#dad's kitchen sink stew

[cuddyclothes]

Tastes So Good - Supernatural's "The Pissed Off Sandwich" Cookbook, Part Two

Some years ago some dedicated fans of Supernatural put together a cookbook to be sold for charity. It was named after the moment in Season 7, Episode 9, when Dean's turducken sandwich starts to ooze green. "I think you pissed off my sandwich" is Dean's immortal line.

I was asked to provide recipes. They had to tie into actual dialogue from the show John Winchester's recipe for "Kitchen Sink Stew" in Part Two. I'll have you know that making this stew entailed a lot of disgusting stuff, like stewed Slim Jims and beef jerky. Because I am a dedicated fan!!

JOHN WINCHESTER’S KITCHEN SINK STEW

Note: This is taken from John Winchester’s journal.  It has been left unedited.

STARTING OUT

Stew: only way to get vegetables down Dean’s gullet.  Constipated Dean is hell to live with.  Sammy loves vegetables.  He’s a freak.  And not just because he has demon blood.

JOHN WINCHESTER’S TIPS:

You need a stove.  Tried making this on a hot plate but it took three days and set the motel room on fire.  First ingredients, then cooking directions, then toppings and/or stuff on the side.

1. BASICS

2 lbs boneless beef chuck roast cut into medium-sized pieces

4 tablespoons of butter /14 diner packets

2 large onions, peeled and chopped up

2 tablespoons flour.  Or Bisquick

1 teaspoon sugar (skip sugar if using Bisquik)/ 2 Domino sugar packets

2 cups beer.  If you like dark beer, something like Negra Modelo.  My favorite is Budweiser.  Or whatever’s on sale at the gas station.  Guinness is a wuss beer and it costs too much.

2 beef bouillon cubes in 1 1/2 cup water. 

2. SEASONINGS:

Salt and pepper

Worcestershire sauce

Tabasco sauce

Parsley if you’ve got it

Bay leaf if you’ve got it

JOHN WINCHESTER’S TIPS:

Beef jerky or Slim Jims adds a nice flavor.  NO GUMMI WORMS, no matter how much Dean begs.

3. VEGETABLES:

You can put anything in this stew.  Mix and match:

1 big turnip, cut into big pieces

4 carrots, peeled, cut into chunks 


4 potatoes, peeled, cut into chunks

2 green peppers, chopped up

2 cups lima beans

One big can diced tomatoes

2 cups okra

Canned corn

2 cups string beans

2 cups peas

2 boxes frozen spinach

2 boxes frozen mixed vegetables

What the hell are parsnips?

4. DIRECTIONS:

Brown beef with butter, salt and pepper. If you can't get butter, steal a bottle of Wal-Mart oil, any kind. Not motor oil!

Add flour and stir until beef is coated and browned.

Add Worcestershire sauce—a couple of good shakes. 

Add sugar.  Add onions.  Stir around until the onions are soft.

Add beer and beef broth.  Give it a good stir.

Add vegetables.  Stir it.

Remember to give it a stir!

Cook for 2 hours, covered.  If it looks too dry add water, stock, or beer (of course). 

5. TOPPINGS:

Crumbled Doritos or B-B-Q potato chips

Pretzels

Party mix – the salty kind, not the sweet kind

Beef jerky

Crispy Chinese noodles from these cheapo restaurants.  If you want to grab a couple of soy sauce packets and add that in to the stew, be my guest.

JOHN WINCHESTER’S TIPS:

If no potatoes, use rice, around 2 cups.  Makes one big chunk of stuff.  Boys didn’t much like it: made them eat anyway.

No potatoes or rice, a couple of boxes of mac and cheese without the cheese works.  Save the cheese for something else, like dip.  If you have company.  We don’t.  We sprinkle it on cereal.

NO SALAD!!

[agoodroughandtumble]

Do You Think They Know? - Roronoa Zoro x Reader Part 3

Do You Think They Know? - Roronoa Zoro x Reader Status: Complete (3 of 5) Summary: A culmination of oneshots ascertaining Reader & Zoro’s relationship Warning: 18+, Language, implied smut

As soon as your watch was finished – you had been gratefully relieved by Usopp – you had made a beeline straight towards the galley. Your stomach had been grumbling for what seemed like an eternity and there was no way you would get to sleep before satisfying that need. Because Sanji was the best cook ever, he always left some soup or stew in the fridge for whoever was on watch that night – just in case. You often teased him, telling him that you were more than capable of making yourself a sandwich but then you’d reheat a bowl of whatever he’d made and forget that other food existed.

The smell coming from the reheated soup was making you even more impatient, so much so that you’re over eagerness to pour it from the pan to your bowl resulted in half of it spilling all over your hand.

“Ah, fuck!” Immediately you dropped the pan, jumping back and shaking your hand. A quick inspection seemed to show it was fine as you quickly started to clean up your mess, however the more you worked, the more the burning sensation seemed to seep in. You had only just managed to dry the floor and shove the pan and bowl into the sink – hand now as red as freshly caught lobster – when you heard a voice behind you.

“What happened to your hand?”

Although you hadn’t noticed Zoro walking into the galley it wasn’t unusual for him to be skulking about at night – usually on the hunt for some more booze. You looked down at your hand, red and already starting to blister a little. Heat swept across your cheeks. You had been hoping to avoid the embarrassment. “Oh, it’s nothing – just reminding myself why Sanji does all the cooking.”

“Let me see,” Zoro stepped towards you with a strangely serious expression.

“It’s fine, really-”

“(Y/N).”

His tone was harsh. Commanding.

With a defeated sigh you obliged and held out your hand for inspection. His fingers were surprisingly delicate yet you could feel the harsh, calloused skin caused by a lifetime of fighting. It was strange – the sheer concentration on his face, usually reserved for training burning into your skin far hotter than any kitchen accident could hope to achieve. You swallowed, transfixed on the gentle crease between his eyebrows, the frown forming at the corner of his lips.

“You should have told me earlier.” Zoro half muttered, irritation evident in his voice as he let go of your hand.

You rolled your eyes, any expectations of lingering in the moment vanished. “Yeah, sure, dad.”

His eyes met yours. You swallowed again, suddenly regretful of your flippant remark and far too aware of the close proximity between the two of you. “I’m serious.” He took your hand and half dragged you towards the sink – letting the tap run for a few seconds before holding your hand under the stream.

For your part, all you seemed capable of was standing there helplessly, chewing on your lip as the cold water started to relieve the pain. There was an awkward tension in the air. Head tilted, you looked him up and down, trying to read his mind. He seemed annoyed, inconvenienced. You were half tempted to tell him not to bother helping if he was going to be such a dick about it. The other half … well, you could hardly be to blame for indulging in the attention you were receiving. Something about the softness in which he was holding your hand, the earnest expression in his eyes – completely opposite to the tone of his voice. It wasn’t something you were used to, that you could put a finger on. Grumpy Zoro, bickering with Sanji Zoro, cocky because he saw you watching his training Zoro, doing something incredibly stupid and dangerous Zoro – that’s what you were used to. This was… odd. New.

You mentally slapped yourself. This was Zoro. The man was made for fighting. Of course he would be worried about something that could make you a liability. He’d be like this with anyone. He was probably already formulating some sort of new training regime to get you back up to standard. It was practical. It was part of being the first mate. Nothing more. Good. You could understand that.

Feeling more eased, both from the pain and from the realisation that Zoro was just doing his job you relaxed a little. “I thought you’d be asleep. Honestly, it’s nothing to worry about.”

His gaze was still fixed on your hand. See. Nothing weird. Until he spoke. “Could have woken me up.”

Huh. No, stop overthinking. Just general interest in the safety of the crew. You let out a forced chuckle, trying to clear the air. “You would kill me for waking you up over something trivial.”

“You’re hurt.” His eyes were back on yours again. Not staring at you. Staring into you. Fuck. “That’s not trivial.”

The sincerity of his tone was definitely something you weren’t used to, and, as it happened, completely unaware of how to react. You both stared at each other in silence until Zoro turned the tap off. “Sit down.” He must have noticed the flash of confusion in your eyes before you complied as he smirked at your obedience. “Curly Brow always has a first aid kit in here – just in case.” He explained, opening up a cupboard and retrieving a green box.

You nodded, arm out on the table, eyes fixated on Zoro as he pulled out some sterilizer and a bandage. His touch was just as delicate as he worked on your burn, and you could be forgiven a little for thinking that his fingers were lingering a little too long on your wrist – especially as the burn was only on your palm. But you pushed such thoughts aside, reminding yourself that this was just him being practical and you wouldn’t have been able to bandage your own hand. When it was completed you pulled your arm back, studying his work. “Almost as good as Chopper.”

“Hardly. I’m just used to superficial injuries.”

“Well, thanks, I guess.” You stood up, “I’d better get some sleep. But yeah, thanks.”

*

“Urgh. What is his problem?” You flopped onto the lounger next to Robin.

She didn’t look up from her book but the raised eyebrow indicated she was listening. “Has this got anything to do with our swordsman?”

You rolled over onto your side to face her. “No.” The silence was more annoying than her commenting. “Maybe. Shut up.”

She smirked and set down her book.

You hadn’t noticed – being so caught up in your own frustration that she had called Nami over.

The redhead beamed down at you – a mischievous look about her. “Is she whinging about Zoro again?” Nami pointedly asked Robin.

“I am not.” You replied, rather petulantly. “He’s just being so … twatty.”

Nami and Robin exchanged looks but it was Robin who turned to face you, “What’s he done this time?”

“He won’t let me train because of this,” you waved your bandaged hand at them. “Apparently it’s too much of a risk which is bullshit bec-”

Nami grabbed your wrist, inspecting the bandage. “What happened? Did Chopper do this? Looks a little rough.”

You rolled your eyes, “No, Zoro bu-”

Another glance between the two of them. You were too annoyed to notice. “Hmm.” Nami let go.

You glared at the two of them. You were annoyed enough without them taking that arsehole’s side. “What? What, tell me.”

Robin picked up her book again. “Nothing I can help with, I’m afraid.”

You turned to Nami, trying to find an ally. “He’s being so insufferable. Won’t even let me pick up a fucking plate without hovering around me. Treating me like I’m made of glass or something.”

The redhead cocked her head. “Have you said that to him?”

A pause. You weren’t appreciating the scrutiny. You had wanted to rant about Zoro being an overbearing arsehole and assuming a stupid burn would make you completely incapable of functioning. Instead you were getting an interrogation. You let out a sigh. “I hate you guys.”

“Yeah, we know.” Nami replied giving you a shove off of your sun-lounger. “Go talk to him.”

You did not go to talk to him. Instead you very pointedly ignored him and headed below deck. Nami sighed, stretching out on the lounger you had previously been occupying. She turned to Robin with a mischievous glint in her eye. “Care to double the bet?”

[valeffelees]

hey, g'morn ☀️

i really have no respect for the sanctity of the word "snippet". save for a short scene between aggie and simon, and all of the simon and baz interactions i'm hoarding, y'all've read pretty much the entire first chapter of bitverse via my wipsday posts lmfao

but that's okay, i have no regrets 👍

this'll prolly read best if you've read [this snippet] first, but you don't have to bc ngl this whole altverse is completely incomprehensible as is. and also i dunno if it's just me but Tumblr is being proper shit today and won't let me indent text? so i'm doing tags up here. i hope y'all are well and that september has been kind to you so far!

Tag, you're it! 🪄 @cutestkilla @raenestee @hushed-chorus @thewholelemon @larkral @artsyunderstudy @blackberrysummerblog @captain-aralias @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @imagineacoolusername @ivelovedhimthroughworse @facewithoutheart @rimeswithpurple @aroace-genderfluid-sheep @jasonfunderberkerthefrogexists @nightimedreamersworld @shrekgogurt @prettygoododds @youarenevertooold @alexalexinii @fatalfangirl @cosmicalart

cw: drinking/alcohol, funeral mention

His father stares at him through the flickering dark. A sluggish display of thin purple eyelids and sticky, tangled brown lashes. Simon wonders when that drawn, vacant expression stopped looking so out of place on him, when all the sharp triumph and dynamic bends of his father’s face gave way to the frowning slack of his cheeks, the flat weight of his brow.

Propping himself onto an elbow, his father scratches at the patchy stubble tapering down his neck. “Yeah,” he replies. Lying. Nobody’s been in the kitchen tonight. The stove light is off. And when Simon flicks it on, the only dishes in the sink are his own.

“Okay,” Simon says.

He opens the fridge. An obscene amount of food is crowded inside—tupperware container after tupperware container of hearty, home-cooked meals, loading up the shelves and crispers. (Like sardines in a can, he thinks. Like cars outside a funeral.)  Maple-glazed carrots, shepherd’s pie, peameal bacon, tofu scramble, fried fiddleheads, chicken stew, hashed potatoes, whipped potatoes, scalloped potatoes, baked potatoes, cheesy potatoes—who even needs this many fucking potatoes?

Apparently this is what people do when someone dies.

Leave their shit leftovers at your door.

Simon grabs a half-empty tub of something cold and lumpy from the top shelf before closing the fridge with the side of his foot. He doesn’t remember what he had for breakfast, but the spoon in the sink looks clean enough. “Gran asked about you,” Simon says, cracking the lid off, taking a bite. He frowns at the eggy taste of potato salad. “Wants you to call her. Think she’s pissed.

(Pissed is an understatement. Simon never much understood the turn of phrase if looks could kill until today, when he walked into his mother’s funeral alone. His grandmother’s chin twisted right up when she saw him, the corners of her eyes pinching tight. He thought it to himself right then—if looks could kill.)

His father doesn’t reply.

Simon glances over his shoulder, but he can’t see the couch from here. Just the television, a bit of the coffee table, the shadow of the front door stretched between panes of rain-speckled yellow. Simon toes down the heels of his J&Ms, kicks them aside, one by one, and shuffles back into the lounge room, digging through his bowl for chunks of celery and green onion.

