at being someone they are not. Tink plays dress-up and is very briefly the woman of Peter’s dreams—the woman she wishes she was but knows she really isn’t. Rufio is playing at being a fierce warrior who doesn’t need any parental figure—until he lays dying in Peter’s arms and admits that he wishes he had a father like Pan. And when the wig comes off, Hook—who in his usual attire comes off as an intimidating and dashing pirate captain—is reduced to little more than a pitiful old man who is past his prime.

Even Neverland itself is set up like the background one might see during a set change in a play with a giant compass rose and map lines visible in a flyover shot.

Hook and Pan’s Role Reversal

Another really intriguing aspect of this film to me is the way it totally flips the original on its head. Peter, who in the original is the fun, mischievous boy who steals away the Darling children, has become the workaholic adult who has no time for childish nonsense. That much is rather obvious but what is a bit subtler is that Hook’s role is somewhat reversed too. In most versions of the original, Hook and Mr. Darling are played by the same actor—Hook being a sort of fictionalized counterpart to Wendy’s rather serious and sometimes hotheaded father. Here, Peter has taken on the role of Mr. Darling as the “boring” adult and Hook, after stealing the children, becomes the “fun” father figure—to Jack, at least.

Theme of Belief

Last but not least, there is the theme of “believe hard enough and it will come true.” Much like in the original, flight requires belief for it work and the Lost Boys’ imaginary food is only actually filling if you believe it’s there. But what’s interesting to me here is that it isn’t just positive things that one seems able to believe into existence in this Neverland. For a long time, I thought Hook’s death in this version of the story was a bit of a cop-out. It seemed like having the (long-dead) crocodile come back to end Hook’s life was simply a way for the writers to avoid having Peter get his hands dirty. But then it occurred to me…if belief could brink Tink back from the point of death, why couldn’t it bring back the crocodile? Fear is an incredibly strong emotion that can often make the most rational among us have very strong irrational beliefs… I have now come to the conclusion that, in the moment when Hook heard all the clocks going off, his fear level was so amped up that he actually believed he was going to die the way he always thought he would—gobbled up by the giant ticking crocodile—and in a land of make-believe where anything is possible, that belief was strong enough to bring the crocodile back from the dead just long enough for it to do exactly what the captain expected it to. Ironically—and perhaps sadly—if this is the case, Hoffman’s Hook sealed his own fate.

So…I guess all of that is to say that while Hook may have its flaws, I love the research that went into the film. It’s clear that a lot of love for the original and a lot of effort went into the filmmaking process and that definitely gets some major brownie points from me.

#Captain Hook #captain james hook #james hook #hoffman hook #hook 1991 #captain hook dustin hoffman #steven speilberg #speilberg hook #robin williams

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ninja-muse · 2 years ago

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March also felt like it took forever, which I think is due to spring break taking up half the month and work being therefore slow. And yet it feels like a good month, all the same. I got a good ways further with the novel I’m working on, at least for me, put my Easter tree up last weekend, and had a few productive Leaving The House adventures. And one that, while productive, was just kind of a crappy day, but that’s how these things go, I guess. The art show mostly made up for the rest of it. Also, there is now sunshine, some days! And the trees are blooming!

I also read a lot, as always, including one great book and a handful of pleasant surprises, and I managed to get rid of seven reading copies, which feels unusually high. Had a handful of duds too though, including three books that I was really, really hoping would be better, even if I mostly finished them. The dithering I predicted last month didn’t materialize, thank goodness, or at least it limited itself to hour-long bouts after I’d finished something.

About halfway through the month, I realized I’d only read female authors and I decided that hey, it’s Women’s History Month, why not see if I can get through the whole month with only female authors?! This did not happen, but only by accident. One of the books I picked up was actually by a Two-Spirit person, but I’m still counting the challenge completed because really, the goal was not to read men. It wasn’t a hard challenge for me, and might actually have made picking books a little easier, but it’s not something I want to do all that regularly. Maybe next March?

Of course, I’m cheating a little on the challenge because I’m, like, 12 pages into Episode Thirteen because I had to read something on my commute tonight and I didn’t want to wait any longer. I’ve had the book out from the library for a week and a half and it’s going to be due back in the same length of time. My system doesn’t issue fines for late books anymore, but I still like to return books when I’m supposed to.

