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theharrowing · 10 months

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Denim & Strawberry

When Yoongi gets invited to watch his crush perform, he has no idea what to expect. Jimin stripping on stage and singing a sultry little number while tugging on his hair is definitely not what Yoongi had in mind, but who is he to complain?

"You could have just asked me out," Yoongi teases, raising his drink to his lips before adding, "no need to put on a whole show." Jimin's mouth falls open again, and he steps close, leaning to speak into Yoongi's ear. "Ah, but you liked the show, didn't you hyung?"

🍓 Yoongi x Jimin

🍓 word count: 19.6k 🙈

🍓 friends to lovers, burlesque au, porn without plot, tooth-rotting fluff, slash, nsfw, 18+

🍓 warnings: top yoongi, bottom jimin. jimin has pink hair and yoongi has a half-up top-knot. this is more or less porn with very little plot. recreational drug use (weed smoking.) jimin performing burlesque and singing while being a flirt. light hair pulling. the burgundy suit from jimin's filter performance, and his kitty gang jacket, and cute lingerie. a hint of jealous/possessive behavior. bickering as a form of flirting. the tiniest hint of sub/dom vibes. safe word establishment. teasing & light humiliation. a little begging. use of good boy and slutty. jimin is shy at times but also a brat and yoongi fights the urge to tame him. a lot of drool, spit, lube, and cum. dirty talk. so much god damn praising. anal (plug, play, eating, fingering, sex.) messy blow job. multiple orgasms. overstimulation. yoongi loves to discuss boundaries & check in. lots of heaven/angel comparisons but only because yoongi is a sucker for how ethereal jimin is (it's not that deep.) too many positions (what was i thinking???) subspace. mating press. cock-warming. after care. tooth-rotting fluff.

🍓 note: a yoonmin fic + jimin doing burlesque was some brainrot shared between @echotoyou and i that i decided to write when their birthday was approaching. but then the big day came and went, and i lost control of this beast for a very long time. she is finally ready hehe. i hope you all (but especially mg!) enjoy!!! finally my years of being a photographer for a burlesque troupe and dating a performer have come in handy for my writing lolol.

🍓 listen along: 🎵 streets by doja cat & yeah, i said it by rhianna (thank you to @sailoryooons for these song choices!!!)

🍓 beta read by @neoneunnajimin!

🍓 posted august 2023 | read on ao3

Yoongi pats his pockets down one last time, fingertips tentatively grazing lumps beneath denim. Phone…wallet…keys. That's everything. He presses the lock button on his open car door, then closes it. In his pocket, his phone buzzes.

Namjoon Hyung, are you close?

Yoongi Just parked.

Namjoon Okay, good. Just making sure you don’t miss anything.

Yoongi rolls his eyes but smiles. He has no idea what to expect – nobody has told him much – but Jimin did say, over and over again, that it was fine if he could not make it. That he would be thrilled if Yoongi could come but understood if he could not. That there would be other shows.

But of course, Yoongi did everything in his power to make it. This is Jimin, after all.

He slides his hands into the pockets of his black denim jacket and moseys from the small parking lot to the sidewalk and around the corner. There is a small congregation of people smoking and loitering outside, under a bright red neon sign that reads Paradise. Yoongi has never been to this bar before – tends to avoid spots on this side of town because it is more popular with college kids, and therefore, the drinks are overpriced.

Everyone outside is done up in some flashy way, wearing sequins and fishnets, glittering eye makeup, and patent leather. Yoongi feels underdressed, wearing a black band tee tucked into black skinny jeans, with a black jacket and black work boots, and he awkwardly runs a hand through his dark, wavy, unstyled, and overgrown hair.

"Yoongi!" a familiar voice shouts, and he looks up in time to find his friend Jeongguk waving him over, past the closest group of smokers.

Even his friends are all dressed up, with sparkly eye glitter and tight, colorful clothing. Hoseok and Jeongguk are in mesh, Taehyung has a burgundy feather boa, and Seokjin and Namjoon are both wearing leather pants. Since when did the two of them own leather pants?

"Ya, you're dressed like a scrub!" Seokjin shouts, making Yoongi's cheeks warm in an instant.

"Nobody told you a single thing about the event tonight, did they?" Namjoon asks sympathetically.

Yoongi shrugs, mutters, "No," and digs his hands further into his pockets.

Taehyung approaches, using his pinkies to brush the hair away from Yoongi's face, cradling a pot of light blue glitter between his fingers. "He probably wanted it to be a surprise," he mutters lowly, unscrewing the pot. "Don't let them make you feel self-conscious."

"I don't," Yoongi responds softly, feeling incredibly self-conscious. He stands still while Taehyung dabs his fingertip into the glitter and allows him to smudge it around his eyes. In the early days of their friendship, Yoongi probably would have fussed, but these days, he lets the youngest two – Taehyung and Jeongguk – do whatever they want.

Jeongguk approaches, unscrewing a stick of pink, shiny lip gloss, and Yoongi huffs out a sigh but stands as still as he can while Jeongguk applies it. "Should put your hair into a bun or something," he mutters before he and Taehyung trade places so Taehyung can smudge blue glitter onto his other eye.

"Your hair is really pretty, hyung," Taehyung adds, screwing the top of the glitter pot back on and sliding it into his very tight white slacks. "You should let me style it."

"Don't we have to go inside?" Yoongi asks.

"We'll head in when the emcee comes on," Hoseok responds, approaching with a mischievous smile. Without asking, he grabs Yoongi's right arm and pulls at the black hair tie that he always keeps on his wrist, then begins separating the top half of Yoongi's hair and making a bun on the top. "Jimin goes on third or fourth."

"What is he doing tonight, again?" Yoongi asks, throwing in the again to make it seem like he may have been privy to information in the past, in case it makes one of them divulge even a crumb of information.

"A little singing," Hoseok mutters, grinning. "You know how it is."

"I literally do not know how it is," Yoongi responds, finally becoming impatient with his friends touching and fixing him.

"You'll see, hyung," Hoseok says as he takes a step back, inspects his handy work, and nods.

Taehyung returns with a knit brow and reaches up to fix Yoongi's glittery makeup, which he allows for a moment before swatting him away, grumbling, "Okay, enough."

"Alright, grumpy cat," Namjoon teases, then passes him a freshly lit joint. "Here."

Yoongi reaches for the joint and takes a hit, letting the smoke fill his lungs before tilting his head upward and releasing it. Then he holds out his hand for the next person to take it, and rolls his shoulders back.

"What kind of song is Jimin singing?" Yoongi half-mutters, expecting next to nothing in response.

Taehyung simply says, "You'll see, hyung," with a wink.

“Is it an original song?” Yoongi tries. He can’t remember Jimin ever talking about songwriting, but he wouldn’t put it past him; Jimin is full of surprises.

The sound of someone shouting into a microphone can be heard, and Yoongi stands at attention, ready to go inside. He can hear people cheering and loud pop music playing.

“Shall we?” Taehyung asks as he takes one last drag at the diminishing joint and hands it to Yoongi.

Yoongi nods and takes another hit, cradling the tiny roached joint between his thumb and forefinger, then holds it out for the others, all of whom hold their hands up and shake their heads. With one last puff, Yoongi flicks it into the street, then shoves his hands back into his jacket pockets.

“Is Jimin part of the opening act?” Yoongi asks, and Seokjin snickers.

“He’s one of the main acts,” Namjoon supplies unhelpfully.

So he must be headlining, Yoongi assumes.

“Hyung is so unobservant when he’s nervous,” Jeongguk teases, and Taehyung chuckles along with him.

“I’m not nervous,” Yoongi grumbles.

He glances around and sees flyers for various events taped to the windows for drag and burlesque shows, and a few for various bands, none of which shows any images of Jimin, or any other performers he has ever seen before. In his pockets, his hands prickle with sweat, and he imagines what kind of instrument Jimin might play. Or maybe he only sings.

Jimin is a somewhat new addition to their friend group, brought in by Taehyung and Hoseok; they all work together. To say Yoongi is smitten would be the understatement of the century. And although Yoongi thinks Jimin may also be interested in him, they have not spoken too much about anything outside of college and work, only seeing one another as part of the larger friend group.

As a major in theater arts with a minor in dance, Jimin works at a local studio teaching children tap and ballet as an assistant to Hoseok. Occasionally, Taehyung substitutes for the older lady who plays piano for the classes. It was natural for them to come together, all close in age, with Hoseok only a year older than the other two.

When Jimin invited Yoongi to come watch him perform, they were all tipsy from one too many bottles of soju. Jeongguk was the last in their friend group to graduate college, and they were all celebrating with drinks and fried chicken.

Even then, when Yoongi asked what kind of show it was, everyone was giggly and secretive. From that moment, he got the feeling that Jimin was definitely flirting with him, with the way his gaze lingered, lips curled into a smile long after Yoongi made him laugh. The more Jimin insisted Yoongi needed to just go and experience the event first-hand, nibbling on his pillowy lip with a somewhat shy, rosy-cheeked grin, Yoongi felt eager to do anything he wanted him to.

“Of course, I’ll be there,” Yoongi promised, and he meant it.

The cheers inside grow louder, and Taehyung takes up the lead, stepping into the bar. Namjoon slings an arm over Yoongi’s shoulder and gently shoves him along with the group. Yoongi reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet, but Taehyung mutters something to the door guy, who looks at a list of names and then waves the six of them inside.

Taehyung leads them down a short hallway, into the bar. A long counter lines the left wall, with patrons leaning against it both to order drinks, and to chat with one another. Past the bar top, at the end of the venue, is a stage, and on stage is a woman lip-synching to some upbeat pop song while waving big white feather fans in front of her, enticing the audience to want to see what the fans are covering.

Yoongi has seen clips of performances like this but has never attended this type of show before, and his gaze lingers on the woman, who winks and blows kisses to cheering audience members before Namjoon leads him over to get a drink.

The music is loud and a little tackier than Yoongi’s usual taste, but the bass line thrums through the speakers straight into his bloodstream, building his nervousness to see Jimin, egged on by feeling somewhat high. He wonders what kind of performance Jimin might put on at an event like this, and he cannot imagine what it could be.

“Hyung?” Taehyung asks, tilting his head toward the waiting tender. “First one is on me.”

What he would like is a nice scotch neat, but since Taehyung is paying, he finds a mid-tier whiskey and gets it with a spritz of soda water. The others order, and by the time they step away from the bar, the woman’s song is at its climax, and she is topless, wearing lacy red underwear and bouncing in a way that spins the red tassel pasties on her breasts in a circle. The action makes him chuckle, and when she bows and leaves the stage, he claps his fingers against the back of the hand holding his drink.

“Burlesque, huh?” Yoongi asks, turning to Namjoon while a man in drag takes the stage.

Namjoon waggles his eyebrows while taking a sip from the bright blue concoction in his hands.

“Is Jimin also doing burlesque?” Yoongi asks, earning him a shrug.

Yoongi decides to just stop asking. Clearly, his friends are determined to be completely useless.

Although there is a decent crowd in the bar, most people are mingling about, watching the stage from a distance, or whispering amongst themselves. The emcee introduces another act and leaves the stage, replaced by a person with a very nicely manicured mustache and beard wearing a big orange wig and vintage blue dress. They prance around the stage, lip-synching to a silly pop song that Yoongi has never heard before, winning cheers and applause from the crowd.

Yoongi wonders if Jimin will also come out in drag, and what kind of a gimmick he might have. Would he wear a dress? High heels? A wig? Yoongi imagines Jimin with the bright, exaggerated makeup on and smiles to himself; he bets Jimin would look really pretty.

Taehyung leads the group toward the stage, taking his place just left of the center. The others file in behind him, with Yoongi keeping some distance from the very front. The performer comes by, lip-synching to Taehyung, who pulls some money from his pocket and holds it up while the performer bends and offers their cleavage for him to slide the notes into.

"I don't have any cash," Yoongi grumbles toward Taehyung when the song ends and the performer exits. "Will I need any for Jimin?"

"I got you," Taehyung responds, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a wad of notes, shoving them into Yoongi's empty hand before he has a chance to protest.

Yoongi attempts to straighten out the notes while holding onto his drink. Meanwhile, the emcee returns to the stage.

"Our next performer is a fan favorite," the emcee says with an exaggerated waggle of their eyebrows. Around them, the crowd becomes dense, with someone bumping shoulders and elbows into Yoongi as they get close to the stage. The emcee continues, "A man who needs no introduction because, let's be honest, you're all here to see him…Jimin."

The stage lights go out, and there is some movement – a person carrying items, as well as the light clacking of heels on the wooden stage. Yoongi's heart goes wild in his chest, and he lifts his drink to his lips, watching ahead for more movement in the dark, eager to not miss a thing when the lights come back on.

A red glow illuminates the back edge of the stage, showing the silhouette of Jimin sitting on what looks like a standard black folding chair. He is sideways on the chair with one leg crossed over the other, his arm draped over the back of the chair, and his head tilted back. He appears to be wearing a jacket and slacks, but it is hard to tell.

Also on the stage is a tall, wooden coat rack, and hanging from it appears to be a short mesh robe with fur trim along the sleeves and bottom hem.

Beside Yoongi, a man loudly whispers, "I fucking love Jimin; just wait," to someone else, and Yoongi shifts a little on his feet with anticipation and something like envy stirring in his guts.

A yellow spotlight comes on, shining on Jimin. He wears a fitted burgundy suit and black leather boots with a heel and pointed toe. His light pink hair is styled off his forehead, and he appears to be wearing makeup around his eyes, but it is hard to clearly see. In his hand, which is draped over his knee, is a burgundy wide-brimmed hat.

A familiar oldie comes on, a pop track from the 1950s, and Jimin slowly uncrosses his legs and places both feet on the floor. Female voices sing sweetly before Paul Anka's voice croons, "Put your head on my shoulder."

Only, before the sentence is finished, the song abruptly changes to a sexy R&B track with a trap beat. In that moment, the yellow spotlights turn red, the hat is dropped to the floor, and Jimin's hands are on the chair, supporting his weight as his body bows upward. Briefly, Yoongi thinks he recognizes the song from a bunch of tiktoks Hoseok has made him watch.

The crowd cheers as Jimin rolls his body, then sits and rotates, facing the audience and spreading his legs. A woman's voice comes through, singing, "Like you…like you…like you…I find it hard to find someone like you," while Jimin rolls his shoulders and hips to the song, leaning forward and then back, holding onto this chair as he lifts his hips and lolls his head.

Yoongi is stunned, gripping onto his drink while he watches Jimin stand, spin the chair around and sit once more with his back to the audience and head tipped back while his hands rove over his body. His fingertips lift and fall to the rhythm of the song while they work their way down, down, down Jimin's body, difficult to clearly see and stirring up so many mental images.

Jimin's shoulders and hips sway while his hands disappear, and then he pulls open the burgundy jacket. Everyone around him roars excitedly, cheering and applauding. Jimin holds onto the lapels and turns his head, teasing the audience with his opened jacket before he stands and lets the garment slip down past his shoulders, revealing a matching burgundy button-up that is tucked into his matching slacks and clings tightly to his arms and waist.

With a slow, deep swish of his hips, Jimin faces the audience and begins to rip the dress shirt open from the collar, sending buttons skittering across the stage, earning him whoops and shouts. With a strip of skin exposed, he walks over to the coat rack, turns it in a circle, and dips it as if he were dancing with a person, causing the mesh robe hanging from it to sway.

Each movement of Jimin's body is fluid, clothing clinging to his torso and thighs in a way that leaves almost nothing to the imagination. He wears tighter clothing sometimes when they all hang out, but this is the first time Yoongi has really allowed himself to look.

For just a split second, while Jimin is holding the coat rack as if he is cradling the back and neck of a person and lip-synching to the song, it seems like he makes eye contact with Yoongi, causing Yoongi to hold his breath and heavy-blink through the well of excitement and shyness that he feels. It almost looks as if the edges of Jimin's lips lift ever so slightly, but then he releases the rack and spins away from it, swishing his hips as he dips down low and continues to rip open and untuck the button-up shirt with his eyelids fluttering closed.

Yoongi practically forgets there is a song playing, focused so intently on Jimin, that when the singer begins to rap – quick and raspy – matched by Jimin's movements of tearing away the garment and revealing a bare torso with little light-colored heart pasties on his nipples, Yoongi sucks in a gasp that gets caught in his throat, nearly making him choke. Jimin’s bare chest and abdominals are chiseled – carved from the finest clay with careful hands. Yoongi lifts his drink quickly, taking a gulp of bitter whiskey and soda water while the crowd goes wild.

In a swift movement, the pants are torn away from Jimin's waist, revealing long, muscular legs and shiny briefs that match the pasties. Jimin sinks into a squat, rubbing his hands over his legs. Then he sits and lifts one of his legs into a high split, giving Yoongi a very clear eyeful of a bulge and taut thigh muscle, making his mouth fall open.

Jimin unzips the boot from the foot suspended in the air and tosses it aside, then drops his leg down and sweeps his other leg out in a half-squat, half-split while he drags his hands down the length of his leg to the other boot, unzips it, and tosses it near the other one.

He spins, gets onto his knees, which are spread, and rolls his hips, lifting and dropping his ass while his hands rove up to his neck and hair, and his head lolls back. All he wears is shiny briefs and pasties, making Yoongi feel more intoxicated than the glass of whiskey ever could.

The group to Yoongi's right is particularly loud, cheering for Jimin and shouting things like, "That's it, baby, show us how you ride it!" making a shiver run along Yoongi's spine. The objectification makes him feel uncomfortable, but he wonders whether Jimin cares, considering he clearly enjoys stripping for an audience; maybe that is all part of the thrill. Yoongi can't say he blames him.

The song fades out as Jimin gets onto his hands and knees and crawls over to the coat rack, then slowly gets to his feet. As the music ends, the red lights fade to regular spotlights, revealing the briefs, pasties, and mesh robe – which Jimin pulls from the rack and begins to put on – are all a light pink color that matches his hair.

Jimin ties the robe with a cord around his waist, standing barefoot while looking out at the crowd with a soft smile. The audience roars with applause and praise, and Yoongi expects Jimin's performance to be over, but then a stagehand in all black runs out, collects the discarded clothing while another sweeps a large broom across the floor to kick away loose buttons, and he hands Jimin a microphone that has been covered in light pink rhinestones.

Once the men wearing black disappear behind tall curtains, a new song begins, also a slow R&B track, and Jimin lifts the microphone and starts singing, slowly swaying his hips and approaching the front of the stage.

Yeah, yeah…yeah, yeah… I ain't tryna think about it, no

Taehyung takes a step back, wraps his arm around Yoongi's waist, and pulls him closer to the stage, causing Yoongi to fumble as Jimin approaches. He stands still as a statue with his hands in front of his chest – wad of notes that Taehyung gave him wedged between two fingers while both hands grip tight to his cold, condensation-covered glass of whiskey and soda water.

Jimin's eyes find Yoongi, and he smiles, tilting his head sweetly to the side. To his right, the guys who had been cheering loudly try to close in and reach forward, but Jimin ignores them, looming over Yoongi while he sings in a soft, sweet voice, delivering lyrics that have Yoongi's cheeks absolutely burning.

Yeah, I said it, boy, get up inside itI want you to homicide it

As Jimin lifts a hand and reaches out, Yoongi steps forward instinctively, knocking the toe of his boot into the front of the wooden stage, head tilted upward with his eyes never leaving Jimin's face. Around him, hands reach out with money, and some even toss notes to the stage, but Jimin ignores all of it.

Go in slow, but I want you to pipe it And I think I kinda like ya Up against the wall, we don't need a title

But Jimin does take the wad of notes that stick out from between Yoongi's fingers, tugging them right out of his weak grasp, and he snakes his hand under the robe and tucks it into the side of his little pink briefs, making Yoongi breathe out a soft chuckle.

Beside him, the guy who seems intent on getting Jimin's attention mutters, "Who the fuck is this guy?" just loud enough that Yoongi can hear him, and pride begins to burn behind his ribs.

Yeah, I said it…Yeah, I said it, bae Yeah, I said it, man, fuck a title

Gently, Jimin reaches out toward Yoongi's head, eyes widening and brows slightly lifting as if asking for permission, and Yoongi nods while letting out a shaky breath. Fingers delicately push into his hair, tugging on strands as Jimin takes a handful and releases it, pulling away while dragging his fingertips against Yoongi's cheek. Even the gentlest touch feels electric, and Yoongi sways slightly forward when Jimin's hand drops away.

Boy, I always like to show Get a little bit, come a little close, now

Arousal builds, and Yoongi feels a bit ashamed considering he and Jimin are friends, and Jimin is hardly touching him in a way that should warrant blood rushing to his dick. But Jimin looks like pure sin wrapped in inviting pink, and the way he stares at Yoongi is playful in a way he has never seen him look.

Take it home on your camera phone Get a little bad, watch me blow it down

Jimin sinks to his knees, still taller than Yoongi but closer to eye level. With one hand, Jimin reaches for Yoongi's drink, then he has a sip of it and sets it down on the stage. Yoongi's hand stays in the same shape as if the glass had never been removed, and he is not sure what is sexier, the fact that Jimin takes the glass straight from his hand, or that he doesn't even flinch after essentially drinking carbonated whiskey.

Yeah, I said it…Yeah, I said it, bae Yeah, I said it… Ooh

With a smirk, Jimin slinks to the very edge of the stage, knees practically bumping into Yoongi's hips. He slips his microphone into Yoongi's hand and lifts it until Yoongi has it in front of his face, as if he is supposed to sing the next line, and then he drapes his arms over Yoongi's shoulders, leans in, and continues.

Yeah, I said it… Yeah, I said it, bae Yeah, I said it… Ooh

From this close, Yoongi can see a dusting of shimmery pink on Jimin's eyelids, which are lined in black. His lips are glossy, he smells like strawberries, and Yoongi feels stunned in place, questioning whether or not all of this is a dream. Could his friends have slipped something in the weed? Could he be hallucinating?

Jimin sings higher, each word more inviting than the last.

You can be rough, boy, but you won't

One of Jimin's hands slides into Yoongi's hair, and starting from the nape of his neck, he takes a handful. Everyone in the bar fades away; as far as Yoongi is concerned, the only two people in the room are himself and the beauty before him.

Yoongi wonders if this is how Jimin's performances typically go. Does he always pick someone from the audience to tease? Is he always this handsy?

Give me some love, boy, give it to me 'til the morn'

With a gentle tug at his hair, Yoongi practically whimpers, watching as Jimin's lips pull into a sweet, devious smile. Jimin holds onto Yoongi while swaying side to side, knees spreading wide as he dips low and closing as he sits a little higher.

Jimin continues singing—

Yeah, I said it…Yeah, I said it, bae Yeah, I said it…

—but he seems less focused on sounding good for the audience and more interested in gently tugging Yoongi's hair and making him gradually fall apart. Soon, he is no longer singing at all, and he releases Yoongi's hair and drags his hand around his neck, past his throat and chin, then up and away, making Yoongi lean forward as if pulled by an invisible string.

Yoongi wets his lips with the tip of his tongue, and Jimin seems to follow the movement before gently tugging his microphone out of Yoongi's tight, sweaty grasp and getting to his feet. Only then, does Yoongi realize the music is fading out. Jimin does a cute little twirl and opens his arms wide, bowing as the audience erupts into cheers, leaving Yoongi too stunned to clap.

The emcee returns to the stage to announce an intermission, and the house lights come on, brightening the space. The crowd thins, and Yoongi heavy-blinks as he takes in his surroundings and allows his soul to return to his body while Jimin prances away, glancing over his shoulder to wink at Yoongi before slipping behind the black curtain.

Two large, warm hands crash into Yoongi's shoulders, and he jumps, sucks in a gasp, and turns to find Namjoon staring at him with a wide smile.

"So?" he has the audacity to ask, and all Yoongi can do is scoff and shake his head incredulously.

"So, what?" Yoongi responds, attempting to play it cool despite the way his heart hammers in his chest.

"Was it life-changing?" Taehyung asks, and Yoongi turns to regard him before remembering his drink is still on the stage and spinning around to retrieve it. When he turns back to his friends, he finds five sets of eager eyes watching him, as well as the stares of strangers, and he ducks his head and gulps down half of his drink.

"It was…" Yoongi begins, trailing off as he attempts to summarize what he just witnessed, blinking through mental image after mental image. "Unexpected," he finally says, lips involuntarily tugging to a smile, which he covers by slamming back the rest of his drink.

"It sure was!" Hoseok says with wide eyes. "Jimin never comes to the edge of the stage like that. People always try to entice him, but he always plays hard to get."

"Oh," Yoongi mutters, letting the words sink in.

"Another?" Jeongguk calls, holding an empty glass, and everyone nods. Hoseok and Taehyung finish their drinks in a gulp while they all turn and make their way to the end of the bar.

As they stand and wait, Yoongi takes a look around the space. Everything is black and chrome and nothing too remarkable, but the place seems to have a chill vibe. And he is grateful to not be the only person wearing denim and a band tee – dressed like a scrub, as Seokjin so elegantly put it.

Taehyung and Jeongguk get drinks, then slink away from the bar to stand off to the side. Then Hoseok and Seokjin order, and finally, Namjoon. Yoongi steps up to the counter and decides to order the same thing he had before – whiskey and soda water.

From beside him, a sweet, familiar voice shouts, "Make that two, please!"

The smell of strawberry perfume hits Yoongi's nose, and he turns to his left to find Jimin smiling widely at him. He wears a white tee tucked into tight, black leather pants, and a black leather bomber jacket with a feathery design embroidered in red and silver beads on the shoulders.

Now that Jimin has touched him – tugged at his hair while looming over like a salacious little threat – Yoongi allows himself to stare a little without feeling the nervous urge to flit his gaze away. The longer he looks at Jimin, the wider Jimin's smile grows.

"Hi, hyung," Jimin says, taking a step closer.

"Hey, pretty," Yoongi responds, feeling self-conscious about his choice of words until he sees the way they make Jimin blush. Pretty, indeed.

Two glasses thunk against the bar top, and Yoongi turns with a gasp, fishing for his wallet.

"On the house," the bartender says, nodding at Jimin.

"Oh," Yoongi mutters, "okay."

"I got the tip," Jimin says beside him, leaning into his personal space to hand a folded wad of notes to the bartender. Jimin adds, "Though, technically, you are paying for it, hyung," close to Yoongi's ear.

"Taehyung is paying for it, actually," Yoongi responds with a smirk, turning to Jimin whose mouth falls agape, scandalized. Yoongi feels the need to defend himself, adding, "Hey, I didn't know what was going on, otherwise I would have come prepared!"

Yoongi picks up both drinks and hands one to Jimin, who responds, "Fair," through laughter as he grabs Yoongi by the bicep and pulls him away from the bar.

Even through his denim sleeve, Yoongi feels a spark of electricity where Jimin touches him. He notices that Jimin has pulled him in the opposite direction of the rest of their friends and decides not to question it. When they find themselves against the wall in a somewhat dimly lit corner, Jimin's hand stays on Yoongi's arm, giving him a tentative squeeze, and Yoongi looks down at Jimin's hand and smiles before meeting his eye.

"You could have just asked me out," Yoongi teases, raising his drink to his lips before adding, "no need to put on a whole show."

Jimin's mouth falls open again, and he steps close, leaning to speak into Yoongi's ear. "Ah, but you liked the show, didn't you hyung?"

Yoongi has a sip of his drink, then he hums as he nods and says, "I did like the show. Your voice is really beautiful."

"Just my voice?" Jimin asks, stepping so close, their shoulders touch.

A chuckle rocks through Yoongi, and he tips his head toward Jimin, who takes a drink with wide, curious eyes. "Not just your voice, no. Everything about you is beautiful."

"Awe, hyung!" Jimin shouts, shoving playfully at Yoongi's shoulder and sending him crashing lightly into the wall.

"Wow," Yoongi responds, snickering. "Last time I compliment a guy."

Jimin places his hand over the spot he shoved and rubs over it, radiating warmth through denim and cotton. He opens his mouth to respond when a small group of men approaches to tell Jimin he did a great job, and Yoongi recognizes one of their voices as the guy who stood beside him during the performance. Yoongi cocks an eyebrow as the man makes eye contact with him, lifting his free hand to place over Jimin's hand, which continues to mindlessly rub over his chest, just below his clavicle.

"Thanks for coming to the show," Jimin mutters politely, turning back to Yoongi.

The group hovers behind Jimin and Yoongi does his best to ignore them, but it feels awkward to have an audience now that Jimin is no longer performing.

"We should finish these drinks and get out of here," Yoongi suggests loud enough for the others to hear him, letting his gaze lift to the group to see if they have.

Jimin chuckles. "Hyung, are you being possessive right now?"

"Maybe," Yoongi responds, tonguing the inside of his cheek. "But if you want to stay while that desperate pack ogles you, by all means—"

Jimin slides his hand from Yoongi's weak grasp to give him another smack, this time on the arm.

"God, you're hot when you're jealous," Jimin says, making Yoongi blush, "but I should stay until the end to support the other performers. There are only four more."

Yoongi nods and accepts Jimin's terms. He wants to clarify that his offer for Jimin to leave with him afterwards is genuine, but the house lights dim, and music plays through the speakers, signaling the return of the show.

Jimin takes Yoongi's hand and pulls him toward the front of the stage, to where the rest of their friends have congregated. Namjoon looks down at their linked hands, then to Yoongi, and he winks, making Yoongi roll his eyes despite how nice it feels to be holding Jimin's hand in public.

The rest of the show goes by in a haze. Yoongi is hardly aware of the performers, hearing a hint of a song here and seeing a whoosh of brightly colored fabric there. All he can focus on is Jimin’s hand in his, Jimin’s voice singing and cheering, Jimin's warmth emitting in welcoming bursts beside him.

Whenever Jimin slips his hand away to clap for each performer, Yoongi follows suit, robotically tapping his fingertips to his glass. And when Jimin takes his hand again, everything blurs and slows down, drowned out by the thrumming of blood in Yoongi’s veins, every sense acutely aware of only Jimin’s proximity – soft and strawberry-tender.

Once the house lights come on again, signaling the end of the show, Yoongi downs the rest of his drink. He feels sluggish and heavy, stumbling slightly when Jimin yanks him over to their friends. He wonders if they will want to keep drinking, whether they will want to go to a new bar. He thinks he would be alright with going to another bar; he parked his car somewhere it can be left overnight.