He turns below the archway expecting his father to be asleep again, because that is what Davy Cadwallader does these days. Sleeps in a shallow grave of body sweat and sunken cushions, buried in the wilting memory of where Lucy Salisbury used to curl her feet up watching sitcoms and reading love stories by lamplight.

But instead, Simon finds him with his head between his knees.

Clasping his mouth. 

Heaving.

Choking.

Shaking.

Simon makes a strangled noise (that might have been “Wait!”) (or might have been “Dad!”) (or might have been “Fuck!”) as he rushes to the washroom to trade his potato salad for the empty Chapman’s tub behind the toilet tank.

“Don’t puke!” he shouts, and yanks open the linen cupboard. The door hits the wall and fifty-fucking-thousand plasters fall from the middle shelf like one of those shit spring-loaded snake-in-a-can gags as Simon reaches between bottles of Tylenol and Buckley’s to pry out a fresh roll of paper towel.

“Don’t puke, don’t puke!”

Simon was sixteen the first time he drank himself sick.

It was his birthday—their birthday. His and Syd’s. But the party was for Simon. The better half of their entire junior year showed up, and he wants to say it was fun, but he honestly doesn’t remember much of the party itself besides the glow of the bonfire and Snapple Spiked peach tea and Agatha’s soft mouth.

What he does remember is coming home.

The way the whole world was tilting and creaking around him; the front door, the old floors, the couch springs.

His hands wouldn’t stop shaking, his teeth wouldn’t stop shivering. He was cold and tangled on the inside, blinking full of slow, sleepy dead spots and the humid June dark, wrapped around himself on his side trying to breathe through a vicious, green nausea when his father sat down beside him in his pyjamas, still mussed with sleep.

There’s a blink in his memory—and suddenly Simon is hugging that same Chapman's tub to his stomach and curled against his father’s shoulder and Doctor Who is playing in the background and he’s drunk and embarrassed and asking, “Are you mad? Are you mad? Dad, are you mad at me?”

A hand on his head.

“Hush.” Fingers in his hair. “You'll wake your mother.”

“Are you mad?”

“I'll be mad later.”

“I’m so drunk,” Simon whined.

“I can see that. How’s it feel, hero?”

“Am I going to die?”

His father laughed. “Well, I hope not,” he said. “I’d miss you.”

[jinkieswouldyoulookatthis]

The Great Escapist (8x21) Dean: Alright, here we go. John Winchester's famous cure-all kitchen sink stew. There you go. Enough cayenne pepper in there to burn your lips off, just like Dad used to make.

Dean: Ya want me to do the whole airplane thing with the spoon? When was the last time you ate?

Sam: I- I don't...

Dean: Days, Sam. It's been three days.

Sam: When'd you get that?

Dean: When you started throwing off heat waves. Here.

Sam: Enough, Dean. Please.

Dean: The bloody handkerchiefs, the fever, the shaky legs... this is not good.

Sam: Well, I'm not good. And I'm not going to be good until we can start moving again. Until I can start the third trial.

Dean: Trial? I wouldn't let you start a moped. We're on the rails with this thing, okay, and the only way out of it is through it, believe me, I know. And you know how bad I wanna slam the door on all those sons of bitches. But you gotta let me take care of you, man. You gotta let me help you get your strength back.

Sam: This isn't a cold. Or a fever, or whatever it is you're supposed to feed. This is part of it all. Those first two trials... they're not just things I did. They're doing something to me. They're changing me, Dean.

[st0rmyskies]

Thought I'd share on tumbl a HSH-related question I got on the server that was fun to answer.

In theory, how petty would each of the boys be if someone in the house pissed them off? Things like touching others' stuff, moving shit, throwing stuff away they shouldn't have or like teasing that went too far.

Behold, answers below the cut for length.

Time - When he gets pissed off, his pettiness manifests as the Silent Treatment. He's perfectly happy to stand in the same room with someone, hell even right next to them, and not say a damn word. Not look them in the eye, not even look at them. He can keep up said treatment indefinitely; rumor has it that he still gives his brother (Wind's dad) the silent treatment to this day after well over two decades of living apart. It's enough to drive some people Wars nuts.

Wars - Speaking of everyone's favorite prima donna, he's the type to go out of his way to call someone out on their BS. He will loudly and repeatedly verbally berate someone for pissing him off. "Oh dear, there's a dish left in the sink? Don't let Wild see that, who knows what he'll slip in your next meal." "Out of shampoo, are you? Stay away from Legend's, he'll kick down your door at some obscene hour of the night to put a curse on you for it." Etc etc. If there's one thing Wars is good for, it's running his mouth.

Twilight - Everyone's favorite bumpkin is slow to anger. Like, really slow to anger. I'm honestly not sure what you'd have to do to get on his bad side, but his reaction to being pissed off is to distance himself physically (i.e. running away from home in the first place). He's likely to go out for a nice long walk and come back later to "confront" said roommate. "Hey, what you said before wasn't cool, let's talk about it."

Sky - Our little cupcake. Our sweet baby angel. Has the most terrifying Resting Bitchface. And he will stare at you from across the house, not saying a word, just searing directly into your soul with a gaze that could cut you in half. Seriously, you'll feel those eyes on you in your sleep. Lucky for those who piss him off, he's very open to hearing out apologies and generally doesn't rag on people for their mistakes like Wars does.

Wild - He's much too sweet to get annoyed with people, honestly. He's the kind of person who would get bumped in to in the kitchen and apologize for being in the way. If you did do something to piss him off, he'd probably confront you and default to that terrible too-angry-to-handle-it crying, which has most people tripping over themselves to apologize right away.

Champion - Similar to Sky, he's got the stone cold stare down pretty well, but Champion is also one for subtle threats of bodily harm. Staring at you from across the kitchen as he snaps apart a pair of restaurant chopsticks, or while he's cutting up something at the counter, or starting the blender (bonus points if he's blending something red). For more grievous offenses, he might play more blatant mind games, like making it seem like you misplaced your keys, or things could go missing from your room.

Four - Less subtle in his antagonism, Four will also go to the lengths of the silent treatment in addition to refusing to help a friend who has wronged him. And these boys need Four's help pretty fucking often. He's not going to refuse when something really important is at stake, like somebody needing a ride to the hospital or similar, but forget that curling iron you needed fixed, Wars. Yes, he saw you sneak the rest of his leftovers, fuck you.

Legend - You'd better clean your hair out of the drain after showering and hide your comb if you know what's good for you. If you don't, the sudden jabbing pains that wake you up in the middle of the night are going to continue until you fess up to stealing some of his candles for a romantic evening at home with your cowboyfriend, Champion.

Hyrule - He's going to stew, he's going to avoid eye contact, he's going to use only the minimum amount of words with you that are necessary. And he is going to run his mouth to Legend, or any other close friend who isn't involved, until he's red in the face. But he's not one to approach things directly; he usually cools off on his own and comes around eventually

Wind - If you do anything to piss him off, kiss your internet privileges goodbye. Indefinitely. You can also count on sabotage of most of your electronic devices, from changing passcodes to fucking with your charging cables juuuuust enough that you won't get any juice while they're plugged in.

[queen-of-deans-booty]

The Great Escape: Part One

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2k

Warnings: canon angst and violence

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Supernatural. All credit goes to their respective owners. Any and all comments on these are appreciated.

The search for Kevin has lasted a whole month, and it's still going. No one has seen him, heard from him, and his GPS signal isn't giving anything off. He either must have turned it off or he's not on Earth. It's crazy to think that he's not on Earth, but there is a very possible idea that Crowley took him.

Maybe it wasn't all in Kevin's head.

You haven't brought this up with the brothers because you have other things on your mind. Like Robert. You're standing outside of his door yet again, but you can't seem to go inside.

"You need to let it in," Dean says from the left of you.

It takes a moment or two for you to respond, and when you do, your voice is beyond sad.

"Do you remember what it was like for me when my dad died? I turned my back on my family and Joanna when you and she needed me the most." You turn to Dean with a sad look in your eyes. "I can't afford to do that again. We have two children now; I don't get the chance to break down. Our kids deserve more than a mother who is a crying mess on the floor. It's gonna hurt if I let it in."

"It's going to hurt more if you don't," Dean sighs.

"I don't care. You of all people should at least understand that."

You leave Dean's side and head to the library where Sam is. He is looking worse by the minute, and you can't do anything about it. This isn't something that can be fixed with soup and fever medicine. Sam should take a step back from the trials, but then you won't be able to close the Gates of Hell.

It's too late for you or Dean to start the trials over.

Dean heads to the kitchen to make soup for Sam even though it may not help. Joanna is eating her breakfast at the same table Sam is sitting at, and Maryann is in her baby swing on the floor. Joanna placed her lucky blanket over Sam's shoulder, and he hasn't removed it since it feels warm.

Dean enters moments later with a tray of food in his hands.

"Alright, here we go. John Winchester's famous cure-all kitchen sink stew. There's enough cayenne pepper in there to burn your lips off, just like Dad used to make."

Sam pushes the tray of food away, but you're not having it.

"Sam, eat the damn food. It's been three days since you last ate. Stop being a baby."

"Yeah, mister," Joanna scowls at her uncle. "Eat your food."

Sam stares at her before dragging the tray of food to him. He takes a bite and relishes the taste of it. Before you know it, it's all gone.

"The bloody handkerchiefs, the fever, and the shaky legs... This is not good," Dean sighs.

"Well, I'm not good, and I'm not going to be good until we can start moving again. Until I can start the third trial."

"Trial? I wouldn't let you start a moped. We're on the rails with this thing, okay, and the only way out of it is through it, believe me, I know. You know how bad I wanna slam the door on all those sons of bitches, but you gotta let me and Y/N take care of you, man. You gotta let us help you get your strength back."

"He's right, Sam."

"This isn't a cold or a fever or whatever it is you're supposed to feed. This is part of it all. Those first two trials are not just things I did. They're doing something to me. They're changing me, Dean."

Sam's laptop makes a noise signaling he got a new email.

"It's from Kevin."

"Thank God," you whisper.

Sam opens Kevin's message with the subject line "WATCH THIS VIDEO NOW". He clicks on the link and it's a video of Kevin inside Garth's houseboat before he disappeared, obviously.

"Sam, Dean, Y/N. I've set up this message with some software on a remote server so it'd send itself to you if I didn't reset it with a command once a week. Which means I didn't reset it this week, and there's only one reason I wouldn't. Which means if you're watching this, then I... I'm dead. I'm dead, you bastards! So screw you, screw God and everybody in between!" Kevin takes a breath or two before continuing. "Crowley must've gotten to me, and the one thing I know is that I won't break this time. Not sure how I know, but I do. I've been uploading all my notes and the translations, and I'm sending you the links so you can get all of it. You guys are gonna have to try to figure out the rest. I'm sorry." Tears ghost in his eyes. "I know it was my job, but I couldn't... I'm sorry."

The video ends, and your heart hurts for Kevin who you brought into this life. He was perfectly fine at college, and you sucked him in. Tears of your own fall for Kevin, but Dean is the most pissed out of the three of you.

He angrily swipes a stack of books off the other table, scaring Joanna and Maryann.

"Damn it!" he yells.

Dean leaves without another word, and you know he needs to take a walk and calm down.

"Mama? Is Daddy okay?" Joanna asks.

"Daddy's fine. Just finish eating your food."

Sam prints off everything Kevin sent over, and it's enough to cover every inch of the entire library table. Dean comes back an hour later on the phone with someone.

"Yeah, I know you haven't seen him, Keel, nobody has. Well, if you talk to Garth, just have him call in."

"Is Garth still MIA?" you ask.

"Yeah."

"How about the other prophets in line? I mean if Kevin is dead, then won't one of them be activated?"

"Not a peep."

"Isn't that a good thing? If there is no news of a new prophet, then Kevin isn't dead. Kevin turned into one because Chuck died. It happened immediately. We'd hear news of a new prophet, so Kevin must not be dead," you kept the hope.

"You saw the message, Y/N."

"That doesn't mean anything. All that means is that he couldn't reset the software. Crowley took him, I just know it."

"Regardless, here we are. No lead and no tablet. We should've moved him here."

Kevin's notes must have something here, so you have to go over every inch of them until you find something you can use.

"There it is again, every time," Sam mutters to himself. He holds up a few papers with the same symbol on it. "I know this symbol. Now, Kevin has it down as sort of like a signature for the Scribe of God. It appears every time Metatron makes one of his, like, editor's notes."

Metatron was discovered when you first encountered Kevin Tran in the hospital with Castiel after he took Sam's pain away from the wall cracking in his head.

"I think I've seen it before. I mean, it was a long time ago. It was one of my humanities courses at Stanford."

"They taught the Word of God at Stanford?" you chuckle.

"No, it was an overview of Native American art. I think it's a petroglyph.

A petroglyph is a rock carving. People would carve images into rock using a stone chisel.

"This one belonged to a tiny tribe in Colorado. It says here they held onto their scrap of mountains when all the other tribes fell to the white men. This glyph was a territorial marker with the closest translation being: 'messenger of God'." Sam takes a moment to think about what he just said and gets excited. "Guys, we have to go there!"

"On that hunch? You can barely function," Dean shakes his head.

"I'm only gonna get worse. I mean, until we get back to the real job, until we find the third trial, we're out of prophets! We're not gonna figure out what Kevin couldn't! I'd say we go to this messenger of God who wrote it in the first place!"

"He does have a point," you side with Sam.

"You think this Metatron is hiding out in the mountains with a bunch of Native Americans?" Dean scoffs.

"Yeah! Yeah, I do."

"It doesn't hurt to look," you shrug.

"Whatever."