Also on my TBR for this month: Amina Al-Sirafi, coming from the library on Tuesday, the company ARC for Tasting History by Max Miller, and We Don’t Lose Our Class Goldfish by Ryan Higgins because I was so good about Not Men that I didn’t even read picture books. Don’t have any other plans, but hopefully some of the books “in process” at the library actually go into the system. I’m first in line for most of them.

And now without further ado, in order of enjoyment…

Diary of a Misfit - Casey Parks

Shortly after Casey comes out to her family, she learns that her grandma grew up friends with a trans man. Her need to learn more about him brings her to a reckoning with her own family and childhood.

8.5/10

🏳️‍🌈 subject (trans man), 🏳️‍🌈 author

warning: homophobia, misgendering, rape, drug abuse, child abuse

The Magician’s Daughter - H.G. Parry

Biddy’s magical guardian is in trouble and she must leave her island home to protect him (and magic, generally).

7/10

warning: incarceration, mentions of torture

The Librarian of Burned Books - Brianna Labuskes

Three women in the ‘30s and ‘40s find their lives altered by censorship and war.

7/10

Jewish MC, 🏳️‍🌈 MCs (lesbian), Jewish secondary characters, 🏳️‍🌈 secondary characters (gay)

warning: Nazis

Lent - Jo Walton

Brother Girolamo wants only to bring Florence closer to God, but he’s hampered by something greater than any sin.

7/10

🏳️‍🌈 secondary character, ��🇦

League of Dragons - Naomi Novik

Napoleon is retreating across Russia but Laurence and Temeraire learn he has greater plans than a mere next stand.

7/10

British-Asian secondary character, 🏳️‍🌈 secondary character, disabled secondary character

Island Time - Georgia Clark

The laid-back Kellys and the on-the-go Lees are spending a weekend on a remote Australian island. Then a volcano erupts and they’re forced to confront themselves. Dramedy.

7/10

🏳️‍🌈 main characters (lesbian, bi, gender-questioning), fat main character, Chinese-American secondary characters, Indigenous Australian secondary character, 🏳️‍🌈 author, #ownvoices

Backpacking Through Bedlam - Seanan McGuire

Alice and Thomas have reunited but they’ve got a few more adventures to get through before their happy ending.

6/10

🏳️‍🌈 secondary characters (lesbian, sapphic), Korean-American secondary character, 🏳️‍🌈 author

A House With Good Bones - T. Kingfisher

Sam’s back home for a bit and Something Is Up with her mom. The surprise racist painting is just the beginning….

6.5/10

fat protagonist

warning: racism, some fat-shaming by bad people, bugs

A Man and His Cat, Vol. 2 - Umi Sakurai

The further adorable adventures of Kanda and Fukumaru.

6/10

Japanese cast, Japanese author, #ownvoices

The Keeper's Six - Kate Elliott

Esther’s son has been kidnapped. He’s also the local Keeper, important in the interdimensional network. Getting him back is going to be more complicated than expected.

7/10

Jewish main character, Jewish secondary characters, 🏳️‍🌈 secondary characters (phallic, non-human genderfluidity), Japanese and other East Asian secondary characters

warning: discussion of slavery and the trafficking of people

Tauhou - Kōtuku Titihuia Nuttall

A genre-blending look at Indigenous female resilience across continents and time.

5/10

Maori and Coast Salish cast, 🏳️‍🌈 characters (sapphic), Maori-Coast Salish author, #ownvoices, 🏳️‍🌈 author

warning: residential schools, racist systems, internalised fatphobia

British Columbiana - Josie Teed

An awkward millennial gets a winter internship in a gold rush ghost town.

5/10

🇨🇦

warning: racists, gaslighting, social anxiety

Picture Books

Quackers - Liz Wong

Quackers lives by a pond and all his friends are ducks, so he must be a duck too. Meow?

DNF

Shanghai Immortal - A.Y. Chao

Work for the King of Hell? Check. Thwart a jewel heist? Check. Babysit a mortal? Check. Or … not, if Lady Jing’s impulsiveness gets in the way. Out in October.