“Wanna get out of here, hyung?” Jimin asks sweetly in his ear, and Yoongi decides all at once that another bar is out of the question.

“Yes,” Yoongi responds, turning to Jimin with a wide smile that may very well look too eager for his own good.

Jimin chuckles, finishes his drink, and says, “Good,” before leading the way to the bar where their friends are gathering with empty glasses.

Yoongi considers how to break the news; Taehyung and Jeongguk tend to be pretty clingy and weaponize pouts that even Yoongi struggles to defend against, while Hoseok is always eager to keep their hangouts going well into the early morning.

“We’re gonna get out of here!” Jimin announces, gracefully stealing the words from his mouth before he can even begin to formulate them.

Jimin begins to hug everyone before they have a chance to oppose, smacking kisses against their cheeks and thanking them for coming to watch him perform. Most of them seem too dazed to argue.

Yoongi waves to everyone, noticing as they all make some sort of wink or eyebrow waggle at him, then he turns wordlessly and allows himself to get dragged by the wrist through the space, past patrons who attempt to talk to Jimin, and out into the cool night air.

Jimin slides his arm into the crook of Yoongi’s elbow and pulls him along the sidewalk. “I live close,” he says before Yoongi has a chance to ask where they are going. Not that he would protest against being taken anywhere Jimin wanted.

“Did you like the performance?” Jimin asks, bumping his hip against Yoongi as they walk.

“I told you I did,” Yoongi teases, turning to find Jimin smiling while looking ahead.

Jimin’s side profile is all firm lines and glitter, softened when he turns to Yoongi with wide, round eyes and pillow lips. He is stunning, and Yoongi is relieved to be able to stare unabashedly.

“You told me I was beautiful,” Jimin clarifies, raising his eyebrows before looking ahead.

“You are,” Yoongi mutters, remembering the performance. “And your singing was really beautiful. And the…stripping…” he trails off, feeling nervous about his choice of words.

But Jimin does not miss a beat. “You liked watching me strip, hmm?”

“Of course I did,” Yoongi mutters, blushing.

He is tugged around a corner to the right where the streetlights are fewer and the world feels darker, quieter.

“And my dancing?” Jimin asks, walking impossibly closer – the two of them somehow managing to not trip over one another.

“I liked your dancing,” Yoongi responds softly, clearing his throat to speak louder. “Hoseok mentioned you never come to the edge of the stage like that.”

Jimin chuckles, and Yoongi glances to the side, catching his eye before they both look ahead.

“I don’t. That was just for you. I had a couple surprises just for you.”

Yoongi hums questionably, and Jimin says, "There's still one more surprise, in fact."

“Wow,” Yoongi rasps, smiling, “guess I’m pretty special.”

Jimin stops in his tracks and turns, pulling Yoongi gently away from the sidewalk, onto a grassy area near where tall bushes line the outside of an apartment building. It is even darker, and even quieter, without another soul around as far as Yoongi can tell, and he allows Jimin to wrap his arms around his shoulders and pull him close enough that their lips nearly touch.

“You are special,” Jimin responds with a smile, fingertips playing with Yoongi’s hair. “And you look so cute with your hair half up and your eyes covered in Taehyung’s favorite blue glitter. How could I keep my hands off you?”

“Your admirers seemed pretty jealous,” Yoongi teases as he wraps his arms around Jimin’s waist, holding him close.

“Let them be,” Jimin mutters softly, ghosting warm breath over Yoongi’s lips, which he wets with the tip of his tongue in anticipation. “The only admirer I care about is you.”

Yoongi smiles, letting his mouth fall open to respond – to tell Jimin he does admire him, so much, in fact, that it makes him dizzy. But Jimin slots their lips together tentatively, hands cradling Yoongi’s neck and back, and Yoongi sinks into the feeling with a sigh, then gently sucks Jimin’s bottom lip into his mouth as his pulse quickens.

Jimin’s mouth is warm and soft beyond Yoongi’s wildest dreams. Yoongi rubs his hands over Jimin’s lower back and tilts his head just enough to deepen the kiss, licking over Jimin’s bottom lip until it falls open with a gasp, granting Yoongi entrance.

With a slow graze of his tongue over Jimin’s, he feels Jimin tense and shiver in his hold, letting out a soft whine that has arousal crashing through Yoongi. Jimin whimpers, and all Yoongi can think about is the man on stage in his tight little briefs, and his trim, flexible body grinding and swaying so invitingly.

Jimin breaks from the kiss, panting as he tips his mouth away but presses their foreheads together. Yoongi opens his eyes just enough to see Jimin smiling.

“Let’s go inside,” Jimin mutters, sounding breathless, and he releases Yoongi from his hold and leads him up the short set of steps into the building they were just in front of.

“Couldn’t wait two more minutes to get me inside?” Yoongi chides as Jimin tugs him by the wrist down a short hallway, to a door on the right.

Jimin punches in the door code and steps inside the apartment, switching on a bright overhead light that makes the two of them squint. When Yoongi steps in and closes the door, Jimin has his hands on him, pressing him against the wall.

“Are you always such a brat?” Jimin groans, crowding Yoongi’s space.

Yoongi assists Jimin in being close by wrapping his arms around his waist. “I like to tease you,” he rasps, chuckling as Jimin rolls his eyes.

“You were teasing me earlier,” Yoongi adds, sliding one hand up, over the scratchy embroidery of Jimin’s jacket until his hand is on the back of Jimin’s neck. “With your dancing…and your singing…and your hair-pulling.”

“I was being extra sexy once I saw you standing there,” Jimin says sweetly as he slots a leg between Yoongi’s thighs.

“Is that so?” Yoongi asks, tipping his head back against the wall so he can actually see the beauty before him.

Jimin nibbles on his bottom lip and nods his head. “I don’t usually grind on the floor as much. And the little splits I did to take off my shoes was improvised.”

“I might need to see those moves again,” Yoongi mutters, closing the gap between their lips with a soft, chaste kiss.

Jimin sighs and sinks into Yoongi, stomach and chest flush with his. “I have a lot of moves I can show you, hyung,” he responds as he sucks Yoongi’s lip into his mouth hard enough to make Yoongi whimper.

“So show me,” Yoongi practically whines as he licks eagerly over Jimin’s lips.

Jimin heaves a breath and takes a step back, grabbing Yoongi’s hands as they slowly slide from their grasp, walking backward through his tidy apartment, smiling as he mutters, “I’ll show you.”

Abruptly, Jimin stops and shouts, “Wait!” shoving Yoongi backward. Yoongi is confused and cocks his head, allowing himself to be moved, fingers still laced with Jimin’s.

“We have to take our boots off, silly,” Jimin says, unlinking their hands and pressing Yoongi against the wall once more. He leans against Yoongi's chest as he lifts each foot to slide out of his black Chelsea boots and socks, stepping a bit shorter than before.

Once Jimin’s feet are free, he prances away with a giggle, and Yoongi opens his mouth to call after him, but shakes his head and chuckles instead as he bends and unties his boots, toeing out of each one. The sound of a faucet running cues Yoongi to where to go, and he walks through the living room, to the right, and finds Jimin standing in a small kitchen, drinking from a glass of water.

“Thirsty, hyung?” Jimin asks, holding out the glass.

Yoongi takes it and has a drink, then sets it on the counter, and says, “I’m not too thirsty…but I am quite hungry,” watching as Jimin begins to look around with a frown.

“I don’t have much,” he says, “what are you hungry for?”

Yoongi wraps his hands around Jimin’s waist, rubbing both palms over his leather-clad ass.

“You,” he rasps, earning him a groan and a weak smack on the arm. He pouts and adds, “Pretty please?” while batting his eyelashes, and Jimin takes his hand, leading him away.

“Are we leaving every light in your apartment on?” Yoongi asks while Jimin drags him into a short hallway.

With a huff, Jimin turns on the hallway light, then reaches into a semi-open door right in front of them and turns the light on, revealing a bathroom.

“There!” Jimin says with an incredulous glare. “Are you happy, hyung?”

“No,” Yoongi grumbles. “Feels like a waste of electricity.”

“You’re infuriating,” Jimin complains as he shuts off the bathroom and hallway lights. He playfully shoves Yoongi away to storm off to the kitchen and living room, and Yoongi laughs to himself, over the moon with how easy Jimin is to rile up.

When Jimin returns, he grips onto the sleeve of Yoongi's jacket and yanks him roughly down to the end of the short hallway, into a dark room. Yoongi is still laughing, muttering, "Whoa, easy, tiger," as he is pressed into another wall, body against body, with warm breath wafting over his face.

"You'll just have to fuck me in the dark since you're so god damn annoying," Jimin huffs as two hands slide up Yoongi's neck, into his hair and grip tightly.

Yoongi reaches into Jimin's jacket, pushing material away as he grabs him by the waist. Then he twists the two of them, grinning to himself when Jimin huffs out a surprised, "Oof," from the impact of his back being pressed into the wall.

He leans forward, grazing his nose against Jimin's nose as he says, "So you want me to fuck you, hmm?"

"I thought that was a given," Jimin responds, voice less confident than before – trembling, even.

Yoongi hums and noses at Jimin some more, flicking his tongue out and pleased when it grazes over soft lips. "Didn't want to assume," he responds lowly, licking over Jimin's lips once more. "I'm down for anything you want, pretty."

It feels almost frantic the way Jimin's lips crash into his, mouth kissing and nipping while hands shove away Yoongi's denim jacket, sending it to the floor in a heavy lump of fabric. Jimin's hands yank at Yoongi's shirt, pulling it untucked from his jeans, and Yoongi reaches down, gently taking him by the wrists to stop him.

"Wanna see you," Yoongi says. "I take back what I said about the lights; turn them all on so I don't miss anything."

Jimin chuckles and pulls his hands away, then a rustling of fabric is followed by the bright flashlight of Jimin's phone coming on.

"Compromise?" he suggests with a smile that Yoongi barely sees behind the bright white glow. "There's a lamp beside my bed. Be a good boy and turn it on for me?"

Despite the somewhat indignant scoff that rolls through Yoongi's chest and throat, he turns on his heels to make his way through the dark bedroom, determined to be a good boy, indeed. He watches his step, maneuvering around discarded clothing items in the white glow before reaching the bed and finding the lamp.

It takes a few moments of him rubbing his hand over the post and then down to where a cord sticks out, but he finds the little plastic switch and presses it on. A soft, golden light fills the space, and when he spins back around, Jimin is in the center of the room with his jacket draped down past his shoulders.

Jimin begins to saunter over, and Yoongi's brain kicks into gear, going haywire over what he should do – join Jimin and undress him, or sit down and find out whether Jimin feels like putting on another show for him. He opts to sit, but when he turns to make sure the bed is close enough, his knees bump into it, knocking him off balance, and he more or less crashes onto his butt against the mattress.

"So eager," Jimin teases as he rubs his hands over his neck, up into his light pink hair, and back down.

"For you?" Yoongi responds, raising his eyebrows and nodding toward Jimin, feeling zero embarrassment over his floundering. "Absolutely."

"What are you so eager for?" Jimin asks with a grin that grows into something as beautiful as it is dangerous.

"You," Yoongi responds without thinking. "All of you."

Jimin giggles. "Be more specific, hyung."

"I want to watch you strip again," Yoongi says, swallowing a lump of excitement that builds and builds in his throat, threatening to suffocate. "I want to worship you."

With another giggle, Jimin begins to thumb through his phone. The sound of a bluetooth speaker connecting somewhere to the right chimes through the room, and Yoongi turns to glance around, noticing a desk, a dresser, and an open closet door. Garments are strewn about – mostly shirts, it seems – and the dresser appears to be covered in various makeup items, beauty tools, and accessories.

Over the speaker, a sexy R&B track begins to play, and Yoongi turns his attention back to Jimin, who tosses his phone over to the bed, to the right of Yoongi, and begins to sway his hips. Earlier, when Jimin was on stage, Yoongi was awestruck and struggled to fully comprehend what was happening. Especially with others around him cheering and shouting for Jimin, it took time for everything to settle over him.

But sitting in this dim room, just the two of them, knowing the type of body that Jimin has under all that leather and cotton, Yoongi's desire and anticipation reach new heights, and he leans back with his palms spread against Jimin's pink and orange floral comforter while butterflies kick up in his stomach. He almost feels the urge to pinch himself, worried once more that he might be dreaming.

Jimin lets the jacket fall to his wrists, then he lifts one hand slowly, dragging the material upward with his wrist until it slides free and falls. He lifts his other hand straight out and tilts his wrist until the material slides and crumples to the floor, and although it is just outerwear and Jimin is still fully clothed, the seductive movements have Yoongi sitting wide-eyed and mouth agape – entranced.

Yoongi barely registers the song that is playing, but he does not need to. Jimin's shoulders and hips amplify its tune, turning it into something tangible – something he could reach out and feel. Slowly, Jimin turns, and, with his fingertips dancing over the material of his t-shirt, he begins to untuck it little by little.

White cotton drags over muscular shoulders with every movement, while black leather hugs his ass and thighs tightly. Then Jimin does a cute turn and sways down, bending his knees before swishing back up while lifting his shirt over his tummy and up, up, almost to his chest before spinning again and looking over his shoulder, pretending to be shy.

Yoongi scoffs and shakes his head, absolutely charmed by Jimin's little show, still toeing the line between playful and sexy as the shirt lifts over his head completely and Jimin tosses it over his shoulder, straight at Yoongi's face. Yoongi barely lifts his hands, allowing the fabric to gently clobber him in a wave of warm strawberry, and when it falls to his lap, he lazily takes it in one hand and holds onto it.

"Still wearing those cute hearts?" Yoongi asks, and when Jimin mock-pouts and says, "Sorry, hyung, I took them off," he feels the tiniest tinge of sadness.

"What a shame," Yoongi responds, wetting his lips as Jimin turns and saunters closer, hands rubbing over his nipples, keeping them covered. "They were cute."

"You're cute, hyung. But no touching unless I say you can," Jimin instructs softly but firmly, nibbling his bottom lip while slotting one leg between Yoongi's thighs and lifting his other knee to the bed.

Yoongi tips his head back, leaning to give Jimin space as he rolls and grinds his hips, rubbing his hands up, over his neck, and into his hair, and then down, over his nipples and abdominals. Jimin is delicate hills and valleys of taut muscle and soft skin, and all Yoongi can do is stare at the beauty before him while swallowing the saliva that has pooled beneath his tongue, threatening to drool past his lips.

"Like what you see, hyung?" Jimin asks, making Yoongi chuckle.

Yoongi has to find his voice, softly clearing his throat. "You know I do."

With a deep, inviting hum, Jimin presses his thigh between Yoongi's legs, applying just enough pressure to make the air get trapped in his lungs. Arousal simmers through Yoongi, and he gasps, which becomes a soft chuckle when he notices the playful look on Jimin's face.

"Evil," Yoongi groans when Jimin's leg grazes over him again, feeling blood rush straight to his dick.

"What's the matter, hyung?" Jimin sing-songs as he takes a step back, spins around, and lowers his ass to Yoongi's lap.

With both hands planted on Yoongi's knees, Jimin rolls his hips in circles and grinds them forward and back, and Yoongi squeezes the comforter in both palms as he groans from the pressure, fighting how badly he wants to touch.

The song switches to something else sultry and unfamiliar, and Jimin reaches back with one arm that drapes over Yoongi's shoulder, resting his head on his other shoulder while his hips lift and fall in quick but soft movements that graze over Yoongi's crotch.

"You're good at this," Yoongi mutters, dazed, hardly sounding like himself.

Jimin hums in agreement and says, "I'm good at a lot of things."

A particularly firm press of Jimin's ass against Yoongi's constricted dick has his eyes fluttering closed, and he practically whines, "Show me everything."

Jimin sits up, taking away the arm around Yoongi's shoulder, then glances back with a mischievous smile, still moving his hips in inviting circles. Yoongi can hear the slow drag of a zipper, each tooth releasing as Jimin's arms make small movements in front of him. And then he lifts his hands to the waistband of his pants, hooks his thumbs under the black leather to slowly push the garment down.

The movement is agonizingly slow, only revealing an inch before he pulls back up and begins to drag down little by little, exposing pinkish-white satin briefs. Yoongi wants to grab onto the pockets and yank the material to the floor, losing all sense of sitting like a good boy.

"You're killing me," he grumbles, fisting the blanket tight.

With a giggle, Jimin stands, pushes the pants all the way to his thighs, and then sits again, grinding down on Yoongi's lap. The delicate curve of Jimin's waist into soft hips and a round, perfect ass has Yoongi reeling; the fact that he has Jimin all alone, and he is teasing him like this, is still a bit hard to comprehend. And, to make matters worse – or better – sticking out from under Jimin's satin panties are white lace garters connected to white mesh thigh-high stockings.

Yoongi groans, eager to show his appreciation while feeling at a loss for words, earning a light giggle in response.

"How badly do you want to touch me?" Jimin teases, glancing over his shoulder.

Yoongi tongues the inside of his mouth, raising his eyebrows while Jimin continues to watch him. "Oh, I'm going to fucking ruin you the second you give me permission to."

It is subtle the way Jimin's eyes widen and all mirth melts from his features – it only lasts a split second. But Yoongi clocks it, and he smirks, feeling victorious.

Jimin turns and stands, bending himself in half while pushing his pants down to his ankles, and Yoongi watches as more drool pools under his tongue, gaze drifting down to where Jimin peeks from around his ankles to smile before slowly standing back up. He steps from the crumpled leather and then kicks the garment away before turning to Yoongi with his cock straining hard in those tight little briefs as he straddles his lap.

"How was this performance, hyung?" Jimin asks, wrapping his arms around Yoongi's shoulders to play with his hair.

At some point, the song had changed, but Yoongi barely registers the downtempo beat, staring at Jimin, who giggles and wiggles his hips back and forth in a quick, playful movement. He lifts his right hand and then drops it back to the blanket with a groan, rolling his head back and taking a quick moment to close his eyes.

"It was more of a tease than the first one," Yoongi grumbles, tracing the soft lines of Jimin's neck and shoulders with his eyes before looking at his face. "But it was great, all the same; I thoroughly enjoyed it."

Jimin reaches down and palms over Yoongi's dick, which sits bunched up at an uncomfortable angle under restrictive denim, making him gasp from the pressure-ache that tears through him.

"I can tell how thoroughly you enjoyed it, hyung."

At this, Yoongi chuckles, biting the inside of his mouth and biding his time for when it is his turn to be a menace.

"Did you notice my final surprise?" Jimin asks.

"The garters and stockings?" Yoongi asks, eyes drifting downward.

"Not that," Jimin responds, and Yoongi cocks his head, unsure what he means.

"No…" he mutters.

Jimin stares incredulously, heavy-blinking in disbelief. "What, really?" he practically shouts. "My ass was right in your face, how did you miss it?"

"I mean…your ass is…surprisingly perfect," Yoongi tries.

With a playful huff, Jimin rolls his eyes, grabs Yoongi's right hand, and wraps it around him, making Yoongi cup one of his cheeks.

"You can touch only with this hand," Jimin says with an insistent gaze, "and only on my butt."

The material of these briefs is thin and smooth, gliding softly under Yoongi's palm. It takes Yoongi a moment of rubbing over the soft flesh, squeezing gently, and mapping its shape before his fingertips brush over something hard, making Jimin suck in a sudden gasp of air.

"Oh?" Yoongi asks, grazing his fingertips against the spot with more purpose, making Jimin squirm. "What have we here?"

Jimin whimpers as Yoongi presses against the hard, round surprise before taking a handful to squeeze and spread, turning his sounds into soft moans.

"Were you wearing this plug during the performance?" Yoongi asks, head tipped back to watch as Jimin's lips tremble and search for what to say.

"Yes," he finally sighs, lolling his head back with a moan when Yoongi passes his fingers firmly over it again.

"You performed wearing an anal plug?" Yoongi asks again, watching as Jimin's cheeks flush and his eyes widen.

Jimin leans forward and presses his forehead against Yoongi's, nodding while whimpering a broken, "Uh-huh."

"While dancing and singing and tugging on my hair?" Yoongi continues, "While those eager boys stood and watched you flirt with me, you wore this, hoping I would bring you back here and find it."

"Yes, hyung," Jimin moans, and god if Yoongi had not already been fighting back the urge to absolutely destroy this pretty man in the most delicious ways possible, he would be now.

"You wanted me to find this plug, hmm?" Yoongi presses and rubs over it, squeezing and spanking while his other hand grips onto the blanket for dear life. "Wanted me to bend you over and pull it out…stretch you further on my cock…didn't you?"

"Hyung," Jimin whines, hips rolling lazily into Yoongi's touch.

Without another word, Yoongi slides his hand away and anchors himself back against the bed. Jimin scrambles, sitting back with his eyes bulging wide, making Yoongi chuckle.

"So naughty," Yoongi teases, voice full of mirth and sparking a petulant fire in Jimin's eyes.

"Hyung!" Jimin shouts, lifting a hand to smack Yoongi on the chest, which Yoongi catches despite not being given instruction to touch, just yet. Jimin looks incensed and gasps, eyes going between Yoongi's hand and his face.

"It's my turn," Yoongi rasps, biting back a grin. "Let me touch you."

Jimin blinks at him, clearly still processing the teasing, and Yoongi raises his eyebrows, impatient.

"Fine," Jimin huffs brattily, yanking his hand from Yoongi's grasp and sliding from Yoongi's lap to take his place beside him on the bed. "It's your turn to strip, hyung. Give me a good show."

Yoongi stands, walks a couple paces into the room, and turns, letting the movement flow with the beat of whatever song is playing – something a little quicker-paced but still sexy enough to dance to. He rubs his hands over his neck, down his pecs, and over his tummy, watching as Jimin rests back on his palms with his thighs slightly spread, intently following every movement.

Then Yoongi grips onto the bottom hem of his shirt and pulls it quickly over his head, messing up his hair in the process. He flings the garment at Jimin with maybe just a little too much force, and it hits him in the chest, falling to his lap.

"Wh—hyung!" Jimin shouts, tossing the shirt aside as Yoongi quickly undoes his belt and fly and shoves his jeans to the floor, stepping out of one side and then the other, and then reaching down to yank away his socks.

"This is the worst strip tease I have ever seen!" Jimin shouts despite his eyes roving over Yoongi's body with a hunger that says otherwise.

Yoongi approaches in two swift strides and bends to take Jimin by the backs of his knees. He lifts and spreads Jimin's legs, sending his back crashing against the bed, scrambling and squealing while Yoongi leans forward, legs draped over his hips, and grins.

"What did I tell you I was going to do, Jiminah?" Yoongi asks sternly, caging Jimin in with his hands against the bed while Jimin's frantic movements cause their clothed cocks to rub against one another in an addictive jolt of energy.

"R-ruin me," Jimin pants as his flailing slows to a stop.

Yoongi grins. "That's right. I am going to absolutely ruin you. Now be good for me and get on your hands and knees."

It appears to take about two seconds for Jimin to process Yoongi's words before he crawls back on his elbows, getting fully onto the bed, and turning to position himself on his hands and knees while Yoongi sinks down to the floor. Jimin moves toward the center of the bed when Yoongi stops him.

"Ah, ah, come back here, pretty." He pats the mattress as if calling over a puppy. "Want you right here."

Jimin crawls backward with a somewhat dazed, borderline humiliated look on his face, and Yoongi waits patiently until Jimin is settled on the edge of the bed with his ankles hanging near Yoongi's head.

"Perfect," Yoongi groans as he sits high, reaches for the waistline of Jimin's pretty satin briefs, and pulls, uncovering his prize in all its soft yet muscular glory.

Yoongi practically moans at the sight of Jimin stretched around a metal toy with a light pink rhinestone in the center, and he wastes no time reaching two handfuls of soft flesh to squeeze firmly in his palms. He spreads his hands wide to graze his thumbs over the toy, then uses one hand to begin slowly tugging on it while keeping Jimin spread.

"God, look at you," Yoongi groans as Jimin's pucker tenses and relaxes with each movement. "Is this what you wanted? When you invited me to come watch you perform, did you picture me bending you over and playing with your ass afterward?"

"Yes," Jimin whines, sending a shiver down Yoongi's spine.

Yoongi uses his palm to gently strike Jimin's ass. The sound cracks through the room, punctuated by a moan, and Jimin shutters as he relaxes.

"What did you imagine, exactly?" Yoongi asks, hearing a dazed, "What?" come from Jimin.

"When you nestled this pretty little toy inside yourself tonight," Yoongi clarifies, rubbing over the reddened mark of his hand. "What were you imagining I would do to you?"

"I thought you would want to f-fuck me," Jimin says, sounding somewhat bashful. How cute.

Yoongi rubs over Jimin's ass with both hands, then taps the tip of his index finger over the end of the toy, making Jimin tremble. "Is that all?"

"N-no," Jimin whimpers.

"Awe, is pretty Jimin too shy to dirty talk to his hyung now that he has me right where he wants me?"

All he hears in response is a low whine, and Yoongi chuckles, smacking and squeezing Jimin's ass just enough to make his legs quake. He wonders if Jimin likes becoming pliant and malleable in someone else's hands.

"I can tell you what I imagine," Yoongi offers, sitting back before getting onto his feet to rub over Jimin's back and bend over him, draping himself to speak low into Jimin's ear.

Jimin nods.

"What I've imagined since the day we met—" Yoongi reaches with one hand to Jimin's chin and lifts his head up, then presses two fingers into his warm, wet mouth, "—is watching these sinful fucking lips wrap around my cock."

Jimin sucks on Yoongi's fingers, stirring a fire in his belly, and Yoongi nuzzles their cheeks together, pulling away as Jimin releases him with a pop.

"And what I've imagined since that little performance of yours tonight—" Yoongi gently grips Jimin's chin and pulls him so that he is held in place, back arched and neck craned, looking him in the eye, "—is the sight of you riding me…using me to make yourself cum…squeezing me so nice and tight…all while tugging on my hair."

Jimin's eyes blow wide, and he gasps, staring at Yoongi as if he has just personally hung every star in the night sky. Reverent.

"Would you like that, pretty?" Yoongi asks, and Jimin nods.

Yoongi grins. "Use your words, baby."

Brighter and wider, Jimin's eyes turn to heavenly disks, and Yoongi makes a mental note to call him baby a lot more.

"Yes, hyung," Jimin mutters sweetly.

"Say my name. Tell me what you need."

"Yes, Yoongi," Jimin responds. "I need…you. Anything you want, please."

With a soft kiss against Jimin's cheek, Yoongi lowers Jimin down, continuing to drape himself over his body, keeping his weight from pressing on him too much.

"Do you like to be more in control," Yoongi asks, dancing fingertips in Jimin's pink hair, "or do you like to submit?"

Jimin's voice has a slight tremble when he says, "Submit."

"Do you like it rough or soft?"

"Both."

Yoongi groans, pleased with that answer. "Do you have a safe word, baby?"

"S-strawberry."

"Strawberry, of course," Yoongi says, grinning. "Good. I'm going to make you feel so good, baby."

Yoongi feels Jimin's body relax beneath him as he sighs, "Please, Yoongi," in a voice fit for an angel.

Eager to learn all the pretty ways Jimin can sing, Yoongi gets back onto his feet, running his fingertips over the length of Jimin's back before dropping to his knees. He spreads Jimin wide, leans forward, and licks from just beneath the end of the plug to just above it, tasting cold metal and zirconia with a sticky-sweet hint of lube.

Jimin moans low and arches his back, pressing his ass against Yoongi's face, and Yoongi chuckles as he grips tightly to both cheeks and licks again and again, straight lines and rounded ones, tasting and teasing.

"Do you get really sensitive?" Yoongi asks as he rests his cheek against the soft curve of Jimin's ass and takes the end of the toy between his fingers, tugging it ever so slightly – just enough to make Jimin whine.

Jimin mutters a pitchy, "Uh-huh."

"Words, baby," Yoongi instructs with a somewhat stronger tug.

Jimin sobs as he says, "Yes, Yoongi!"

"Good," Yoongi groans as he nuzzles against Jimin and nips gently at his skin. "We're gonna have a lot of fun together."

With a firm tug, Yoongi begins to pull the toy, taking it nice and slow while Jimin's hole stretches around the bulb. Jimin sobs with shaking legs, and Yoongi lifts his head and drops a dab of spit as he pushes the toy back in and gives it another tug.

Back and forth, he tugs and presses, with more spit and kisses against Jimin's soft skin, again and again, until finally Jimin opens wide and releases the plug with a soft wail.

"That's it, baby," Yoongi praises, licking over Jimin's rim with a firm twist of his tongue, making him moan. "So good for me."

Yoongi stands on somewhat shaky legs – knees, and calves tired from being bunched up on the floor – and he moves to the bedside table, grabs a tissue from a small box, and places it down to rest the plug onto. "You got lube in here?" he asks, tapping his fingernails against the small door on the front of the table.

"No, on top," Jimin responds, and Yoongi glances around, then finds the bottle wedged behind the tissue box.

"Is this the lube you used earlier?" Yoongi asks as he returns and takes in the sight of Jimin on his knees with his face pressed against his floral comforter.

"Don't pick on me," Jimin pouts, frowning, making Yoongi chuckle fondly.

"Not picking on you, baby," Yoongi responds, patting the center of the bed, closer to the pillow. "Come up here."

With a whimper and even deeper pout, Jimin anchors himself on his hands, and – like a doe learning to walk for the first time – fumbles and sways with forward momentum until he slams his chest down onto a pillow and wraps his arms around it.

Yoongi gets onto the bed and crawls on his knees behind Jimin. The satin briefs are still around Jimin's legs, keeping him from spreading his knees too far, and Yoongi leaves them in place, curious how Jimin might enjoy a little movement restriction.

With his thumb, Yoongi flips open the lid of the lube bottle, then he squirts a generous amount onto his index and middle fingers and rubs the pad of his thumb through the sticky substance to warm it just a little. Then he rubs the slicked tips of his fingers over Jimin's hole, watching the way he trembles from even the slightest of touches.

Slowly, Yoongi presses the tip of his middle finger in, testing how far the toy has stretched him. Although Jimin moans, his voice is steady as Yoongi pushes all the way to his knuckle and twists. The muscle does not squeeze too tight, so he pulls out and gently slides in another.