Dean slams his book shut and leaves the library to get the car ready. You get the kids ready whileSam tries to get himself ready. Zeus is going to stay behind again, but you make sure he has enough water and food to last you however long this trip will take. It takes all of thirty minutes to get ready and all of eleven hours to travel to New Mexico where this "Messenger of God" is supposedly hiding.

You three walk inside with Joanna walking next to Dean and Maryann in her stroller. There is a bell on the desk that you ring, and moments later, the hotel clerk walks out from the back room.

"Hello, we'd like a room, please. Preferably with two rooms."

Sam wanders the front lobby, but he doesn't look too good. He flinches as if he hears a loud noise, but there isn't anything that is making a loud enough noise to flunch from.

"Did you hear that?" Sam asks you and Dean.

"Hear what?" you whisper to him.

"He has the flu," Dean chuckles at the clerk, taking the keys from him.

After getting your room assigned to you, you three head over to the room on the first floor. Sam immediately grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and sits down on one of the beds.

"Mama, I'm hungry," Joanna whines.

"Okay, eat this. We'll get more food later."

You reach into your bag and hand her one of her snacks, but she throws it on the ground and it goes everywhere.

"No, I don't want that!"

"That is not how you behave. You're in time-out. Go sit in the corner," you say sternly.

"Daddy!"

"You heard your mother."

Joanna whines but does what she's told. She sits in the corner and pouts. You use your magic to clean up the mess, then you grab Maryann since it's time to feed her. You have formula to use since all of your bottled breast milk is in the freezer back home. You settle into the sofa chair when you see Joanna start to move from her spot. Dean leaves to check out the hotel while you feed your daughter.

"Joanna Beth Winchester. Stay where you are."

"We're the only guests in this whole place," Dean says when he returns. "The last entry in the registry was in '06."

"Hey, do you two remember when Dad took us to the bottom of the Grand Canyon, on that pack-mule ride?" Sam smirks. "You're, uh, mule kept farting, just— l-letting go."

"Dude, you were like, four years old. I barely remember that," Dean scoffs.

"You rode a farty donkey," Sam laughs.

He is definitely delirious, you'll give him that.

"Okay. Y/N and I are gonna go check out the Two Rivers Tribal Museum and Trading Post."

"Yeah! I'm gonna follow the hotel manager, Dr. Scowley-scowl. He's like a villain from Scooby-Doo," Sam giggles.

"Okay, you're staying here and getting some sleep."

"Yeah, I can do that too."

Sam falls onto the bed and is quick to sleep.

"We're not leaving our kids with him. We're taking them with us. Joanna, are you ready to come out of your time-out?"

"Yes."

"Are you going to throw another tantrum?"

"No."

"Come on.

You and Dean get the girls ready and head over to the Museum where the clerk is more than happy to talk about the Native American history.

"The people of the Two Rivers tribe came to this land centuries ago. A land that was harsh and stony, but the mighty leader told his people that they must stay here. He claimed that this was the home on Earth of the great spirit's sacred messenger, and that if they'd make offerings, their blessings would be many."

"What were the offerings?" you ask. "What did the great spirit's sacred messenger ask for?"

"Stories. He asked the people to tell him stories."

You're about to ask another question when your phone rings. Sam is calling, and you pick up immediately.

"Sam? Are you okay?" However, you don't hear anything on his end. "Sam? Are you there?" You look at Dean and shake your head. Something is wrong. "Excuse me. We need to be going. Thank you for your time."

x

Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary​​​​​​​ where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

[missmisdemeanor]

Feel better, Lana! And in the meantime- do you think Dean ever adjusted his dad's recipe for his chili-laden get-well soup?

Dean did, but he didn't want to take it too far from the original. When he was younger, most of the changes were just availability- which arguably isn't even a change for a kitchen sink stew. He'd never touch the cayenne pepper though, that's the most important ingredient.

I think an older Dean would try making the stock himself.

Sam secretly hates the stuff by the way, but Dean gets so excited about making it for him and taking care of him :)

[mlobsters]

supernatural s8e21 the great escapist (w. ben edlund)

i am thoroughly confused. did the. i don't even know where to start with the fake sam and dean

DEAN Alright, here we go. John Winchester's famous cure-all kitchen sink stew. There you go. Enough cayenne pepper in there to burn your lips off, just like Dad used to make. DEAN Yeah, we do the whole airplane thing with the spoon? When was the last time you ate? SAM I- I don't... DEAN Days, Sam. It's been three days. DEAN pulls out a thermometer. SAM When'd you get that? DEAN When you started throwing off heat waves. Here.

this was hard to watch.

SAM Enough, Dean. Please. DEAN The bloody handkerchiefs, the fever, the shaky legs... this is not good.

SAM Well, I'm not good. And I'm not going to be good until we can start moving again. Until I can start the third trial. DEAN Trial? I wouldn't let you start a moped. We're on the rails with this thing, okay, and the only way out of it is through it, believe me, I know. And you know how bad I wanna slam the door on all those sons of bitches. But you gotta let me take care of you, man. You gotta let me help you get your strength back. SAM This isn't a cold. Or a fever, or whatever it is you're supposed to feed. This is part of it all. Those first two trials... they're not just things I did. They're doing something to me. They're changing me, Dean.

sam, i hear you, but you seem to still be human currently and so you do need to eat. like dealing with a sick toddler

they've been doing good sick makeup

i had not thought of that lol but YES YOU SHOULD HAVE

DEAN On that hunch? You can barely function. SAM I'm only gonna get worse.

🥲

CROWLEY Of course, if I wasn't running everything, I could've played Dean myself.

uh huh

so john winchester made a signature stew and took the kids to the grand canyon on a pack mule ride. like... i love little splashes of backstory about the family, but these don't quite line up with the character of john they've established prior :p

again with the hard to watch... 💔

s8e21 / the fifth element (1997)

well, not surprisingly, it gets worse

SAM You used to read to me, um, when I was little, I— I mean, really little, from that— from that old, uh... Classics Illustrated comic book. You remember that? DEAN No. SAM Knights of the Round Table. Had all of King Arthur's knights, and they were all on the quest for the Holy Grail. And I remember looking at this picture of Sir Galahad, and, and, and he was kneeling, and— and light streaming over his face, and— I remember... thinking, uh, I could never go on a quest like that. Because I'm not clean. I mean, I w— I was just a little kid. You think... maybe I knew? I mean, deep down, that— I had... demon blood in me, and about the evil of it, and that I'm— wasn't pure? DEAN Sam, it's not your fault. SAM It doesn't matter anymore. Because these trials... they're purifying me.

💔sam. purifying, killing. potayto potahto. sure padalecki, you had to make me go and get super into my sam feelings before whumpifying to hell and back

well i don't need to even see the rest of his face, that's the dude that i know primarily from the revenge of the nerds movies. i don't know why or even how i ended up seeing those movies so much when i was a kid but

revenge of the nerds (1984) curtis armstrong as booger

DEAN Cure a demon. Okay, ignoring the fact that I have no idea what that actually means, if we— if we do this, you get better, right? I mean, you stop trying to cough up a lung, and, and, and bumping into furniture? SAM I feel better, yeah, um, just having a direction to move in. DEAN Well, good, cause where we're headed doesn't sound like a picnic. SAM But we're heading somewhere. The end.

i'm sure it'll be smooth sailing

i'm getting on board with kevin finally, which means he's gonna die soon, right? and i just don't care at all about this fucking heaven politics angle. it's somewhat reminiscent of the leviathans honestly. eyes glaze over

[heavenlyhoundoom]

Knd x AWISC au part 14.(warning: gruesome description of cutting off antlers.)

(The twelve of them gather around and enjoy the root vegetable stew.)

Hank: Thank you three for helping Carter prepare dinner.

Linda: All Benedict and I did was harvest some vegetables.

Benedict: Yeah, Carter and Monty are the ones who actually prepared dinner.

Hank: Nonsense, any amount of help is good. Besides, you help everyone else around the house.

Benedict: It's nothing.

Linda: We didn't really do much.

Annabelle: Well we think you two did a lot, so don't give yourselves so much critic.

Linda: Alright.

Benedict: Okay, Mrs.McSqueak.

(Everyone finishes their stew and puts their dishes in the kitchen sink. Carter, Monty, Linda, and Benedict go upstairs to Carter's room at the end of the hallway.)

Carter: So what do you guys want to do before we fall asleep? I have movies, books, video games, and board games.

Linda: I don't know...

(Linda noticed a framed photo on Carter's nightstand.)

Linda: What's that a picture of?

Carter: Oh, that's a picture of the four of us during your eleventh birthday.

(The four looked at the picture and started reminiscing about that day.)

(June thirteenth, six years ago)

Iris(Linda's mom): Are you ready for your birthday party at Carter's place, Jacob.

Jacob: I sure am, I can't wait to see Carter, Monty, and Benedict..(Jacob turns away and starts blushing)

Rowen(Linda's dad): You okay, son?

Jacob: I'm fine, I just got lost in my thoughts.

(They arrive at Carter's house where he, Monty, and Benedict were waiting for him.)

Carter, Monty, and Benedict: (excited) Jacob!!!

Jacob: (excited) Guys!!!

(The four hug as Annabelle, Hank, and Mariana walk up to Iris and Rowen.)

Annabelle and Mariana:(excited) Iris, how's our bestie?

Iris: I'm doing great.

(The three of them hug.)

Hank: Rowen. How's my brother from another mother?

Rowen: I'm doing just fine.

(They high-fived and patted eachother on the back.)

Hank: How's the birthday boy?

Jacob: I'm doing great!

Hank: That so good to hear, now are you ready to have a fantastic birthday!?

Jacob: I was born ready!

(They played limbo, pin the tail on the dolphin, musical chairs and truth or dare. When it was time for cake and presents, Hank got Jacob a camo bandana, Annabelle got Jacob a blue t-shirt that said "Boys will be Boys", Carter got Jacob a model monster truck, Monty got him a slingshot, Benedict got Jacob a blue journal to write down his thoughts, his mom got him a remote controlled helicopter, and his dad got him a blue skateboard and matching helmet.)

Jacob: Thanks, guys.

Annabelle: Alright, it's time for cake.

(Everyone gets excited as Annabelle brings out a big chocolate cake with eleven white birthday candles on it, they sing the birthday song and Jacob blows out his candles.)

Rowen: Want me to take a picture of you and your friends?

Jacob: Sure thing, dad.

(Rowen takes a picture of the four boys smiling and having a good time, it then cuts back to the present.)

Carter: And to think Linda used to be into sterotypical boy stuff back then.

Linda: Well I actually only pretended to like that kind of stuff because I didn't know that I wanted to be a girl back then, I just thought I was weird.

Benedict: I kinda had a feeling that you didn't like being a boy, that's why a got you that journal, so you could write down your thoughts and emotions instead of bottling them up, but I guess that wasn't enough because you ended up cutting off your antlers two years later.

Linda: Actually Ben, it was writing in that journal that helped me realize that I wanted to be a girl instead of a boy.

Benedict: Well I'm glad I helped you discover who you really are.

(July second, four years ago.)

Carter: Oh my gosh!

Monty: I think I'm gonna be sick!

Benedict: What's going on gu- Oh sweet Jesus!

(It shows Jacob's head bleeding severely from where his antlers were with his antlers in one hand and a hack saw in the other.)

Benedict:(panicking) Jacob, are you okay!?

Jacob: I'm better than okay, I'm free.

Monty: Why did you cut of your antlers?

Jacob: I didn't like it...

Carter: You didn't like what?

Jacob: I didn't like being a boy, I was always curious about stereotypical girly things and I think it's because I always wanted to be a girl deep down.

Carter: Do you need us to take you to the hospital?

Jacob: No, I just need some ointment to keep my head from getting infected and bandages to stop the bleeding.

Benedict: On it!

(Benedict rushes to get the bandages and ointment because he desperately wants to keep Jacob safe.)

Benedict: I have what you need.

(Benedict tends to his wounds.)

Carter: Have you figured out a new name yet?

Linda: Yeah, from now on, call me Linda.

(It cuts back to the present.)

Linda: I'm sorry I did that, there were much safer ways to deal with my gender dysphoria and what I did freaked you guys out.

Carter: It's alright, you didn't know how to handle your dysphoria and that's okay.

Benedict: I'm just glad that you're okay now.

Monty: We'll always be there for you, boy, girl, or other.

Linda: Thanks guys..

The end of part 14

[bexstevie]

dated december 31st, 2022 / late evening  content warning: allusions to drug addiction, health problems, near death experiences, general depression.

when his mom knocks on his doorframe that evening, after he hears the sink start in the kitchen, he figures he should have seen it coming. ever since the phone call with his dad, he’s been holed up in his room just...sulking, for the most part. upset. mostly sleeping. it’s easier than having to think about everything, at least.

but it’s been a couple days now, and his mom has been pretty patient. he knows she’s been itching to talk to him; ever since he dodged her christmas night and locked himself up in his room to stew and cry. but she didn’t push, and he knows he’s been living on borrowed time. she probably told minkyu to clean up so she can talk to him-- but he isn’t sure if he’s really ready. or maybe he just doesn’t want to face it.

when she knocks again, a little louder, and calls out a firmer steven that makes him look away from the movie he’s watching. doesn’t pick his face out of the blanket it’s shoved in, but stares over the folds of the fabric at his mom. she smiles when they make eye contact, pushing off the frame and stepping into the room. 

she takes slow steps until she’s standing by the bed, hovering. stevie eyes her, not moving to face her, then looks back at the screen. he hums at her, muffled by the blanket, but continues to watch. he sees her rock side to side, hands clasped, before she leans over slightly, peering at his screen. “what are you watching?” 