Chinese cast, Chinese-Canadian author, #ownvoices, 🇨🇦

Currently reading

The Secret Lives of Country Gentlemen - KJ Charles

The day after Gareth ruins his chances with a charming stranger, he finds himself elevated to an estate in the country. Unfortunately (or not), there’s a very familiar smuggler in the area.

🏳️‍🌈 protagonists (phallic)

Episode Thirteen - Craig DiLouie

A ghost hunting show gets to be the first to investigate the most haunted house in America.

🇨🇦

Stats

Monthly total: 12+1 Yearly total: 37/140 Queer books: 4 Authors of colour: 2 Books by women: 11 Authors outside the binary: 1 Canadian authors: 2 Off the TBR shelves: 4 Books hauled: 1 ARCs acquired: 5 ARCs unhauled: 7 DNFs: 1

January February

#books #booklr #bookblr #adult booklr #book covers #book photography #my photos #stacks of books #reading wrap-ups #read in 2023 #book recommendations #rec lists

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aesopsharpmybeloved · 3 years ago

Text

Whisky Business

When your childhood friends come visit you, you drink slightly more than would be wise. Father Paul to the rescue!

Set sometime before the Easter vigil This is just a little idea I got few days ago and I'm pretty happy how it turned out. Your friends' names have been chosen at random. Also, the car story is true, but don't try it yourself xD

Whisky Business - 4K

tw: alcohol usage, attempts at humour

You didn’t really drink, other than a glass of wine to go with your dinner, or a hot cider on a chilly day, but when two of your childhood friends, Zoe and Libby, called you that they’re coming to visit you on Crockett Island, you knew that it wouldn’t stop at one glass of wine. Zoe, Lib and you went way back, you lived a few streets away from each other, attended the same schools and pretty much saw each other every single day until it was time for you to leave for your respective unis. Even then you stayed in contact and met up every now and again, mostly during the holidays.

And, as young women do when they finally meet for a ladies’ night, you partied. You’d usually start in a club, dance a little, flirt with a few boys (and sometimes girls), then move your soiree somewhere else, usually some hotel room, or one of your families’ houses, if the family went away for the holidays. Sometimes a few people would tag along, but you’d send them on their way once you felt it was time to wrap up for the night. As you got older (and only a little more responsible), you’d skip the club entirely, opting to stay in the comfort of one of your flats instead, inviting some more friends to talk, drink, play some games.

Well, this time the girls did want to drag you off onto the mainland and into a club, but seeing as you most definitely didn’t want to have to run to catch the morning ferry back to Crockett Island while fighting hangover, nor did you want to spend your entire day in some hotel room waiting for the Belle, you managed to convince your friends to stay in with you for the night.

Zoe and Libby arrived on the Breeze at 8 o’clock in the morning and let you show them around Crockett. “I still don’t understand why you moved here, of all places,” said Libby absent-mindedly before hurrying to add: “It’s not bad! Little fishing town, everyone knows everyone, it’s got its charm. But, you know, there are little fishing towns which are even more… charming.” You smiled wryly: “Yeah, well, I like this one."

"I think I can see why," replied Zoe cheekily, coyly nudging her head in the direction of the general store, in front of which now stood a certain police officer. You shook your head and grinned, opting to stay silent. What you said was true, you really became really fond of the island and its inhabitants, a few of them (including sheriff Hassan) in particular.

However, there indeed was a man you had your eyes on, and you’d rather let your friends think it was the brawny cop, and not the local holy man. Speaking of which, you were actually quite glad you hadn’t met the Father as you gave your friends a tour, as a single interaction between the two of you would be enough for Libby to know exactly how you felt about the man. She always had a sixth sense for these things…

You made chicken and spinach tagliatelle with cream sauce for dinner and you shared it sitting at your little dining table. Erin joined you after school (and a stroll with Riley) and to your happiness, she and your friends got on like a house on fire. The first drinks came after your meal, a very fruity sparkling wine was poured into three glasses and orange juice was put into the fourth. It was a pleasant evening, full of laughter and embarrassing stories from your youths, paired with a game of charades.