With his index finger added, Jimin squeezes him with a deep whimper and then relaxes. Yoongi takes it slow, rubbing his palm soothingly over Jimin's ass and thigh, pulling his fingers back and pressing them forward little by little.

"Let me know if you need me to slow down or stop, pretty," Yoongi says as he watches his fingertips get swallowed.

"Don't stop," Jimin whimpers, "give me more."

"More?" Yoongi teases, drawing the word out nice and long.

"Please, Yoongi."

Yoongi twists his fingers as he pushes and pulls, listening to Jimin's deep voice become high-pitched and raspy. Satisfied with how Jimin feels around him – swallowing eagerly but not with a death grip – Yoongi adds his ring finger.

Jimin trembles and bleats broken syllables as Yoongi presses three fingers into him. He twists slowly and dribbles spit onto Jimin's rim, giving himself a little more slide, working himself a little deeper. And Jimin takes him so well until he gets to his knuckles and the stretch feels too tight.

"Fuck," Jimin gasps, legs quaking. "Feels s-so good, but it—'s too much."

"I got you, baby," Yoongi says softly, planting kisses over Jimin's ass and upper thigh as he slides his fingers out and pauses. "Call your safe word if you want a break."

"No," Jimin pants. "I don't want a break, your fingers are just…they're too good."

Yoongi chuckles, slowly pressing his fingers back in, stopping before the knuckles, as he says, "Just breathe for me," with his lips dragging over Jimin's soft skin.

Labored, panicked breaths make Yoongi smile and shake his head, and he slowly pulls out as he clarifies, "Breathe slowly, Jiminah. Don't make yourself dizzy; I don't need you passing out on me."

An impatient groan muffled by a blanket makes Yoongi sit up high on his knees and angle his body to get a look at Jimin, whose face is squished cutely into the bed with flushed cheeks and a frown in his brow.

"Ya, what is it?" Yoongi teases, using his lubed fingers to give Jimin's ass a little smack, smiling at how the man cries and quakes.

"Wanna ride you," Jimin groans indignantly.

Yoongi wants to rile Jimin up so badly. He considers tickling the man until he crashes to the bed laughing – and probably throwing a tantrum. He wants to threaten not to let Jimin do anything he wants, just so he can be pouty and bratty and make Yoongi put him in his place a little – gently and sweetly, of course. He has to hold his tongue to not chide the poor guy for how grumpy and impatient he is, even as Yoongi stretches him.

But he does not. Instead, Yoongi rubs both hands over Jimin's ass, spreading and squeezing while settling back down again. "I thought you wanted to be submissive," he asks, with only a hint of mirth.

"I do," Jimin responds, pout still evident in his tone. "I want to do both. I can't make up my mind."

"You can do both," Yoongi insists with a smirk, reaching for the lube bottle to slick his fingers back up. "I would love it if you rode me, baby. But if you can't take three knuckles, you sure as hell can't take my cock. So why don't you be a good boy and breathe nice and slow while I stretch you open, yeah?"

The breathy way in which Jimin mutters, "Yeah," tells Yoongi his message has been received loud and clear. The prospect alone of Jimin riding him has him very eager to get the other nice and ready.

Yoongi slathers his three fingers in lube and begins to press them in. Jimin still huffs his exhales, but he is breathing less like a man who might be dying, for which Yoongi is grateful. It takes plenty of twisting and coaxing to slowly get the muscles to open for him, but Yoongi is patient, kissing and sucking on Jimin's skin while watching his fingers get swallowed.

When Yoongi finally does finger Jimin past the knuckle – accompanied by a pitchy squeal and Jimin begging, "Fuck, fuck, don't stop, please don't fucking stop," – he stops, letting Jimin adjust to the stretch.

"That's it," Yoongi praises, rubbing his palm over Jimin's ass and thigh while his fingers stay nestled deep inside him. "I knew you could take me. Just had to be a little patient."

"I've fantasized about how your knobby knuckles would feel but fuck, they are so big," Jimin whines, making Yoongi laugh.

He squeezes Jimin's ass in his palm, then slowly begins to pull his fingers out, watching as Jimin opens wide to accommodate him once more. "You've fantasized about my fingers, huh?"

"H-hyung," Jimin groans, sounding embarrassed.

"Say my name, pretty," Yoongi sweetly commands as he twists his fingers out and begins to plunge them back in, meeting far less resistance.

"Y-Yoongi," Jimin sobs, trembling as Yoongi twists – pulling out and pushing back in.

The sight of his fingers getting swallowed whole has Yoongi's jaw hanging slack, drool pooling beneath his tongue. Jimin is an absolute vision, and the more his light-dusky pucker becomes flushed and reddened with pleasure, the hungrier Yoongi is to give and give and give. Anything to paint him prettily with bliss. Anything to hear the sweet, broken sounds he makes.

"What is it, baby," Yoongi asks, twist-pulling and plunging deep.

Jimin hiccups and Yoongi rotates his torso to lean just enough to see Jimin's fist grasping at the comforter. "N-need you."

"I'm here," Yoongi coos while rubbing his palm over Jimin's ass and lower back, fingertips mapping and memorizing. "You're almost ready for me."

Yoongi pulls out, then uses the index fingers of both hands hooked into Jimin's rim to open him nice and wide. Jimin sobs as Yoongi stretches him, slowly plunging his fingers in and out in a push and pull, watching as the welcoming rings of muscle tense and relax.

"Wh-what are you doing to me?" Jimin groans, as he sinks a little further forward, pushing his ass ever so slightly higher.

"Admiring you, baby," Yoongi says, sitting high on his knees to dribble a dollop of spit into Jimin's hole to squelch between his two fingers. "You have no idea how fucking perfect you are."

Jimin hiccups as he moans, and Yoongi slowly pulls out, one finger and then the other, watching as his pucker tightens and tightens.

"Alright, baby," Yoongi says as he sits back on his knees and open-palm kneads at Jimin's fleshy thighs, feeling supple skin, rough lace, and soft mesh against his palms. "Wanna be a good boy and show hyung how you ride cock?"

A pitchy, garbled, "Uh-huh," leaves Jimin's mouth in a rush as he pushes himself on shaking limbs until he is seated on his knees. Yoongi slides off the bed and walks toward the head, moving pillows and the comforter out of the way, revealing a pretty green floral sheet. He pushes his dark briefs down to the floor, stepping out of each side as he places his knees onto the bed, knee-walks the center, and then sits, spreading his thighs while Jimin grabs the bottle of lube and hobbles close.

Without preamble, Jimin cages Yoongi's hips between his arms and licks a slow stripe up the underside of his aching, neglected cock, sending a thrill of pleasure shooting through him that has a moan storming from his lungs. Yoongi's head thumps against the headboard as he sinks against the cool, wooden surface, and he lifts his hands to gently take Jimin by the hair and chin.

"Hyung tastes so good," Jimin coos sweetly, glancing up through his eyelashes while poking out his pretty pink tongue to lap at the dribble of precum at his tip.

Yoongi was not planning on getting his dick sucked – he was dead set on Jimin's pleasure first and foremost, eager to give absolutely anything to him that he wants. But if what Jimin wants is to put those pretty lips to use, Yoongi would not dare say no.

"Is that so?" Yoongi urges, eager to press Jimin to say more – hopeful that he will turn shy and sweet like before.

Jimin nods, blinking with a lust-drunk haze in his eyes before looking down into Yoongi's trimmed dark pubes as he says, "Salty-sweet…so yummy…"

"It's all yours, baby," Yoongi says as he drags his trimmed, blunt fingernails along the sharp lines of Jimin's jaw. "Anything you want, it's yours."

Jimin lets his tongue hang long, blinking upward while drool pools and dribbles onto Yoongi's tip, dripping down to disappear from view. "Want to make a mess," he slurs, barely pulling his tongue back enough to speak clearly.

"Yeah?" Yoongi urges, "you wanna make a mess of me, baby?"

Jimin nods, curving his lips upward, saliva pooling and dripping. Yoongi fights the urge to beg him to do more – wants Jimin to go at his own pace and enjoy himself, even if it means Yoongi vibrates with nerves and anticipation, bordering on impatience and flat-out desperation.

Luckily, Jimin does not make him wait long. With a deep, eager groan, Jimin sucks Yoongi's tip into his mouth without using his hands, then curves his back and neck, doing his best to swallow him down. Pleasure quakes through Yoongi, and he sinks further into the bed, dragging his head back against the headboard while he moans deep and appreciative.

He tips his head to the side to watch Jimin's spit-slick petal lips drag along his length. Jimin hums and moans, which vibrates just enough to make Yoongi shiver, sucking his cheeks and swishing his tongue in a hypnotic dance.

Slowly, Yoongi climbs to the precipice of bliss, further each time Jimin takes him a little deeper and swallows a little harder. Then Jimin changes position, sitting higher on his knees, and he takes Yoongi into his throat and swallows hard, sending a heavy wave of euphoria crashing inside him. Yoongi's fingers, which had been loosely holding onto Jimin's hair and face, grip onto Jimin's hair, and he tugs gently without pulling too hard.

"Shit, baby, that's it," Yoongi whines, voice coming out pitchy and breathy. "Won't last if you keep swallowing me like that."

Jimin hums and swallows harder, holding Yoongi in his throat long enough to make Yoongi begin to spiral; long enough for Jimin to come up for air with a heavy gasp. Spit hangs from Jimin's lips and tongue in thick strings, and when he blinks, mascara leaves little black streaks on his face.

"Pretty, messy baby," Yoongi praises with a smile that feels crooked and heavy. He knows he must look absolutely fucked out, and the way Jimin's eyes shimmer has affection blooming deep behind his ribs.

Jimin grins, then sinks back down, sucking and swallowing eagerly while setting a quick pace bobbing his head. The faint pass of Jimin's teeth along Yoongi's length sends a tickle up his spine that has his back arching, and with each upward stroke of his lips, spit collects and trickles, coating his balls and dribbling over his asshole.

Yoongi is close, and he grips Jimin's hair a little tighter, guiding his head a little deeper. He whimpers broken pleas for Jimin to keep going that hardly sound like words – whisps of sounds flitting into the air as he struggles to keep his bearings. Jimin's mouth is better than Yoongi could have possibly anticipated, and he submits fully to letting Jimin send him straight into the clouds. He wants to cum down that pretty throat so badly.

"Fuck," Yoongi mutters, finally finding his voice. "Gonna cum, baby. Will you swallow for me?"

Jimin seems to try to nod, muttering some kind of response that amounts to consonants and sputtered drool, and Yoongi loosens his grip on Jimin's hair, letting his hands slide and fall away to fist at the sheet, instead. It only takes three more passes of those perfect fucking lips to make Yoongi absolutely dissolve.

"Gonna c—" is all he chokes out before painting Jimin's tongue and throat.

Jimin gags slightly but continues to suck and swallow, humming and moaning between Yoongi's sharp, raspy sounds of pleasure. His orgasm flows through him hot and quick, erupting and intoxicating. Only once he is trembling from overstimulation does Jimin release his cock, licking once more from base to tip with his mouth hanging agape.

Streaks of viscous white streak Jimin's tongue, and Yoongi takes him by the jaw and gently lifts, urging Jimin to sit up and crash into him. Yoongi licks into Jimin's mouth, tasting his own heady release, and Jimin melts forward, laying his torso heavily against Yoongi while very slowly crawling up into a seated position on his lap.

"Was that what you were imagining, hyung?" Jimin asks against his mouth, making Yoongi chuckle.

"Better," he rasps. "I could never have imagined anything feeling that good, Jiminah."

Jimin blushes as he asks, "Did you like how my lips looked?" and Yoongi raises an eyebrow, tilting his head back to get a better look at him. "Wrapped around you," Jimin continues, nibbling on his plush, kiss-swollen bottom lip.

"You know I did." Yoongi leans in to place a soft kiss against Jimin's lips, deciding instead to suck them into his mouth, one after the other, making him giggle. "You looked and felt like heaven, baby."

Jimin leans back into Yoongi, wrapping his arms around his neck and gently tugging at his hair. They kiss, lick, suck, and nip in unhurried movements, tasting and teasing while Yoongi's dick recovers and begins to harden once more. Sticky-cool saliva transfers from Jimin's chin to Yoongi's, aiding in the mess that was promised, and Yoongi slowly sucks at Jimin's tongue tip, making him drool even more.

Time grinds to a halt, suspended and of no use to them. Yoongi passes his hands over Jimin's shoulders, down the slopes of his back and hips and ass – anywhere he can reach. Occasionally, Jimin shivers and sighs, and Yoongi cannot help but smile, endeared and eager to know every single sensitive spot he may have.

One of Jimin's hands leaves Yoongi's hair and travels down, tickling as his fingernails delicately scrape down his pec, across his ribs, to his hip. When Jimin wraps his hand around Yoongi's growing erection, engulfing him in pleasure and warmth, Yoongi gasps, rolling his eyes back and nodding as he mutters, "Almost ready for you."

Jimin releases Yoongi and reaches for the lube before using both hands to slick him up. Yoongi is grateful that Jimin does not warm it in his hands, hissing with delight at the cold touch. Jimin giggles deviously, chewing on his lip, and Yoongi gazes down at his cock between two slender, pretty hands before returning his attention to Jimin's face.

"Now are you ready, hyung?" Jimin asks as he sits high on his knees and positions himself over Yoongi's tip.

Yoongi uses both hands to steady Jimin's thighs, dancing his fingertips over the stockings, then gripping gently while Jimin reaches up to the top of the headboard and leans his chest close to Yoongi's face.

"I don't think I could ever fully be ready for someone as perfect as you fucking me, Jiminah," Yoongi confesses with a smile, tilting his head until his tongue is able to flit out and drag over a dusky, pert nipple. "You'll just have to give it to me; force me to be ready. Don't hold back."

"As you wish, hyung," Jimin responds sweetly as he begins to sink down.

The tip of Yoongi's cock breaches Jimin's hole with a shutter and whimper from both men in tandem. Yoongi grips Jimin's hips bruisingly, expecting Jimin to stop and adjust, but Jimin keeps lowering, down, down, down until he is fully seated and choking pretty, broken sobs.

Yoongi is overwhelmed with pleasure, squeezed with blissful tight warmth, and he quakes with each gentle squeeze of muscle around him. His breath feels heavy in his lungs, and as he lets out a groaned exhale, he releases his grip on Jimin's thighs and rests his head back in a desperate attempt to get his bearings, teetering on the brink of total mental collapse.

"Hol—" is all Yoongi manages to moan as Jimin lifts and drops, slamming his ass against Yoongi's thighs, letting out a dulcet whimper that is rivaled by Jimin's pitchier one.

"Big," Jimin mutters as he picks up a dizzying pace of slowly lifting before forcefully dropping, spearing himself so nice and deep, Yoongi feels like he may be carving the poor guy open.

Jimin is magnificent with his head tilted back and lips hung wide, whimpering as he rises and drops and rises and drops. Somehow exactly as Yoongi imagined, yet so much more. His cock glistens hard against his tummy, dribbling with precum and so neglected, bouncing against his abs with each drop, leaving a little splatter behind.

"I won't last," Yoongi admits, feeling the blissful, agonizing squeeze that is only intensified as Jimin's muscles flutter with pleasure. "I usually have more—ahh—s-stamina, but you feel so g-good."

"Awe, hyungie," Jimin purrs, tilting his head forward and opening his dreamy, lust-lidded eyes. "That's ok. I just hope you can keep going…ruin me like you promised."

"I can," Yoongi croaks. It will be much easier to stave off his orgasm when he is in full control; like this, he doesn't stand a chance.

"There's always tomorrow, too," Jimin mutters half-dazed, and Yoongi smirks at the prospect of Jimin wanting him after tonight.

Yoongi rubs his hands up Jimin's hips, along the delicate curve of his waist and the white lace garter, and further, palming over pecs. As Jimin lifts and drops, Yoongi almost feels overwhelmed by the arousal that pools and pools, warm and aching in his center, tingling to his limbs, filling him with desire. He wants to grab Jimin tight and fuck up into him, but Jimin feels and looks so amazing he lets him take his time.

With a grin that morphs into a bite of his lower lip, Jimin lifts his hips and swivels them, whorling around Yoongi's tip and tugging up, making him gasp and groan. Yoongi rubs his hands down to Jimin's waist and gently holds, helping keep him steady while the dancer twists and swishes, creating dizzying patterns to the song Yoongi barely hears over the pounding of his heart.

"God, your body…" Yoongi mutters, eyes heavy as he watches muscle tense and soften.

"You like how I feel, hyung?" Jimin mutters as he swirls up.

Before Yoongi can respond, Jimin begins to bounce his ass up and down to the beat of the background song, just fucking himself on Yoongi's tip – teasing in a most delightful way.

"How you feel…" Yoongi mutters, head rolling back against the headboard, looking down his nose at the beauty above him. "How you look, how you sound…you're fucking perfect, baby."

Jimin smiles and runs his hands over Yoongi's neck, then uses one hand to leverage himself on Yoongi's shoulder while the other takes a handful of hair and grips tight.

"You're just saying that because I'm fucking you," Jimin teases through gasps and whimpers, gaze turning sharp while he begins to drop his hips back down and spear himself deep.

Even with a cock buried inside him, Jimin is a brat. Yoongi finds it way too endearing, though he is eager to flip the pretty dancer over and fuck him so good he can no longer talk back. He rolls his eyes, moaning as Jimin rides him a little steadier, trying to ignore how rapidly his pleasure builds.

"True," Yoongi mutters, playing along. If Jimin wants to be petulant, two can play this game.

"Ah—" Jimin moans, "I knew it. Just using me for my perfect ass."

Yoongi's hands slide over the soft, inviting curves of Jimin's hips and ass, and he takes two splayed handfuls and gives him a squeeze, moaning, "Exactly."

With his palms gripping tight, Yoongi assists Jimin in his movements, lifting and dropping him in a nice steady rhythm. Rather than attempt to stave his high, he chases it now, eager to change positions and give Jimin more.

Jimin whimpers and sobs, breath coming out punchy and ragged while his tip leaks precum.

"Are you close, baby?" Yoongi asks, receiving only a whimpered, "Uh-huh," in response.

"What did I say about using your words?" Yoongi insists through grit teeth, finding it harder to steady his breathing and speak clearly.

"Yes, Yoongi," Jimin moans, sending a chill down Yoongi's spine at the sound of his name. "I'm so close."

Yoongi pulls one hand away, lifts it to his mouth, and spits into his palm. He stares up at Jimin as he wraps his hand around Jimin's cock head and squeezes just enough to elicit a moan and shiver from him, then he begins to stroke nice and slow, collecting dribbled precum on his palm.

"Hyung," Jimin whimpers, body tensing and relaxing over and over.

"Say my name, baby," Yoongi instructs with a smirk, watching Jimin's lips tremble and form unvoiced syllables.

Jimin leans forward and takes two handfuls of Yoongi's hair as he lifts and slams his ass with purpose. Each breath Yoongi pants hits Jimin's chest, creating a pocket of sticky warmth between them.

"Yoongi," Jimin whines as his grip tightens, tugging on Yoongi's scalp and making him hiss.

"Yes, baby?"

Jimin's voice cracks, barely croaking out the words, "I'm gonna cum."

"Cum for me, Jiminah," Yoongi moans, feeling his own high reach its peak. "Cum all over this cock, baby, let me feel you."

Jimin's muscles squeeze and release– frenzied and dizzying as his rhythm falters. Rather than lift, he grinds, burying Yoongi so deep, the air feels trapped in Yoongi's chest.

"That's it, baby," Yoongi wheezes through grit teeth, stroking Jimin at an angle that has him gently punching his fist against both their tummies. "Use my cock to get yourself off. Fuck, you feel so good."

Jimin's back arches and his body quakes as he cums. Yoongi squeezes at his tip, urging more and more release to coat his fist sticky-white, digging his heels into the mattress as he fucks his hips upward, just enough to get Jimin bouncing and moaning. Jimin squeezes him so tight, pushing him right over the edge.

"Gonna cum, baby," Yoongi groans as every nerve prickles tingly and hot, ready to burst.

"Fill me, Yoongi," Jimin sobs as he bounces in quick, shallow movements. "Make me messy."

The squeeze of Jimin's muscles, and fucked out, eager sound of his voice has Yoongi's orgasm hitting hard. He releases Jimin's cock, gripping onto his thighs with both hands as his body trembles roughly with pleasure. Yoongi barely makes a sound, rasping around heaving breaths as his eyes squeeze momentarily tight, attempting to relax as his orgasm pulses through him in tremendous bursts, making him see stars.

"That's it, hyung," Jimin whimpers, leaning all the way forward, draping himself over Yoongi's shoulders. "Feels so good."

Yoongi sits back, catching his breath as his cock softens, running his clean palm up Jimin's back while the cum-covered hand falls to the side. Jimin's muscles continue to flutter, and he nuzzles his face against Yoongi's neck, leaving lazy, wet kisses against the skin and filling Yoongi with butterflies.

The music continues to play, changing from one sexy beat to another. A female artist sings, but Yoongi is unable to make out what she is saying. His pulse thumps in his ears and throat, forcing each breath out in a lively beat of his own.

"It feels nice to just…sit here and hold you," Jimin mutters against Yoongi's skin.

"I would hug you back but one of my hands is covered in your cum."

Jimin hums in understanding, adding, "You got it on my thigh," with a familiar bratty tone.

"You wanted to be messy," Yoongi grumbles with a smile, feeling absolutely smitten.

Jimin groans, "I did," as he slowly begins to sit up, taking the warmth of his body away.

Yoongi shivers as the sweat that covers him turns cold. He tips his head back and looks up as Jimin settles on his lap, cock-warming him while sitting tall, smiling sweetly.

"I guess since you got what you wanted, you don't need me anymore," Jimin teases with a smirk and a lift of one eyebrow as he reaches out and undoes what is left of the bun in Yoongi's hair, tossing his trusty hair tie aside.

Yoongi rolls his eyes and lolls his head back, trying not to smile as he mutters, "Really, Jiminah?"

With wide, playful eyes, Jimin nods, sliding his ass up, up, up until Yoongi's soft, cum-covered cock falls away, making him shudder.

"You had a taste of my perfect ass, so—"

"Oh, I had a taste, alright," Yoongi interrupts with a grin, sitting up and causing Jimin to move slightly backward. "You think I'm gonna just leave now? Never to see you again?"

Jimin's playful demeanor begins to crumble as Yoongi lifts his soiled hand and begins to lick at what is left of Jimin's heady, salty-sweet release.

"Uh, I—" Jimin says, lips forming around syllables he never voices.

"What about promising me tomorrow? Hmm?" Yoongi asks before dragging his tongue over his knuckles, cleaning the remnants of Jimin's cum.

Now that his hand is far less messy, Yoongi grips onto Jimin's waist nice and tight and lift-pushes the dancer onto his back. Jimin yelps as he hits the pretty green sheet, pink hair sweat-stuck together in little spikes, fanning messily around his beautiful face.

"I'm not finished with you yet," Yoongi says as he gets onto his knees and towers over Jimin. "Weren't you just whining about me ruining you moments ago?"

Jimin giggles softly, reaching his arms to wrap around Yoongi's neck. Yoongi gently takes Jimin by the wrists and pushes his arms to the mattress, pressing his weight down, watching with delight as Jimin gasps and shivers beneath him.

"You really think I could only do this once?" Yoongi teases as he leans forward, crowding Jimin's space. "Now that I've had a taste of you, I'll be craving you, Jiminah."

"I-is that so?" Jimin breathes, head tilting as if offering the expanse of his neck to Yoongi – an invitation Yoongi takes as he drags his lips over salt-slick skin.

"That is so."

"Are you sure you can keep going?" Jimin asks sweetly. "You just came twice."

"I could fuck you all night, baby," Yoongi insists, licking and nipping until Jimin gasps. "Just need a moment to get hard again. Why? Can you keep going?"

Each breath that puffs from Jimin's lips sounds heavy. "I can, but…I might get overstimulated."

"I know," Yoongi groans with a smile. "I watched you fall apart on my fingers, remember?"

"I might get…really…lost," Jimin admits.

Yoongi releases Jimin's hands and moves them to the mattress so he can press more weight down and angle himself upward just enough to look Jimin in the eyes.

"Like, subspace?" Yoongi asks, watching Jimin's eyes widen.

"Maybe," Jimin mutters. "I just get really…floaty. Like my soul and body are disconnected…held together by pleasure."

Yoongi nods in understanding. "Do you want to hold off, then? Wait until we're more comfortable with each other before you go there with me?"

The smile that tugs on Jimin's lips is sweet, and his eyes sparkle as he says, "I have a feeling you will take good care of me, hyung."

Affection bursts warm in Yoongi's chest. "Of course, I will. But I still understand if that's something you want to build up to."

Jimin shakes his head and nibbles on his lip. "I trust you. I'll call my safe word if I need to."

"You don't go non-verbal at all?"

Jimin pinches his brow and shakes his head. "No."

"Alright," Yoongi agrees, eager to keep going as long as Jimin feels safe.

Jimin leans forward, groaning as his chin juts out, puckering for a kiss, making Yoongi chuckle softly. Yoongi closes the gap and presses further, allowing Jimin to lie comfortably, and he licks and sucks at Jimin's soft, sinful mouth.

"Sorry for ruining the mood with talking," Jimin mutters against Yoongi's lips.

Yoongi hums as he licks into Jimin's warm, petal mouth, opening him wide; making space. Jimin tastes so delicately sweet yet heady, and Yoongi has no choice but to chase every nuanced flavor, eager to discover more. Jimin's hums and groans are music to Yoongi's ears, and he swallows each sound with ease.

Rather than lifting his head, Yoongi simply stops kissing, letting his lips rest on Jimin, who smiles. Yoongi wishes he could adequately communicate just how important every little thing Jimin thinks, feels, and needs is, to him.

"Discussing boundaries is never a mood killer," Yoongi insists against his lips. "I never want you to hold anything back."

"Thank you, hyung," Jimin mutters, leaving pecks of soft kisses along Yoongi's mouth and chin.

"Don't thank me for doing the bare minimum, Jiminah. You deserve to be cared for."

The way Jimin squeals and wiggles beneath him makes his smile go lopsided. Yoongi lifts his head just enough to watch Jimin's cheeks flush, taking in the beauty of his shimmery and black makeup smudged around his eyes.

"Shut up," Jimin groans.

"Shut me up," Yoongi challenges with a waggle of his eyebrows.

Jimin tilts his chin up once more, chasing a kiss. As Yoongi leans down, giving into his desire, one warm hand wraps around his half-hard cock, making him shiver and groan; this certainly is one way to get him to stop talking.

"Want you again, Yoongi," Jimin pleads into Yoongi's open mouth, tugging on his cock. "Need you."

"You have me, baby," Yoongi practically moans, licking against Jimin's lips as his arousal simmers and warms him. "Turn over, on your stomach."

Jimin nods as he deepens the kiss, licking eagerly into Yoongi's mouth, sighing as Yoongi pushes and pulls with his tongue. When Jimin breaks the kiss, fingertips dig into Yoongi's neck and shoulder, and both men are panting, thickening the air between them with moist warmth.

Jimin begins to wiggle around onto his side, then his stomach, and Yoongi stays where he is, caging him in with his arms and lifting his knees one after the other to accommodate Jimin's legs. Once Jimin is settled, Yoongi leans forward and presses his lips to the back of Jimin's neck, nipping and swirling his tongue as Jimin moans, back bowing delicately – trembling.

Yoongi kisses down the curve of Jimin's spine, crawling backward onto his knees. He sucks marks at the top of Jimin's ass, nipping and licking over dewy-smooth skin and lifting his hands to cup and squeeze. As he sits up, he kneads gently into Jimin's perfect, pillowy flesh, spreading him wide. Jimin's puffy rim glistens with leaked cum, and Yoongi wets his lips as he runs two fingertips over the mess before pressing deep inside.

Jimin moans loudly, broken and debauched, as Yoongi fingers his tight asshole, feeling his own cum squelch, icky and enticing. He looks around for the bottle of lube and leans back, allowing his fingers to be slowly released as he reaches for it with his free hand.

"You sure you can keep going?" Yoongi asks as he flicks the lube bottle open with his thumb, caressing the soft swell of Jimin's ass and thigh.

"I'm not fragile, hyung," Jimin whimpers with his hands beside his head, clutching onto the comforter that has been bunched up and pushed out of the way.

"Never said you were," Yoongi smiles fondly, squirting lube into his palm and working it over his cock, hissing from the sensation on his tender skin. "Just don't want to push you too far."

Jimin groans a pitchy sound that Yoongi assumes is impatience. "We already discussed this. My safe word is strawberry, hyung. Please fuck me."

Yoongi rubs his lubed hand sloppily over Jimin's hole, nibbling his lip as Jimin bucks and trembles against him. "Say that last part again."

There is a second of hesitation, followed by a soft sigh that makes Yoongi grin. He opens his mouth to ask again nicely, but Jimin beats him to it, muttering, "Please fuck me, Yoongi."

Jimin spreads his thighs flat against the bed and extends his legs straight, laying in a perfect split, and Yoongi gasps at the sight of him. He leans forward to accommodate the new height, gripping onto his length with one hand and Jimin's hip with the other. With a devious giggle, Jimin begins to bounce his ass, clapping his cheeks softly in a show that has Yoongi absolutely reeling.

Without a moment more to spare, Yoongi leans forward on his knees and lines himself up with Jimin's rim, using his non-sticky hand to guide one of Jimin's hips. "You're a fucking menace," he groans as he presses in, in, in, spearing Jimin open as they whine and moan in tandem, feeling pleasure burst through his limbs like rays of warm, alluring light.

"Squeezing me, baby," Yoongi rasps as he slowly slides out, giving Jimin no time to adjust. He places both hands on Jimin's hips and begins to rock his body, fucking into Jimin without moving his own hips. The delicate, elongated stretch of Jimin's mesh clad legs, right down to the tips of his pretty little toes has Yoongi torn between wanting to cherish him like something delicate or completely wreck him.

"Such a slutty little dancer and you're all mine," Yoongi teases as he continues to rock Jimin's hips against him, watching his puffy rim swallow him whole. "What would your admirers think if they knew you wore a plug on stage while you were doing the splits to tease me?"