“princess mononoke.” stevie mutters, watching mindlessly as ashitaka and san interact. hears his mother hum, but she doesn’t move or say anything else. when he peeks at her, she’s watching the screen thoughtfully, so he looks back at his laptop. they watch the scene for a few moments, both silent as they take it in. after a few minutes though, she takes a breath and says, carefully, “i wanna talk to you about something,” stevie grunts, shoving his face further into the blanket. “stevie. please.”

huffs. drags a hand out of his blanket cocoon and clicks pause. pushes himself up slowly into a seated position, rubbing at his eyes tiredly. “m’kay,” he mumbles. “m’listening.” 

she doesn’t speak right away. instead, she goes to sit on the edge of the bed, with enough distance that she can see him fully. looks at him for a moment before her shoulders droop. “your father loves you,” she says quietly, but stevie hears it loud and clear. he blinks rapidly and ducks his head down. stares instead at the folds in the blanket-- the eeveelutions looking right back at him. “and he wants to see you. but he has a lot to work on. this...this was a lot, this time.” she says it vaguely, but he doesn’t need the actual words for it. knows it, has seen it himself. saw the aftermath and is living the consequence of that result. 

“i know it’s not ideal,” mom continues. “but these things take time. and your father...needs to get better. needs to be better. for himself, first.” she emphasizes. offers stevie a sad smile when he lifts his gaze a bit. his eyes are a little glassy, but he isn’t crying yet. “then he can be better for you. he feels guilty. for his health, for how he took care of you. for not being there at the beach when you...” she trails off, and bites her tongue. pushes through, even though her voice is strained with her own emotion; she hates talking about it. how much it scared her. “and he...he’s got a lot to work through. it’s not an exaggeration.”

she reaches out, rakes a hand through his hair and ruffles it gently. takes her hand out to rearrange his bangs fussily before she drops her hand back to her side. “this year will be better.” she murmurs, voice going softer when stevie sniffles. he ducks his head and stares resolutely at flareon, who smiles back up at him like he isn’t about to drown it with tears. “for all of us. and who knows? maybe things will look up. we’ll see how everything is going once  your birthday comes around,” she says. “that’s still a long time away. anything could happen.”

         ( build him up, just to break him back down again.)

[eventscore]

(happy) birthday

“It would be a comfort, she felt, to lean; to sit down; yes, to lie down; never, never, never to get up again.” ― Virginia Woolf, Orlando

it’s mama too’s 97th birthday, so mom ordered her a cake and dad made some stew and I rode up there with them to see her for the afternoon. halfway there, pa called and said mama too wasn’t feeling well and we should turn around and go home. we stopped at a random gas station in greenville and dad called pa back to offer to bring the food anyway and then just leave without bothering her, but pa said he’d rather us not, so we turned around and came home.

we ate the stew and cake at my house. the kitchen was a wreck because I was struggling yesterday and wasn’t expecting to have people over, so I thought it’d be fine if I left the dishes in the sink. jackie daytona was happy we were home earlier than expected, but the rest of us were more ambivalent. we love her but if it’s that rough being 97, wouldn’t you just be ready to go? I did record a short interview with my dad in the gas station, though, so that should make it into a vlog, soon.

chris got home from his racing weekend around 7 and felt like watching Rush Hour. It’d been about 25 years since I’d seen it, so I didn’t have high hopes, but it’s a movie that always knew what kind of movie it was, so in that way, it still holds up.

i am very grateful to have tomorrow off for Labor Day, even if it is celebrating the death of this summer.

[mydissociativediaries]

5/17/2024: Baby

When I was a teenager (probably 14), I didn't practice good hygiene. I don't know WHY. Maybe it was depression or just something wrong with my brain, as per usual. I didn't see the point.

Mom was pissed when she found out that I wasn't using soap, so one night, she went in there while I was in the bathtub and squirted body wash on me and kept swiping at me with a washcloth. I kept [action] and pulling away. Humiliating situation.

Dad came in there and yelled at me in this certain tone of voice, maybe a combination of rage and embarrassment? "Your mother's in here bathing you, bathing you like you're a little baby in the sink, and you're [action] at her." He said more, but I can't remember now.

Baby part two.

After they left, I heard my parents talking about me in the living room, discussing how I wasn't doing chores. "So she's been getting paid for doing nothing," Dad said. "Well, she hasn't been getting paid," Mom said. Later, Dad said, "She has got to learn some responsibility, instead of spending eight hours on the computer all day."

I lay in the bathtub and stewed in self-loathing until the water was cold, my fingers and toes were wrinkly and the soap created small, thick bubbles on the surface of the water.

I still remember how I felt. Totally numb with a side of self-hatred. That time felt like it would never end. I was nothing. Useless. Bad. A piece of shit. Humiliated. And dirty, too. Feelings, once vibrant when I was young, became a grey fuzz. Nothing on the inside, nothing on the outside. Not anymore.

I was acting like a baby again, but this wasn't a fun, happy time where Mommy bathes her giggling child in the sink, sunlight streaming through the kitchen window.

Nope...just a dark, miserable incident with a bratty, spoiled teenager who had checked out from reality. Unclean and unhygienic. And crazily enough, that wasn't her biggest issue. There were SO many things wrong with her.

"Baby" is an insult when you're no longer a baby.

And she had her time to be one, but, at 14, she should've been enjoying an active social life, hanging out with friends, focusing on schoolwork and having some extracurricular activities. Getting ready to drive when she turned 16 and landing her first job. Thinking about touring colleges.

Why was she going through infancy and toddlerhood again? Why did she spent eight hours on the computer when she didn't have school instead of leaving the goddamned house?

I was becoming nothing. I am nothing. I never left that bathtub. I'm still in there, thinking about how much I hate myself and listening to my parents complain about me as my personality dissolves.

And writing about it doesn't make me feel much better. I think it's too late for anything to feel better, or feel good.

Thanks for reading,

👶

[yeetlegay]

VegasPete Professional Cuddler AU

Another not-quite-fic nobody asked for because I have no time to write it properly but it’s been taking over my brain for like three days.

So picture this: touch-starved, affection-starved Vegas gets drunk one night and ends up booking a professional cuddler for a 2-hour session. He keeps telling himself he’s not gonna go, he’s gonna ghost the guy, cancel, make an excuse, whatever. But somehow he still ends up on a stranger’s doorstep, ringing the doorbell just in time for his cuddle appointment.

The cuddler, Pete, just about knocks Vegas over with his blinding, dimpled smile when he opens the door. Vegas was half-convinced, even standing there waiting to be let in, that he’d take one look at the guy and chicken out. Just leg it right back to his bike before he could even say hello.

But instead he’s letting Pete lead him inside, past a quaint living room and kitchen into what he calls the “happy room.” It has a mattress on the floor littered with big, fluffy pillows and a variety of blankets—knit, quilted, fleece. A few fairy lights are strung up on the walls, and to one side there’s a little movie projector on a table next to an aloe plant. It’s all very…cozy. Vegas stands there in the middle of it stewing in his very uncozy leather jacket and boots and skepticism while Pete walks him through the rules (no touching private areas, no kissing, no sexual advances, etc) and a few forms.

After all that, it’s time to cuddle. Pete is in a T-shirt and sweats, but he reassures Vegas—who didn’t ask—that he can be as dressed or undressed as he likes as long as his underwear stay on. Vegas stays dressed, only toeing off his boots so he doesn’t get anything dirty.

And then they. Well. They spoon.

Vegas thought he knew what spooning was, but Pete’s a professional and it shows. He’s got the whole thing down to an art form. Vegas has this idea that he’ll be the big spoon at least, rather than have his back to a stranger. But somehow he ends up with his head pillowed on Pete’s bare arm, their feet tangled together, Pete’s crotch flush against Vegas’s lower back. He’s not hard. It would be weird if he were, right? Very weird. Vegas booked him for cuddles, not sex. Pete’s a professional. His dick is professional.

Vegas’s dick is not professional. It is, in fact, taking the cuddling very personally. The longer he lays there, cocooned in Pete’s warm, lightly muscled arms, sinking into the places where their bodies align, the clearer it is that before his two hours are up, Vegas is gonna get kicked out of the cute—cute? his brain squawks—professional cuddler’s house for getting a boner almost the second Pete touched him.

He imagines leaping off the bed in a coordinated fury, grabbing his boots and making a run for it before Pete can notice and charge him some kind of erection fee, or worse, say something sympathetic like oh that happens to everyone or nothing to be embarrassed about. It is something to be embarrassed about. Fuck, if his dad thought he was pathetic before—

“You’re very tense, Vegas,” Pete says softly, uncritically.

“Am I.” It’s said through gritted teeth.

“And you’re sweating.” Is that Pete’s nose in his hair? “You might be more comfortable without the leather jacket, if that feels doable for you.”

If it feels doable. Vegas wants to tie him up. Show him what feels doable right now.

Pete takes his silence for discomfort. The arm sling around Vegas’s waist shifts, Pete’s hand coming up to pet—pet!—his hair gently. “Just a suggestion, no pressure. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Vegas, I promise.”

Vegas grits his teeth and sits up in a huff, stripping off his jacket and flinging it in a random direction at lightning speed. He’s back in Pete’s arms before his brain can catch up, cradled against his surprisingly solid chest, glaring at the fairy lights on the wall and trying not to notice the flush creeping up his neck.

He doesn’t have to see Pete’s face to know he’s smiling. The flush deepens. But then those arms are around him again, and it feels so nice, so cozy, that Vegas is melting into it without even realizing.

The two hours fly by. Pete has him try out different positions, talking him through each one in a gentle, soothing voice. Some people like to feel more childlike, like they have someone watching over them, Pete tells him as he arranges Vegas’s head in his lap. Some people like to feel freer to give and receive affection, so Pete puts them on their sides facing each other, his head tucked into Vegas’s neck. They must try a dozen different configurations, and Vegas is rock-hard for all of them, but Pete doesn’t say a word about it, even though Vegas is fully prepared to jump out the window the second he does.

At the end of it, Vegas feels split open and raw, like he just cried for hours. Pete gently extricates himself from Vegas’s loose limbs and tells him to take his time “coming down” while Pete gets him some water and a snack from the kitchen. Vegas lies there in a daze until he gets back.

When Pete asks him if he’d like to book another session, Vegas is saying yes before his brain is fully back online to tell him what a ridiculous idea it is. He’s out the door, back on his bike, fastening on his helmet, when it hits him that he just signed up for regular honest-to-god cuddle appointments.

I should go knock on his door and tell him I changed my mind, Vegas thinks. At least text him to cancel.

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t knock on Pete’s door, he doesn’t text him, he doesn’t do any of it. And a week later, he’s back for his next session. Then again the week after that, and the week after that.

He gets hard every time. Pete doesn’t. It’s fine. Vegas is fine. Maybe it’s a little insulting, because does it mean Pete doesn’t think he’s attractive? But it’s fine. So fine.

They try more positions. Vegas has his favorites, and Pete seems to pick up on them almost instantly. Being the little spoon is one of them, in part because it’s one of the few where his dick is out of sight and nowhere close to any part of Pete. Another one is with Vegas on his back, Pete curled into his side with his head on Vegas’s shoulder. It means Vegas gets to smell his hair, the lemony scent of his shampoo, while Pete traces absent shapes over his hand and arm.

But one day, a month or so in, Pete says, “I’d like to try something, if you’re okay with it.”

Vegas is maybe too okay with the thing he wants to try, which is Vegas sitting up against the wall with a pillow behind his back as Pete swings a leg over his thighs and settles right into his lap, nearly on top of his crotch. Pete’s arms come up around his shoulders in a firm hug.

“Good?” Pete asks. His breath is hot against Vegas’s neck.

Vegas’s fists clench and unclench at his sides. He breathes in Pete’s lemony shampoo scent and thinks of the unsexiest things he can come up with. Wild boars. Smallpox. Kinn. Nothing works. He’s got a lapful of professional cuddler and he wants to fuck him so hard he cries.

“Good,” he chokes out.

“You can hug me back, if you want to,” Pete says, muffled.

Vegas wants to, and his brain is losing the battle with his dick, so he does. Just a little at first, settling his hands over Pete’s hips, his thumbs brushing against soft skin where his shirt has ridden up just a little.

Pete inhales sharply.

No sexual advances, Vegas thinks.

His hands creep higher. Pete’s shirt is too loose. It falls away from his body too easily. It might as well not even be there.

Vegas pretends it isn’t. He heats his palms on Pete’s warm, soft stomach. He maps the trim curve of his waist, measures the fit of it in the crook between his thumb and forefinger. This is okay, right? This isn’t sexual. This is—this is just touching. Touching isn’t inherently sexual. It says it right there on Pete’s website. And if Pete had a problem, he’d stop him, right? The consent form had a whole paragraph about what he’d do if a client overstepped.

He’s not doing anything right now, just letting out these soft puffs of breath against Vegas’s neck and holding very still. So it’s not overstepping.

Well, until Vegas licks him at least.

He doesn’t mean to. He’s so busy exploring Pete’s soft belly and the delicate rungs of his ribcage and the gently curved underside of his tits—that’s not a private area right? he’s staying below his nipples—that when Pete shifts, shirt slipping a couple inches down his shoulder, Vegas isn’t even thinking. He just—his mouth just opens, right there against the little cradle of his clavicle, and his tongue finds the skin there, finds the sweat and the sweetness.

No kissing, Pete said. But that wasn’t kissing, was it? It was a lick, and not even on the mouth. Totally different. Apples and oranges. Vegas does it again, just to prove it.

Pete moans very quietly, the sound vibrating gently against Vegas’s throat. “I—”

Vegas slides his hands around, to the small of Pete’s back, then lower, dipping just under his sweats to the slight notch of bone where his spine meets his ass. This is where Pete’s wrists would be, Vegas thinks, if he tied them behind him. Vegas could put him on his front and watch his long, pretty fingers flex in and out of fists above the rope or silk while he worked his cock into him slowly, with care. He could grip the ties in one hand, drag Pete back into each thrust, make him fuck himself on Vegas’s cock.