“I still can’t believe you actually got 14 people into a single car,” laughed Erin. “Nearly 15!” you replied jovially, “one of the girls was pregnant at the time!” More laughter followed. “Right, I won’t be doing any of that, you can be sure. How did the car even manage to start when there were like 10 more people there than it was made for?” “Don’t underestimate a Lada, they’re like a Nokia of cars,” said Zoe then, her voice already taking on a tipsy tone, “though, I must admit, as I was lying on the roof with (F/N), I was pretty sure the engine would just jump out of the hood and run away from us.”

Erin said her goodbyes somewhere around 9 o'clock, having managed to convince the girls her baby made her tired easily. You knew very well that Erin was in fact going home to be able to sit on her porch with Riley and talk late into the night. You haven't told your friends that, though, just as Erin didn’t tell them that the man you spent most time with on the island was not in fact the local law enforcer.

“You’ve got to try this,” said Libby, an oval brown bottle in her hand, “it’s made out of maple syrup and canadian whisky, and it’s really, really delicious.” So you did try, and it indeed was very good. So good in fact, that the bottle was completely empty within an hour (along with the bottle of wine, and some bottles of other liquors were also emptier than before), and you were beginning to feel completely drunk. And you weren’t the only one. The girls went from giggling about absolutely everything, to declarations of love towards you and each other, to talking about men. Zoe was going on and on about this intern working in her local clinic, who ‘totally looked like Captain America’ and had ‘pecs the size of her head’. Before your turn to talk about that special someone came however, you excused yourself to go to the bathroom.

Your legs were rather shaky and unstable and your mind felt like you were on a boat and you cursed under your breath. It had been easier when you were sitting down, but now the alcohol rushed directly into your head and made you dizzy. you sat down on your closed toilet heavily and closed your eyes, taking deep breaths. Five minutes later, when you were sure you’re not going to be sick the moment you stood up, you walked to the sink. You splashed cold water on your face and drank some directly from the tap. Feeling still very drunk but far more steadier, you headed for your living room again.

It was rather strange though, as you didn’t hear anything once you stood in the hallway. You heard your friends chatting and giggling among themselves before you entered the bathroom, their slurred voices echoing off the walls, but now it seemed your house was dead silent. When you finally reached the living room, you saw both your friends lying on your couch, the still and quiet now disturbed by even breathing and the occasional light snore from Zoe.

You snorted quietly and swayed on your feet. Party’s over it seemed. You threw a blanket over your friends and made to go to your room and sleep it off, when a knock came from your front door. You thought it was perhaps Erin having forgotten something, but when you opened the door and leaned heavily against the frame, your unfocused eyes widened slightly at the sight of a tall black haired man in dark clothes, his soft features turned into a lovely smile.

“Hey,” you slurred quietly and gave him a drunken smile, your head tilting to the side and eyes squinting a little. “Hello,” he said back, his voice making you melt inside, “I see you’re having fun.” Did he just purr? Was this man seriously just purring at you? ‘This is bad’, you realised, drunk-you had the wheel, your inhibitions were severely lowered and the object of your affection stood before you, purring . “I took a walk because I couldn’t sleep, and thought I’d stop by for a chat when I saw you still have lights on too. But if this isn’t a good time…” “No, no no, it is a good time,” you mumbled quickly, pulling at his hand. You could get into some serious trouble - your drunk self didn’t give a damn.

“My friends came to visit me and they’re sleeping on the couch, come into my room,” oh, some serious trouble. Paul didn’t say anything, letting you lead him slowly. You entered the dark bedroom with the priest in tow and shut the door. For several seconds, you were enveloped in absolute darkness, and you suddenly realised how close you stood to the man. So close in fact, that you felt the heat coming off his body, felt his breath tickle your cheeks as your eyes searched for his own in the darkness. Then there was a click, and the moment was gone. You stepped away from Father Paul and climbed on top of the bed, moving to sit cross legged upon the made covers.

Paul smiled softly and kneeled in front of the bed, hands coming up to rest on your knees gently. “Sooo,” you said in a sing-song voice, “did you have something specific to talk about?” The priest gave you another smile and his thumbs stroked over your knees, the lycra of your leggins soft against his fingers. “A few things, yeah, but I won’t trouble you with them now… You should get some sleep.” You gave the priest a childish pout, making him chuckle.