"Hyung," Jimin whines, burying his face down into the comforter.

Yoongi slides his hands to the bed and leans forward, slowly thrusting his hips up and down while walking his hands up to Jimin's armpits, hovering nice and close. The scent of strawberry mixed with a faint, sweaty musk is sticky-sweet enticing, and Yoongi lets his eyes flutter closed as he takes a deep breath in.

"You even performed for all of our friends wearing a toy," Yoongi rasps beside Jimin's ear. "What would they think of you?"

"Stop," Jimin whines, dragging the word long and whiny.

Yoongi nuzzles his face against Jimin's nape, nipping at short pink hairs. "Alright, I'll stop teasing you, baby," he mutters sweetly, smiling at the sound of Jimin cooing happily.

"Mmm, I like it," Jimin admits with a groan, making Yoongi nuzzle harder, grinning at the thought of Jimin feeling shy.

The smacking of skin is heard in lewd, rhythmic bursts. Yoongi fucks Jimin nice and steady, listening for the strained "Ah!" that punctuates each thrust, huffing small sounds of his own.

Yoongi begins to sit back, careful not to let his hips lose too much rhythm. Once on his knees, Yoongi spreads Jimin wide with both hands and leans his weight into him, fucking him much faster. Jimin jiggles hypnotically, and Yoongi gives him light spanks to each cheek, unable to resist playing with him; delighted by the sound of him squealing.

"Hyung, I want to cum again," Jimin cries, gripping the floral blanket tight.

Yoongi wants to watch him cum – wants to touch and tease his cock while praising him and making him sob. As he slowly pulls out, Jimin trembles and groans in protest. Yoongi gives his ass a couple of light taps and mutters, "On your back."

"Hyung" Jimin complains, elongating the word, making Yoongi smirk.

Jimin crawls slightly forward and bends at the knees, then flops onto his side, huffing dramatically as if he cannot be bothered to move a single inch more.

"I know, I know," Yoongi mutters, grabbing Jimin by the hips and pulling him the rest of the way onto his back. Jimin squeals and laughs, spreading his legs wide while watching with eager, mascara-smudged eyes as Yoongi continues to position him right where he wants him.

"Sorry I can't choose between wanting to see your ass and wanting to see your face," Yoongi grumbles defensively while pumping his cock and reaching for the bottle of lube. He squirts some directly onto his shaft – cool liquid on warm skin – and he smears it in one stroke.

"Wow, and they say chivalry is dead," Jimin teases, lifting his eyebrows playfully with a grin.

Yoongi slides his length into Jimin's tight warmth in one swift movement, and Jimin's grin falls agape as his back arches. He lets out a deep, pleased moan that Yoongi mirrors with a slow intake of air, filling his lungs. The curve of Jimin's neck, along his chest, and down to his tummy bows delicately taut, and Yoongi maps each inch with his eyes, stunned by his beauty.

When Jimin settles slowly onto his back, Yoongi reaches forward and slots two fingers into Jimin's mouth. Jimin clamps his lips closed and gently sucks as Yoongi begins to set a steady pace with his hips.

"Good boy," he praises, and Jimin's eyes blow wide. "So fucking good for me. So pretty and tight and perfect."

Jimin anchors himself onto his elbows, muttering something that sounds like a question, and Yoongi nods, smiling sweetly down at Jimin, watching his hard, leaking cock slap his tummy with each thrust.

"Perfect, pretty Jiminah. And you're all mine."

More sounds are uttered around Yoongi's fingers as Jimin's eyes roll and his head bobs with the rocking of their bodies. Yoongi reaches between them and rolls his palm over the tip of Jimin's cock, eliciting his eyes to open big and round.

Already, Jimin looks dazed, back draped slightly with his head held up only enough to suck on Yoongi's fingertips, supported against his elbows. Jimin's fingers slowly dance over the material of his green floral sheet, legs flayed lazily around Yoongi's hips.

Yoongi slowly tugs at Jimin's length, making him whimper and sputter incoherently. Jimin rocks his hips and squeezes around Yoongi in a rhythm matching Yoongi's thrusts – must be chasing his own high. Seeing Jimin looking dazed and eager to cum again, stuffed with fingers and cock, Yoongi's mind races as he attempts to sort out how he got so fucking lucky.

"'S good," Jimin whines, dropping his head back and letting Yoongi's drool-slick fingers drag over his chin.

Yoongi continues his pace – a deliberate roll of hips – letting his fingers slowly fall past Jimin's chin, to his chest, tracing curves and dips until finally taking hold of him around the ribs. Gradually, Jimin's arms give way, and he lies back – head first, then shoulders, sinking deeper against green flowers with his eyes hazy and wide.

"Are you floaty, Jiminah?" Yoongi asks sweetly, wetting his salty-dry lips.

Jimin hums and crooks a lazy smile, lifting his hands slowly to rub over his pecs and tummy. Yoongi follows the movements, feeling affection swirl and swell behind his ribs. At this pace, he thinks he could fuck Jimin for an eternity if he tried; his pleasure simmers just below the surface nice and steady, with no risk of boiling over too soon.

"Ah—Yoongi," Jimin gasps, chest heaving and falling. "I'm—"

Yoongi rolls his palm over Jimin's tip and gives him a firm enough squeeze to make him sob.

"Gonna cum, pretty?" he asks.

Wide-eyed and mouth droopy-round, Jimin nods. His lips form shapes unvoiced, and Yoongi continues to roll and squeeze, languidly syncopating his quicker thrusts.

"Cum for me, baby. Get nice and messy."

Jimin's eyes flutter, and his back arches slowly, head and heels digging into the mattress. "Please, please, please," he mutters softly like a prayer, palms flaying and squeezing above his ribs.

"Relax and let go," Yoongi urges sweetly. "Let yourself float."

As if reacting on command, Jimin's body goes rigid and taut before quaking and sinking – thunder growling from his depths and dispersing out. He spurts tiny piles of cum onto Yoongi's fingers and palm, mouth forming softly-uttered stormy sounds. Even in the throes of incomprehensible bliss, every little thing Jimin does is eloquent; a performer and a muse.

"Harder," Jimin groans, taking Yoongi by surprise. "P-please, Yoongi, need you."

Yoongi grips Jimin's hips with both hands, smearing cum on his sweat-slick, goosebumped skin. He picks up a pace that has Jimin's legs lifting and stretching, and Yoongi slings both calves against his shoulders before leaning in and taking hold of his hips once more.

Jimin wails, eyes squeezed as if pained, licking and biting at his reddened lower lip. His arms lift and fall around his head, and he grips onto the bunched-up pink and orange comforter.

"This how you want it?" Yoongi asks, feeling his high build and build, impossible to hold at bay.

"Mmm, 's good," Jimin slurs, opening his eyes wide and smiling before his face falls back into a state of lazy bliss.

Yoongi would love for Jimin to cum once more but has no idea whether he can. His cock is limp and resting against his patch of cutely trimmed pubic hair, jostling with each slam of Yoongi's hips against his thighs.

"Not gonna last at this pace," Yoongi warns through grit teeth, his high climbing fast toward its breaking point.

"Fill me," Jimin mutters dazedly. "Make me messy."

"Say my name," Yoongi rasps as he fights the urge to squeeze his eyes closed, gripping harshly to Jimin's soft hips.

"Yoo—" Jimin sighs, bowing his back. "Yoongi. Please, Yoongi."

Pleasure courses through Yoongi, flowing like lava in his bloodstream. He keeps his pace steady, holding back from slamming too fast or too deep. Cum and lube squelch around his cock, and the thought of watching it drip from Jimin's used, puffy hole is just the push he needs to reach orgasm.

"Fuck, Jiminah," Yoongi groans, dragging blunt fingernails in streaks along Jimin's sides. "I'm—ahh, fuck!"

Yoongi's body tenses and releases in waves of pleasure – white-hot and overwhelming. He quakes as he spurts his cum into Jimin's begging, fluttering hole, babbling nonsense, attempting to praise, failing around each syllable. Jimin sobs and squeezes, trying but failing to reach for Yoongi.

With a chuckle, Yoongi leans forward, hands slipping and crashing into the mattress, dripping sweat from his forehead to Jimin's chest. Now that he is within reach, Jimin reaches and clings, grabbing Yoongi's shoulders and yanking down until Yoongi gives in and falls forward. Pleasure continues to tremble through him – chest heaving and jumpy as he does his best to settle and relax.

"Holy shit," he mutters into Jimin's clavicle, covering his face in sweat. "That was—"

"Amazing," Jimin coos.

Yoongi smiles and nods, kissing anywhere his lips reach in slow movements. "Amazing."

Where they lay in the center of the bed, Yoongi is unable to stretch his legs far before hitting the headboard, so they stay in a ball while he catches his breath and litters Jimin's shoulder, neck, and chin with affection. It takes time, but Jimin begins to come back to earth, clinging a little more purposefully.

"You made me messy," he mutters with more clarity than Yoongi has heard for a while.

"Lemme see," Yoongi says as he sits up, groaning from his soft cock sliding from where it was nestled nice and warm.

Jimin groans shyly, covering his face with his hands as Yoongi sits up and lifts his spread legs. He puts up a tiny amount of resistance, but Yoongi holds firmly, nibbling his lip, trusting Jimin to use his safe word if he really does not want to be teased.

Dropping a leg to the side, Yoongi uses his thumb to press pearly liquid back into Jimin's puckered hole, grinning like an idiot when Jimin whimpers, legs shaking.

"Messy baby," Yoongi teases, earning his arm a light smack from Jimin's foot.

Yoongi pulls his fingers away and watches as Jimin tenses, causing the cum to dribble back out. He rubs his hands over Jimin's shins and calves, watching as Jimin heavy-blinks at the ceiling.

"Shower?"

Jimin's gaze finds Yoongi's, and he smiles, then nods. "Carry me?" he asks with a cute bat of his lashes that makes Yoongi's heart go haywire.

And although Yoongi makes a show of rolling his eyes and being indignant, he gets up and stretches, then turns his back to Jimin and taps his shoulder.

"Get on."

"Ooh, piggyback?" Jimin shouts, and Yoongi turns his head in time to see Jimin sit high on his knees and fling himself over Yoongi's shoulders.

Yoongi links his arms around sweaty thighs and has to bend and hop a few times to get Jimin in place – a mildly humiliating task while nude – then he is off, kicking discarded clothing items along the way.

"We should take a bath," Jimin mutters into Yoongi's shoulder.

Yoongi hums and nods, turning left into the hallway and again into the bathroom. "Anything you want."

Although Yoongi would love to dote on Jimin hand and foot, he is grateful when Jimin slides off his back and begins the bath, finding sweetly-scented bubble products to squeeze into the stream and controlling the temperature. Jimin slides out of the lace garter and mesh stockings, and sinks into the tub when the water is barely a few inches high. Yoongi presses a kiss on his forehead before leaving to fetch a glass of cool water from the kitchen, lingering just a moment to take in the sunflower pan holders and mismatched cooking utensils.

Yoongi returns with the glass to his lips, taking slow, steady sips and smiling over the rim.

"Sit up and drink this," he instructs a sleepy Jimin, whose cheeks are pinkened from the warm water.

Once the bath is full, Yoongi slots himself behind Jimin, fitting perfectly with his legs outstretched. He rubs Jimin's shoulders and litters him with kisses. And when the water cools, he insists they shower off, helping Jimin finger the cum from his ass while licking deep into his mouth.

"I could get used to this," Jimin groans as Yoongi wraps a towel tightly around his hips and uses another to squeeze the remaining water from his hair.

"Good," Yoongi responds against his lips, finding it impossible to spend too many minutes without touching and kissing. "Want you to get used to this."

"Stay the night," Jimin whines, wrapping his arms around Yoongi's middle and walking him backward out of the bathroom.

Yoongi smiles and nips at petal lips. "That was the plan."

"Stay tomorrow night, too," Jimin groans as they hobble out into the hallway, bumping Yoongi's elbow against the doorframe enough to make him hiss.

"Won't you get tired of me?" Yoongi barely utters slightly pained against Jimin's soft, greedy mouth.

Jimin releases their hug and pulls Yoongi by the hand back to bed. He has a pep in his step as he gathers his phone – shutting off the music, finally – and finds the lube bottle tangled in the blanket.

"Doubtful," Jimin finally says as he crawls into bed and plops down, yanking Yoongi's hand until he sits and lays beside him.

"Alright," Yoongi grins, wrapping himself around Jimin and pulling him close, chest to chest, on their sides. His hair is still damp, but he is unconcerned when Jimin beckons so adamantly. With a gentle teasing tone, he says, "I'll cancel all my foreseeable plans and live only to serve you."

Jimin smiles and hums, saying, "Good," into Yoongi's mouth.

In a tangle of tongues and limbs, Yoongi sighs and sinks, unable to hold back the affection that overflows from him. He thinks he could also get used to this.

thank you so much for reading!!! reblogs & comments make the world go 'round!!! and likes are super appreciated too!!!

tags: @codeinebelle @dasexydevitt13 @fluffybuns69 @giriiboyy @mgthecat @moonleeai @m1sss1mp @spookyminyunki 🍓 wanna be tagged in my posts? shoot me a message!!!

#yoonmin #yoongi x jimin #yoongi smut #jimin smut #btswritersclub #bangtantheatrenet #bts smut #bts fluff #fic: denim & strawberry

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heartsofminds · 2 years

Text

‘cause no one breaks my heart like you

“Last times always make him uneasy. He thinks that he should be used to it by now from his track record of being abandoned (willfully or “out of their control” situations alike). None of this should hurt him as deeply anymore.” or Bradley Bradshaw is terrified of commitment and he decides to stop being selfish (even though it’s hard to see).

A/N: Okay so EXTREMELY long time, no see! I’ve been working on this little project since the end of September and have been driving myself crazy in trying to sculpt the words the way that I wanted and how to make this seem as realistic as possible. I appreciate every single person who has been so patient with me and my inconsistent posting and hope you enjoy 19k words of our favorite guy in the sky.

(Year 3)

He loves me. He loves me not.

He loves me.

The strange thing about crying is never knowing when the tears will fall. There’s this burning sensation that comes with it; clearly juxtaposed to the watery mess your eyes want to produce. Your nose burns, your face is hot, and the all-consuming, mind-numbing squeeze of rubberband-like pressure around your temples makes you dizzy.

Whether the dizziness is because of the crossed wires in your psyche (the hurt feelings and the busted-up ego that comes along with it) or the metaphysical spiral that sent you into a breakdown in the first place is up to your discretion.

The thought pattern sometimes breaks you out of feeling so non-descriptively shitty.

Because the thing about being a twenty-something that you’ve come to uncover is that life is shitty. Paying rent is shitty. Paying an arm and leg for a pilates workout is shitty. Office jobs are shitty. Office jobs that house cruel know-it-all men are even shittier.

Shit, shit, and shit.

You used to pride yourself on having a more extensive vocabulary than one filled to the brim with the swear word, but as of late, you can’t be damned to care. It’s not like anything you said at the office held any value to anyone anyway.

You’re just a “kid” - “You and my sister are the same age!” And you’re also a woman; one of the fifteen employed by the grounds and building company you’re a consult for, and one of three on the fifth floor working on engineering consults and software materials for digital blueprinting.

And the preparation for working in an environment like this - one where mumbled insults at the findings of a mistake on your colleague's draft or small comments about your body being made in passing (never enough to be called harassment, but certainly enough to make you question why it was even being brought up) - wasn’t new.

The patent leather diploma propped up on the desk in your home office gave proof of it. Years spent with dreaded calculus exams and awkward office hours spent with even more awkward professors and snooty boys with poor attitudes served as the price you paid for the merit.

So who can even be put to blame for thinking that you could handle it?

The answer is definitely “you”, but accepting blame for these kinds of things - accepting the fact that in a way, you’re only reaping the consequences of your own actions - is never an easy thing to do.

And your lips are chewed raw from all the intrusive thoughts plaguing your brain and sometimes you wish that you didn’t have this overarching tendency to view things from “outside of your body.” Sometimes being so critical inwardly kicked your conscience into a God’s eye perspective.

The worry of if your work pants actually did make you look frumpy or if the makeup around your nose was caking like how it usually does if you blend it in before you let it get tacky. You worry if your hair sits the right way or if the secretary downstairs thinks you have a Dunkin’ Donuts addiction. And then that makes you worry if she notices the breakout forming on the left side of your face.

The worry then transpires from material to emotional and manifests in the form of the two things you’re most deathly terrified of; being a failure and being a failure who finds herself alone.

Because what if you fucked around and lost the information to the three billion dollar hospital that you’ve spent the better part of fifteen weeks working on? What if you got fired because your bosses realized how inaccurate your math was sometimes? What if everyone was constantly laughing at you and that’s why you struggle to find a commonality with your coworkers?

And what if, through this whole slue of hypotheticals that hadn’t happened yet but had the potential to happen, you found yourself in a position to be alone? What if your boyfriend - your darling, kind, and sweet boyfriend - finally saw you how you saw yourself? And what if what he sees makes him want to walk away?

Bradley would never, you try and rationalize, but the more your brain tries to force the pieces of the jumbled insecurities to fit, you aren’t too sure.

The fact that the same work colleagues who spark the flame of your self-doubt are the same age as he; thirty-somethings with wives and maybe a toddler or two. Your bosses who scare the shit out of you are in the same age range as the men Bradley knows and loves; his Uncle Maverick and Uncle Ice, and the commonalities are far-fetched but multiply the more you think.

The more you torture yourself, really.

And the excruciating rug-burn-like feeling slides its way from the depths of your stomach up your throat. When you were little, you used to imagine that it was slimy and plasmodia-esque. The Mucinex guy, you used to call it, and the feeling is so sickening and ugly and horrific, that the ugly little cartoon ploy almost seemed cute in comparison.

You’re not really sure how your emotions caught up with you today. From how you run from them and shove them down and turn them off, you forget that you have feelings sometimes.

But then you wake up freezing because Bradley took all the covers in the middle of the night and Dunkin fucked up your coffee and you spilled said fucked up coffee on your new work shirt that you know the stain is gonna be a bitch to get out.

On top of that, your hair seems frizzier than what you remembered when you left the house and your lips are chapped with not a damned chapstick in sight in the abomination that happens to be your purse.

David across the hall from your office says something about how you’re late and it’s probably because “You changed your outfit about six times. Know how you women are. My wife is the same way.” And that’s not the reason why you’re running behind at all, but you’re sure indulging in the fact that your boyfriend hopped in the shower with you uninvited and then proceeded to invite himself to bruise your cervix this morning isn’t exactly “safe for work” content.

And your vagina hurts like a bitch because Bradley went too rough and the report you had filed was sitting on your desk with an intimidating note about how the numbers were inaccurate (“Fuck you, Michael and Rick from downstairs,” you think).

Maybe it’s the fact that you’re so tired and that the cogwheels in your brain are doing that fucked up thing again where it sends you into overdrive and your entire body feels numb. Maybe it’s the fact that you know you can’t cry; that you can’t actually process what you’re feeling until after five when you leave the office today.

But the burning sensation doesn’t go away no matter how much ice water you drink or how many times you excuse yourself to the bathroom to splash your face with cold water.

It’s all one big, nasty, slimy feeling that clouds your conscience until you’re met with the front door of your safe haven; Bradley Bradshaw’s home. The sniffles scratch at your chest like a stray dog begging to be let in. The whimper you let out is pathetic and you would’ve laughed at yourself if you hadn’t been so concerned with getting inside.

Fuck. Was unlocking Bradley’s front door always this difficult?

Bradley can sense you before he has any indication that you’re home. He joked how he could feel you oceans away when he was on deployment and while you thought that he wasn’t serious (Bradley was a sap and had a tendency to be so tooth-achingly sweet) you know that there’s some truth to it.

It was odd how he was always so attuned to your needs; how he could always tell how you were feeling before you were even aware that you were feeling it. It was something that you had raved to your friends about in the earlier stages of your relationship. It was also certainly something that they had witnessed on nights out at the club when visiting you in San Diego.

Something inside Bradley loves you so deeply, but he also can’t deny the fact that he loves the praise; the reassurance that he’s a good guy who is always doing the right thing. He’s not doing it for brownie points, “per say”, but the praise does feel nice, and after having to fight tooth and nail to stand out - to be someone and mean something to someone other than his family - the good deeds and the compliments that arose because of them were satiating enough.

But if he’s being honest with himself, he had always been that way. Despite his innate desire to recreate his parents’ epic love story, being empathetic and filled with space to make homes of other people’s sorrow was just something he was born with.

Nothing new, and nothing special.

You force the door open and try and breathe; the cold air of Bradley’s living room hitting your face and the dry heat of Southern California constricting your lungs even more than they had been. You just need a moment, you think. You just need to breathe and you’ll be okay.

In, out. In, out. In, out.

Suddenly you’re too aware of your heart beating inside your chest; the anger and sadness and frustration demanding to be let out. You can feel your trachea eroding away with your sobs. Your eyes feel like salt had been poured into them. Your body is heavy with the weariness of your soul, and something about today’s events and your life, really, has made your legs feel like they weigh a billion pounds. Moving them would only land you flat on your face.

And then you’re made aware of your breathing and your heartbeat is out of sync. The feeling claws your insides and makes every fiber of your being sting.

Fuck.

In. In. In. In. In!

Bradley rounds the corner where your hallway extends into your living room. He has a basket of laundry in his arms. His chest is admonished with a shirt with a comically stretched “UVA” logo. Under different circumstances (one where you could breathe, for starters) you would have laughed at him and his expression reads that he’s prepared for it; the slight smile line near his mouth is quirked up on one side being his tell.

“Hey, baby!” he says before coming into full view of you.

You can see the light in his eyes leave and the bob of his Adam’s apple as he drinks in your appearance.

Your own eyes widen as you damn near suffocate in the doorway of Bradley’s home. Your sweet, sweet Bradley who you’re sure you’ve traumatized in the span of three seconds.

You’ve had episodes like this before, but never in the presence of another person.

They don’t happen frequently, and from various self-help Refinery29 articles and Google searches, you were certain that what you were experiencing - the sudden shortness of breath and the tunnel vision and the pent-up, white-hot frustration making your head woozy - was not normal in the slightest.

And if it was anyone else you would tell them to get help. You would tell them that what they were experiencing didn’t make them any less of who they were before and that it would be absurd to define someone by such a small fragment of their experiences. But what you say to others is different than what you feel about yourself, because admitting there is an issue that you can’t solve by yourself is equivalent to weakness in your mind.

Weakness isn’t something you’re allowed to show very often; not with Mikes and Bills breathing down your neck looking for something to boot your sorry ass out of the front doors of their company.

Bradley recognizes the look you have on your face. It resembles that of new recruits during hypoxia training and even those unfortunate ones that experience g-lock while up in the sky. He’s had his fair share of freakouts and anxieties and he knows that the feeling is awful. Something inside the shelf of him breaks when he sees the same glimmer of fear in your eyes and a call for help on your face.

He drops the laundry basket to the ground and rushes toward you. His feet move faster than his mind and if people on the base could see him now, it would be the last time they called him slow to react.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he whispers, softly grabbing your forearms and rubbing his thumbs over your wrists, “You’re okay. Breathe. Just breathe.”

His grip on your forearms drops to your waist as he subtly moves you into the entryway of his home. You can feel the vacuum of air behind you as he reaches around your back to shut the door and lock it.

Bradley’s pupils search your face for answers your mouth can’t give him. He sees the slight bloodshot hue in the whites of your eyes. He sees the slight flush to your cheeks and knows that the dewiness of the shade isn’t because of the heat outside or the blush he had watched you apply this morning. He sees the forced movement of your chest; your lungs overworking themselves to keep you standing.

Your eyes are staring right back at him but your brain can’t seem to register that you’re safe. You’re home. You’re with Bradley.

The longer he rubs his thumbs in the crease where your elbow meets your bicep, the more feeling you regain. Your heart rate has slowed a good deal and the air you’ve so desperately been engulfing has allowed itself to make itself useful to you.

He shushes you and steps closer, engulfing you in a wrap that could envy that of a boa constrictor with its prey. He peppers the top of your head with small kisses and he makes sure your ear is pushed up to his chest so you can hear the thump of his heart.

You don’t even realize that you’re crying until he moves your conjoined bodies so that his back is facing the door and you’re being held close to his front. Bradley slides down the navy blue painted oak so swiftly and carefully with you in his arms that you can’t even be sure when your view changed from his face to being at eye level with his coffee table.

His hold is comforting and the dam that you’ve worked so hard to maintain all day has finally hit its peak of pressure and broken completely.

“You’re safe, baby. I’m here.”

The sob that leaves your mouth is one that you don’t even recognize as yours. The last time you can remember hearing something remotely similar resonates in the memory of your niece throwing the biggest hissy fit ever known to man at her second birthday party last summer.

Man, if only she knew that her competition was you instead of her new baby brother.

“My sweet girl,” Bradley whispers into your hair, holding you as your body shakes so violently it jostles his large frame behind you. “You’re okay. It’s okay. Get it all out.”

And you don’t know when the crying stops and turns into shallow sniffles or when the sky changed from its yellowed hue to the dark navy that usually blankets your late-night talks with the man behind you, but all you know is that Bradley Bradshaw is a saint.

Your sweet, sweet Bradley who would stop the world from turning if that’s what you asked of him.

Because it’s what you would do if he had been the one to ask instead. That’s how love works.

He loves me. He loves me not.

He loves me.

(Year 4)

He loves me not. He loves me.

He loves me not.

Looking for blame was never your strong suit.

But as you look outside the passenger window of an inherited Bronco on a chilly November night, the fingers you always seem hesitant to point uncurl themselves from your fist without resistance. You have half the mind to not actually point at the culprit of your anger who manifests in the form of the six-foot-one man seething beside you.

The radio is clicked off and the joyous laughter and cacophony of faux karaoke is absent in the midnight blue starlight. The windows are down despite the air surrounding the coast bringing the atmosphere to a standing fifty-five outside, and the wind from how fast your lover is driving taking the temperature down to at least fifty degrees even.

Your eyes refuse to drink in his appearance for more than five seconds at a time because you know that you’re an angry crier who gets set off very easily. Exchanging looks with the fuel that set fire to the burning in your belly would not do you any good at this moment.

When you had pulled on the pretty little cocktail dress and left Bradley to his own devices in the living room of your apartment, the thought of the anger brewing between you like a hurricane didn’t cross your mind at all.

And how could it?

In the four years of being together, there were a fair share of disagreements but nothing that wasn’t just a product of stress or small tidbits of jealousy and hurt feelings that brewed into something bigger than it was ever intended to be. They were usually resolved with a mature conversation on the floor of whoever’s living room followed by cuddles and on a few occasions, fervent makeup sex on the floor.

It always gave you rug burn but you never complained. Having Bradley was something you craved so deeply that no consequence could ever outweigh the desire; even damn near purple knees and a sore ass from how domineering he could be.

Love has a way of making the world stop turning. Nothing truly matters besides the feel of a warm body holding you in bed and the promise of sweet nothings weighing you down lovingly. That always is (at least in your case) until too much pressure is applied and you begin to freak out - the ugly truth of how much love can hurt with each pained exhale that mimics simultaneous cries of pleasure and calls for help.

“Does he really love me?” “Am I too much?” “Am I not enough?”

Insecurities upon insecurities and you really have no true basis for why you think this way or why you feel like you will never amount to what Bradley deserves. If you’re being honest, it’s all a jumble of things and it reminds you of the ABC spaghetti-o’s you used to beg your mom to buy.

Superficial and never really making sense, much like the word scramble of letters in your soup.

But despite you trying to tell yourself that you were being ridiculous - that the pit in your stomach that refused to move was nothing more than an overreaction - the ABC spaghetti-o mixture started to make sense of your anger and what may have caused it.

And the insecurity you had felt that you tried to push down inside of you; tried to deny the existence that it was there and was, in fact, so excruciatingly real made way at Rueben’s wedding shower.

It’s not like you hate being around Bradley’s friends - not like they’re strangers that you try and force small talk with so that the three-hour minimum interactions required for a get-together go by faster. Most of these gatherings have an imaginary itinerary that you’ve come up with and if you play the game right, you never come home with too bad of a hangover.

The first thirty minutes will be spent giving side hugs and enthusiastic “Hey! How are you?”’s being tossed around. You’re always grateful that the years of sorority recruitment have prepared you for holding “safe” conversations; ones that don’t deter any deeper than being happy to see each other and the San Diego weather that never seems to change.

Every now and again, one of the guys will hold up your left hand and inspect for an engagement ring before pushing Bradley’s shoulder slightly. A “You better lock her down before I do, Bradshaw,” nipping the air and making your cheeks turn slightly pink.

Hour one will entail being tucked beneath Bradley’s arm as he sips a Budweiser and joins the circle of regulars that you often go to the bar with or host for dinner parties at his place. Mickey and Rueben will give you friendly exchanges and ask about your work and siblings. Javy and Jake will give you a curt nod and then start to babble away with your boyfriend about whatever hazing-like endeavor they’ll pull on the new pupils in their class. And sweet ole Bob will stand to the side with his hands in his pockets before offering to show you the newest picture of his two-year-old niece, which you graciously partake in viewing because she’s a cutie.

You’ll slosh around the heavily poured margarita you’ve had in your hand for the past hour before Mickey will laugh and ask if you plan on drinking it at all, and you’ll give a faux introspective hum before shaking your head “no” and offering your drink to Bradley. And Bradley will ask what’s wrong with it and you’ll say it’s too strong and he’ll graciously take the glass and drop a sweet kiss on your temple.

And when he downs the drink with no grimace at the shit ton of tequila and triple sec poured into it, you’ll make note of how the margaritas you make at home are probably more of a mocktail than anything to him. You’ll then marvel at his ability to handle his alcohol, and recall asking him one time at the start of your relationship if a high alcohol tolerance was required to join the armed forces.

Hour one and a half would be spent with Natasha kidnapping you from the group of aviators Bradley has concerned himself with. “Sorry not sorry, Bradshaw. We got stuff to talk about,” she’ll say and then drag you across the room to another corner of aviators (thank God they’re all women this time). And then you get another round of “Hi! You look so good!”’s thrown at you and a mojito to replace the margarita on account of Cali. The funny stories of hookups and boyfriends paired with all the constant belly laughing are reminiscent of college roommates after a night out at the bars.