No touching private areas, Pete said.

But when Vegas lets his fingers dig in, just a little, at the very uppermost swell of his ass, it’s Pete who rocks forward with a gasp, pressing their hips flush together. His dick, slotted right against Vegas’s, is unmistakably hard.

They both freeze. Vegas braces himself, struggling to figure out how to detach his mouth and hands from Pete’s warm skin, waiting for Pete to send him packing.

Pete does pull away, face lifting from Vegas’s neck to stare at him. His cheeks are flushed, hair rumpled, a line in his cheek from where it was pressed against Vegas’s shirt collar. His bottom lip looks wet and beestung, like he’s been biting it.

Vegas opens his mouth to apologize. “I’m—”

“Fuck it,” Pete says, and kisses him.

He draws back after a moment, like he’s about to say something, or ask Vegas if this is okay, or just to wait to see what he’ll do. Vegas doesn’t let him go far. Pete’s barely found a few inches between them before Vegas gets one hand in the collar of his too-big shirt and drags him in again.

No kissing, Vegas’s mind supplies helpfully, right as their mouths collide a second time. No sexual advances. No touching private areas.

Pete is doing all three like he’s getting paid for it, even though he very specifically isn’t. He’s whining into Vegas’s mouth, licking inside with his hands fisted in his hair. He’s grinding their hips together with filthy abandon, squirming into Vegas’s hand as it slips further into the back of his sweatpants to find the hot little clench of his hole.

“You want it?” Vegas says against Pete’s lips, one finger held right there, a suggestion.

Pete wants it. He’s so busy trying to work his hips down on that finger, trying to kiss Vegas again, it takes him a few seconds to even remember the word he’s looking for: yes.

Things get very unprofessional after that. But they still cuddle afterward. Vegas is the little spoon.

[muertawrites]

@c3m21: what are your thoughts on vampire eddie? this picture has me weak😭

i actually haven't thought too much about him? but now that you bring it up...

i do like the idea of him coming back from the upside down as... something else.

like maybe he fused with the hive mind somehow

and maybe it gives him this unsatisfiable hunger for flesh. blood. he's a halfway creature between one of vecna's monsters and a human.

and when he finds his way back to you he's a wreck because he doesn't know what's wrong with him or how to control his urges and you smell so good he just wants to consume you.

definitely becomes a clumsy, goofy goth. like richmond from the it crowd.

sleeps most of the day to avoid the sunlight. it hurts his eyes. when he does go out during daylight, he has to wear sunglasses everywhere.

eats chunks of raw meat straight from the pack. like you've woken up in the middle of the night to find him sitting in front of the fridge, eating pieces of raw stewing beef like they're chips.

you have to teach him how to live comfortably with your cat (rip mews) which he's totally guilty about because like. that cat is also his baby. and he hates the thoughts that run through his head every time he's close to it. but he ends up bonding, finding his humanity again, and local pets are no longer in danger of becoming his next meal. (your cat is happy too. he missed is dad.)

likes to hunt in the woods twilight style. will come home drenched in dirt and blood with a wild look in his eye. it's kinda hot.

nothing curbs his thirst for human blood, though. that's what he craves more than anything.

he's afraid to ask you for help because he's afraid of hurting you. he doesn't know if he'll be able to control himself once he sinks his teeth in. but you hate to see him suffer, so you convince him.

"just a little bit from my wrist. we'll start small, and you'll only take small amounts every once in a while. like giving blood."

his first taste of you is divine

after he's done drinking directly from your vein, he laps at the open wound, moaning breathily because fuck you taste good.

once you're comfortable, he starts testing different areas of your body to drink from. your neck and your thighs are his favorites.

loves to feed during sex. he'll pull away from sucking on your neck with blood dribbling down his chin, fangs fully extended, and lick his lips with this malicious grin and fuck you until you're sore.

weirdly enough the change lowered his sex drive? pipes like a god tho

and no he doesn't eat you out on your period. that's fucking gross. those of y'all with vajooches have seen how nasty a period is and that shit is disgusting. eddie respects that boundary. he's a perv but not THAT much.

before he halfway died he used to be really loud, but now he moves around really quietly, almost silent. he likes to sneak up behind you and spook you. always apologizes with a hug and a lil smooch <3

can perch in very precarious places. he likes to sit on top of your kitchen cabinets and just. chill. when you can't find him that's usually where he is.

goes as a vampire every year for halloween. people always compliment his teeth and ask how he got them to look so real.

since he started feeding on you, he doesn't crave for other people anymore. the romantic in him likes to believe it's because you're his person, and he loves you.

he will not tell you this. he thinks he'll sound stupid saying it out loud.

... idk maybe vampire eddie is really sexy??

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

One Night🌙11

Warnings: noncon sexual acts and rape, angry Andy, hormones, awkward dinner, y’all know what it be.

This is dark!Andy Barber and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: One night changes your entire life.

for @kittykatlow​‘s 200 Follower Celebration

Note: Okay, here’s an update.

Hope you enjoy it. Thank you. Love you guys!

Please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

You wore a black dress, barely loose enough to fit over your bump as the hem floated high in the front. Your forehead beaded with sweat as you took out the heavy glass pan from the oven and puffed. You set it down and removed the lid as steam clouded out. You heard your father’s voice from the living room and Andy’s baritone response.

The night was smooth so far. Your father was particularly impressed by the autographed baseballs on the mantle but never outspoken, the conversation didn’t stray much from sports or cars. Your mother’s posture and expression betrayed her discomfort but she masked it with a cordial tone. You were thankful for it as you didn’t need to deal with her attitude and Andy’s at once. You were too hormonal and tired for that.

You began to take down plates from the cupboard and your mother’s voice sounded from behind you. She neared and reached up next to you as she grabbed the next plate before you could. She stacked the four of them neatly and grasped them in her knobby hands.

“You’re too pregnant for that,” she said, “you grab the silverware.”

You gave a small smile and turned to open the drawer as she left you. You took out the utensils and followed her into the dining room. You set the table and she returned to the kitchen. You came after her and she used a dishcloth to lift the hot pan.

“Get the door, will ya?” she said as she angled around carefully.

She passed you as you held open the swinging door and she set the pan down on the mat in the middle of the table. She inhaled deeply and glanced over at you. 

“Stuffed peppers?” she asked.

“Your recipe,” you said, “I’ve been craving them.”

“Next time, let me make them,” she smiled, “you still don’t know the special ingredient.”

“I’ll figure it out one day,” you rubbed your lower back.

“Sit,” she pulled out a chair, “I’ll go get the men.”

You neared her and leaned on the back of the chair, “mom,” you said quietly.

“I’m trying,” she said grimly, “I’m just… not happy yet.”

You nodded and hung your head, “yeah, you don’t have to be, but thank you.”

“I don’t like that man,” she hissed, “a wife in the hospital and he’s knocking up a stranger--”

“Mom,” you warned her, “please.���

“I know, I know,” she shook her head, “but you’re my daughter and he’s… I don’t know, who knows what really happened to the wife.”

You gave her a look and she pursed her lips. She retreated and you sat down heavily and cupped your cheeks. All you had to do was get through dinner. Then you could say you were tired and hide in your room.

You heard her voice in the next room and the impending footsteps before they appeared in the doorway. Your mother and father sat across from you and Andy took the seat to your right. You waited awkwardly and he cleared his throat.

“Well, sweetheart, aren’t you going to serve the guests?” he intoned.

“I can do it,” your mother offered, “don’t make her work any harder than she needs to. Not in her condition.”

You were slightly taken aback by her effort but you didn’t miss how the corner of her lip twitched as she eyed Andy. She didn’t like and didn’t trust him. You couldn’t say you did either and almost for the first time in your life, you felt a kindred connection to your mother.

She stood and scooped a pepper carefully onto each plate with a generous spoonful of sauce from the bottom of the dish. She set them back carefully before each diner and returned to her chair and sat. She smiled, a forced smile, and shifted her chair closer.

“So, you have some time but… once the baby’s here, I’m sure you’ll be back to work,” you mother began, your father always content to hide in his food, “me and your dad talked, we could watch the kid once and a while--”

“She’s not going back to work,” Andy interjected, “especially not at the diner.”

“Oh,” your mother’s lips pressed together in a firm line, “she isn’t?”

“Maybe after a year?” you began as you glance at Andy, “once I get the hand of things--”

“No,” Andy said, “you’re staying home with her.”

“I guess we haven’t decided,” you offered calmly, embarrassed by Andy’s attitude, “as you said, we still have time and we’re figuring stuff out.”

“Once the kiddo’s in school, you’ll have the time to get a job,” your dad offered, “that’s what your ma did. She kept on a few hours here and there when you were real small but once you hit kindergarten, she was back to full shifts.”

“We’ll talk,” Andy threw a hand up and grabbed his fork with his other, “it’s really not your business. It’s ours.”

“Andy,” you chided, “they’re just curious--”

“And where were they for the last couple months?” he snarled, “they weren’t so curious then.”

“Alright, calm down,” you hissed, “sorry, mom, dad--”

“Don’t apologise for me,” he snipped, “they should be apologising to you. That’s why I welcomed them into my home.”

“What?” you gulped, “Andy, they don’t need to--”

“No, no, my child is gonna have at least one set of grandparents and if it’s going to be them, they’re going to respect you and me,” Andy insisted, “so they can apologise or they can leave without dessert.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you uttered.

“Don’t you tell me how to act,” he cut into the pepper, “so…” he looked across the table at your parents, “she made this delicious meal and I think she deserves at least a little appreciation from the two of you.”

You dad looked angry for once in his life as your mother’s lips curled in mortification. You gave them both a shameful look and shook your head just slightly. You mouthed an apology as Andy huffed and tapped impatiently on the table.

“We’re sorry, honey,” your mother began, “we overreacted. Just like I said earlier, I was surprised.”

“Sorry,” your dad forced out as he glared at Andy, “you know I always love and support you, no matter what.”

“Thank you,” you said softly, “now,” you touched Andy’s arm gently, “we can move on. It’s all good.”

“Mhmm,” he grumbled as he leaned forward to take a bike, “we can… but this doesn’t happen again.”

You wanted to shrink down and hide under the table. The tension that rose was palpable and threatened to choke you. You had false hope in the beginning that this might feel normal, that you might end the night with a new standing between you and your mother. 

You knew then that Andy’s goal had never been to bring you back together, it was only to gain another degree of control. He made it clear that no one could help you, not even your own parents.

🌙

You were almost thankful for the sink full of dishes. It kept you distracted and gave you a reason not to sit and stew with Andy. Your parents left shortly after you cut the cherry pie and you cleaned up as they bid their farewells. You were completely humiliated by Andy’s hubristic demands but you didn’t dare argue with him. Especially not in front of guests.

You scrubbed the dishes as your stomach pressed to the wet counter and placed each in the drying rack. Andy came in as you pulled the drain and you took the dish cloth from its hook.

“Here, I’ll dry,” he offered.

You stared at him and wiped the water from your hands and gave him the cloth. He went to the rack and opened a cupboard. You took out a container and began to pack up the leftovers from the pan and wrapped the top of the pie. The silence made every clink and clank louder as you moved around the kitchen.

You shut the fridge and sensed him behind you. You flinched as his hands settled on your hip and you gripped pressed your palm against the cool metal. He pulled you back against him and slid his hands around your bump as he hummed.

“Did I tell you this dress looks wonderful?” his fingers brushed the dishwater along the front.

“Andy,” you grasped his wrists, “what are you doing?”

He rocked you as one hand grazed beneath your bump and his fingers dangled over your vee. He bent and inhaled the scent of your scalp. You went rigid as he wiggled against your back, his arousal twitching tellingly.

“Andy, please--”

“Can’t knock you up a second time,” he purred.

“I… no, please, I’m tired--”

“Come on, honey, that night… wasn’t that amazing?” He turned you to face the island and you caught yourself against the edge, “that was the best sex I’ve ever had.”

“It was a mistake, alright? Look at us now--”

“Look at us, hmmm?” he pushed his hand down and cupped your cunt through your dress. You gasped and squeezed his wrist, “I lay in my bed thinking of you all night… and you’re just across the hall. Why are we playing this game still?”

“Get off of me, please,” you begged, “Andy--”

He pressed his fingers to your pants and pushed the cotton against your folds. You bit your lip as he found your clit and the chafing formed a pressure beneath his touch. You shook your head and leaned back into him, trying to shove him away.

“Let me go…” you breathed.

“Doesn’t that feel good?” he urged, “I can feel you getting wet already. You’re lying to yourself.” He pulled your panties aside and dipped two fingers between your lips, “why do you gotta be so damn stubborn?”

You sucked in air and tensed as he played with your bud so that your thighs quivered. You tucked your chin in and bit down as you tried not to let out a moan. Your nails sank into sleeve but he kept on. You felt how powerful he truly was, his chest pressed against you as his arm remained immoveable.

He bent you slightly as he snaked his hand further and poked a finger inside of you. You squeaked and he added another, curling them as he began to rock his hand. He buried his face into your neck and his hot breath permeated your skin.

“Mmm, isn’t that nice, honey? I just wanna help you relax?” his teeth grazed your neck, “I can be nice, you see?”

Those words turned your blood to ice. You closed your eyes as you returned to those hours ago when his fist crashed into the wall. When his voice was rigid and unloving, when you were certain he would do worse than just yell. Now he was all over you, coaxing you as if it never happened, as if there hadn’t been months of this precarious tug-of-war.

“Andy, really, I’m tired,” you pleaded, “that night… I told you--”

Your voice caught in your throat as he thrust his fingers deeper and moved his hand faster. The pressure throbbed inside of you, pulsing through your veins and you kept your hand tight on the counter as you gripped his arm with the other. Your ankles threatened to bend as you shuddered and came in a sudden rush.