"I'll bring you a glass of water. And some aspirin. Can you get ready for bed by yourself, or…?" A deep red blush appeared on his cheeks. "I'm not that drunk, you know," you grumbled, "but wait!" Paul stopped and looked at you. "Um, don't wake my friends. They get like-" you stumbled over your words, "Old man and the sea-ish." The priest stared at you as if you just spoke Mandarin to him: "Um, what exactly is that supposed to mean?" You fell upon the bed, lying down on your side and looked at him sleepily through your eyelashes. "You know, Old man and the sea, by Ernest Hemingway? Guy hunts down this huge fish, but before he can haul it back home, sharks come and nibble the entire thing away. So, you know, like that.”

You probably weren’t making any sense, as Paul gave you a long unreadable look. But then again, perhaps you’d be able to read it were you sober. “Oh wow,” he whispered at last, smiling mischievously, “you’re going to be so sick in the morning.” And with that he left your room in his quest to get you an aspirin and a glass of water… a pitcher, actually. Turns out, you in fact were rather too drunk to actually change into your sleeping clothes. You were luckily wearing very comfortable home clothes though, so you just peeled off your leggings and socks, and fumbled with your bra under your long baggy shirt until you were able to unclasp it and pull it off.

You were luckily sitting with your back to the door as you did so, because Paul came back the exact moment you pulled the garment from under your t-shirt and threw it somewhere in the direction of the laundry basket. Still, your dear friend managed to get an eyeful of your bare lower back, as well as your bottom, clad in a pair of undies with a kitty cat print. You weren’t aware of it, but Paul had to close his eyes and count to five in his head, willing his body to calm down and his mind to get itself out of the gutter. When his eyes opened again, you were (thankfully) covered once more by the large t-shirt.

The priest coughed and entered the room fully, getting your attention. His stomach flipped when you gave him another drunken smile, one that made him feel like he was the centre of your universe. Paul carefully put your water and pills on the bedside table and flipped the light switch on the wall once more, turning on a small lamp on your dresser instead. He helped tuck you in then, doing his best not to stare at your bare thighs, or the way your shirt hiked up a little every now and then because of your attempts to get under the covers. You however paid no attention to where he was looking, as you were rather busy staring at the man’s lips. Finally, he pulled the blanket over you, the edge of it nearly at your chin.

Suddenly, your hands travel to his cheeks on their own accord, grabbing and gently pulling him down. The poor man is too shocked to resist and lets himself get closer and closer, until…

Your lips brush his cheek tenderly, one hand going into his hair, the other moving to rest on the hot skin of his throat. “Thank you, Paul,” you whisper into his ear and he fights a tremor, “thank you for taking care of me.” Paul smiles and allows his arms to curl around your form, at least for a little while. However, he parts from you quickly, being quite aware that the longer he holds you, the more he won't want to let go.

He sits down on a chair in your room, facing you and talking softly as you begin to fall asleep. Every once in a while, he has to keep himself from chuckling, because you get this intense look in your eyes and hit him with some unexpected compliment.

“Wow, huge...” you breathe. “Yes, the temples in Israel really are that big,” he says, thinking you were reacting to his storytelling.“No, no. I was talking about your eyes, they’re huge. And beautiful.” Paul’s quiet.

You fell asleep finally, more than forty five minutes after Paul first arrived at your door, though he looked at you for many more minutes after that, taking in your calm and relaxed face. Your left arm was wrapped around one of your pillows, squeezing it unconsciously. How easy would it be to simply move the pillow a little bit and take its place… The priest sighed. It wouldn’t be right.

Instead, his hand pushed a few stray hairs out of your face and slowly stroked your smooth cheek. You leaned into his tender touch, the corners of your mouth turning upwards ever so slightly. “You really are going to be the death of me,” he sighed once more and forced himself to leave your bedside.

He silently tried to make his way out of your house, when he heard a quiet gasp. Paul turned around and his eyes landed on a girl your age, her hair a mess and clothes rather dishevelled. She was just exiting your bathroom. “Um, you’re a priest,” she slurred her words, seeming even drunker than you were, “does that mean I’m like… dead, or something?” Father Paul blinked and fought back a grin. “No,” he said calmly, “no I’m just a marlin and you’re a shark. Also, you’re dreaming. Goodnight.” The girl nodded her head quickly, as if she’d already known what he just told her: “Oh okay. Goodnight Mr Marlin” and with that she dragged herself back to your living room.