Hour two will include drunken karaoke (even if there isn’t a karaoke machine in sight) and some kind of serenade from Bradley. He always goes to the piano willingly (though it’s always anticipated that dear old Rooster is bound to end up there if the instrument is available) and he’ll pretend like he doesn’t enjoy it, but you know that his ego is inflated by everyone singing along and the praises sung to his playing.

Hour two and a half will bleed into hour three and usually ends with people starting to head out and “See you tomorrow!” being tossed around. Nat always gives you a tight squeeze and holds your shoulders before making you promise her to get lunch sometime soon. You’ll agree even though you know that your schedules will never align and it more than likely won’t happen, but the drunken stupor you’re both in creates a bubble of extroversion that neither of you can seem to put a cap on.

Bradley then takes you back to the car and turns on the radio. He’ll look over at you lovingly before kissing your forehead and rolling all the windows down. He knows that the sea breeze has made the air chillier than the number displayed on the weather app in your phone. You’ll groan as he gives you a, “C’mon, baby. You know I run hot!” with that cute laugh and head-shaking smile, and then you’re off down the interstate back to Bradley’s home, where you’ll stay the night and leave out back to yours around the same time he gets up for training.

That’s how the itinerary usually goes, and the comfortability of it all keeps you sane and acts as a warm blanket that keeps you distracted from the sheer differences between your boyfriend and his world.

But tonight was different, and the minute you step into the lavishly decorated venue, you know that your unofficial itinerary has no room to unravel despite the massive square footage of the party taking place around you.

You recognized Natasha alongside the other female aviators that you were friendly with but certainly not close to. Because of the occasion at hand, a few girlfriends and spouses were also huddled around them including Rueben’s fiance, Izzy.

And somewhere between the three glasses of champagne you had and Izzy’s stories about how she and Rueben were secretly “trying” but didn’t want anyone to know (you’re not sure how it’s a secret anymore because she blurted it out to her soon-to-be husband’s coworkers, but truly to each their own) planted a cherry pit of insecurity in your stomach. When you finished your glass of champagne and took note of how dizzy you were, the insecurity started to grow into the slimy monster that you were familiar with.

Then came the picking yourself apart.

Your eyes found the glimmer of engagement rings, baby bumps, and phones with family pictures as the home screen. Wearing your undergraduate alma mater’s class ring on your finger seemed infantile, and you made the conscience effort to slip it into the clutch you had been carrying with you the entire night.

Phoenix noticed the sudden stiffness in your spine and how your eyes had a glimmer of sadness in them; how they held sparkles of wishing that you could relate. It’s a look she remembered having during her time in flight school. And because she had taken it upon herself to act as your big sister turned good friend since you’ve been dating Bradley, she knew that you wouldn’t speak up or excuse yourself from the conversation.

Because you, much like her and so very much like Bradley, would rather suffer in silence and let the thoughts of not feeling good enough eat you alive until the joys of who you are become eroded to make room for the sorrows of who you aren’t.

It came as a surprise to feel her hand guide you away from the giggling women to the front table housing cupcakes and plastic water bottles with the cheesy Canva-designed “Hitched to Fitch” labels replacing the ones they had come with.

“Thank you,” you said, and she only nodded before handing you a bottle and grabbing one for herself off the table.

“M’gonna head to the bathroom and then go outside for a bit. Meet you there?” she asked and you agreed, your hands busied trying to twist the cap off of your water bottle.

Phoenix disappeared and your eyes started to search the room for Bradley. You’d even be satisfied to see some of the familiar faces that you’ve come to know via pool at Hard Deck or biweekly group dinners at your boyfriend’s house.

Your eyebrows furrowed as you scanned the room and realized that you didn’t see anyone you recognized for that matter. Instead of doing the smart thing and texting him about his whereabouts or trying to get some kind of idea about where he may have disappeared to, you did the opposite and headed outside to the back area where the sky swallowed any light in its darkness and the greenery around you smelled earthy.

The November breeze chilled your bones and it took everything within you to keep your teeth from chattering audibly. You internally scolded yourself for being insistent that you didn’t need to bring a jacket to wear with your cocktail dress. When the wind chill had been brought up when you were putting on your earrings, Bradley had only shaken his head and laughed before making sure to put on the baby blue suit coat of his that you loved. You both knew that you’d have it across your shoulders come nightfall when the sun had set and the late fall wind chill kicked in.

The back of your heels dug into the blisters that had formed sometime during the evening and your champagne-induced mind can’t force you to walk any farther. And your intention was never to wander off and not let anyone know. It was to find Bradley and get some air, and you fell short in finding your boyfriend, so the latter had to do for the time being.

Thoughts of the Law and Order episodes you watched leisurely slammed themselves into the forefront of your mind as the thought of a dangerous predator sent shivers up your spine. You chewed on your lips and crossed your arms over your chest; half thinking and half trying to preserve your body heat. You took a small step forward before your action was interrupted by the loud cacophonous laughter of the men that made up your boyfriend’s friend group.

You smiled fondly and decided to wait a moment longer before making your presence known. Not very often do they get to joke around like that.

“She’s letting you hit raw and you still haven’t knocked her up yet?” you heard an unfamiliar voice say, “Jesus, Fitch, are you broken?”

You can hear Bradley chuckle along with the other males making up the group as you remained standing hidden behind the archway of the garden. If you had common sense, you would hit the gopher of your curiosity on the head like some dumb carnival game and would reveal yourself; softly joining in on the conversation and maybe even getting to put a face to the voice you had just heard.

But instead, you stayed put and tried to flip through the catalog of voices that you had come to know.

Reuben was ruled out because the statement was about him. Mickey’s voice was naturally quieter and softer in nature. “Hit raw” would never come out of Bob’s mouth ever. Hangman is an actual menace to society, but would “Never use the Lord’s name in vain, sweetheart. Was raised better than that.” And Javy was on leave visiting his family in Ohio for the next three weeks, you remembered Bradley mentioning earlier.

So who could it be?

An instinct - that old know-it-all voice that was cemented into your subconscious from years of mistakes and warnings from your mother - told you that the curiosity would actually kill you this time. Part of you thought it would be best if you found the bathrooms and waited for Natasha there. Your frozen toes and embarrassingly hard nipples would certainly thank you, but yet you do the opposite of what your panicked brain is telling you (one thing that the ABC spaghetti-o’s made clear to prevent you from getting your feelings hurt).

You had decided to snoop some more and God, did you wish you could beat yourself upside the head to forget what you had heard. Maybe a concussion wouldn’t be that awful.

And by the time Natasha caught up to you, you had thanked God that the night sky concealed the sadness written on your face and that the cool air could be used as an excuse for your sniffles.

Bradley, your sweet Bradley, had betrayed you, and he wasn’t even aware of how deeply that had cut you yet.

As you and Natasha made your way to the group of men huddled outside, you could feel the energy from Bradley shift, and from one look at you, he can tell that something in you has changed. His eyes are softened from both the scotch in his system and the tenderness he held in his heart for your being. Something in you just won’t allow his hazel irises to bleed into you. You already have enough blood surrounding the metaphorical stab wound that he unknowingly caused you tonight to last you through the goddamn week.

He had reached out to bring you into him and tuck you into his front and wrap his arm around your torso. He knew that you were freezing and his suit jacket had been abandoned inside so blocking the wind with his body was the next best thing to warm you up, he had thought. His hand had grazed the goosebumps on your arms, but you pushed him away forcefully. He didn’t raise the question out loud, but when he turned to face you and saw the red tint on your cheeks and the straight line your lips were in, it confirmed what he had thought.

You were pissed off.

The thing about Bradley, though, is that he’ll never bring up someone else’s issue with him. He’s confrontational at heart but only about things that cut him deep; about things that stain his fingertips red with anguish and disappointment. And he knows that he has a lot of problems. He knows that what you had heard had to be beyond upsetting, and as you stood shivering with your arms folded over your chest and a good three feet put between you and him, he noted that the look on your face was something that he had caused.

But because he’s him and because you’re you, he decided to let you come forward and let you confront him with your problem because the absolute last thing he ever wanted to do was upset you, and he certainly fell short in avoiding that scenario tonight.

You stayed quiet and distant for the rest of the night. Your smiles and hugs and sarcastic quips were kept to a minimum and everyone noticed that something was off with you. When you had given Reuben and Izzy their parting hugs, he had whispered in your ear to “feel better soon.” Izzy had even made an effort (despite how “off her ass” drunk she was) to comfort you, and it was then that you realized that everyone had noticed you but Bradley.

Your sweet, sweet Bradley who always happily obliged to love you and make you feel known and seen no matter the cost, but clearly, that was short of a few oceans away and the contempt of what he had done took precedence of the space you held for him in your heart now.

All the realization did was piss you off more.

Bradley had tried to give you his suit coat but you had just brushed it off your shoulders and let it fall to the ground. Normally, you would profusely apologize and declare that the action was an accident, but you simply watched it fall, raised your eyebrows in a gesture of being unamused, and started making your way to his car.

He had opened the passenger side door for you, but you stared at him; a look of utter silent disbelief and frustration rampant in your eyes. He couldn’t even process all that he was seeing reflected in your face before you reached your hand out to slam the very door he opened. You slung it open again before damn near hauling your body into the leather interior of the seat.

He had half the mind to subconsciously reach out and shut the door for you until you started angrily buckling your seatbelt, to which he ultimately decided to back away and round about his vehicle with half caution and half emasculating retreat to the driver’s side.

The wheels of how you were acting and how he could even begin to tread the water of what exactly had made you so painstakingly angry. You wouldn’t look at him. You wouldn’t speak to him. You didn’t even acknowledge him, and through the years of being an only child with a mother who doted on him like no other, Bradley had to admit that he was selfish; that he always wanted attention and always had to have it. The older he had gotten, the better he had become at concealing this, of course (Well, that’s debatable, you would have said if you were speaking to him) but he doesn’t like to share. Never likes to be pushed aside to have to make room for something else if he can help it.

And his thinking is selfish…and absurd…and a “doorway for toxicity” (all things that his therapist had said before Bradley had stopped seeing him because he hates being called out), but he can’t help it, and despite keeping it at bay in his friendships, he certainly has a more than difficult time keeping it concealed in his relationships.

Bradley blames the scotch he downed before he said his goodbyes on why he felt so wounded; on why the guilt and embarrassment were eating him alive. Everyone had known something was wrong with you and it hurt his confidence that he couldn’t be the one to pinpoint what exactly had caused your sour mood. He certainly had an idea, but he’d come to learn throughout the years that assuming things would never do him any good.

The wound you had given his ego was further agitated by your show of slamming the door as soon as he turned on his heel to go to his side. Knowing eyes in the parking lot of the venue had made their presence known with hushed whispers and heeled footsteps walking faster to avoid running into him.

Your anger angered him, and instead of being open to the idea of criticism and accepting his party in making you miserable tonight, his need to deflect kicked in instead. Old habits die hard, and he just couldn’t resist.

He knew you would always forgive him; would always say sorry and mean it because you love him. He has a right to be mad too, he had thought. You let his suit coat fall to the ground on purpose. You refused his touch. You slammed the door to his Bronco not once, but twice. If anyone had a right to be angry, he knew it was you but who was to say that he wasn’t a second runner-up?

Bradley knows that he was so incredibly wrong for trying to play you; trying to play chess when you weren’t even aware that there was a game being played, but so help him God if he got into a massive blowout fight with you in the goddamn parking lot before the night was over.

And he’s pissed off but he isn’t an asshole (at least he doesn’t think he is intentionally). He settled for keeping his mouth shut because he knew it would keep your anger at a minimum with less material to be upset at.

He backed out of his parking space and put his hand behind your headrest, his fingers lightly grabbed the ends of curled pieces of hair that wrapped themselves on the wrong side of the seat. You can feel the wispy touches and you tried your best to shrug him off.

The ghost of his fingertips on your body drove you up the wall. Instead of harshly pulling your head away from him, you bend down to unbuckle the strap of your heel. You were sure you almost saw the tail end of a frown when you had come back up, but he was absolutely the last thing you wanted to look at for the time being.

You could feel his stare on your face. His eyes traced your collarbone and followed the labyrinth of shadows up to your jawline. The temptation to give him some grace, to entertain his worries for just a second rang the bell inside your heart, but you were stronger than that. You deserved better than that.

He didn’t care about you in front of his coworkers, so why should he get the privilege of caring about you now?

Bradley, obviously attuned to your every move and gesture, sensed your subtle attempt at fleeing from him. He never knew how far away someone could feel from another despite being stuck in the confined space of a front seat.

He could tell that you were digging your heels in; doing your best to avoid him and remove your brain from the peanut butter-thick tension that plagued the scene. It didn’t stop him from searching the side of your face for answers - for any indication that the metaphorical distance you’ve created between you two actually exists and isn’t just a figment of his chronic overthinking.

The radio was tuned to some 80s throwback station, a Bob Seger song that you knew the melody of but certainly not the words to, which filled the uncomfortable silence. The age gap between you and your boyfriend was further cemented as he sang the song quietly as if he had written it himself.

You’re sure you would have spiraled all the way down to the abyss located in the treacherous unknown of the Pacific Ocean if you were given the chance to. Anywhere would be better than here, you had thought.

Bradley’s hand slipped to the heat to turn it on amidst the chilly fifty-degree fall air that had you shaking in the passenger seat. Your anger was so rampant and rage-induced that your body felt like it was on fire. Your annoyance has no place to go, as he didn’t even bother to lower the windows in the car this time. He had known that the routine of you two going out was thrown off, and trying to keep a small sliver of expectancy would do you both no good.

Bradley could be so observant yet so self-absorbed at the same time, and it drove you absolutely nuts.

And you started to spiral and the heat that was being blasted in your face crafted a tornado of grievances that you weren’t even aware you were holding against him.

Bradley is a blanket stealer. He always gets the wrong kind of grapes for you at the grocery store. He can never tell the difference between Alexandra Cabot and Casey Novak no matter how many times you force him to watch Law and Order: SVU. He always gets an absurd amount of water on the bathroom floor when he showers. He never fills up the Brita filter after he uses it. He always places his shoes sideways on the rack near his front door; not quite crooked enough for you to say something about it but always slightly slanted enough for you to notice it.

Most of all, he hurt your feelings tonight and he had yet to acknowledge that he was the cause of it. Yet here he is, trying to get in your good graces because the guilt of knowing that he had done something was chewing him up and spitting him out currently.

So attuned to your needs but never to your feelings. Same old Bradley.

His hand traveled to the bare skin of your knee; his large palm cupping the bone before moving it upward so his fingertips could trace the shallow gaps where your joints were relaxed. Your breath hitched in your throat and if it would have been acceptable to scream - ie; your boyfriend not currently driving you both across a narrow two-lanes-of-traffic bridge over the ocean - you would have.

His touch burned you. Made your heart volcanic. Sent fiery tears streaming down your face. His touch had betrayed you. Made you small. Made you insignificant. Made you feel like he never cared.

If you could’ve caught a glimpse at yourself you would know that you were beet red. You could feel yourself visibly shaking with anger and you knew Bradley could feel it too. You smacked his hand away as if you were smacking a blood-sucking mosquito off your body in the suffocating heat of June.

Except this wasn’t a mosquito. This wasn’t the soft glow of a summer sunset with a pesky little bug slurping down your blood. This wasn’t a fond moment that you would laugh at later.

You’d been bruised; so deeply hurt. Made to feel so goddamn stupid for ever thinking that he loved you. That he respected you. Fuck him for making you feel the same way you do at your 9 to 5 every weekday.

Bradley reached and turned the radio off. The deep exhale and the pink flush that crawled up his neck was his tell of truly being pissed off. You had only seen it happen a handful of times. Most of the time Maverick or Hangman served as memorable faces to cause the reaction.

But this time, the time that extended your handful into two handfuls, was because of you. Part of you is prideful of that fact. Now he can feel what you’ve felt the entire night.

“What the actual fuck is your problem?” he griped at you. He shifted in his seat and his left hand gripped the steering wheel significantly harder. “Been acting like a pissed-off toddler all night.”

The desire to roll your eyes bated you with knowing it would satiate you in getting your point across. But the desire to do him one better, to see if you could irritate him more, took over. You know that nothing gets under Bradley’s skin more than someone taking the high road; someone one-upping him in his “noble and kind” act.

“I’m not starting a screaming match with you in the car,” you deadpanned. You heard him huff beside you, still avoiding his presence with your eyes.

“Would rather you fight with me than take an oath of silence.” He cracked his neck and stiffened his back against his seat. “More grown-up ways to go about telling me you’re mad, you know.”

The anger ran up your spine and reared its head in your ears. “Hmm,” you sneered pensively, “More grown up than my pussy then, huh?”

Bradley slammed on the breaks of the Bronco. His sudden change in speed caused you both to jerk forward. He thanked God that the road was dark and no one was directly behind him. His abrupt decision could have resulted in disaster. But even if someone would have rear-ended his prized possession, his biggest fear at the moment would have to be the fact that his suspicion was confirmed.

You had heard them and that’s why you were so royally pissed off.

He simply swallowed and pushed his foot on the gas pedal, the car slowly starting to move forward. He turned the radio off completely and his raised brows to signify that he was deep in thought.

How the hell was he going to get himself out of this now?

“You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

The scoff you let out rumbled in his ears; eardrums rubbed raw from how accusatory the pitch of your laughter sounded. “Does it fucking matter that I did?” Your voice sounded thick and the puff of air you blew out of your mouth told him that you were seconds away from angry tears.

“You’re laughing, Bradshaw but what about that youngin’ you brought tonight? She even old enough to drink yet?” his friend and old squadron partner, Yankee, had laughed.

Bradley had forgotten how loud-mouthed Yankee could be. Completely unafraid of asking the questions everyone was dying to know the answers to and unapologetically crass (even more so than Hangman, believe it or not). Call sign given to him by how goddamn opinionated he was about the MLB and how much of a ride-or-die fan of the New York Yankees he was.

Yankee was one of those people who you didn’t tell your personal business to because he was bound to have some opinion about it; whether it was if he could tell that your flight suit was slightly stained or if you were making the right choice about proposing to your long-term partner.

Come to think of it, Yankee was one of the friends Bradley had that he was sure he would never be caught dead hanging out with one-on-one. Something about the two never aligned. Bradley never found Yankee’s jokes to be funny and more often than not found his demeanor to be beyond annoying. But he can't help who his friends liked, and Yankee had never brought anything up against Bradley that made him want to beat him to a pulp, so he was found in the same hand-shaking and bar-hopping circle of friends with Yankee until the other pilot was moved to Corpus Christi.

“Hey, Rooster’s girl is at least twenty-three. Old enough for a master’s, but can’t hold her liquor for shit,” Hangman declared, sipping the Budweiser he had been holding by its neck.

You stuffed Bradley’s suit coat that was sitting over your lap on the middle console; desperate to have any part of him away from you. You hadn’t even noticed you were crying until you felt your tears fall into the dip of your collarbone.

The anger and sadness that bubbled inside you warmed your insides; turned your volcanic heart into lava. The heat from the vents of your boyfriend’s car blasted in your face and made you feel even sicker than you had previously. Your thighs stuck to the worn leather and itched due to your increased adrenaline.

You fidgeted about in the seat. Bradley adjusted his posture, leaning his head on his fist that rested on the window sill on his left side. He wanted to drop the whole thing. He wanted to return back to your good tequila-shot-induced moods before the night turned to shit.

He flipped the heat to a lower setting when he noticed your discomfort next to him. He haphazardly leaned over to close the vent on your side before he saw them; the tears streaming down your face and the pitiful pout adorning your lips. You looked so hurt. So broken. So done with him. Like maybe, just possibly, the love you had for him had finally given out.

He figured no one was to blame but him.

He tried his best to make you comfortable but the silence looming like a shadow from your side of the car sparked a wick of anxiety inside of him. His hands kept adjusting the temperature and checking your face as he turned the knob back and forth, the temperature going up and down. The air vents opened and closed as if they were playing some infantile game of peek-a-boo with you.

“Jesus - fuck -, Bradley,” you hissed, “Can you quit it?” The tears had turned from anger to sadness to annoyance and you wondered if it was possible for the primary purpose of tears to switch that quickly.

Bradley let out a soft sigh before flicking the heat off completely and rolling down both windows. “Sorry.” The meekness on his face wrote regret for all that had taken place.

“You don’t say,” Yankee joked, “Ole Rooster’s been scoping out the playground still, I see.”

The group of men laugh, none of them in the know of the impending doom of the night about to take place. It always started like this with Yankee. One second, everyone would be laughing and having a good time. The next, he would say some “balls-to-the-wall” asshole-ish comment that even made Hangman grind his teeth in their offending nature.

“I would say more ‘Babysitters Club’ and less ‘Sesame Street.’ Have to at least be in middle school now for Bradshaw,” Hangman fires back, and although the jokes being made about his taste in women and dating habits were being made fun of, nothing truly offensive had been said yet, so Bradley continued to laugh and nod his head with subtle “Fuck you”’s thrown in every now and again.

Bradley had been in the Navy since he was twenty-one years old. He knows the way that Navy men talk. He knows the way that most Navy men think. “Swear like a sailor” is the common saying and the various time he’s spent on deployments or on carrier ships provided that it was true. He certainly isn’t blind to the nature of how these men viewed women from how they talked about them when there weren’t female ears around or when they didn’t have a warm body to go home to at night.

And he’s not proud of it - knew that his mother and father would bury him alive for some of the things he’s said - but the guilt of his parents’ imminent disapproval had since been disbarred from his conscience. When it came down to it, no one gave a fuck who he had fucked the night before or what he had said about the women he was sleeping with. Not when he was miles away from home in an undisclosed location on a suicide mission with no one to go home to if he happened to make it back.

So many other people whom he had befriended felt the same way and Bradley had figured that this is why locker-room talk still exists in the military. Some of the things he heard he was sure could have been said at a random run-of-the-mill suburban high school in any part of the continental United States. All that was changed was the bass in the voices and the number of hairs on their chests.

It’s hard to be polite when preserving your life is the action item at hand.

“You know Bradshaw, I always knew you were smart,” the other pilot swishes around his scotch on the rocks in his hand, “They’re always so horny when they’re that young.”

Laughter rang around the room and he joyously partook in it. “Well, I do get laid pretty frequently if you may ask,” he added before taking a sip of the beer he had in his hand.

His gaze caught Bob’s eyes. Sweet, innocent Bob who thought the world of everyone. Sweet, innocent Bob who knew that Bradley was digging his own grave, but continued sipping his glass of red wine. The gawky metal frames that rimmed his friend’s eyes bore into his soul, almost magnifying the wrongfulness of what he was saying.

Bradley had broken their eye contact, his arm coming up to cover his mouth as he cleared his throat and a shaky hand bringing the neck of his bottle up to his lips. He had known that Bob would never say anything, that he wasn’t one for confrontation or calling people out even when they deserved it. But that was the good thing about Bob. He always let people make their own mistakes and never really offered much to say about it afterward.

“I knew it! You seemed looser than the last time I talked to you.” Bradley catches Bob’s eyes again, his friend’s eyebrows slightly raising in a scolding manner. “Now tell, she the tightest pussy you’ve ever had?”

The atmosphere thickened as the side conversations had come to a screeching halt. He would be lying if he told himself that the lump in his throat was from the lack of water he had drank that night rather than the uneasiness of knowing he was in the wrong.

And he knew he shouldn’t. He knew that he should keep his mouth shut; that he owed you the small price of privacy, that you wouldn’t like the mechanics of your sex life being discussed with men who were probably making paper mache volcanoes for their middle school science fairs when you were born. He knew that Bob wasn’t giving him a warning look for no reason and that Mickey didn’t wander back into the venue for no reason at all.

But despite his better judgment (or lack of coherent judgment at all), he opened his big, fat mouth. He had sped up the ends to his means without hesitation; without regard for your feelings.

“Tightest thing I’ve ever put my dick in.”

His friends nod their heads and laugh. Some of them chuckled to avoid the awkwardness and others in agreeance with what was being said.

Bob scooted himself closer to Bradley and shook his head with a deep sigh. “C’mon, Rooster.” A clammy hand had come to lay gently on Bradley’s shoulder.

He had pretended not to hear him. He knew the minute that he let Bob’s words register that he would drop to his knees and beg you for forgiveness. He hated peer pressure. He hated the way he was acting. He hated the way he was treating you behind your back. He hated the way his friends were laughing.

He hated himself more for doing it because you deserved so much better. But clearly, he didn’t feel bad enough to stop.

The sobs that wracked your chest shook you like an earthquake. The more you pondered on why he would say the things that he had said - why he would laugh and demean you behind your back - sent you into a frenzy.

Had he always thought of you this way? Were you always talked about so grossly? So demeaningly? Were you really anything to him other than a warm vagina to pummel his dick in when he was horny?

The questions remained unanswered as you tried to stifle your cries. You hated crying in front of people anyway, but crying in front of Bradley always made you feel awful. Tears always made him uncomfortable and your tears made him upset. Whenever the waterworks started from you, he drove himself mad trying to remedy your issue. You had used to think it was because he cared, but now you started to wonder if it was because he didn’t know how to tell you that he didn’t want to deal with it; that you were being a bother.

Your hand is bitten raw from trying to hold in your pathetic cries. The alligator tears that ran down your face at a rapid speed and the shaking of your shoulders did little to mask the fact that you were sobbing. Years of being told that your emotions would hinder your credibility at work, months of pent-up frustration, hours of disrespect, minutes of unkindness, and seconds of insecurity create an atomic bomb on the merits of the lesson you had been told throughout your entire lifetime; there will never be enough room for your emotions.

And you believed it. You took people for their word. You made narratives and internalized them from how people acted. You read between the lines and the margins of what you interpret carve doubt into your heart; carve the failure that you’re so deathly terrified of so close to your lifeline of needing to please everyone all the time.

The trait is toxic - an unfavorable condition - your therapist would say but it had become such a compulsion, you’re sure you would die without it. Something about approval is so intimately invasive and the shower thoughts you conjured up while thinking about this never seemed to uncover the answer as to why.

Why it matters. Why it doesn’t matter. Who the fuck would even care. (You, of course, but the world is so much larger than you are and your selfishness would be disappointing, you think.)

You wish your boyfriend could read your mind and see the twenty-five cent bouncy ball-like thoughts hitting every crevice of your brain right now. You wish that your hurt feelings could be seen by him with x-ray vision or some fictional superhero-like ability. Most of all, you wished that he had known that the events that had taken place throughout the entire night were tearing you up right beside him.

If he felt that way about you, felt like you were around just for your body and not for you, what did everyone else think? Was Natasha only friendly because she thought you were too immature to be left alone at gatherings? Did Rueben and Mickey actually give a shit about what you had to say when they asked about your work? Did Jake and Javy even know your name?

Did your boyfriend even like you?

The questions imploding like fireworks in your head made you cry harder, and you couldn’t help but let the sobs out now. Bradley looked over at you. His hand brushed your knee, his palm cupped it and his fingers spread out to rub soothing circles on the lower part of your thigh.

“Don’t cry, baby. I’m so sorry,” he begged, his voice quiet. Small. Unsure. All the things he had made you. “Please don’t cry.”

The rubber band inside of you finally breached the capacity of tension it was able to withstand. The fact that you needed comfort more than anything and the person who usually supplies it for you with no bounds is the one who is violating that comfort made your head spin.

“She’s got that young pussy,” Yankee continued. “Gotta fuck ‘em before they turn into moms. Not as tight anymore.”

Bradley’s ears turned red upon hearing Yankee’s declaration. Knowing that you fucked up and realizing that you fucked up are two vastly different things and the realization hit when he heard Jake Seresin (of all fucking people) tsk and shake his head.

“That’s fucked up, man. Have some respect.” Ever the Southern fucking gentleman.

The sandy-haired pilot’s mouth gaped open before closing; the words loose in his psyche but ceasing to exist in real-time. He finally thought that he had a handle on what he wanted to say. Something noble. Something dignity preserving. Something along the lines of “What the hell?” and “Shut the fuck up.”, but either or never making its way out between his lips.

Waiting for the perfect moment that never comes, he thought, and upon further internalized reflection, he realized that it posed itself as true. Jake wasn’t entirely wrong for saying that about him all that time ago.

The clicking of heels on the ground announced Phoenix and his dashing girlfriend’s presence with the group of men and snapped Bradley out of his thoughts. Something in the way she was carrying herself, something about the way that her crossed arms over her chest blocked her usually sunny aura, told Bradley that something was wrong.

He brought his lips down to her ear when he hugged her from behind and almost built up the courage to ask what was wrong. But he fell short when he was called away to do another round of shots with Rueben and Natasha. He had settled for a kiss to your temple instead before he bolted off.

“Fuck you,” you manage to spit.

Bradley raises his eyebrows. The curse word sends him into immediate fight or flight. “What did you just say to me?”

You know that you’re teetering the line of too much. Toeing the line of immaturity. Testing if your boyfriend liked you enough to put up with your explosion of emotions. “I said fuck you.” The definitive tone in your voice that you attempt scares you with how much it resembles your mother’s.

Bradley scoffs and squirms in his seat some more. His inability to sit still is his tell of guilt. “I told you it wasn’t like that.”

“What the fuck else was it supposed to be then, Bradley?” Your head snaps to look at his side profile.

The cream-colored polo shirt that you had bought him months ago was worn tonight with a different ending in a mind; one where he sped home and kissed your lips swollen and then had you withering beneath him as he fucked up into you on the wall of his foyer. Certainly not the narrative that was currently unfolding in front of him.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Now it’s your turn to laugh cruelly. “Well, what I didn’t want you to say was that I was the tightest thing you’ve ever stuck your dick in? That I’m insatiably horny? Do you have any idea how humiliating that is?” You turn your body to face him completely, heart beating in your ears and chest starting to heave with the upset of Bradley’s attitude toward you. “How the hell is Jake Seresin defending me before you even thought to?”

“Leave him out of this.” His face turns red and anger starts to bubble over inside him. Rooster always sweats whenever he gets flustered; so pissed off and angry that the heat inside of him has nowhere to go. The muggy threshold of the heat being flicked on minutes before pairs vexatiously with the aggravation that sits between the both of you.