“Tired?” he mocked as he led you through your climax, “I’ll do all the work, honey.”

You shook your head and whined through your teeth. He kept on until you were weak and clinging to his hand. He slowly drew his fingers out of you and slid his arm out from around you. You slumped against the counter as he let you go, the subtle tinkle of his belt gleaned in your ear.

You turned to him as his belt hung open and he caught you by surprise. He wrapped one arm around your back, his other hand across your ass as he lifted you with a grunt. You threw your hands back to keep from falling across the island as he put you down on the marble. You tried to slide forward as his hands grasped your hips and held you in place.

His blue eyes burned and dilated. He reached under your skirt and pulled your panties down. You whimpered as he tugged them down. He quickly pushed your legs apart and moved between them, your knees wide around his thighs. He grabbed your chin and tilted your head back, his lips covering yours hungrily.

You clawed at the front of his shirt as his other hand danced along your pelvis. His fingers crawled down your thigh and she shifted as he fumbled blindly with the front of his pants. You pushed against his shoulders as the panic erupted from your stomach and swelled in your throat.

He brought you closer to the edge and pulled his hand back to grip himself. You opened one eye as you tried to peek down but couldn’t see beneath your bump. He leaned on you until you fell over the marble and bent over you as he slipped his tip along your cunt. His lips strayed to your cheek and down to your throat.

“Andy,” you begged one last time as he pressed against your entrance.

He purred against your neck as his hand slid past your shoulder and stretched over your tit. He pushed into you slowly and you gulped as tears pricked in your eyes. You bent your legs so your heels pressed to the side of the counter and gritted your teeth as he got deeper. 

As he bottomed out, he rasped against your skin. He stood up straight and dragged your ass over the edge of the counter. He puffed his chest as he thrust into you and his eyes rolled back. He growled as he did it again and your walls clenched around him. Your reached down and pressed on his open pants with your fingertips, trying to push him away pathetically.

“Andy,” you whimpered as he hooked his arm around your thigh, “Andy--”

His other hand flipped up your skirt and he stretched his hand over your round stomach as he rocked into you. You shook your head and covered your face with one hand as you gripped the edge of the marble with your other. Your breaths grew shallow as you fought your own body and the pleasure blooming around his intrusion.

He sped up as the wet noise filled the kitchen and you bit the heel of your hand to keep from crying out. Another orgasm flowed over you and knotted your muscles around him. His groans and grunts grew louder as his flesh slapped against yours, his fingers drawing circles on your stomach.

“Oh fuck,” Andy hissed and jerked his hips harshly.

He sank into you as deep as he could go and wiggled his hips as he flooded you. He twitched as he leaned his head back and sighed, his fingers tight on your thighs as they painfully poked your tender flesh. You moaned and trembled as you felt his release hot inside of you. 

He stilled and let your legs splay around him. You stared at the ceiling in shock as he shuddered. You propped yourself up on your elbows and looked between your legs as his cum dripped out around him. You pulled off of him and shoved him away. He seemed to awaken from a trance as you did and his lashes fluttered.

You dropped down carefully to your feet and stormed away. He called your name but the vomit was already halfway up your esophagus. You weren’t going to make it upstairs. You closed yourself in the half-bath under the stairs and wretched into the sink. You held yourself up weakly until the violent ripples quelled. You looked at yourself in the mirror and winced. 

One night cost you the rest of your life. One night meant your body, your soul, your days were his. One night would be countless nights, your fate decided in a single careless act.

[honeymoonjin]

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ot7 x reader || ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 7.8k || ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: smut - rated 18+

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ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs: threesome, nipple play, riding, unprotected sex, dom!taehyung, sub!?, restraints, blindfold, degradation, praise

A/N: it's my first time writing tgm smut in so long i hope it's okay ;;;-;

DAY TWENTY-SIX

Unable to fall deeply into sleep, when you wake fitfully at half past six in the morning, you decide to give up on it entirely.

A bath wakes you up slowly and gently, in no rush to clean yourself with a soapy loofah, the sweet smell of orange blossom lifting your mood just slightly. No matter how hard you scrub at your skin, Jin’s touch lingers beneath the surface like a tattoo, the reminder that you’d willingly chosen to cut him off from you that elimination day, and that your decision was keeping him from you.

The previous night, you’d spent hours with a hand cradling your cheek, trying to work out what the kiss even meant. A farewell, a consolation prize, a promise for patience? Either way, it just felt cruel to you. You rub harder, covering yourself in the foamed soap and watching it dissolve into the water.

By the time you dry yourself, well over an hour has passed, and the pangs of hunger start to flare off inside your stomach. You dress quickly, thoughtlessly, and sneak out of your door to the complete silence of the second storey. Nobody else seems to be awake yet, so you take your chance to go down and start on some breakfast.

The selection is relatively bleak to your lazy body, unwilling to make anything that requires the kind of effort the two eldest men tended to give for a meal. In the end, you tug some leftover curry from the back of the fridge, giving it a stir and setting it to heat up in the microwave.

The rhythmic whir and countdown combined with your lack of sleep is enough to have you feeling weak, slumping on the counter top. You rest your heavy head for a moment, pillowing it with your arm, and watch the dish turn around and around and…

“-matter, we’ll just wait and find out.”

“Are you sure?”

“Trust hyung. It’ll be fine. Can you pass me the- no, just beside it, the soy sauce- thank you. Should be ready soon.”

“Mhm, smells good.”

Adjusting to your sloped return to consciousness, it is the inviting smell that greets you after your hearing. A deep, meaty aroma is lifted with spices, making your mouth water.

The moment you shift, a sharp pain runs down your spine, settling at the back of your neck. You grunt, eyes squeezing shut at the ache.

“There she is. Must’ve been tired, poor thing.” The first one grows louder, sounding close to you as fingers reach out to tap your shoulder. “Wake up, sweetheart. Let’s get you something to eat.”

You groan again, lifting your heavy body up enough to prop your elbows on the table and press your hands against your eyes, willing coherence to sink back in. “Morning,” you croak, though by the way you feel, it could very well be evening.

The figure behind you - Yoongi, by his smooth rumbling voice - moves back around into the kitchen, and your ears perk up with the clink of bowls on the countertop. Blinking blearily, you yawn and focus in on the second person.

Jungkook is lifting a heavy saucepan and carefully pouring a stew into three bowls, the pink of his tongue trapped between his lips. “‘S that enough?” he questions, biceps flexing beneath his shirt as he hovers with the pan.

Yoongi nods once, fiddling in the drawer for spoons and chopsticks, and quickly hands you a set with your bowl, steaming lightly.

You smile gratefully, reaching out to feel the heat radiating off the ceramic. “Thanks, Yoongi.” The last of your sleep fades away, and you gasp suddenly, shooting up ramrod straight. “Wait - Yoongi, Jungkook! You’re back!”

“Keen eye,” Yoongi drawls sarcastically, but a fond smile plays on his lips nonetheless as he blows on a spoonful of broth. “Dad checked out of the hospital around 5. He’s doing really well.”

“Oh, Yoongi, I’m so glad,” you gush, relief filling your system.

Yoongi, however, seems to grow somber, eyebrows drawing together. “It wasn’t all good news, though.”

You freeze. “What? What happened?”

Like the news pains him, Yoongi grimaces. Jungkook, too, looks absolutely crestfallen. In unison, they open their mouths with matching frowns.

“The restaurant sold out of lamb skewers.”

“I didn’t see a single gho- Oh, yeah, the lamb skewers,” Jungkook tacks on, deflating. “But we stopped by a market on the way home to buy some lamb so we could make our own.”

“We?” Yoongi asks incredulously. “I didn’t see any ‘we’ when you refused to chop vegetables just now.”

Jungkook makes an offended noise in the back of his throat. “I just suffered a paranormal experience, hyung, I was too shaky to handle a knife.”

“You just said you didn’t see any ghosts.”

The youngest huffs. “I felt them.”

Your head darts back and forth, lamb stew forgotten as you watch the playful rally between the two men. Yoongi doesn’t miss a beat, raising a single brow. “What; was there a poltergeist petting zoo on the fourth floor I wasn’t told about?”

“Their presence, hyung. I felt their presence. Taehyung even said he could feel a chilling aura coming through the phone and into his body, but he thinks it could’ve just been Jimin’s feet.”

Yoongi presses a few fingers to his temples like he’s getting a headache. “You mean to tell me I had to get my sickly father to pretend you were his son all for you to stay the night, and the only thing that happened was Taehyung getting possessed by the ghost of Jimin’s feet?”

Jungkook blinks once. “There was a vending machine that gave out free lollipops,” he offers.

“A vending…” Yoongi sighs, eyes slipping closed. “Jungkook, I think that’s for patients who get low blood sugar. For emergencies.”

“Oh.” Jungkook considers this for a moment. “I took five of them.”

“Of course you did. Alright, eat up, please. It’s getting cold.”

You quickly thank Yoongi for the meal with a bemused smile, chest feeling light at having the two back in your company, and Yoongi in a visibly better mood than the past two times you’d seen him. The three of you fall into an easy silence for a few moments, but it doesn’t last long as the others in the house begin to wake.

Namjoon is first down, getting over his initial surprise quickly and rapid-firing countless questions to Yoongi about his father, ensuring he truly was alright. Taehyung and Jimin are next, the former just about barrelling into Jungkook and Yoongi, tugging them into a bear hug as Jimin watches fondly from behind. When a bleary-eyed Hoseok comes down, he notices the breakfast before the company, letting out a relieved groan at a mouthful of broth and promptly choking on it as he processes the presence of Jungkook and Yoongi.

Finally, it’s Jin that takes the longest to wake, and when he turns the corner and spots them, his only response is a wordless sigh, and a silent hug. Despite that, his emotions radiate off him in waves, and you don’t doubt there are unsaid words shared between him and Yoongi. To your surprise, he breaks away after a moment and pulls Jungkook into a tight albeit brief embrace as well, patting him on the back with a quiet murmur you don’t catch.

It feels right, comfortable and calming to have all eight of you back in the Villa together. The short absence feels so much more extended when you’re used to the same company twenty-four hours a day, and having them all back in your immediate vicinity again feels like a hit of some intense high. The relief rushes through your system, and you catch yourself unconsciously counting heads over and over.

“So I guess we just sit here?” Hoseok asks at one point, interrupting the blanket of quiet that had descended over you as you ate. “Do you think we should text Sejin and tell him to come debrief us or what? It feels like we’re in limbo.”

“No need.” A new voice resonates from behind you, Sejin himself walking through the doorway.

Taehyung narrows his eyes to the point of almost closing them, glaring first at the producer and then at the dormant cameras in the top corners of the room.

“Don’t worry, we aren’t rolling just yet. I’ve just been waiting a while for you all to get sorted. I figured you deserved to at least eat first, Yoongi, Jungkook.”

“Well, we’ve eaten,” Yoongi confirms, oddly stiff, an unreadable expression darkening his features. “I guess that means it’s showtime again.”

Jungkook looks up at him from his hunched posture leaning on the countertop. “I bet a lot of them missed you, hyung. The viewers. They seemed really worried on Twitter.”

Yoongi blinks, shifting. “Missed-? I- I suppose it was sudden. We should probably get this thing up and running again so they aren’t concerned.”

As Sejin nods in confirmation and pulls out his phone to relay the message, you nearly miss the quirk at Jungkook’s lips at changing Yoongi’s attitude so easily. The two of them seem at ease with each other like nothing you’ve seen before. No doubt due to the time they’d spent together last night, and it warms your heart to see them standing so closely.

“Come on, then,” Sejin announces, belatedly lifting his gaze and putting his phone back away, the cameras installed around the room blinking back to life with their steady red blip. “Let’s move to the couches again.”

“Just like the good old days,” Jungkook sighs dreamily.

Jin raises a brow, taking a seat in the center of the middle couch, the two youngest jumping in on either side of him like toddlers ready for a bedtime story. You do your best to ignore him, still feeling sensitive from the night before. “You mean ‘just like four days ago?’”

From his left side, Taehyung huffs lightly, though makes no effort to distance himself at all from the eldest. “Time is a social construct.”

“Can we make a start?” Sejin questions, perched on the corner of the coffee table with his hands on this thighs. “I doubt the viewers are here to listen to you bicker.”

“Right you are,” Taehyung notes, nodding sagely, “they’re here for the good stuff.” He shares a glance with Jungkook, and in unison the two of them place their hands side-by-side directly on top of Jin’s crotch, glancing up at the cameras expectantly.

Jin clicks his tongue like his dick being used as a prop is little more than a mild inconvenience, making no move to push their hands away.

They do, however, when Sejin flattens a stare at the two of them. The youngest properly chastened, the producer finally looks around at all of you as a group. “For the sake of continuity and coherence, we’re picking up where we last left off: Limited Edition week. Yoongi, you’re the only one to already have completed your prompt-” the man puffs his chest at this, sharp eyes darting to you as Sejin speaks, “-so you’re done for the week. Namjoon, Hoseok, Jungkook and Jimin, I’m afraid you’re left with very little time to complete yours. Because of this, you’re no longer required to wait for a text message to start your scenes, and I’m also postponing the Fan Favourite vote until Monday morning to give you some additional time. We’ll unfortunately have to merge it with the elimination meeting. Today is already Friday, so do the best you can.”

“We won’t let you down,” Jungkook promises fiercely, conspicuously glancing down at Jin’s lap as if he’s about to use it for emphasis again.

Sejin sighs, shifting back, continuing on as if he didn’t hear the strangely passionate pact. “If anyone has forgotten their prompt, don’t hesitate to ask, otherwise the show is back on as per usual. Producer Kang is coming in at midday to set up the confessional booth again, so from this afternoon onwards, feel free to use it again to share your thoughts. I’m sure the viewers will have their fair share of questions for you as well. Understood?”