Paul chuckled to himself all the way back to the rectory.

—

You woke up hating yourself. Your head was throbbing and why on earth is there so much light in here?! Through squinted eyes, you located a few pills of aspirin on your nightstand, and you immediately popped a couple of them into your mouth. You drank half of the big glass of water which was right next to the meds in a single breath, feeling thirsty like you spent the last eight hours walking through a scorching desert. 'I am never drinking again' you thought bitterly as you settled on your side once more, staring morosely at the half empty glass. Speaking of which, how did that get here? You definitely didn't remember fetching it, as you'd have to climb a chair in order to reach the cupboard where you stored your medication. The girls couldn't have done it either, as they were already passed out yesterday, drunker than you, and were probably still asleep.

And then bits and snippets began coming back. Father Paul. You didn't really remember what you spoke about (if you spoke at all), but he was definitely in your house yesterday… in your room even! 'Oh god.' You covered your face in embarrassment, actually praying that you didn't do or say anything stupid. You scanned the room with your eyes, looking for your phone. It lay on your dresser, charging, right where you left it before Erin came to join you for dinner. You crawled out of bed, your legs feeling like lead and grabbed the phone, returning back on the mattress promptly.

There was one new message, but it wasn't from Father Paul, but rather your teacher friend.

"Text me when you wake up. Just let me know that you're alive lol"

And so you did, vaguely. It was 11 o'clock. You debated whether you should call Paul and find out whether you caused any major faux pas while he was over, so you could start apologising, but then ultimately decided against it. You groaned. You had a godawful taste in your mouth and could actually smell the alcohol vapour coming off your skin. In that moment, you decided it was for the best if you put yourself together before going to apologise to the local priest for any embarrassing things you might have said or done to him, lest you embarrass yourself even further.

You checked on Zoe and Libby and, as you expected, they were still sleeping soundly on your couch, limbs sprawled out in all directions. "Shower, anyone?" You asked entirely too quiet for them to hear you, even if they weren't still sleeping off last night's activities, "no? Guess I'm going first then."

You brushed your teeth twice, and used a copious amount of mouthwash, trying to get that 'something died here' taste out, and your skin was nearly sore by the time you finished scrubbing at it. To your surprise, blowing your hair dry still didn't wake your friends up, and you therefore had some more time to make yourself appear like a human again. Once you were satisfied, it was just after 12 o'clock, and about time the girls began to pull themselves together as well.

So you woke them up, as gently as you could, providing them with a 'hangover morning starter pack'; clean towels, new toothbrushes, glass of seltzer and more aspirin, and Zoe and Libby took turns in your bathroom, while you went to cook some quick chicken soup to eliminate your hangovers.

In the end, it was a pretty fun evening and you were glad your friends came to see you. While you truly did like your home on Crockett Island, you had to admit you sometimes missed your more lively hometown, and therefore loved every single new story the girls threw at you. When the time came, and you embraced each of them before they got onto the Belle, all of you looked almost as presentable as you looked the previous day.

You walked home, intent on cleaning up the place a little. It wasn't too bad, just some pillows out of place, a sticky ring on the coffee table from one of the glasses, a small salsa stain on the hardwood floor from a late night snack. Huh, what is this? It seemed Libby forgot her earrings, which is, of course, just like her.

Then suddenly, there was a knock.

"I would've sent you the earrings by post, you know? Now you've missed the ferry." you called as you made your way towards the door, "I've got no problem with you guys crashing in my place one more night, but I'm not drinking anything else than water! Also I'm going to church tomorrow, so I'm waking up early." You opened the door. Once more, it was not whom you expected. Instead of the two girls with sheepish smiles on their faces, there stood the local priest, his own smile anything but sheepish.

"Oh…" you said, "um, hi." You couldn't read his expression, but Paul could definitely see the red beginning to settle within your cheeks. "Hello," he said, his grin widening, "I am of course glad to hear both of those things." You chuckled nervously and then stepped aside, letting him into your house once again. You went into the kitchen and you automatically began preparing tea while he sat down at the table. "Um," you said eloquently, "there's some soup if you'd like?" Father Paul gratefully accepted and soon happily ate his hot soup.