He rolls the windows in the car all the way down but remembers to roll yours down enough for the smallest gusts of wind to be let in. Even though you had made him angry and he knows that you’re completely justified in the case that’s been built against him, he still cares about you.

He knows that you never like your window being all the way down unless the heat of the summer is unbearable and you were going on a beloved sunset drive with him; your shared playlist playing through his speakers and the top of the Bronco being taken off.

The way that your hair dances in the wind remind him of when you’re carefree enough to lean your head backward outside of the car while driving down a backroad, the words of a Paramore song exiting your lungs with such clarity that he could question if Hayley Williams had written the song or you.

But it’s not the heat of mid-June’s sunburn heating up his cheeks and your screams aren’t accompanied by the laughter of him poking your sides. Summer-salted air is replaced with a frigid fall breeze and your happy moods are burdened by your own frustrations.

“Wish I could tell you the same about our sex life, but obviously too little too late.”

His hand comes up to wipe at his nose. His eyebrows are furrowed. “What the fuck do you think we talk about then? Huh?” Bradley’s pointed tone sends a slight sliver of fear down your spine at his annoyance. “Do you think we sit on those fucking carrier ships in the middle of the fucking ocean for eight months at a time and talk about what? Girl power and Title IX? How much we love AOC?”

The tears dripping down your face continue to fall.

“I’m not saying that you have to sacrifice your conversations with the “bros” about jet fuel and g-forces and whatever the fuck else you always seem to insist is so goddamn important, but my vagina is not a conversation topic to have over a fucking draft beer with your buddies.”

Bradley rolls his eyes at your mention of the word “buddies.” If only you knew how he really felt about Yankee.

“And I’m so fucking sorry that my lack of not wanting to be disrespected disrupted what you think is a party conversation starter. Would you like my apology half-assed like yours or sincere with a complimentary blowjob because that seems to be all you think I’m good for?”

“I said I was sorry and I meant it!”

“You said you were sorry because you want me to accept your apology, but what next, Bradley? Are you actually gonna fix it?”

He rolls his eyes and lets out a deep exhale. “Don’t act like I won’t do anything you fucking ask of me,” his hand comes up to rub at his temples.“ I love you more than life itself and you know that.”

“So why are you acting like you don’t then?”

He starts driving down the stretch of road that leads to his home. The yellow glow of the street lights makes you want to ask him to take you back to your place. You can’t stand to be sitting next to him in his car's front seat, let alone sleeping in the same bed with him tonight.

“Take it back,” he says dismissively.

“Show me different and maybe I’ll consider.” He pulls the car into his garage and you throw the door open before he can come to a complete stop.

“Hard to when every little thing that slightly offends you sends you into a goddamn spiral.”

Your weakness. He’s got you there.

“Fuck you, Rooster,” you say weakly, stomping away inside to his bedroom as fast as you can with the heels you have on.

“Grow up,” you hear him say behind you, hot on your tail before turning around to head to the kitchen.

You spend the next two hours separate from each other, toeing around the house petrified of seeing the other’s face. No fight you had gotten into with one another had ever been this bad in the four years you had been dating, and part of you wonders if this is how relationships begin to fade; how people start to realize that maybe their person wasn’t their person.

But you think Bradley is it for you. You’ve always felt that way since coming to know him. Be with him. Have him in the same way he has you. You don’t think you can function without him no matter how much of an ass he’s being to you right now. And sure, you’re independent to a fault and yeah, you don’t always know what’s good for you, but you know one thing definitively, and that thing is that Bradley Bradshaw checks all your boxes despite driving you slightly insane at times.

You look up at yourself in his bathroom mirror as you finally scooped yourself off of the floor of his bedroom and made the decision to scrub your makeup off (or what was left of it after your meltdown, really). The patch of stress acne near the side of your forehead from the new project you had been put on at work and the ball of anxiety over what to wear to the wedding shower tonight made itself known. You realized that you had run out of makeup remover and face wash at Bradley’s house a couple of days ago, and the regret of not bringing some or asking him to drop you off at your own apartment started to settle with the burden of your hurt feelings and the freakout your skin was bound to have come tomorrow morning.

A sigh had left your mouth and Bradley’s bathroom cabinet opened as you decided to skip washing your face in favor of only brushing your teeth. But when you go to grab the lilac-handled toothbrush from its holder, you notice the two brand-new bottles of makeup remover and face wash that you certainly didn’t bring, and then you’re reminded of how sweet your boyfriend can be. How caring he is.

The soft spot in your heart that he owns starts to warm again.

After you manage to wash your face and brush your teeth, you run into the problem of only bringing a sleep shirt. Bradley keeps his house on sixty-five no matter the weather outside. He always claims that he runs hot despite some of the wind chill San Diego experiences at night during the fall and winter months. And while you have clothes at Bradley’s, most of them fall into the business casual garb you wear to work or are borrowed (more like stolen, he likes to joke) and no matter how cold you may be, your pride has so much more precedence than it would allow you to give in.

Bradley’s Chicago Bears hoodie sits folded in your designated drawer, but you bypass putting it on. The embarrassingly large t-shirt (albeit free t-shirt) that repped a random student organization from your undergrad institution would have to do tonight.

You waltz out of Bradley’s bedroom quietly. Not only to go undetected, but to be polite in case he had already fallen asleep on his declared refuge of the couch. The soft sound of Breaking Bad playing told you that he was still awake. He can never fall asleep with the TV on; no matter how tired he is.

“Baby?” Bradley calls out from the couch.

Shit. Were you really that loud?

Your feet move faster than your brain; something about Bradley is so magnetizing. You’ll follow him to the end of the Earth if you knew that he needed you. Your puffy-eyed, pantless form moves to stand in front of him. His form still wears the clothes he had worn tonight. The only thing different was the UVA throw blanket you had gotten him last month “just because” over his lap and his printed airplane-socked feet sticking out from underneath it.

Your gaze looks towards the shoe rack near the front door and you chuckle to yourself as you see them exactly how you imagined them. Tucked away where he wouldn’t trip on them, but slightly askew.

His hand comes up to grab yours that lies limply at your side. “C’mere,” he whispers, testing the waters to see how much damage he had done.

You give his hand a small squeeze, the coldness of yours allowing you to feel every callous on his palms. “Jesus, you’re freezing.”

He opens the blanket on his lap and guides you to straddle him. He closes the blanket and immediate warmth covers you. Bradley’s hands sit on your lower back above your tailbone, soothing circles being rubbed on the bone there, and his head coming to rest on top of yours. You breathe in his scent, your face snuggled into his neck.

“I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry,” he speaks and you exhale. You bite your lip, the tears welling up again and wetting his neck.

“It’s okay,” you weep brokenly. “I’m sorry, too.”

He presses gentle kisses on the top of your hair. The sadness that fills the room; the culmination of utter sorrow and confirmation of your insecurities makes the room heavy and eats away at you. Bradley does his best to comfort you until your sobs quiet to hiccups.

And as much as you love Bradley, as much as you want to be satisfied with his apology (or lack of a sincere one, thereof), you realize that sincerity was perhaps not one of his defining characteristics. But instead of calling him out, you so stupidly and cowardly accepted it and apologized right back.

He’s apologizing for the sake of saying sorry. For the sake of diminishing your anger. For the sake of being able to be truthful about never going to bed angry if someone asks. For the sake of doing so because if you accept, he’s still allowed to stay the same and he never has to change.

But you’re saying sorry for being a nuisance. For embarrassing him. For bruising his ego and for being accusatory that he never gave a damn about you.

And what you don’t realize is that you should really be saying sorry to yourself, because while you’re boxing yourself up to make space for him, he’s not sorry about forcing you to do it.

Boxes are heavier when they’re filled with resentment, you learn, and the weight becomes unbearable when sorrows are thrown out to sea with no lifesaver near in sight.

Love is all about sacrifice and banged-up feelings; even if that means that the love of the man you would do anything for suffocates you as you lay curled into his side with a heat made by his chest and his soft snores in your ear.

“Love is patient. Love is kind. Love is patient. Love is kind. Love is patient. Love is kind.”

And for the first time in the four years you had spent together, you truly start to wonder if Bradley really does love you. The hot coffee on the nightstand when you wake up and the discovery of his thermostat being turned up to seventy degrees confuses you when you get up to head back to your apartment in the morning when you compare his treatment of you now to he had treated you the night before.

He loves me not. He loves me.

He loves me not.

(Year 5)

He loves me. He loves me not.

His mother used to tell him that women always knew.

And she would say it over the sound of a cheaply made General Hospital episode that she had taped so they could watch it together during their evening “wind down time.” His pencil would be scratching away at a Calculus problem from the AP Calc booklet his teacher had passed out at school that day and the soft clink of his mother’s knitting needles would grace his ears.

He would nod his head as he sat by his mother’s feet on the floor of their living room and wouldn’t say a word. The cocoon that the soft yellow glow of the lamp gave off wrapped him in a moment of security; a moment of comfort that he was never allowed very often.

And he had never really thought anything of it at the time. He had figured it was just some chock-full wisdom that would blossom into a useful tool for his adult life; one where his mom wasn’t dying and he was married with maybe a few kids and a beautiful house with a backyard and a bay window.

“Women always know,” his mom said as the female lead had discovered her husband cheating on her long before she had traveled home to catch him in the act.

“Women always know,” his mom said as she would catch him trying to sneak a girl into his teenage bedroom at half past three in the morning.

“Women always know,” his mom said as she comforted him when she had declared to an eighteen-year-old Bradley that she no longer wanted to continue with chemotherapy. She died not even two days later.

“Women always know,” he can hear his mom’s voice in the back of his head as he watches you tiptoe around him when you come home from work.

The door closes with a soft click and your keys are grasped tightly in your hand to prevent them from jingling. The bags underneath your eyes beg the question of when the last time you had gotten a full eight hours of sleep was, but you both would rather not inquire out loud.

The answer would shock both of your consciences.

The tossing and turning you had done the night before was cruel. The anxieties of your day had breached unknown territory; the pit of your stomach hollow and your chest tight. Your mind was so frazzled with fear you couldn’t bear to stay still because the lack of movement gave way for your thoughts to be caught; for your fear and anxiousness to swallow you whole.

Bradley would normally stir in his sleep the minute your eyes had popped open in the middle of the night, but instead, he had elected to turn over and cuddle his face more into his own pillow. The action tacked itself onto the mile-long list of things you were upset about - things that you found unfathomable that your brain scrambled together.

And when you had finally gotten to sleep, your alarm clock blared beside you. Your heart had started to race and the monster of nerves you had successfully defeated for an hour and a half resurrected itself.

When you had turned to face Bradley, you found him still fast asleep and that’s when you knew.

You’re not stupid. You’re not oblivious. In fact, you’re always so painfully aware that it kills you sometimes. You notice how he’s been pulling away. You notice how he’s seemed more reserved and despondent than usual. You notice how he doesn’t kiss your forehead anymore or ask to join you in the shower when you’re both spending your mornings at home together on the weekends.

Conversations at the dinner table are neither here nor there as most nights he can’t be damned to make it home to eat with you. For the first time in five years, you had run out of face wash and had to write a note to yourself on your phone to pick some more up from the store the next time you went shopping. Bradley had watched you type it out and his sagging shoulders wore disappointment on them.

You knew.

You knew he was both feet out of the door with your relationship; his hand still on the doorknob to close it but not having the guts to lock the door while he’s at it.

You know.

You know that you’re going to break up. You know that Bradley is the one who will be taking the initiative and doing it. You know that he’s been thinking about it for a while. The absent gasps whenever you do happen to catch dinner with him say so, and all you can think about is his mouth opening and closing like a goddamn goldfish as he searches for the words to bring it up. The thought makes the actions of the inevitable seem more bearable.

But yet you cling to what little time you know you have left with him.

How you know that you’ll never get to sleep beside him again. How you know that you’ll never get to snuggle into his UVA blanket. How you know that you’ll never visit the Hard Deck or the base or any spaces where Rooster Bradshaw exists freely.

How you know that things will never be the same and that your sweet, sweet Bradley will soon become a sweet, sweet stranger.

So you try to prolong it.

You never linger in the same space as him for too long for fear of the dreadful topic being brought up. You bite your tongue a lot more than you usually do. You keep your stuff neat and tidy; praying for some miracle that he didn’t see your hairbrush on his bathroom counter and that it would buy you another day with him.

You know it can’t last forever but the stupid, naive part of you thinks you can stretch the time to infinity and it’ll be some Groundhog Day-type plot.

You had started planning your arrival home around his schedule months prior. You aimed for leaving the office when you knew he had already left base about an hour earlier. If Bradley was anything, it was predictable, and he would either be in the shower when you had made your way home or cooped up in the home office he had made of the spare bedroom.

You nearly jump out of your skin when you see him standing in front of you; hands drying the ceramic plates Penny and Mav had bought you as a housewarming gift whenever he bit the bullet and moved you both into his parents’ old house last summer. Gray running shorts are low on his hips and a New York Yankees long-sleeve looks damn near painted on his biceps. You swallow the lump in your throat that travels down to your stomach.

Your brain can’t even begin to think of what to do or say but Bradley beats you to it.

“Hi,” he speaks, breaking the ice of your anxiety that freezes you both over. He knows that you can feel that something is off. He knows that you’ve felt it for a long time. He also knows that he’s about to shatter you completely and he’s not sure if he can watch as he does it.

“Hi,” your voice quietly sounds. Your hands start to shake and Bradley’s eyebrows upturn with sympathy as he drinks in your appearance.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. He places the plate down and steps towards you. “C’mere.”

His arms stretch to accommodate you. His heart beats wildly as he approaches. He thinks you can sense it because you slam your ear against his chest. There’s no way you can’t feel the rise and fall and frenzied thumping coming from his pectoral.

“Don’t hurt her. Don’t hurt her. Don’t hurt her,” his heart begs, but his brain knows that either way, hurting you is inevitable.

He wishes there was another way but he knows wishful thinking will only put you both in a landmine of resentment; a world of a loveless marriage and three kids who will eventually have to pack their bags for their respective weekends with you and him on opposite sides of town. He doesn’t want that for you. He doesn’t want that for him. He sure as hell doesn’t want that for them. So he pushes aside his selfish desire to keep you close and does what he always does.

He decides to walk away.

“Just get it over with,” you say weakly from his chest. He plants a gentle kiss on the crown of your head. His thumbs rub soothing circles on the backs of both shoulders. Your stomach is cold and the rest of your body is left scorching.

“What are you talking about?” his chin comes to rest on top of your head. His hold on you unintentionally shoves your face deeper into his chest.

“Don’t make me say it. Please don’t.”

“I can’t talk about it unless you tell me what you’re gettin’ at, babydoll.”

“Don’t play stupid, Bradley,” you release yourself from his grip, “You’re going to break up with me. We both know it so please, just do it already.”

The words that you say steer clear of the convoluted plan he had in mind. Breaking up is no easy task and the guilt of the thought even crossing his mind had been weighing on him for ages. It wasn’t like he sat down with himself and crunched the numbers of the housing market to see when the best time would be for you to move out or that he had a set itinerary of how the conversation was going to play out. He wasn’t even sure he was going to do it today until you had left for work, and it seems to him that you had figured it out without having to mention it to you.

Women always know.

“Don’t say it like I’m just trying to throw you away.” You flinch at his words. He realizes that his tone had come off more aggressive than he intended it to be when he notices the slight watering in your eyes.

“Isn’t that what a break up is?” you want to ask, but you’re so stunned you can’t get your vocal cords to carve out the shape of the letters, let alone thrust any sound out.

He takes your hand and leads you to your shared bedroom. The white duvet and navy blue bordered throw pillows remind you of when he used to take the time to hold you before you fell asleep at night. The hardwood of the floors tell the secrets shared between the two of you as hushed and giggled whispers; pointless gossip and serious confessions alike. The framed pictures on the dresser show you and him in various moments of your five years together.

Easter spent at your parents’ with your siblings and nieces and nephews this past spring. Thanksgiving with Mav, Penny, and Amelia three years prior. A selfie you forced him to take with you at Phoenix’s wedding last year. A candid shot taken by one of your friends of you two curled up on the beach; blissfully in love and lost in each other’s eyes at the start of your relationship.

The photos and the room had seen so much of you two. Various deployments and promotions. A canvas of emotions and intimate moments. Laughter and tears. Petty fights and teenaged makeout sessions. So many things that had written the story of you and Bradley long before you had moved in and long after. The thoughts of the memories fill you with excitement.

But the thought of him not feeling the same way - the fact that he’s bringing you to a room with the story of you both written exclusively in every crevice to end things - brings a waterfall of tears down your face.

The story of creation and its impending graveyard.

Another pang of anguish surges through you and the coldness in your stomach spreads to your feet.

He sits down on the foot of the bed first. He looks up at you with worry written in his irises. Bradley can sense your discomfort; the sadness and panic bouncing off of your aura in waves of deep indigo blue - the color that he’s assigned depression. He doesn’t know why (and he thinks that if he were you, he would slap himself across the face) but he offers his hand to you.

There’s no hesitation and his hand guides you to sit on his lap like how he always does when you’re upset and need comfort.

You sit down and push your face into the side of his neck. The stinging sensation from the hot salt water tears leaking into a cut he had given himself from shaving that morning makes the nature of the situation all the more realistic. This is the last time he will hold you like this. This is the last time he will know you as well as he does. This is the last time he will ever have the chance to make you miserable.

Last times always make him uneasy. He thinks that he should be used to it by now from his track record of being abandoned (willfully or “out of their control” situations alike). None of this should hurt him as deeply anymore.

But the feeling of disappointment is just so intense this time. He’s sure it doesn’t even fall within the scope of what could be considered “hurt feelings.” He would classify this as torture, and he can’t help his own quiet sobs racking his chest as he holds your crying and shrunken-in form in his arms.

“I don’t want to break up, Bradley,” you weep, “I just don’t want to.”

He shakes his head and wipes his own eyes. “We need to.”

There’s something so personal about failure. It’s not a stranger to you. It’s not a monster or fear or the Mucinex man that you try to boil it down to be. It’s something that you can’t obsessively try to avoid anymore because it’s right here in your face.

Except this time, it takes the shape of Bradley’s red-rimmed eyes and gray hairs on the border of his hairline that you hadn’t noticed before.

Bradley isn’t one for bragging. He can’t stand bragging, actually, and he wonders if that’s why he has such a hard time trusting his judgment. He considers that to be the reason why he’s always teetering on the edge of uncertainty, but he knows deep down that this time, he’s right. He’s so spot on and as much as it kills him, it would be more of a crime to deny it than to just admit that he’s right.

He knows it. You know it. He’s sure God does, too.

“No, you want to,” you stubbornly sniffle.

Ever the most hard-headed person to exist, but a sweetheart when it comes down to it. He almost cracks a smile at your attitude, but then he runs into it like a wall of bricks. You’re breaking up. This is the last time he’ll ever get to see your bull-headedness in full effect. The thought makes him whimper and he prays that you didn’t hear the infliction of it in his voice.

“That’s not true, sweet girl,” he sighs, fingers tracing the seam of your work pants, “I can’t make you miserable anymore. We need to.”

“Who said I was miserable?”

He pauses. He knows that the statement he’s about to make will send an uncomfortable chill down his spine. He knows that it’ll make him feel that way because he’s being called out.

“I don’t want to get married and you do. That’s miserable.”

Your ears burn more than they already had because he’s right. You’ve been waiting around for a stupid diamond on a stupid gold band; for reassurance that he wants you to be his as much as you love the idea of being his forever.

Five years and you know how he takes his coffee in the morning. Five years and you compromise regularly about what to keep the thermostat on. Five years and nine weddings you had attended with him. Five years of loving each other and knowing one another in ways that only fiction writers can dream of having someone know them. Five years of feeling like you would die without him.

Five years and he’s ready to throw it all away because he doesn’t think you both want the same things. Five years down the drain.

You think being kicked in the face would hurt a hell of a lot less than this does.

“Uh-uh. No,” you say. You paw at your eyes with your hand ferociously. “No! You don’t get to do that. You know that’s not fair!” You spring up from his lap like he was a fire that had just licked your skin with white-hot heat.

He grabs at your wrist, his eyes pleading with you to not leave him. His touch burns you but you give in. “It’s not fair to keep doing this to you.” His arms envelop you once again and you feel like you can’t breathe.

You push at his chest. “This isn’t fair.” Your arms try and pry Bradley’s arms off of you. “You can’t - I can’t just let you throw us away like this. It’s not fair!”

Bradley swallows down the lump in his throat. His eyes produce more tears the more he watches you struggle against him. He’s scared that if he lets you go that you’ll lose it completely. Part of him knows keeping you near is helping him hold it together too, but he tries to rationalize the overall shittiness of the entire situation by telling himself that he’s appealing to your needs - that you need him, but he also knows that he needs you.

“I love you so much,” he whispers into your hair.

“Then why are you hurting me?” The question explodes in the air, It’s something that he thought he was prepared to hear from the pep talk he had given himself on the ride to work this morning, but it still stuns him.

“I’m hurting you by keeping you with me.”

You scoff and cry harder. The fight inside of you hasn’t ceased yet. Such a stubborn girl, he thinks. It’s one of the things he loves the most about you.

“You’re hurting me now.”

Bradley swallows his comment. His mind ping pongs back and forth, back and forth, back and forth on how to tell you why he knows this is for the best. The truth is, he doesn’t know it. He just thinks it, and the worry of having to follow his instincts, to have to be guided by something so material and un-cemented, scares him to death. But he knows that you deserve the word and the world is something he knows that he’ll never be capable of giving anyone.

“You deserve someone that will marry you.” The words taste bitter in his mouth. “Someone who will make you so happy that you won’t even think of us anymore. Someone who can give you that house in La Jolla and a huge wedding and babies and a dog.”

“Someone who won’t blow up in flames while they’re in the sky,” he almost adds, but he closes his mouth instead. The conversation was already heavy. There’s no need to tack on his death that is always in the cards.

“I deserve you,” you say, tone dripping with determination and assurance.

He’s full-on sobbing now. “You deserve so much better, baby. Why can’t you see it?”

You chew on your lips so hard that they start to split. The salt of the blood in your mouth is vile but you would rather taste that than the tears that have been roaming down your face.

“Why can’t you just be better then?”

He feels like you stabbed him in the heart. He guesses that he deserves that. “I can’t be better if you deserve the world. I know I can’t give you that.”

The room fills itself with hiccuped breaths. His heart cracks and yours disintegrates. Bradley moves himself to the headboard to support his back. If you weren’t so concerned with your world crashing down, you would have made a joke about how his age was catching up with him. But trying to force yourself to smile feels like a crime.

Bradley has experienced loss. He’s experienced disappointment. He’s experienced heartbreak. He thought he was prepared for what he was choosing to do, but he never had thought of how he would feel when he was experiencing all of these things at once.

His abs hurt from how hard he’s crying. The hair on the crown of your head is soaked from his tears but you don’t mind nor do you notice. The chest of his long sleeve is stained black from your own tears. You both cling to each other even though being close is what causes you to ache.

The bright white of the linen duvet reflects cornflower blue in the moonlight. Your throat is dry from your heaving. His head hurts from his racing thoughts. Both of your eyes sting uncomfortably; you seeing the world as if you were underwater. Not only because of your uncontrollable sobbing but because the focus of your life - the love you so willingly gave that has illuminated your world for the past five years - has finally dimmed.

The hours spent holding each other felt like seconds and you finally muster up the courage to say something; to put on a brave face and revel in one of your lasts with him.

“Bradley?” you croak. He clears his throat and presses a timid kiss to the top of your head as if he’s scared that his lips are more of a weapon than a tool of comfort.

“Yes, baby?”

“Will we still be friends in a few weeks?”

He sucks on his lips. He wants to say that you’ll always be friends. That no one that comes after you will ever hold a candle to you and what you both had. That you’re his beginning and end, but he can’t keep dragging you along with a false promise of giving you what you actually want. He can’t make himself want to be a husband even though he knows that it’s what he needs to be to keep you. Wanting you just isn’t enough anymore.

The risk is contemplated, but he never wants to prey on you and your vulnerability. He settles for the safe option.

“Depends on if you still wanna be, sweet girl.”

You plant a soft kiss on the wet spot on his chest your tears have created. The answer is sweet but not what you want. You wish it would’ve broken his resolve; would’ve reversed your relationship ending. You know that he knows better than to do that.

The silence sets in again before you speak up.

“Bradley?”

“Yes, baby?”

“Will you still call me every night before I go to sleep so I can hear your voice?”

“I can for a little while, baby.”

His answer is the right thing to say, you know, but you can’t help the fact that the statement breaks your heart even more. “Why only a little bit?”

He sighs. You’re not making this easy for him. “Babe, you know why.”

“Right,” you whisper, shifting in his lap to wrap your arms around his neck. You peer into his eyes. The hazel in them is dimmed. There’s no sparkle left. “M’sorry for asking.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he reassures, “Just think that maybe that won't be healthy if we do it for too long.”

It kills him to say that, but he knows that he’s doing the right thing. It certainly doesn’t feel as such, and he would think that nearly twenty years of service in the Navy would help him separate the bad feelings from the nobility.

Breaks up just don’t work like that, he figures. No amount of experience or preparation can concoct an easy way out where no one gets hurt.

He gets lost in his thoughts before he hears your voice again.

“Bradley?”

Broken. Timid. Inquisitive. A test to see if he still cares enough about you to answer. He knows how you are and that you’re reverting back to old patterns that you had lost during your time with him. He has to push aside his feelings of being slightly offended that you’ve put the wall back up so quickly, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s done enough damage to last a lifetime. He just wishes that you didn’t think he could fall out of love with you this easily.

“Hmm, baby?”

“You’re my best friend.”

“My best friend too,” he exhales, the pang in his chest valiant in letting him know that this is the end, “Always will be.”

You pause and tailor your next statement carefully. Part of you takes it slow to prevent yourself from breaking down again but part of you takes your time to keep him near; to keep him from walking away from you. And you don’t want to do this to him. You don’t want to anger him or upset him and that’s the fucked up thing about it.

He’s hurting you and you don’t want to hurt him back.

“Yeah, but what happens when you date another girl and she’s your best friend instead of me?” The thought makes your skin crawl and you dig half moons into the skin of your hand with your thumb to prevent yourself from letting out a chest-wracking sob. “What am I supposed to do then?”

Bradley sighs. The thought of you moving on is selfish but he knows that it’s inevitable. He wishes that no one will ever get to know you the same ways that he’s gotten to, but shakes the thought as soon as he realizes how selfish it is - a declaration of love or the right answer.

He does the latter.

“You’ll find someone who’s an even better best friend than I am,” he sniffles. He hadn’t even noticed that he had started crying again. “Someone who doesn’t make you cry.”

Your breath hitches and it triggers more tears to stream down your face. He’s hurting, too. You never want to see him hurt like this, but then you realize that after today, you will never have to ever again. The thought makes your body ache; withdrawal symptoms before any withdrawal had actually begun.

“You promise we’ll still talk?” you speak in a watery voice.

“Yes, babydoll,” he wipes his eyes and sniffles some more, “ We’ll still talk.”

You start to play with his hands. Your finger runs across a faint scar on his index, the freckle on his pinky, the empty space where you wish a gold wedding band would be on his ring finger. The tips of your own fingers start to burn when you realize that his disinterest in ever wanting to wear one is why you’re breaking up.

You push the thought to the side and continue on in the conversation.

“About life stuff?”

He gives a soft chuckle, the one he usually gives you when he’s playing into your amusements. Part of him is never serious when he does it, but there’s a new wave of promise that he has to keep.

“About anything you want.”

The crying dies down again. The energy in the room is constantly going up and down like the waves on the beach near the back of the house.

“Bradley?” you interrupt the quietness again. The lack of sound makes you even more anxious than you already are.

“Yes?” He curses himself as the statement leaves his mouth. He knows you’re picking apart his lack of use of a pet name; that you’re convincing yourself that you’re an inconvenience to him and that he never cared for you the way you wanted him to.

Bradley almost tacks one on, but the pause between adding it and answering would have been too broad and you would have noticed and called him out on it. He decides against it. He also starts to wonder when he became so decisive all of a sudden.

Turmoil does that to someone, he guesses.

“My heart hurts so bad and I don’t know how I’ll fix it.”

The energy in the room spikes again. The tension you can feel radiating off of him like an unbearable heat makes your eyes water. Crying was something you did often but not something you enjoyed. You’re in for some long, painstakingly miserable months, you think.

“Mine does too but we’ll do what we always do, right?” You shift in his lap and curl into him more. You know he’s right, but it doesn’t mean that what he’s saying is what you wanted to hear. “We’ll figure it out.”

“I - I don’t think I kn-know how to d-do that anymore.”

He moves his chin from the top of your head to actually look at you. He had been avoiding it for the fear that he would be too cowardly and would retreat back to keeping you in this miserable, hopeless search for a marriage that he was never planning on partaking in. He can’t go back. He can’t undo what he had just done. Even if he were to announce that he wanted you to stay, it being brought up in the first place will forever have torn an irreparable hole in the fabric of your relationship.

Bradley’s hands cup your face and he smacks his lips on your forehead. He thumbs away the tears that had been endlessly streaming all night. He rubs soft circles back and forth on your cheekbones. The pressure you get in your cheeks from crying always gives you a massive headache, he knows.

The fact that someone else will know that about you sends him into a spiral of guilt. A spiral of weakness. A spiral of wanting to undo what he had just done.

But he doesn’t.

Do the right thing. Do the right thing. Do the right thing.

And so he does.

“Bullshit, baby. You’re the smartest woman I know. You’ll figure it out.” Truthful words, but not truthful feelings. He’s never been good at deciphering those.

“Bradley?”

“Yes, baby?”

The words get stuck in your throat. You never want to make him feel bad because you know how hard he is on himself. You’re not sure if saying what you want to say is even worth it but - from the way he’s holding your face, from the way you’ve gotten to know and love him, from the way that he will always be your sweet, sweet Bradley - you determine that he needs to hear it.

“You’re the kindest man that I know even though you stomped on my heart.”

He sends you a soft smile and delivers a soft kiss to your lips; the first one of the night despite being so close to him all evening.