Most of you nod, content with the update. You try and fight the sickly flutter of anxiety in your chest that creeps up at the reminder of elimination, focusing instead on the side of you that’s relieved to have this level of normalcy back, and secretly pleased to have your cards filled up for the next few days. It feels like it’s been longer than it has, and you shift in your seat wondering who will approach you first out of the four men yet to fill their prompt.

Perhaps it won’t be Jungkook; he pushes himself off Jin and tiptoes to Sejin’s retreating figure, asking for a reminder on his prompt with shy pink cheeks. The producer lets out a weak laugh of bemusement and guides him out of the front door to escort him to the producing van outside.

The others seem to know what they’re doing, and you spy Namjoon and Hoseok with heads ducked together, Hoseok grinning at something Namjoon’s saying. The two have been growing closer lately, almost out of nowhere, and you’re curious if they’ll stick as two peas in a pod when it comes to the game, too.

The four of you that remain chill for a bit, making lazy conversation on how strange it feels being back on the clock again. It’s nice, being able to enjoy the time relatively care-free. Despite the overall weirdness of the competition in context to real life, it’s become a comfortable familiarity, and you welcome it back.

You could happily spend the whole morning there, were it not for the sharp bolt of pain that rushes up your spine when you turn to listen to something Jimin has to say.

Gasping, hand coming up to cradle the back of your neck instinctively, you squeeze your eyes shut at the sensation. From beside you, it takes no time for Jimin’s hands to find you, gently settling on your back and arm as he asks you if you’re okay.

“I fell asleep on the counter this morning,” you admit, trying not to move your head at all as you speak, “I think it messed up my neck.”

As your eyes untense and open again, you see Jimin’s rounded in concern, first at you and then glancing over at Tae in sober worry. His teeth are running over his lower lip over and over, a habit that he does in moments of stress and helplessness, and through the ache you can’t help but feel warm at his reaction.

“When does it hurt most?” you hear Taehyung ask, and it’s habit that makes you turn your head to face him.

“Fuck,” you curse thickly, shoulders hunching up against the tight feeling, “just when I turn it. Feels like a tug that shouldn’t be there.”

Yoongi and Jin are silent, and from your new angle of vision, you can see their apt focus on you, Yoongi going so far as to be shuffled half off  his couch, ready to jump up and give medical aid.

“It’s probably a crick in your neck,” Taehyung asks, and you spot his mop of browl curls fill your vision as he crouches in front of you and looks back over his shoulder. “Right, hyung?”

Yoongi hums in agreement. “Sounds like it. I can get a heat pack?”

“I have some upstairs,” Taehyung answers, “I think a massage would help a lot. Y/n, do you think you can make it upstairs?”

You take a moment to consider this, and gently shift your head around with small motions. Up and down seems to be fine, and left and right hurt the more you turn. “I think it’ll be okay,” you decide, “I didn’t really notice it that much until just now.”

“Okay.” Taehyung presses his lips together and stands up again, holding out his hand to you. Slowly, with several check-ins, he guides you upstairs and into his bedroom, assisting you in sitting down on the bed, propped up against a mountain of pillows. You leave Jin and Yoongi downstairs, but Jimin insists on following, his hand warm against the small of your back the whole way up.

Feeling a little embarrassed at the fuss they’re making, you nonetheless soak up the chance to be at the center of their attention, Jimin linking your fingers together from the side of the bed as Taehyung rushes around, grabbing a single-use heat pack and some massage oils.

“You’ll need to turn around so your back is facing me,” Taehyung instructs, getting on the bed behind you. It’s a little awkward shifting around with three of you on the bed, and you unable to really move as freely as you’d like, but after a moment Jimin has replaced your original spot against the headboard, your knees bumping his as you sit cross-legged with Taehyung behind you. “Okay, that’s good. Just relax.”

Your shirt has a relatively low, round neck, and even though it’s not quite loose enough to push past your shoulders, Tae doesn’t want to make you take it off and risk hurting yourself further, so he just makes do, warming some oil between his fingers.

The soothing smell of lavender fills the air, and your shoulders go lax as Taehyung slips gently presses down on them with his still-dry knuckles, thumbs sliding up to hold your neck steady. As he pushes the hem down as much as he can and begins to slide his fingertips over your skin to spread the aromatic oil, you fight the urge to let your head loll back. It’s been a long time since Taehyung gave you a massage, and though you have no doubt he’d do it anytime in a heartbeat if you asked, you always felt strange approaching it. A crick in the neck was not ideal, but certainly a nice excuse to have his hands on you again.

In front of you, Jimin watches you carefully for any sight of pain. While a month ago you may have been intimidated or even put off by his intense stare, you know he’s there to make sure you’re alright, and you’ve seen him vulnerable enough to feel okay sharing this with him.

It is still a little awkward, however, and as Taehyung lets his fingers dip as low as they can between your shoulder blades, you send Jimin a crooked smile. “Do you want some popcorn?”

He scoffs warmly with a shake of his head. “If I’m bothering you…?”

You almost shake your head, sucking in a sharp breath through your nose as you fight the automatic urge. “No, you’re fine. I just don’t think me getting my neck fixed is very-” Your voice is abruptly cut off by a staccato groan punched out of you by Taehyung pressing his thumbs right into the knots on either side of the base of your neck. He crawls them up carefully but confidently, beginning to smooth out the tension, and you can’t help your eyes fluttering shut. “Very entertaining,” you finish, breathier than when you started.

“That’s where I’d have to disagree,” Jimin responds in a buttery whisper. With eyes closed, you don’t see him move, and are caught off guard by the tickle of sensation that arises on the sensitive skin of your inner ankle as he slowly sweeps a single fingertip in lazy circles around the bump of the bone. The touch isn’t particularly sexy in its location, but nevertheless feels dizzingly intimate with the knowledge of whose finger it is roaming the fine details of your body.

“I see how it is,” you manage to respond, but the fight is drained from you from both ends; Jimin at your ankles, Taehyung at the nape of your neck. Taehyung’s touch is distinctly heavier and more decisive than Jimin’s, and it becomes harder to resist lying back against him as he works at the sore muscles of your neck.

“My clients aren’t normally so chatty with someone that isn’t me,” Taehyung remarks from behind you, lightly flicking the side of your neck in playful complaint.

“Client?” you question with a pout he can’t see but can definitely hear. “Are we not even lovers, Tae?”

He hums, so low in his chest that it’s a soft growl, and his hands converge on your sternum, face coming forward to press at the side of your cheek as he hugs you from behind. Your heart rate picks up at the proximity; his lips so close to yours, but impossible to reach from the angle. “You know I can’t touch you like a lover should. Not now.”

“Would it be so bad?” you wonder aloud, even as you recall the rule that would get him kicked out should he touch you intimately. The rule wasn’t so harsh were it you to touch him, however. “I could.”

His breath comes out in a rush that tingles your jaw. “Don’t tempt me,” he warns, sitting back upright and pressing the sides of your neck to straighten you up again, “you’re injured.”

“I’m injured?” you retort, “I thought you were meant to be fixing me. You mustn’t be doing a very good job.”

This time, the sound that leaves him most certainly is a growl. His fingers dig into the dips in your upper spine with a ferocity that while measured is distinctly more authoritative. You feel manhandled into wellness, the pain malleable and easily manipulated by his touch. Your body is heavy, barely able to hold itself up, but inside you feel lighter than air, so thrilled to be at the receiving end of Taehyung’s dominance after such a long time under Jimin’s strong hand.

As if following your thoughts, Taehyung mutters out a low, “hyung?” Jimin hums in response, his fingers circling your ankle and letting the lax weight of his arm pin you to the mattress. “I want to touch her so bad.”

You let out an unfiltered moan as you hear Taehyung talk about you to the man on your other side as if you’re not even there, though his fingers never stop for a second, leaching away every last ounce of pain.

“You can’t,” Jimin replies simply.

“But you can,” Taehyung fires back. “Do you trust me?”

Your eyes open wide as you hear the hidden meaning behind his words. Jimin seems to recognise it, too, as he looks past you with lips parted in surprise. It takes him a moment, but he eventually does respond. “I trust you.”

“Get the blindfold.”

It’s clear Jimin is hesitant about letting Taehyung take control. Not the kind of resistance you’d expect he’d give someone else trying to dom him, but simply the delay of uncertainty, of inexperience. He gets up on his knees after a moment to reach into the bedside stand’s drawer, pulling out a soft black sleeping mask.

Taehyung’s hands finally slow, fingertips slipping just under the hem, fiddling with your bra straps. “Put it on, hyung.”

“Tae,” Jimin breathes, eyebrows furrowed in worry, but he goes along, slipping it over his head and adjusting it, lips pursed. You see the way his Adam’s apple bobs with a harsh swallow, his toes curling and staying tucked.

“How’s your neck?” Taehyung asks you, and in your daze at seeing Jimin gingerly submit, it takes you a second to even realise he’s addressing you. You quickly assure him it’s fine, and feel your heart race as he takes his hands off you and backs away, pulling you backwards as he does. “Lie down for us,” he commands softly.

Your breathing is elevated, and you can’t seem to calm it as you watch Taehyung in your peripheral pull up a chair to the side of the bed. His knuckles are white as he clutches the arms, but his face is darkly focused.

“You can’t fuck her with all those clothes on, hyung,” Taehyung states simply, and you can see the way Jimin’s brows lift above the blindfold.

Obediently, Jimin moves towards you, but with his vision obscured he pats around to find you, fingers running blindly up your side to seek out the lower hem of your shirt and lift it over your head. There’s something strangely exciting about Jimin being the one to disrobe you, when only Taehyung will see your naked body, and the clumsy way the older man fiddles with the zip on your jeans before slipping them off makes it feel like he’s touching you for the first time.

It takes him no time at all to unhook your bra once he finds the hinge, and soon enough your panties, the only scrap of fabric left on your body, are being tugged down your legs impatiently. Once they’re gone, however, Jimin’s hands hover uncertainly over you, awaiting further instruction.

Taehyung grins, though Jimin won’t see it, and wets his lips. “So you can be a good boy, hm? Who would’ve thought the big bad wolf was just a little puppy?”

Jimin swallows, nostrils flaring as he struggles with his own submission. He offers no answer, but Taehyung doesn’t seem to mind, sitting forward in the chair.

“Are you hard, Jimin?” The blue-haired man grits his teeth at the intentional lack of honorifics, but confirms reluctantly that he is. “Show us.”

After opening and closing his mouth, Jimin swallows hard again and his fingers pat against his waistband until he reaches the button, undoing it and dipping a hand in to release his cock. True to his word, he’s hard, the tip glossed with precum and angry red.

A wave of arousal rushes through you so strong that you clench around nothing, wanting nothing more than to push him back and take what you need yourself. But it’s fascinating seeing him like this, and you don’t want to even speak, too scared to break the spell Taehyung has somehow constructed.

The younger man just lets out a flat noise as if unimpressed. Jimin’s dick twitches as his cheeks heat in shame. “Tae,” he breathes, fingers digging into the tensed flesh of his still-clothed thighs.

“It would benefit you to give my name more respect than that. I’m not your boyfriend now, not your pet. I’m your boss. I say what you can and cannot do. So what do you say to me?”

Jimin’s lips are parted, a pretty pink that trembles if you look closely enough. He stays silent for a moment, thinking it through. “Mister Kim,” he says, going so far as to duck his head shallowly in an imitation of a bow.

A dark smirk tugs at Taehyung’s lips. “I like that,” he decides, “good boy. Why don’t you touch our girl, then? She’s arching so nicely for you, Jimin, I think she wants to feel you on her pretty little tits.”

Your eyes couldn’t be wider if you tried, fingers twisted harshly in the bedsheets on either side of you. It’s true, your back hitching off the mattress in need. Truth be told, you’re shivering in the desire to feel him anywhere, but the thought of him flicking at your sensitive nipples has you letting out a shaky whimper.

It’s not Jimin’s hands that greet you, however. Instead, he uses them to catch his fall when he hangs forward, face burying in the soft skin close to your right hip. You can feel the hard tip of his nose, the tickle of his eyelashes, and the plush warmth of his lips.

You tremble beneath him at the way his breath heats your naked skin in pants. Jimin navigates higher with his nose, running it over you, lips dragging against you just enough for you to catch scrapes of his bottom teeth occasionally as he works from left to right, seeking out the swell of your breasts.

It’s not long before he crawls high enough, but it feels like an eternity of absence has been broken when it’s not his fingers but his hot, wet mouth that closes over your nipple, sucking it in like a man starved.

You gasp at the sudden bloom of sensation, a moan getting clogged in your throat. Once Jimin reaches you, you can feel the confidence of his usual dom persona return in the intense way he laps and nipples at the stiffening peak, but the hastened breaths that have his chest heaving above you are entirely due to Taehyung’s invisible grasp on the both of you.

It’s not until Jimin fastens his teeth around your nipple and tugs once, harsh enough to make you keen and grab at his shoulders, that he moves to the other side, repeating the previous treatment with twice the hunger and desperation as before.

“Mm, atta boy,” Taehyung praises in a borderline sarcastic drawl. Jimin huffs through his noise noisily against you as he places sloppy kisses on the pebbled skin around your nipple, and your eyes roll back at the overwhelming situation you’ve found yourself in. There’s something unbelievably obscene about being at the whim of Jimin touch but Taehyung’s command, of hearing and seeing and feeling Jimin be just as affected by Tae as you are.

Jimin’s still mostly dressed, but you can feel the heat radiating from his unsheathed cock as it presses against your leg, and you will Taehyung to demand Jimin fuck you, feeling out of your mind with need.