"I, uh, I wanted to apologise," you began, spinning the spoon in your large cup of mint tea. Father Paul swallowed and gave you a confused look: "Huh? What for?" You sighed. "Okay, first off, you know I don't drink too often, right?" He hummed in a 'yes'. "But, well, I really overdid it yesterday with the girls, and the thing is that I don't… remember much. So if I did anything really embarrassing, or inappropriate, I wanted to apologise. So, yeah, I'm really sorry." The priest shook his head gently and chuckled into his plate: "Don't worry, you didn't do anything of that sort. We just talked."

"What did we talk about?" you asked then. Paul's lips did that little 'mouth shrug' you thought was absolutely cute as well as hilarious. "A number of things, pretty small, I don't remember most of it myself. You said something about The Old man and the sea. Your favourite book, I presume?" he asked in a light tone, putting another spoonful of soup into his mouth. You nodded a little and finally smiled. Once Father Paul finished his plate and wiped his lips with a napkin, he made himself comfortable in your kitchen chair and reached for his tea: "I mean it, you don't have to apologise for anything. You had fun with your friends, had a few drinks, slept it off, all of you are fine. As you said, you don't drink, and no, I don't count one glass of wine to go with supper as drinking." You grinned and swallowed your protest.

"Thank you for the aspirin and water, by the way," you said then, feeling much better, "you saved my life." Paul gave you a serene look: "Such is a priest's purpose." You giggled and lightly slapped his arm. "You were rather cute actually," he then said offhandedly, making you raise your eyebrows at him, "yeah. All sweet and smiley." "I am always sweet and smiley!" you gasped in mock offence. He shrugged and you slapped his arm again and giggled. Paul joined you soon.

"However, if you ever feel like, I don't know, you want to have a glass of wine outside of dinner, there's this really cool after-school club you can join," he carried on, his voice dripping with dry humour. "What, your AA after-school club?" "No, the Crockett Island book club, you can talk about Ernest Hemingway there all you like." Your eyebrows furrowed in thought. "Paul, there isn't a Crockett Island book club, I think I'd know if there was. And I'd definitely know if they had wine there," you said finally, looking at the priest with squinted eyes. "Oh, well, we currently only have one member, um, me, and the meetings are held in the rectory, but you can join if you want, I'd definitely like to see you there."

You observed him, his expression unreadable again, or it would've been had he not been holding his breath. You released an amused sound, one of your hands coming up on the table to support the weight of your head. You were in big trouble. You probably loved this man. Still you grinned at him, looking into his warm, sparkling eyes.

"So what are we reading?"

Hello, I hope you enjoyed reading this silly little thing. You can check this story and the entire series on AO3. I’m always so grateful for feedback <3

#fanfiction #midnight mass #midnight mass fanfiction #pre-romance #father paul #father paul x reader #father paul hill #reader insert #father paul fluff #tfw u drink so much a priest has to come 💀#congrats u didnt throw up

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snackhobi · 5 years ago

Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taehyung goes through a lot of different phases.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jesus Christ.

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

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

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

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

And then you have a miniature breakdown at Pickles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

… Anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

(You have the backbone of a chocolate éclair.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How’s your shoulder feeling?”

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

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

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

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

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

Your luck doesn’t last.

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

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

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

“What do you think sounds best?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He just shakes his head.

“Okay,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Taehyung?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(You’re going to die.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry.” He sounds genuinely apologetic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

(It’s not cool.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Better?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(What is he doing?)

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

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

“Taehyung.” Your voice is high and faint.

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

“Taehyung,” you repeat. Your voice shakes.

He hums, low and indulgent. “Yes?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(But.)

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

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

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

“Taehyung.” Almost pleading.

“Yes, love?”

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

(You’re not.)

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

Before you can think, you nod.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Anything you want,” he murmurs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course you want to.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Let me move.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, Tae,” you beg. “More, please.”

“Whatever you want, sweetheart.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You got edible massage oil from your course?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You really are perfect,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here?��

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, fuck—”

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

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

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

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

“‘M sorry,” he murmurs.

You pause.

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

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

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

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

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

There’s a pause. “Really?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Taehyung?”

“Yes, angel?”

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

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

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

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

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

(“Hey, Pickles.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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