“I learned how to be because of you.”

You don’t know how long you both stay like that - wrapped up in each other with waves of tears coming and going as they please. The soft whimpers leave your mouth and the sniffled breaths that leave his paint each corner of the bedroom with an ending.

One where you don’t get the ring and the house and the babies. One where he doesn’t get the girl and the family and the happily ever after. One where you both don’t have a soulmate anymore.

He knows that he shouldn’t say it. He knows that it’s probably the last thing you want to hear. He knows that he’s not ready for you to leave and he says it hoping that maybe, he can take back what had happened; that maybe you can steer the conversation in talks of staying together and compromising and “working it out.”

“I love you. I’ll always love you.”

You look up at him brokenly. His heart stops beating when you open your mouth to speak.

“But you’ll never love me enough to try.”

Bradley closes his mouth and exhales deeply through his nose. The point you made is compelling and it stings to know that it’s completely truthful. He sits with you on his lap, subtly rocking you back and forth until the sky turns from the midnight blue of nightfall to the yellow-tinted wisteria of sunrise.

Women always know. And he would be foolish to pretend like your gut feeling was wrong.

He loves me. He loves me not.

None of it matters if he doesn’t love you enough to be what you need.

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gennyanydots · 1 year

Text

I Wanna Feel Good Tonight

Sequel to “I’m just now feelin feisty”

Masterlist

18+

Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin x reader x Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw

Warnings: Explicit. 18+ only. Female reader. MMF threesome. Polyamorous relationship. Daddy kink. Mommy kink. Fingering. D/s themes. Actual Switch/sub this time!Rooster. Daddy dom!Jake. Actual switch/mommy!reader. Color system. Fingering. Oral(male and female receiving). Cum eating. Pegging. PWP.

You practically skip into the store Jake and Bradley stopped at. This was the third shop you’d been in and it wouldn’t be the last, the novelty of going into a sex shop wore off quickly for the boys. The first shop you stopped in they were like kids in a candy store running from item to item and calling the other over to look at whatever they found next. You told Jake you didn’t like any of the straps ons from any of the other stores so far but that was kinda slightly a lie. You didn’t really care which one you had but if Jake and Bradley wanted to be mean to you the other day when you got in trouble for their poor time management skills then they can drive you all over to find the exact strap on you want.

You already knew which one you wanted, not that it terribly mattered much to you. You knew before you had even gotten into the car. You knew which shop it was, too. Were you going to tell them? Oh no. Making them drive all over was way too funny for you. You’d stopped at the shop yesterday and picked it out while they were still at work. Both Bradley and Jake sighed each time you looked over the selection at each shop and deemed the options unsuitable for what you wanted. They couldn’t say anything. Couldn’t whine or complain. Just followed you back into the car to drive to the next store, grumbling under their breaths the whole way.

You had gotten into the car this morning with a whole list of every shop you could find in the general area near your house. It was at least 7 shops long. The last shop on your list was the one with the strap you already had decided you wanted. You just hoped none of the other ones had the same one so they didn’t catch onto your game because you were going to every shop on that list no matter what. They wasted your time the other day and then punished you for getting bored so you can waste their time today. Happily.

Thankfully none of the shops ended up having it and so finally when Jake and Bradley took you into the last store you finally got to point out which one you wanted. It was black patent leather with rhinestones and came with an opaque ish clear dildo. Whatever the girliest option was, you wanted it. You were surrounded at home by all their “manly pilot shit” that they leave everywhere so you wanted something girly for you. You were a princess after all. If only the dildo was pink and had sparkles. Maybe the next one. You’re sure you can find something with sparkles online. The girliness for you and not meant to emasculate them at all. Both Jake and Bradley were comfortable enough in their manlihood to not be bothered by colors or sparkles, sometimes both of them rocked sparkly pedicures when you got bored at home. You’ve been told they are the envy of the locker room at work.

You stood in line with your boys, holding hands with Bradley while Jake carried your new toy. The worker raised their eyebrow at the three of you when you got to the front of the short line, which you thought was weird, you’re sure they see all sorts of people, couples, groups, etc roll through their shop on a daily basis. Maybe the worker was just trying to figure your dynamic out. Nobody usually can. You kinda wanted to ask what they think it is. Sometimes the Dagger Squad likes to guess but none of you have ever told any of them how your dynamic actually works. They tend to guess wrong, assuming Jake is a bratty sub and Bradley doms Jake and then most often they guess that you domme them both. Assuming probably due to Bradley’s size and demeanor and the sass that oftentimes flows out of both your and Jake’s mouths and the way both of your boys follow after you all the time. Even the other day the whole squad asked Bradley and Jake if they were done pouting from the night before when you flirted with that guy because they were all sure you put them in their place and not the other way around at all.

When the worker handed Jake the bag, they told you all to have a nice day and, “Have fun!” which made Jake blush bright red and Bradley laugh. You grinned. Now you really wanted to ask what they thought. You’re sure whatever vibe you three give off isn’t correct which you really enjoy. In your relationship Bradley doesn’t have to be the stoic leader he tends to portray at work (or so you’ve heard) plus the show off-y/golden retriever-y personality that’s often seen at the hard deck. Instead Bradley just gets to follow Jake’s orders and gets to be taken care of and showered in as much love as he wants by both you and Jake, never having to try and impress either of you. Only sometimes does Bradley want to step up and take you on, usually as a way to get rid of excess energy or a way to work through things going on in his head which you’re happy to help with. Jake gets to have the control he craves and gets to dote on the both of you, handling everything like his type A personality wants. He is the end all be all of your relationship. The perfect daddy for you both. And you, well you don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to. You tend to take a more passive role. Most often the epitome of pillow princess if the sass doesn’t come out which it often does. Jake loves when it does though. Using the strap on would be your first venture into the more active role. You were excited, especially if you did in fact get to fuck Jake eventually. Bradley doesn’t even get to do that often and even then Jake is still domming from the bottom. You’re hoping to maybe change that. Get him out of his head potentially.

You could barely contain your excitement to get home. Just in the last store you had smacked Bradley’s ass a total of ten times before Jake told you that you needed to stop and shot you a look that said “If you don’t stop you’re going to regret it.” As you looked at the dildos you quietly asked Bradley questions like “Is this the one you want inside you?” and “Wouldn’t this one feel so nice?” Bradley may have remained mostly quiet in the store giving off a more stoney facade but Jake and you both noticed the slight glassiness to Bradley’s eyes by the time you all headed back home. You’re sure the worker thought he was holding your hand to keep you under control or something, when in reality you were holding Bradley’s to lead him where you wanted and to keep him close to you and Jake. He likes to be close to you and Jake when his mind goes a little fuzzy and you love being the person he wants to snuggle up to.

It didn’t take long for you all to return home. The last store you went to was the closest to your house, not even five minutes away. When Jake realized that he raised an eyebrow at you and you just smiled sweetly back at him then blew him a kiss while he shook his head at your shenanigans. You really thought he would have caught on quicker than that. Must be losing his touch.

When you all arrived home, you raced into the house with your bag while Jake and Bradley got out of the car and into the house at a normal speed, Bradley’s mind came back to himself on the car ride home.

By the time they made it into the house together, you had already slipped the strap on onto your body over your clothes. You giggled as you swung your hips side to side watching the dildo swing to and fro. Both Bradley and Jake started laughing when they walked in the house and saw what you were doing.

“How do you guys not do this all the time? This is so amusing,” You said as you continued swinging your hips.

Jake shrugged, “The amusement wore off after a while. I don’t know about Bradley but I stopped doing stuff like that when I was like 15.”

Bradley laughed, “What are you talking about? You literally yelled for me to come into the bathroom the other day because you were holding your towel up by your dick and you were so proud of yourself.”

“Someone needed to see!” Jake said gesturing to his crotch. “It was awesome!”

Bradley laughed again, shaking his head at Jake then walked over to you when you stopped moving your hips and batted at the dildo causing it to pull down then bounce back up.

“That’s a pretty impressive dick you got there, baby,” Bradley said with a grin as he wrapped a hand around it and wiggled it around.

You shrugged and tried to keep from laughing as he wiggled it, “I know. We all knew I would have an impressive dick. Mickey said that I just scream big dick energy.”

Jake laughed from behind Bradley, “Was that when he was asking you about fucking us?”

“Why are your friends so interested in our sex life?” You asked as you looked between the two of them, leaning slightly to look around Bradley to Jake. “And why do they always ask me? Why can’t they ask you two awkward questions.”

“Because it’s an abnormal relationship, not to us of course, but you don’t generally know of people being polyamorous so they’re naturally curious and there’s different types of poly relationships so even if they did know of one they might not have all been together like we are. Plus, they all try and get us to tell them about it all the time but we don’t say anything so they’re hoping to wear you down. You’re probably the most likely to spill the beans, babe,” Bradley said and then kissed the top of your head then nuzzled his face into your hair.

You huffed and stomped your foot, “Am not! Jake never shuts up! He’s most likely!”

Jake smirked as he walked over to the two of you and swatted your butt, “You wanna watch what you’re sayin there, princess? Or do you want to get in trouble again? Either way I’m happy to oblige.”

You scowled at Jake and raised your middle finger up at him, “Don’t be an ass. It’s not cute.”

“Wasn’t trying to be cute,” Jake grumbled and furrowed his brow.

Bradley stepped between the two of you and wrapped himself around you from behind, nuzzling his face into your neck, while he shuffled you farther into the house, “If we could not have fight that would be appreciated. I don’t want to explain to our coworkers how I had to kick Jake’s ass because you two started a fight.”

You grinned and squished your face against his and nuzzled cheek to cheek, “Aww, you would fight Jake for me?”

Bradley nodded and kissed your cheek, “Mama Carole would come back to haunt my ass if I let anything happen to you.”

You both could hear as Jake scoffed, “I would never try to punch our girl, Bradshaw. Nor hurt her in any way she didn’t want. You should both know that. Same goes for your ass, too.”

Bradley turned back to Jake and shrugged, “I don’t know that. You’re a wildcard, Seresin. Gotta defend my girl’s honor.”

“She’s my girl too!”

Bradley wrapped his arms back around you and lifted you up to throw you over his shoulder, “Not right now she’s not.”

You giggled despite a dildo being squished directly into your belly as he settled you on his shoulder and took off running with you up the stairs.

“Girlfriend stealer!” Jake yelled as you heard him hot on Bradley’s heels. You looked up and he was almost within touching distance quickly, as Bradley made it to the top of the stairs before he wrapped his arms around Bradley’s middle to slow him down and pulled Bradley back towards himself as he dug his heels down.

“Nooooooo! She’s mine!” Bradley yelled and held onto you tight as he was slowed down, dragging Jake a little before finally coming to a complete stop.

“Now I’ve got you both right where I want you!” Jake said then grinned as he walked around to Bradley’s front with his arms still wrapped around his middle and kissed him.

“In the hallway?” You asked cheekily then squeaked as you felt a hand come down onto your ass.

“Yes, you brat, in the hallway, that’s clearly what I meant,” Jake said and you just knew he rolled his eyes when he said it, not that you could see. The only view you currently had was the floor and Bradley’s back and butt, not that you’d ever complain about that. You were quite fond of that butt. Jake’s too.

You could hear Jake and Bradley once again kissing, so you reached down and pinched Bradley’s butt.

“Oww!” Bradley said and reached around to rub the spot you pinched. “Okay, she’s all yours. Not sure I want her anymore.” He leaned down slightly and slid you off his shoulder and onto your feet, in between himself and Jake.

“That’s not even true. You love me,” you said and pouted up at him.

Jake wrapped his arms around you and pulled you against him, “No, no. You’re all mine now. I get to love you exclusively.”

You watched as Bradley’s eyes got big and a pout formed on his lips, “No! I take it back. She’s mine too! We can share.”

“What if I don’t want to share?” Jake asked as he kissed the side of your head.

“Tough shit,” Bradley said as he stepped closer to the two of you and leaned down to kiss you.

You giggled against his lips, these childish fights were one of the reasons you loved these two so much. It was never boring in your house. Jake and Bradley apparently used to have a rivalry between the two of them, not that you were around for any of that, and had put it in the past but that didn’t mean they didn’t still poke fun at each other. Even when they started dating each other before you can along, they would playfully tease each other and keep the rivalry going playfully. It increased when they met you. You actually gave them something to compete over, not that you were a trophy or anything, they just thought it was funny to try and one up each other. They had been doing it since the start of the relationship.

You happily kissed him back as you wrapped your arms around his neck. He leaned down and ran his hands down your back, between you and Jake, and grabbed the inside of your thighs and hefted you up. You wrapped your legs around his middle while his hands rested on your butt. He took steps backwards until he pulled you all the way away from Jake and then pulled his face away from you and ran into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. He threw you on the bed, resulting in a scream from you, and jumped up onto it beside you and laid on his side with a hand holding his head up and a grin plastered on his face.

Jake came running in after you both, throwing the door open to find Bradley relaxing on the bed and you laughing as hard as you can.

“Nice of you to join us, Jake,” Bradley said as he grinned.

Jake rolled his eyes, “You think you’re slick?”

Bradley nodded, “I do and it was.”

Jake shrugged and walked towards the bed, “You’re right. That was actually impressive. I wasn’t expecting that.”

“If you knew what was happening that would have defeated the purpose, babe,” Bradley said and flopped onto his back and held his arms out towards Jake. Jake laughed and flopped down on top of Bradley which made Bradley make a soft “ooof” noise.

Bradley smiled and wrapped his arms around Jake, one hand finding it’s way into Jake’s hair where he started to lightly scratch. Jake moaned in happiness and buried his face in Bradley’s chest placing an arm along either side of Bradley.

You watched as the two of them loved on each other. For as much teasing that happens between the two of three of you, heck the three of you, there’s also an enormous amount of love as well. With the type of dynamic that works for the three of you in the bedroom, there has to be a huge amount of trust and you’ve all certainly attained that together and fallen deeply for each other in the process.

You smiled as Jake held out a hand to you, clearly not wanting you to be left out. You placed your hand in his and he started to pull at your hand until you scooted your body closer and closer until he could put his arm around you and pull you against Bradley and him.

“Much better,” Jake said into Bradley’s chest. Bradley chuckled and placed a hand in your hair as well, scratching at your scalp. You closed your eyes and sighed happily. There was nothing better in the world than this. Not a thing. It was perfect.

“The fuck is poking me?” Jake said as he lifted up slightly and looked down. “Oh shit, I totally forgot you had that on.” He poked at the dildo that was still in the harness sat on your hips.

“Oh yeah! I kinda forgot I had that on too,” you said and wiggled your hips.

Bradley took a deep breath, “S-stop that!”

Both you and Jake looked up to see Bradley’s eyes closed then looked at each other, a grin played on both of your lips.

“Aww, puppy, I can feel you getting all excited,” Jake said as he rolled his hips against Bradley’s body which caused a whimper to fall from Bradley’s lips.

Jake pushed himself up until he was straddling Bradley’s hips and looked down at the other man who blinked his eyes open to look up at Jake and groaned seeing him straddling him and placed his hands on Jake’s hips.

Jake rolled his hips once, grinding his hips on Bradley’s, then looked towards you, “Princess, were you gonna fuck puppy with your clothes on? Because if not why don’t you head into the bathroom and get ready.”

You nodded then rolled off the bed. You took one last look at your two boys, Jake had leaned down to start kissing Bradley while you got off the bed, he had linked their fingers together and put them beside Bradley’s head on either side. Jake pulled away from Bradley’s lips to wink at you and blow you a kiss before he leaned back down.

You giggled before heading into the bathroom. You looked down at yourself. Did you want to keep any of your clothes on? The three of you have watched pegging porn previously, to see if that was something you all would be into, and sometimes the women kept their clothes on but not always. You decided to keep your bra and underwear on but take your shirt and jeans off. You slipped the strap on back up over your hips and tightened into position. You looked at yourself in the mirror. It was weird seeing a dildo attached to yourself but amusing nonetheless.

You stepped back out into the bedroom and saw a naked Jake kneeling beside the bed behind a naked Bradley who was bent over the bed. Jake had three fingers sliding in and out of Bradley while Bradley moaned and whimpered.

Jake smiled when he noticed you come back into the room, “Hi princess.”

“Hi daddy,” you said as you walked over and stood next to Jake.

Jake smacked Bradley’s ass, “On the bed, puppy. Hands and knees.”

Bradley scrambled onto the bed and got into position. Jake climbed up on the bed after him and used one hand to press Bradley’s chest down onto the mattress then held out a hand to you.

You took his hand in yours and followed as he gently pulled you towards them, “I think this is going to be the easiest position for you.” He guided you behind Bradley and had you climb up onto the bed and kneel up behind him. “It’s okay if you get tired or want a break, okay?”

You nodded.

“I need words, princess,” Jake said as he slid a hand down Bradley’s back, who shuddered from the touch.

“Yes daddy. I understand,” you said.

Jake smiled and leaned forward to kiss you then helped you shimmy your body as close as can be behind Bradley, “Color puppy?”

Bradley turned his face to the side, “Green.”

“Color, princess?” Jake then asked you.

“Green. Color, daddy?” You asked Jake looking at him.

“Green. Go ahead, princess, make puppy feel good,” Jake said as he helped you line up with Bradley’s hole.

Bradley’s eyes widen as you push in and you hear something mumbled into the sheets that he bunched up near his face.

Jake reached over and pulled Bradley’s head up by his hair, “What was that, puppy?”

Bradley shook his head and whined.

Jake nodded towards you, “Princess, can you pull back out and push in again? I want to hear what puppy has to say.”

You nodded and followed Jake’s instructions.

Bradley bit his lip to once again try and hold in the noise.

Jake softly pulled his lip from between his teeth, “Puppy, you know better. Stop that.”

Bradley took a deep breath, “K.”

You once again pulled out and pushed back in and you all hear exactly what Bradley had been trying to hide, “Mommy!”

Jake grinned at you, “Well isn’t this a fun development? Finding out all sorts of new things about puppy.”

Bradley whined and you ran a soothing hand over his back.

“Is daddy being mean to you, baby boy? What a mean daddy. It’s okay, who’s gonna take care of you, baby?” You asked.

“Mommy,” Bradley gasped out quickly, breathing heavily.

You smiled. Yeah, you like this.

“Good boy,” you murmured to Bradley before you pulled your hips back slightly and pushed them back in causing a sharp inhale from Bradley.

You looked up and met Jake’s eyes to wink at him before he shifted his gaze back to where you were entering Bradley.

Bradley whined and pushed his body back towards yours, “Mommy…. Please…. Mommy!”

“What do you need, puppy?” You asked as you continued your soft hip movements.

“Need more, please,” Bradley whimpered out. “Please mommy!”

You ran both hands up his thighs teasingly before gripping onto his hips to help you push and pull easier, “What a polite boy.”

Jake laughed, “Of course he’s being all good for you, you’re the one fucking him.”

You shrugged as best as you could while still gripping Bradley’s hips to keep a steady pace, “He’s always a good boy. You pouting, daddy?”

“Maybe a little.”

You giggled, “Did I take your favorite toy away?”

“No, my two favorite toys are busy with each other,” he said as he ran a hand along Bradley’s back and rested it on the back of his neck which caused Bradley to look up at Jake.

“I’m sure puppy would be more than happy to include you. It’d give him something to do with his mouth,” you said as you looked down at Bradley who was practically drooling on the sheets. He started nodding once he realized what you had said to Jake and made grabby hand motions towards him and whined.

Jake crawled up towards the head of the bed and placed himself in front of Bradley, “You need something in your mouth, puppy?” Bradley enthusiastically nodded at that as he watched Jake come closer to him. You slowed your thrusts down as the two situated themselves. Bradley lifted up onto his hands as Jake scooted himself partially under Bradley. Bradley looked up to meet Jake’s eyes, waiting for the go ahead, with his mouth falling open and tongue hanging out in anticipation. Jake nodded and Bradley quickly dropped down onto his elbows to partially take Jake’s dick into his mouth, after letting some spit run down the length Bradley tightly grabbed what wasn’t in his mouth causing Jake to moan as he threw his head back. You could see his thighs twitch as he stopped himself from thrusting forward into Bradley’s warm, wet mouth.

You continued with your shallow thrusts until you could tell Bradley had started to get impatient. He started to push back towards you as he pulled his head up almost off Jake to tongue at his sensitive head which caused Jake to slip both hands into Bradley’s curls as he swore. You knew from first hand experience just how great Bradley’s mouth could feel and by the looks of it Jake was thoroughly enjoying himself. Bradley wiggled his ass at you before leaning forward to take Jake fully into his mouth.

You chuckled then thrusted into Bradley a few more times, harder, to check that Bradley wasn’t going to choke or anything on Jake’s dick. That wasn’t what you wanted. At least not right now. You vaguely heard Bradley moan from around Jake which must have felt good since when you looked up at Jake, you saw him shudder.

“Puppy feel good, daddy?” You asked as you kept up with your new pace, starting to vary the direction you were thrusting from.

Jake nodded as he gripped Bradley’s hair.

You giggled and ran your nails softly along Bradley’s spine causing him to shiver.

You continued thrusting with very slight variations to the angle until you heard Bradley gasp and watched Jake’s entire body go rigid.

“Do…. Do that again, princess,” Jake panted out, barely opening his eyes to look at you.

“Okay, daddy,” you said as you made sure to make the dildo hit the same spot inside Bradley, you noticed as you did that Bradley was digging his blunt nails into Jake’s legs which probably matched what Jake’s nails were doing to Bradley’s scalp.

You thrusted a few more times before Jake’s entire body tensed and he shallowly thrusted into Bradley’s mouth four times while he grunted a few times before relaxing with a sigh.

After he took a few breaths he pulled Bradley’s head off him, which resulted in a whimper coming from Bradley as he tried to stay sucking on Jake. “No, all done, puppy. Lift up,” Jake said and Bradley sighed before he licked Jake clean twice more before he was pulled off harder and Bradley finally fully relented with a pout. Jake scooted himself down farther until he was face to face with Bradley so he could kiss him, tasting himself on Bradley’s tongue. Jake ran both hands down Bradley’s back until he met one of your hands on Bradley’s hip and wrapped the other around Bradley’s dick. Bradley pulled his mouth away from Jake and buried his face as well as he could when Jake started to stroke Bradley in time with your thrusts hitting his prostate.

Bradley started to pant before he came with a shout, making his and Jake’s stomachs a mess. You continued thrusting into Bradley until he slumped forward onto Jake’s chest. Jake wrapped his arms around Bradley quickly and placed a kiss to his temple. You pulled out of Bradley slowly, still making the exhausted man whine as you did so but he was quickly shushed by Jake who snuggled him impossibly closer.

You got up and shimmied out of the harness before you headed into the kitchen to grab a snack and some waters then hurried back. You handed Jake a water which he took then shimmied himself and Bradley up a little so he could help Bradley take a few sips. You climbed up onto the bed and opened the banana to break it into smaller bite sized pieces which you held out in front of Bradley’s mouth which he took slowly, each time being showered in praise by both you and Jake.

After his drink and his snack, Bradley was quick to fall asleep wrapped between both Jake and you. You ran your fingers through his hair while Jake held him firmly against his chest.

“Did you have fun, darlin?” Jake asked as he looked over at you.

You nodded, “Yep! I think it was a very successful first time.”

Jake chuckled, “Agreed. Do you need anything? Are you all good?”

You nodded again, “I’m all good. This wasn’t about me.”

“But that doesn’t mean you need to ignore your needs,” Jake said with a pointed look.

You shook your head, “I promise I’m all good and I do not need anything but a nap.”

Jake sighed and reached up to brush some hair out of your face, “I’m getting you off when we wake up.”

“Deal,” you said with a giggle.

“Love you, baby,” Jake said as he blew you a kiss.

“Love you, Jakey. And Brad Brad. So much,” you said back.

Bradley mumbled something in his sleep that may have been “love you” but you’re not sure. You snuggled up to Bradley’s back and kissed his shoulder before both you and Jake finally followed Bradley into dreamland.

You woke up a few hours later to both boys laying on your legs as they “quietly” (or so they thought) fought over who would get to wake you up with their tongue, both got annoyed at the other for being so loud but thankfully you knew exactly how to quiet them both resulting in two orgasms for you.

#Bradley rooster bradshaw x f!reader x jake hangman Seresin #jake seresin x reader #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw x jake hangman seresin #sereshaw x female reader #hangster x reader

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srbachchan · 1 year

Text

DAY 5588

Jalsa, Mumbai June 5/6, 2023 Mon/Tue 12:24 PM

🪔 .. June 06 .. birthday affection to Ef Serena Krishnan from Dubai .. Ef Sachin Kelkar from Muscat .. and Ef Marie .. happiness and good wishes ..

💍.. and to Ef Vijji .. who's having her 36th wedding anniversary on June 6 .. our prayers of love and togetherness ever .. 🌸💕

🪔 .. and .. June 05 .. was the birthday of Ef Joshua David from Glasgow - UK .. and we missed it 😔 .. our apologies 🙏🏻 .. and our wishes to you ever filled with love and affection ..

.. the more digging in the Calendar .. the more discovery of birthdays of Ef missed from the database .. and this is regretted 😔 .. but there are serious attempts and hard work going on to retrieve all missed dates and make it up for the Ef ..

Love ❤️

Birthday - EF - Serena Krishnan .. Tuesday, 6 June ... and our wishes as ever for this day of birth .. love ❤️

Science and technology have taken over the World and the dependence that we had on other factors is gradually moving further away .. how far, we are not knowing .. for at the end of the line there appears another and another and another .. unexplainable and unknown ..

So we relentlessly pursue ..

... and find that the end of the line is as blank as an empty screen and a once occupied room ..

Be that as it may, the love of those that bring wonder and cheer and the joy of existence persist at every Sunday GOJ ..

poor kids .. they shall never know why they were subjected to this torture .. !!!

.. i felt they wait for hours in this sweltering heat , so to provide them drinking water with lime to quench their thirst .. 4 containers ,2 on either side of the gate .. over and above the ‘matka’ that is permanently there during the day and night

.. some sarcastically commented on a few occasions .. “ who goes out wearing socks and bare feet “ .. I say ..’I DO” ! .. you got a problem with that !!??

“You go to the temple bare feet .. my well wishers are my temple !!”

some happy ..

some not so happy ..

.. and some distant ..

the innovative Indian .. finding an opportunity and moving in to gather the fruits of it .. or the ‘kulfi’ ... 🤣

Comfort be the elements of use in these times of uncared for attitudes , breaking away from any tradition that could have been imposed ..

Shoes ..

The comfort of the ‘sneakers’ or whatever else they may be called .. the nikes, the other brands , all .. now the formal wear irrespective ..

that black patent leather, that polished bright , whatever , has disappeared .. the white bordered comfort wear be the IT .. !

at the Roland Garros the interviewer at the end of a game does a live chat on the court with the winner .. jacket pants shirt all formal .. shoes .. sneakers ..

LOVELY ..

this French tournament .. French , which has epitomised trend and fashion through ages , submits itself to the latest comfort ..

I do remember a Roland Garros tournament where at the end of a game the Management asked the great French Tennis Champion, the first black French Champion to win a Grand Slam, YANNIK NOAH to come down and make a presentation to the winner .. and he came down in jacket tie and all other formals .. but in jeans .. !!

And the crowd and the commentators murmured in a gasp at this .. !!!

I was so impressed by Noah to have not cared for the formal tradition and resort to the comfort of wear .. 🤣 ..

And now the entire World is comforted by jeans and sneakers .. and the ladies with the same attire - even tights - for ease of movement at work ..

Oh ! this is a lovely World .. !!!

COVER THY MODESTY .. WITH PRIDE .. NOTHING ELSE MATTERS ..

Love ❤️

Amitabh Bachchan

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isuckatwritingsobenice · 1 year

Text

Where do I begin ?

Songfic!

Alastor x Fem! Reader

Nav !

Note : For context, Alastor & the reader are the same age. Both born 1900. The last two digits of the year is basically their age.

Warnings: Mentions of Racism, Pinning ( mutual ), swearing, 1920’s - 1930’s, Warning: sexual assault, mentions of killing, cannibalism

tags: @littlebatsimagines

Song by : Shirley Bassey

━═━═━═━═━═━═━═━═━ ( scene changes )

Where do I begin

To tell the story of how great a love can be?

The sweet love story that is older than the sea

The simple truth about the love he brings to me

Where do I start?

1913 : 8th Grade Lunch Date

“ He definitely likes you Y/n.” My friend says as we sit at the table eating our lunch. On one side of the field, are tables for the white kids. On the other side, are little spots of cement where the colored kids sit. In the middle, is a lot of grass, where there’s a large tree in the middle. Under said tree, is Alastor, the schools outcast, but one of the smartest kids out there. Alastor stuck out like a sore thumb, poor thing was never dark enough to sit with the colored kids, but the white kids never wanted anything to do with him because he was mixed.

White father, black mother. It was the talk of the town when his momma was pregnant. When he was born, it was all anyone would do. As time went on, he joined the local school, and studied hard. He didn’t have many friends, and everyone always stood away from him. Regardless, he always wore that lovely smile that his teachers praised him for. He was a good kid, just not with the right crowd.

“ I don’t know. He doesn’t seem like he does.” I said, before my friend rolled her eyes, taking her lunch out of her bag.

“ Well even if he doesn’t, best not talk to ‘em again. Y’know your daddy will have you at it if he finds out you been talking to a colored boy.” My friend says, giving me that ‘ don’t do nothing stupid’ look. At that , I stare over at him, watching him eating his lunch. Around him is a small blanket, napkins and forks and knives being used ad he eats his lunch, and I smile to myself as he enjoys his meal.

“ I know I know. I’ll be fine, and he will too. We just don’t need to talk to each other.” I said, taking a bite of my sandwich.

“ Or you could give that fella a chance.” She said, before nodding her head over to one of the nearby tables.

Tommy, or also known as Thomas Vanguard. One of the richest white kids, despite our economy going down in flames.

“ Uh, I don’t really know.” I said, before she laughed.

“ Well too late, he’s already comin’ over.” She said, before my eyes widened. As I turned, I saw Tommy walking over. Oh please no. I was about to get up and walk away when I felt someone sit across from me on the bench. My friend and I turned in our seats to see who was there, it surely wasn’t Tommy.