“You want to taste her somewhere else, don’t you?” Taehyung asks after a few moments of ecstasy. Jimin groans lowly against you, and you feel his hair tickle your breast as he nods. Taehyung’s voice hardens. “That’s a shame. On your back, Jimin. Clothes off.”

You and Jimin whine in unison as you’re parted again, but the latter wastes no time in undressing, throwing his shirt, pants and underwear away blindly, almost hitting Taehyung with them.

Taehyung lets out a cheeky smile as he ducks out of the way, before steeling his expression again and standing up to join you at the bed. You prop yourself up on your elbows to watch as Jimin lies down beside you, head propped up on the pillows.

Making him wait in silence and darkness for a moment long enough to make Jimin hold back another whine with a bit lip, Taehyung suddenly reaches out and rakes his nails up Jimin’s chest from his lower stomach to his collarbones, flicking his nipples on the way.

Jimin hisses and almost comes clean off the mattress, arms flying down, but Taehyung catches him at the wrists and tugs his arms up with a roughness that takes Jimin by surprise, leaving him pinned open with reddening lines across his torso.

“Fuck,” he curses, head thrashing back and forth once in frustration. He looks overwhelmed already, though you’re beginning to suspect this is his first time subbing, at least in many years. “T- Mister Kim, Mister Kim, please.”

“Y/n’s going to take what she wants now, Jimin,” Taehyung instructs gruffly, sending you an expectant gaze for you to get up, “and you’re going to give it all to her. Isn’t that right?”

“Please,” Jimin repeats brokenly, fingers curling in the open air as Taehyung holds his wrists up.

Heart racing violently in your chest, you find yourself straddling Jimin with barely-restrained excitement. His cock is lying against his lower abdomen, leaking steadily, and the moment you reach out and take it in your hand he lets out a low, keening sob, thighs lifting as if to curl in on himself.

“Colour, Jimin,” Taehyung demands, loosening his hold on the man’s wrists briefly.

Jimin lets out a frustrated whine, foot stomping against the mattress. He’s panting like he’s run a marathon, even with your hand still on him, and it almost seems like he’s about to end the scene with the pained look on his face. “Dammit, green. Fuck.”

Taehyung pauses for a moment, but suddenly a booming laugh is leaving him as he stares down at the figure on the bed below him, with restrained arms hanging uselessly in the air. “Oh, you dirty fucking boy,” he gushes, bending down to nip at the already-swollen flesh of Jimin’s lips, making the older boy whimper, “you love this, don’t you?”

Shaking his head, Jimin can’t hide the way blood rushes to his cheeks, tinging his face and neck pink as his cock pulses in your grip. It encourages you to move again, and you lean down to spit on it, hearing him hiccup wetly at the feeling of it before you’re jerking him off steadily to spread the slick around.

As much as he tries, Jimin can only hold back the sounds of pleasure for so long, and by the time you’re straddling him, lining him up at your entrance, his chest is heaving and every breath out is tinged in a moan. He all but trembles in anticipation as his tip bumps against you, and you suck in a single slow breath to prepare yourself before you’re sitting on his cock, feeling it part your walls deep inside.

Jimin shudders, and his arms, still in Taehyung’s grip, tug towards his own face to cover it, fingers curling into claws at the flood of sensation.

“Is it good?” Taehyung asks rhetorically, allowing Jimin to pull his hands over his face before cruelly spreading them wide again, leaning down until their noses touch, voice dipping to a gruff whisper, thick with arousal. “You don’t get to hide from us.”

You’re propping yourself up with one hand on Jimin’s heated chest and another on the mattress, letting yourself adjust to the intrusion, and you see the way his lips tremble every time you clench around him.

Though it hasn’t really been that long, you feel the stretch more than usual, especially without the foreplay involving any fingering. But, if you’re honest with yourself, you wouldn’t want it any other way.

There’s something so divine about rocking your hips against him and having his cock open you up through your own movements. You control the pace despite the whines and weak growls of complaint, and you take your time with it. While Jimin might prefer more friction, more motion, you’re enjoying the deep grind, his pelvis pressed to your clit every time you lean forward.

You look up from him, at Taehyung holding him down for you. His hair is messy, but no more than before, and he’s still fully dressed. His eyes are dark with lust and glimmering with excitement, and once he feels your gaze he looks up at you sharply. Your heart jumps, and you squeeze unintentionally around Jimin, making him groan.

Still looking at Taehyung, however, at his sculpted lips, strong gaze and hooded lids, you’re overwhelmed with the urge to lean forward and kiss him. It’s like a string is tied between the two of you, being cranked tighter and tighter. It would be so easy just to give in and-

“Don’t be mean, Y/n. Jimin is being good for us.” Taehyung grins at you, teeth glinting. “Make him come.”

Jimin’s chest hitches, and his hips rock shallowly up at you, unable to get the momentum to do much more. Still, it causes him to drag against your walls, and the pleasure shoots up your core at the feeling. Inspired by both your own pleasure and the need to please the two men with you, you steel your thighs and begin to ride Jimin in earnest.

It’s harder than you expect to keep a rhythm up. Every time you get a good downstroke that reaches your g-spot, it makes your legs tremble, and before long your thighs begin to ache. Nonetheless, you’re determined as you watch Jimin’s blindfolded face contort in pleasure, and you shift your position and bounce harder.

In the back of your mind, you hear Taehyung praise you, but you barely spare him a glance, chest lowering so that you can put all your energy into the tight motion of your hips. Your fingers dig into Jimin’s shoulder, and his muscles tense beneath them as he tries to reach out for you.

Every time he’s reminded of the grip Taehyung has on his arms, Jimin thrashes just a little beneath you, but his cock just keeps on getting stiffer inside you, and as you suck in harsh lungfuls of air, you know he’s getting close.

The sounds that leave his parted lips are nothing short of pornographic, losing all sense of shame or hesitation as he approaches that peak.

You fight off your own orgasm, tightening around Jimin as you try and hold back and distract yourself with him. You’re losing stamina quickly, the rhythm falling apart into unsteady jerks and bounces.

Taehyung watches you carefully, before bending down again and biting right into the plush flesh of Jimin’s cheek, addressing him only after he soothes the blooming red with his tongue. “Why don’t you return the favour and fuck her a little, my good boy?”

Jimin sobs, and his abs tighten as he attempts to get up, but Taehyung just tuts, instructing him to do it right where he is. Clearly too far gone to protest, you feel Jimin prop his feet up against the mattress with a shaky sniff. That’s your only warning before he makes full use of his core strength to piston his hips up into you with toe-curling speed, purely seeking out his own end.

You cry out, knees buckling at the first thrust, and your chin hits his shoulder awkwardly, almost biting your own tongue. Clutching at his arms, you attempt to hold yourself up enough not to bear your dead weight on him, and go along for the ride.

Even from his unwieldy position, Jimin manages far better than you did, and his his moans quickly raise in pitch and shorten in length, until he’s whimpering in desperate yips, thrusting up into you with such ferocity that your teeth chatter.

He’s deep inside you, deeper than he’s been before, and your eyes begin to well at your own impending orgasm.

Closer than you, however, Jimin freezes for a split second before he’s shuddering violently and spurting inside you. Taehyung holds onto him for a moment longer before he releases his wrists, and suddenly you’re being caged in by Jimin, his arms holding you flush against his heated torso as he grinds his cum into you, still blindfolded and barely able to catch a breath.

It’s this rocking motion that tips you over the edge, your clit gaining enough friction to break the dam, and you sob hard as the pleasure wracks through you. There isn’t a single inch of space between you and Jimin, and just as you think you’re in pure ecstasy, you feel Taehyung’s hand tangle in your hair, stroking it as his lips brush the shell of your ear with praises intended for the two of you.

Your face is wet and your body is trembling uncontrollably as you let your climax run through you, and when it fades you feel hollowed out, boneless.

Jimin is clearly the same, because he quite contentedly lets you lie atop him, panting just as hard as you are. His eyes remain closed long after Taehyung slips the blindfold off, pressing kisses to Jimin’s eyelids and the flush on his cheeks.

After a sweet eternity, you gather enough energy to roll off Jimin and sit up, separating yourself from him. He sighs out weakly, and you’re shocked to see just how drained he seems. For a moment, your heart stutters, but as you reach out and grab his hand, matching Taehyung who has his other one sandwiched between his, a drunken smile stretches across Jimin’s face.

“What the fuck?” he asks breathily, chuckling slightly despite his exhaustion. A single eye cracks open, looks up at the two of you with a warm gaze, before slipping shut again. “Oh my god, I can’t believe… I can’t believe that.”

“Can’t believe you liked it?” Taehyung questions, and even after the scene you hear a tinge of nervousness in his tone.

“God, Tae, I think I get it now,” Jimin gushes, voice lowering into a sleepy slur, “it’s- that was fun.”

Taehyung beams, squeezing Jimin’s hand fondly.

Jimin sighs in bliss. “And next time I’m going to edge you so much you cry, Mister Kim.”

The smile drops off Taehyung’s face in an instant. “Hey! That’s not fair. I let you come.”

Whatever protest Jimin would normally fire back is dissolved in his post-orgasm bliss. Instead, he just hums sweetly, entirely unbothered by the sticky mess his lower torso has become.

“Come on,” you jibe softly, feeling your own skin growing tacky, “let’s get you in the shower.”

Jimin groans at the thought of standing up, but Taehyung is having none of it, digging his hands under Jimin’s back to lever him up like a crowbar. “Yeah, we’re not gonna stop taking care of you just because you busted a nut, asshole. Get up and let me clean your dick like the good dom I am.”

Though Jimin huffs all the way to the shower, as the two of you clean him up, dry him off and dress him in a pair of Taehyung’s sweats and a baggy shirt, his eyes never stop gleaming for a second, not-so-secretly enjoying every minute of it.

The three of you spend an hour or so post-shower chilling in Taehyung’s room before hunger overcomes you one at a time. You’ve certainly missed lunch, but there is plenty still left in the fridge, and Jimin takes on the duty of reheating it as a silent thank you for the scene.

He’s quieter than usual, and you know it has to do with the intensity of it, at least for him. It was a big deal, actually submitting to another, and both you and Taehyung keep a close eye on him, filling the silence between the two of you so he doesn’t feel the need to exert himself, but keeping him close nonetheless.

At one point, Jimin goes upstairs to take a nap, insisting he’s fine on his own, and Namjoon and Hoseok return inside from where they’d been having a picnic of sorts (or perhaps fucking on the lawn, though they refuse to deny nor confirm your teasing accusation). The four of you put on a random reality show you’d been meaning to watch, and it isn’t long before Jungkook is joining you too, piling on the couch between the two subtle lovebirds. When Jin comes down, he half-watches from the kitchen, preparing some side dishes for dinner, but Yoongi is nowhere to be seen.

Your mind doesn’t linger on the thought for long, getting distracted by the dating show that somehow is just as ridiculous as the one you’re on, and you let the time slip by as you watch episode after episode. It’s nice to rest up, aching a little bit in a new place than before, but satisfied.

When Yoongi comes down, you’re so caught up watching television that you don’t even see him. It’s not until he cuts into your line of sight and holds out a decisive hand that you blink into focus and notice his presence.

“Y/n. A minute.”

You stare at him for another minute, brain not catching up. Yoongi huffs and bends down, grabbing onto your hand and tugging you up off the couch.

The others stare at you in bewilderment, and you return the confused gaze over your shoulder as he tug you out of the room.

Stumbling through the hallway, you furrow your eyebrows as he leads you up the stairs, almost frantic in his pace.

Arriving at your own door, he throws it open and pulls you inside and shuts it behind you. Your brain catches up, and you let out an uncertain laugh. “Yoongi, you already did your prompt, you don’t have to-”

You’re cut off by a pair of lips on yours.

Yoongi’s body knocks you back and pins you firmly to the door as his mouth slants against yours. Both hands cupping your face, he kisses you like there’s no tomorrow, tongue darting out slightly to flick at your lips.

You let out a surprised moan that gets entirely swallowed by him, knees weak and held up only by his hold. Frantic, hurried, his kisses convey a thousand praises, and your mind whirls with the sudden passion.

This close, you can smell the musk of his cologne. It dizzies you, and you feel as if his hands on your cheeks and his lips on yours are the only thing anchoring you to the world. They move against you, exploring your mouth with a desperate sweetness. You can’t wrap your head around it, can’t catch up, and so you let yourself drown in it instead, clasping at the fabric of Yoongi’s shirt to hold yourself steady.

When you finally part, he rips himself away with dazed eyes, pupils blown with desire. “Y/n,” he breathes, staring at you in wonder as if for the first time. He steps back again, after a moment, touching his swollen lips with a disbelieving smile. “I really tried, you know.”

You frown in confusion, stepping forward to get closer again. “Tried what? Yoongi, I don’t understand.”

“I tried not to fall in love with you like the rest.”

You have no words, mouth hanging open. Before you can think of anything to say, he’s moving past you and letting himself out of your room, the door half-ajar as his footsteps recede into silence.

You stay up in your room for what must be hours, replaying his words over and over in your head, lips tingling.

You miss dinner that way, too occupied in your own thoughts to even notice the knock at your door. Even as the sky darkens outside your window, you feel too wired to sleep, running through every single interaction you’ve ever had with Yoongi. Reading them in every possible way you could.

Working out if you would be telling the truth to say it back.

Your mind runs in circles, unable to land on a single answer, on a single perspective or truth or belief.

Late into the night, and further to the early hours of the morning, you force yourself to think about every other member in the house, too. About how they treat you, how kind they are to you, the way they look at you.

About the way your heart races when you’re around them, even as they comfort you with their presence alone.

You manage to fall asleep shortly before sunrise, eyes aching and body exhausted, every line of thinking and internal interrogation whittled down to a single two words.

I’m fucked.