Silence. The entire courtyard went silent.

Alastor was sitting at my table. Where all the white kids sat. Where colored kids couldn’t sit.

Until now.

“ AHH! Alastor sat at my table!” My lunch mate yelled, grabbing her lunch and running from our table. All the other kids gave the same reaction, running away to our fancy school building. I sat still, staring at him as everyone else ran away.

“ Hello.” I say, extending my hand out to shake. His eyes brightened, before he shook my hand eagerly. “ Momma says not to let people sit alone. “ I say, as I pick up my sandwich to continue eating.

“ Your momma sounds nice.” Alastor says, fixing his glasses. His skin is a caramel color, his brown hair swooped neatly to the sides and out of his face. His cheeks give a light blush, likely from the Louisiana heat.

“ I like to think she is. She can be mean sometimes though.” I say, chewing my food. Alastor smiles, before he continues his food as well. The lunch period goes smoothly from there out.

Even though the day after all the kids stood away from me because I was ‘dirty.’

Like a summer rain

That cools the pavement with a patent leather shine

He came into my life and made the living fine

And gave a meaning to this empty world of mine

He fills my heart

1915 : Highschool Newspaper

News: Black boys 12 and 13 lynched and hung at local park.

It’s all anyone’s talking about. Mainly because their brother’s been raging to the police since the whole thing happened. My best friend Mandy told me. Of course she would know, she’s his girlfriend. But no one knows.

It technically isn’t even allowed. A white girl with a black boy? It’s completely unheard of. But Mandy keeps it strictly secret. They’re never caught with one another, and even add extra arguments in public here and there to add some belief.

But I know it isn’t true. I also know that Alastor is gonna write an entire report down on it, and talk to me like if he’s one of those big fancy radio hosts I heart Tommy talk about during lunch.

“ My Daddy got my momma this cool radio, and it has this guy talking in it. It’s so cool, he sounds like a yankee.” Is usually what Tommy always says, and then he tells everyone what the radio guy says about the North.

━═━═━═━═━═━═━═━═━━═━═━═━═━═━═━═━═━

“ Oh M’ so sorry miss.” I hear, as I bump into someone. I stumble back and blink, pulling myself out of my daze.

“ Oh no no it’s alright. I wasn’t really paying all that attention.” I say, bending down to grab my fallen books. The boy in front of me does the same, to help me.

“ Y/n?” I hear a few feet away from me. I turn my head to find my teacher.

“ Are my cheaters cheatin me or am I seeing a colored boy with one of my students?” She asked, clearly confused. I felt my blood race, before my books were shoved into my hands.

“ I was just going to the principals office miss. Please don’t mind me.” The boy said, before my teacher rolled her eyes at him.

“ If you people would’ve been raised better maybe I wouldn’t have a problem with you.” She said before pulling a cigarette out from her pocket and lighting it. The boy lowered his head before quickly squeezing between the two of us to get by.

“ M’ sorry Misses, really was my mistake.” He said quietly as he left. When he was gone, she blew out the smoke from her cigarette.

“ Now you listen to me girl, and you listen good.” She said, pointing at me. “ Stay away from those colored folk. You never gonna be on their level so don’t try to be. Now get to class.” She said.

Oh how my blood boiled.

He fills my heart with very special things

With angel's songs, with wild imaginings

He fills my soul with so much love

That anywhere I go, I'm never lonely

With him along who could be lonely?

I reach for his hand, it's always there

1917 : High school Dance

I don’t know if this is good enough. More importantly, I don’t know how I’m gonna be able to get into the dance without my parents finding out. Would they even let me into a colored folk dance? I don’t see why not.

“ Y/n are you ready to go?” Mandy asks me from my window. She’s hanging on for dear life while I scramble to find the lipstick I need. The lipstick he likes the most.

“ Yeah just a minute.” I said, going through my vanity as quietly as possible.

“ Aw, trynna get all dolled up for Al~?” She asked, wiggling her brows. I rolled my eyes and almost jumped out of my skin when I found the lipstick I needed.

“ Okay, let’s go.” I said, before she grinned. Off we were to the dance.

“ We made it!” Mandy said as she hugged her boyfriend, who despite having a rough year, was happy to be with her.

“ Thanks for comin’. Sure they won’t have a problem?” He asked Mandy, before she shook her head.

“ No they won’t. Right Y/n?” She asked, before I shrugged, looking around the courtyard for Alastor. The party for the colored kids had been in a more quiet side of town. But that didnt mean it was easy to find someone.

“ des fleurs pour la fille?” I heard, as flowers were placed in front of me. Red roses. Wrapped in a tight red ribbon, with white fabric holding it together.

“ I didn’t know you knew french.” I said, as my eyes widened, gently taking the flowers from his grasp. I was greeted with a kiss to my temple, and his hand resting on my lower back.

“ Of course. It’s in my mothers nature after all. I hope you do enjoy tonight.” Alastor said, before offering me his arm. I took hold of it and we began to walk to the party.

“ I love the flowers by the way, they’re beautifully wrapped.” I said, before he smiled.

“ Perfect. Saved up just enough." Alastor said with a wink.

" How much was it?" I asked, before Alastor laughed, pushing the door open to the run down barn, which was where the dance would be held.

" Oh don't worry about that dear, we're here to have fun not to worry about expenses." He said, before handing our tickets to a teacher, who eyed the both of us curiously.

" Honey you sure you in the right dance?" The woman asked, taking our tickets. I nodded with a smile, before Alastor led me to the dance floor.

It's two in the morning, and the street lights are dim. All the lights on the street are out, everyone's sleeping. The flowers are still in my hand, shoes in my other as Alastor and I walk down the street to my home, the dance ending after hours of fun.

" Did you enjoy yourself?" Alastor asks, before I nod, smiling wide.

" I've never had that much fun in my life. Thank you for letting me go." I say with a smile as we approach my front steps. I walk up the first few, as Alastor stands on the pavement. I turn, waiting for him to follow.

" Can I...?" He asks, gesturing to the steps. I nod, as he steps up to walk with me to my front door.

" I hate that things are like this." I say as we stop at my front door. Alastor smiles, a sad smile, as he fixes my hair.

" Things will get better. Promise." He said, before bending down to kiss my forehead. " I'll get a real fancy job, we'll get a nice house with a pretty little yard, and we can dance as much as you want." He said, smiling. I knew that smile, that smile that he gave when talking as if he was on the radio, or when he was talking about something good that had happened with his mother at work.

" You sure?" I ask, before he nods.

" Of course. We'll get away from here, far away. New Orleans, just us." He says, before he pulls me in for a hug. " Don't ever doubt it." Alastor says, before I hug him back, ignoring the teardrops that fall on my shoulder.

How long does it last? Can love be measured by the hours in a day? I have no answers now, but this much I can say I'm going to need him 'til the stars all burn away And he'll be there

1919: The first bite

Twelve stations. Twelve stations that said no to him. All giving the same answer.

" You think people gonna wanna hear a colored boy on the radio? You best be trynna trick me if you think for a second you comin' in here." Was what they would say, and every time Alastor would come home with that smile on his face, despite the break in his heart.

" Any luck?" I ask, as his mother sets his food on the table, which I hand him his glass of wine.

" No, not today." He says, before he cuts a piece of his steak. His mother and I share a look, pity of course, but she's also hurt.

" Baby those people don't know who they just said no too. You're a man full of talent." His mother says, reaching over to fix his hair. " Now you just keep trying, someone outta give you something." She said, before he just nodded, his smile faltering for a moment before he sighed.

" Thank you for the food.” He said, as he took his napkin and put it around his neck, tucking it into his shirt.

“ Of course honey.” His mother said, before she stood up. “ Oh I almost forgot.” She said, before walking out of the kitchen. I began to eat the food she made, while Alastor stared at the door in confusion.

“ How was work today dear?” Alastor asks, his usually smile appearing again. I smiled to him and took a sip of the wine.

“ It was alright, some people weren’t exactly happy with their food choices.” I said, as Alastor nodded.

“ I found it!” Alastor’s mother says as she comes back into the dining room. She smiles as she sets down a small box in front of Alastor.

“ You might wanna open it.” She said to Alastor, who stared at the box with a confused smile. He lifted the lid to the small box, before his eyes widened.

“ What’s this?” He asked, before she smiled and took her seat.

“ It was your grandmothers. I found it this morning.” She said, before he smiled. Alastor looked up at me, before turning the box to face me. Inside was a ring, a gold ring with a ruby in the middle, surrounded by little diamonds.

“ She took it from a family she was working for. Her contract was up but they hadn’t given her half of what they promised. So she took that as compensation. She really meant to sell it but she liked it so much she kept it.” His mother explained, before Alastor turned the box so he could look at it again. “ Well? What do you think?” His mother asks, before he turns to look at her. The two exchange a look I can’t quite place, but he shuts the box and puts it in his mothers hand.

“ It’s beautiful.” He said, before smiling to her, and then looking at me with a smile.

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“ Y/n, someone’s here to see you.” Mandy called to me, before I took my apron off. Working at the towns diner was not an easy job. But I was finally on my break.

“ Comin’” I said, before I pushed the door that led from the kitchen to the restaurant, walking around tables and people. “ Someone needed me?” I asked, as I approached the front desk, before Mandy pointed to the door. I turned around to see Alastor, standing there with a bouquet of flowers.

“ Oh, Alastor these are beautiful.” I say, walking over to him as he smiled. When I do reach him, he bends down to give me a kiss, before handing me the flowers. There are all sorts of flowers in the bouqet, some Asters, Carnations, Roses of course, Camellia’s, a few Calla Lily’s.

“ I'm taking you out for lunch.” He said, tapping the edge of my nose. Quickly, he helped me put my jacket on, and off we were to have a lovely lunch together, where I later found out, he had finally gotten a shot to have his own radio studio.

1922: Consequences

It all happened so fast. There was nothing I could do to stop him, to stop it from happening. One moment I had been in the bathroom at work and the next I'm on the floor in tears trying to get Tommy off me. Yet nothing worked.

" Mandy I don't feel so good. I'm going home." I say, grabbing as Tommy grins at me from his table with his friends. Mandy looks at me concerned before she just nods silently.

" Feel better Y/n." Mandy says, but it's too late. I'm already pushing the glass doors and out I am onto the sidewalk of the busy street walking myself home as quickly as possible. My legs are shaky, and I can barely breathe as I open my front door, and shut it behind me. I couldn't stop thinking about it, about what he'd done to me. I kick my heels off, sobbing as I throw my jacket to the ground, letting my hair down and making my way towards my bedroom.

How dare he? How dare he do this to me? Why couldn't I stop him? Why didn't I do something? Why didn't I say something? I should've fought back harder, done something, been stronger. I turn and shut the door to my bedroom, before finding a corner near my window to curl up in, hugging my knees to my chest as I feel myself collapse on the ground, the only thing I can think of being Tommy's words.

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( Events before leaving )

" If you were with me, you wouldn't need to work in this shitty diner." Tommy said, before I hear a click. I look up, staring at Tommy in the mirror.

" I actually like working here thank you very much." I say, before I move to dry my hands with a towel from my apron. Quickly, his hand grabs my shoulder to turn me around, before his hand is cupping the bottom of my chin, squeezing the sides of my face. He's angry.

" Don't give me an attitude bitch. Word's been flying 'round you been with that mixed guy. How's he treatin' ya' huh? Bet he beats you,-" Tommy said, before shoving my face to the side so hard I fall to the ground, putting my hands out to support me. No lunch, my wrist breaks. I cry out in pain, before Tommy grabs my hair to pull be up just enough to see my face.

" What? Not used to it? Those colored folk's aint got nothing better to do than beat their women. You ain't nothing special." He said, before he slapped me. I pushed myself up with my other arm, trying to hit him back, before his knee came in contact with my stomach, airing me out. " Now you just sit there and look pretty while I show you how a real man feels. Maybe then you'll get your senses straight, 'stead of bein' dirty." And then it happened. Bottoms torn off my legs, no matter how hard I kicked or tried to hit him, nothing. I couldn't do a damn thing. All while he had his way with me. Stupid son of a bitch.

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( author's POV )

Alastor opens the front door, sighing as he takes a step into his home, finally done with the day he had at work. It only when he steps on Y/n's jacket, that he realizes something is wrong. He takes a moment to stop, staying quiet. He hears something, and when he finally realizes what it is.

He. Is. Livid.

Alastor sets his belongings down on a nearby table, before he makes his way upstairs, as calm as he can possibly be. The closer he gets, the louder Y/n's sobs are.

" Darling? Are you alright?" Alastor asks, approaching their bedroom door. No response. But the sobs don't stop. He frowns, his body beginning to shake, his nerves getting the best of him. " I'm going to open the door." Alastor says, waiting a moment for a response, before he turns the handle to the door. He looks around for a moment, before he spots her sitting near the window, on the floor in the corner. She's holding the curtain in her hand, her face stuffed into it as she sobs. Alastor begins slow, walking towards her, studying her frame. It's only when he notices the harsh color of her wrist that alarms begin to go off in his mind. He kneels down, now in front of Y/n, before he speaks again.

" Y/n?" He asks. No response, just sobs. " Dear what happened?" He asks. At that, Y/n lifts her head to stare at him. It's then Alastor realizes that whatever did happen, was very serious. Alastor doesn't speak as his hands reach for Y/n's arms, slowly pulling her as he stands, before he brings her in for a hug. " Whenever your ready, I'm here to listen." Alastor said, before he felt Y/n's hand hold onto his side.

" It was e-earlier." Y/n said between breaths, obviously struggling to speak. Alastor pulled back and stared down at her, before he saw how red her neck was. Not just red though, there were hickie's. All over her neck, and a large hand print in the middle. Like if she was being choked. The sides of her face were bruised, harsh black and blues appearing on her skin. As Alastor continued to take her state in, he saw bruises on her arms as well.

" Who did this to you?" He asked, stern. She stared, unsure of what to say. There was this look on his face she couldn't describe. His aura grew darker the longer she took to answer, as Alastor began to trace over the marks on her skin with his fingertips lightly. It had taken her a second to register what he was doing.

He was securing it. Like reassuring himself they were real, that this, what was happening, was real.

" Y/n, Dear, who did this to you?" He asked again, losing his patience. His mind was running through all sorts of things, his mind focused on the amount of rage he felt.

" ... Tommy."

That was it. Y/n stood, unsure of what to do as she watched Alastor frame shake, like a shiver. As if he was cold. He wasn't. His skin was burning hot, and as he pulled Y/n into a hug she could feel the anger seeping off of him as she cried into his chest.

" Alastor I'm so so so sorry. I tried to stop him, I really did." She said, before she pulled away from him as Alastor looked down at her, shaking his head.

" Don't be sorry. This isn't your fault. He is disgusting, and you are beautiful. He wanted to ruin you, and you didn't let him." Alastor said, wiping away the tears that continued to fall from her eyes. " How did this happen?" He asks, his tone softer now as he pulled Y/n to sit on the bed as he walked towards their bathroom. Her wrist was swollen, Alastor had pretty much guessed it was either sprained or broken. Either way, Tommy was definitely going to be his next victim.

" Your arm dear." Alastor said, as he sat back down next to Y/n, an ice pack in one hand while wrapping her wrist with the other. " Now, tell me how it started." Alastor said, before Y/n took a deep breath before she began explaining.

" I had went to the restroom at work, some customer had spilled water on me, it was an accident though. I was washing my hands, and when I looked up in the mirror I saw Tommy there. He locked the door to the bathroom and started talking. He said something about me being with him and if I was I wouldn't have to work in that diner." Y/n said, before Alastor let out a 'mhm', signaling her to continue.

" I told him I actually liked working there, and he grabbed my face and told me not to disrespect him. He called me a bitch." Y/n said, before Alastor looked at her, stopping his motions.

".. continue." He said, before moving to press the ice pack to her wrist.

" T-then, he said that word had been goin' 'round that I was with a, as he put it, 'mixed guy', and then asked how that was going for me. Then he said he bets you beat me, and then he pushed me to the floor. That's how I hurt my wrist." She explained, before Alastor nodded at her to continue, moving to check for any cuts he might need to treat on her. " After he did that he was all like, 'What? Not used to it?' and then he said colored folks don't have anything better to do than beat their women. Then he said I wasn't anything special, and he told me to sit there and just look pretty while he showed me what a feels like. He said maybe then I would get my senses straight and stop being dirty..." Y/n said, leaving out the portion of him airing her out, to not get Alastor upset.

Alastor was silent for a moment. His mind mulling over the information he had just been given. Y/n had assumed he'd been calm enough to receive the extra information.

" While I was on the ground, he also hit me, with his knee... in my stomach..." Y/n said, nervous of Alastor's reaction. He didn't say much. He was quiet.

" I'll have a talk with him tomorrow. Take the rest of this week off, I want you here, and if you go out I want you with someone so you aren't alone. You need medical help right now, I'll talk to my mother since she isn't far." Alastor said, as he stood up, quickly putting things away.

" W-wait, can't we talk about this first? I don't want him to get in trouble he might try to hurt you-"

" Y/n, I don't give a damn about what he wants to do to me! It's the fact he's gotten to you, he's hurt you, and I wasn't there to stop him. No one was!" Alastor said, stopping in front of the bed. He was upset, so much so that a tear fell from his eye, before he wiped it away. Y/n stood from the bed, but never moved to Alastor.

" I can heal from this, we can move on. I just don't want this to be a big thing." Y/n said, before Alastor stood quiet.

" It won't be. Just, let me deal with it. Stay here, relax." Alastor said walking over to Y/n to run his hands down the sides of her arms. " I promise I won't make this a big ordeal. My mother should be by shortly after I speak wit her. Until then, get yourself comfortable, be careful with your write, and wait for me to get back, alright?" Alastor asked, before Y/n nodded.

" Alright. I love you." Y/n said, looking up at Alastor, waiting for him to say it back.

" I love you too darling."

1923: Fresh Start in the French Quarter

Tommy had opened his big mouth to the entire town about Alastor and Y/n's relationship. The entire town had shunned the both of them for it, Y/n's parents officially cutting her off for good, their suspicions being correct. After that christmas, Alastor and Y/n had began to take trips to New Orleans regularly, looking for a house to by. Alastor had gotten a better job, with much higher pay. Alastor had let Y/n choose whatever house she wanted, and when she finally settled on one, he also made sure to higher movers, and of course there's the paint job and furniture.

Though the cost was something Alastor would never allow her to see, the house made her happy, and that was more than enough for him. As he had told her, " Whatever my love wants, my love gets."

The neighborhood was nice, a lot of land was also nice too, aside from the grass growing extremely fast, but the man who would mow the lawn every week was nice so there was a plus. Y/n didn't need to work anymore, since Alastor made enough for the both of them to live comfortably. The lifestyle the two had changed over too had went from simple and comfortable, just barely making it by, to lavish and extravagant.

Since moving to New Orleans people had been kinder to the two of you. As well as the two of you getting married. It was a small wedding, consisting of Alastor's mother, Mandy and her husband Clarence. A few coworkers, Alastor's uncle who was just happy to be there. The people from his mother's church who had a great time at the afterparty.

Alastor never did tell you what he did to Tommy, but that was alright. He wasn't your problem anymore.

He fills my heart with very special things With angels' songs, with wild imaginings He fills my soul with so much love That anywhere I go, I'm never lonely With him along, who could be lonely? I reach for his hand, it's always there

1925: the first letter

(Y/n's POV )

" Honey could you get the mail for me? Hand's are all covered in dirt." Alastor said, before I nodded. I had walked to the front of the lawn to open our mailbox, pulling the papers out.

"Hm. Bills, bills, more bills, bills, and, a letter?" I stop. It's addressed to me. But the address is unfamiliar. I take the mail inside and walk to the dining room to open the letter. Alastor is in the mud room, removing the gardening equipment and dirt. I open the letter, before taking the pages out from inside. There's three pages, but all are covered in black ink. Except for the second page, with the words in the middle of the page reading.

Your Husband murdered the love of my life.

Silence. I don't know who this person is. I don't know where this letter is from. I don't know who this letter is from. They must have the wrong house. My husband would never kill anyone. As upset as he gets, he wouldn't hurt a fly.

" I think we can start on dinner now." Alastor said, as I slipped the letter back into the envelope.

" What do you wanna make tonight?" I ask as we both walk into the kitchen. Alastor moves to the freezer to grab out meat while I go through our cabinets to see what we have.

" Hm, what about Chili? Never hurt anyone, haven't had any in a while." He said, before I sighed.

" Chili is the worst thing to make though." I whine, before Alastor chuckles and sets the mean down on the island in the middle of the kitchen.

" Why don't we go out then? I get my chili, you don't need to help make it. How does that sound?" Alastor asks, before I smile.

" We can go see the band right?" I ask, before Alastor nods.

" If that's what you wanna do." He said with a grin, before I smiled and kissed his cheek.

" Get your dancin' shoes. Date night!" I say as I practically sprint out of the kitchen as Alastor laughs from his place in the kitchen.

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2 weeks later : Letter two

This letter is different. The first two pages are covered in black ink, the third page being the only one that has writing. It reads.

" I know you got my last letter. Your husband is a killer. Don't deny the truth." Right in the center of the page. My hands shake as I read it, before I shut the front door, locking it tight. I begin to walk around our house, the house we bought together. The house that we danced in together, cooked together, had gatherings together. Everything.

I came across his study, where I never really entered much, since I allowed it to be just him, his personal space. Like my own study, which was really more like a library since we had shared books in there. I opened the door, but never stepped in, curious as to what he would have hidden away. The door opens fully to reveal a minimalistic room. There are papers on his desk, a desk lamp, newspapers on the side, file cabinets, a radio, a journal. Wait, a journal? I never knew he had a journal.

I step into the room, making my way over to his desk, and reaching for the journal. I flip through the pages, skimming over the words, before something catches my eye.

Tommys name.

I continue to read, reading the journal and the pages that follow up until the very latest entry. I learn all sorts of things after reading this journal, and when I place it back down on the desk I want to run out of his study. But I don't. I put it down, exactly where I found it, and exit the room. Shutting the door tightly, and leaving the house all together. Just to walk. To clear my mind. After reading his journal I learn a number of things.

First, that Tommy is dead. Alastor killed him after Tommy assaulted me at work, and took the liberty of dismembering him and even cooking some of his intestines. Second, the meat that is stored in our freezer, the meat I've been eating for years, is from actual people. Their dead, cut up bodies are the things I've been preparing every night like it's the best thanksgiving turkey anyone's ever gonna eat. Third, his mother has been getting a good portion of his check every month. There isn't a problem with that, she's a lovely woman.

But, it was the most recent entry that made my spine tingle the most.

Alastor and I had never been intimate with one another. We both had our reasons, I had been saving it till marriage, but after Tommy I hadn't been comfortable with anyone ever potentially seeing me like that again, and Alastor had never tried so it just mutually never happened. There wasn’t an easy way to put it really, in some pages of the journal he had stated he wanted to show me how to kill, to take me with him for these murders. That it would get him, excited, to think about.

I guess this is the part where I call the cops. Tell them my husband is a cruel heartless killer, that he stores remains of these dead bodies in our freezer for us to eat.

But I won’t. I can’t. Because despite knowing all this. I still love him.

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That night: Dinner

( Author’s POV )

“ Dinner is served.” Y/n says, placing Alastor’s plate of food in front of him. He smiles as she leans down to kiss him on the cheek, fixing his handkerchief around his neck. She moves to her seat, across from him, and situates herself. Immediately, he begins to dig in, cutting away at the meat with a bloodlust look in his eye she had never noticed up until now.

“ I hope you enjoy it. Took a long time to season it properly.” Y/n said, as she began to eat as well, never once touching the meat on her plate.

“ Really? Did we not have enough spices? I can run out tomorrow and get some more if you need some.” Alastor said, before taking another bite out of his food.

“ No, we had enough spices. I just wanted to season it enough so I’m not distracted by the fact it’s from a human.” Y/n says, before putting a spoonful of food in her mouth. Alastor stops, frozen as if she was crazy. He’s silent, they both are. Alastor sits there tense, expecting police officers to round the corner of his home, he thinks this is it for him.

“ What are you talking about?” Alastor asks, before Y/n looks up at him from her seat.

“ I found your journal.” Y/n says.

“ You went into my study?” Alastor asks, trying hard to mask the annoyance in his voice. He fails.

“ Yes. I’ll tell you why.” Y/n says, before she pulls out two envelopes from behind her, tossing it towards Alastor as it slides across the table to him. He stares at them curiously, before he reaches forward to open it.

“ When did you get these?” Alastor said, losing his usual smile.

“ I got the first letter maybe, two weeks ago.” Y/n says, before Alastor’s eyes flicker to her’s for a second, before back down to the letters. “ I got the second one today. I’m sure there’s going to be a third.” Y/n says, not failing to notice Alastor’s grip on his knife tighten.

“ Why didn’t you tell me about this?” He asks, sternly.

“ I didn’t believe them. There was no reason to tell you if I didn’t believe it.” Y/n said, standing from her seat.

“ Y/n, did you… tell anyone?” Alastor asks, his eyes pleading with her. As if he was sorry. She knew he wasn’t.

“ Don’t look at me like that .” Y/n said, the pain in her voice obvious.

“ Did you?” He asks.

“ No. I didn’t.”

Silence. Neither one of them say a thing. Alastor stands from his seat, putting his knife down.

“ Do you hate me?” Alastor asks, refusing to look at her now. No response.

Y/n isn’t sure what to do. She’d figured he’d kill her by now.

“ Do you still love me?” Alastor asked, and the crack in his voice didn’t go unnoticed. Y/n hadn’t even realized she had started crying, and he was too. No response.

Alastor didn’t say anything after that. He left the letters on the table, before he exited the dining room. Y/n sighed, letting the tears fall. Y/n also exited the dining room, not sure where he could have gone. The house was huge, big enough to get lost in. Room by room, Y/n checked for him, now desperately trying to fix her mistake.

When Y/n made it to their bedroom, she found money sitting on their bed, all of his belongings gone. Was he leaving? Now the panic had set in.

“ Alastor!” Y/n called, running through the halls, checking for him where ever she could. practically jumping down the stairs when she saw him at the front door.

“ Alastor where are you going?” Y/n asked, panting wildly. Alastor didn’t answer. “ Alastor please.” Y/n said, before Alastor took his coat off it’s hanger.

“Y/n please, stop.” He said, pinching the bridge of his nose, his glasses moving upwards slightly.

“ No. Don’t you dare tell me to stop.” Y/n said, before she began to walk down the stairs.

“ Yes dear.” Alastor said, allowing her to continue, because he knew she would.

“ I don’t want your money.” She said, putting it on one of his suitcases. “ I don’t care about that. For Christ’s sake I don’t care about our house, or our cars or anything!” Y/n said, crying again. Alastor frowned.

“ Then what do you care about?” Alastor asked.

“ You! I care about you Alastor! Not the stupid front you put up, no, I care about you! Even if you are a killer, so be it I don’t care!” Y/n said, before she moved closer to him before reaching into his pocket. She was right, there it was. The knife he wrote about. The one he always had with him. She also knew he had one strapped to him under his shirt, on his arm. “ If you think I don’t care then shut me up.” Y/n said, putting the knife between the two of them.

“ Are you asking me to kill you?” Alastor asked, confused.

“ No. I’m telling you if you don’t like what I’m saying, or don’t think it’s real. Shut. Me. Up.” She said, putting the knife to his chest.

“ I thought you didn’t love me anymore.” Alastor said, head hanging low.

“ I do. I do love you.” Y/n said, as the knife fell to the ground. Y/n hugged him, and he hugged her back with just as much force, if not more, than she did. “ I will always love you.” Y/n said, gently running her fingers down his back.

“ You wont tell anyone right?” Alastor asked, before Y/n shook her head.

“ No, not ever. I promise.” Y/n said. “ Thank you.” She told him.

“ For what?” Alastor asked, mind going blank for a moment.

“ Getting rid of Tommy.” She said.

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1932: ‘Till death do we part

She knew she could’ve told the police. She knew she should’ve. But she didn’t have the heart to tell.

Even as she watched every night, accompanied Alastor on his hunts, as he liked to call it, she still loved him.

Even when they were both all bloody, screams of a victim trying to get away, you could still feel the love between them. As odd as it may sound.

But neither one of them cared. Even when Alastor had gotten caught, when he died, she still loved him even in death. Everyone had assumed she’d taken her own life because she was devastes over him being a killer.

Oh no. They couldn’t be more wrong.

She died because she couldn’t live without him. Even in their final moments together, the only thing either cared about, was each other.

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1935: Caught

Despite them both being dead, it was only in 1935 that Y/n had finally been caught as his accomplice. Police had went through their entire house, searching through their personal items, bibles, food. Asking the help of their co-workers, house keepers, friends, family. Anyone, if they had any suspicions.

Now, they’re graves lay near one another, flowers being brought every few weeks by only Alastor’s mother, who still loved them both dearly.

“ I always knew he was a troubled child I just, thought it was because of the kids at school, and the stress of the finances.” Alastor’s mother told the police.

“ What about Y/n?” The officer asked, before his mother shook her head.

“ Oh no. She was always such a sweet girl. I never would’ve thought she would do something like that. I always knew she loved my son, but I never thought they would do that.” His mother confessed.

“ Do you have an idea as to why Alastor took the fall for the whole thing? I mean, he could’ve easily put it on Y/n when he found out the we would be searching for him.” The officer said before Alastor’s mother sighed.

“ Well, my son was in love with her, goodness. That boy would go on and on for hours about her if he could. He probably didn’t want anything bad to happen to her.” His mother said.

“ Do you think if he would have had too, he would’ve sacrificed himself for her?” The officer asked.

“ Oh yes. Of course. He would do anything he needed too to keep her safe. Why do you think he killed Tommy? He beat Y/n.” Alastor’s mother said, before the officer went silent.

“ So your saying, Alastor killed for her?” The officer asked.

“ Well, I don’t know if that’s exactly why. But I could assume so. She knew all the victims, and he’d tell me how much she’d dislike them. He was clearly trying to make her happy.” His mother said. The officer nodded, writing everything down. Now it all made sense.

How long does it last?

Can love be measured by the hours in a day?

I have no answers now, but this much I can say

I'm going to need him 'til the stars all burn away

And he'll be there

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