#pickles doesn’t live there but he won’t leave

[nexter3nd]

Just a couple of assholes in a shitty apartment

[holylulusworld]

Fulfillment - Flufftober 19

Summary: Dean finally lives the life he deserves and dreamed of.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Wife!Reader

Side pairing: Sam Winchester x Eileen Leahy

Warnings: pregnancy, fluff, overprotective Dean, implied smut, cuddling & snuggling, Dean is a horny dog, a hint of dirty talk and dirty fantasy

Rating: Teen

Idea by: @elle14-blog1

Trope: Pregnancy

@warmandfluffybingocards: Square 16: Breakfast in bed   

@anyfandomgoesbingo: Square 7: Decorating the nursery

Kinktober vs Flufftober 2023

Your last battle was the day Dean told you he loves you. He didn’t want to waste another moment without having you in his arms.

Chuck, or God if you want to call that jackass so, fell without glory.

Jack went to heaven, and Castiel accompanied him to make sure no one tried to abuse the young man’s powers ever again.

Since that day, you have been living a normal life.

While everyone else dreams of a more exciting life, you are happy to have a normal and boring life.

While you turned your back on the hunter’s life, you turned the bunker into a warm and cozy home. (We don’t talk about the room where Dean stored all the weapons.)

Only because you stopped hunting doesn’t mean Dean doesn’t act like an overprotective bodyguard when it comes to you. You’re his wife, the future mother of his children, and the reason to keep on going for him.

“Sweetheart,” Dean pokes his head inside the kitchen. “No…no!” He tuts. “I told you; I’m going to make breakfast.” Your husband watches you run one hand over your grown belly while stuffing a pickle into your mouth.

“I’m having cravings,” you chew audibly while your husband makes a fuss. He doesn’t want you to leave your bedroom or the bed. If it was up to Dean, he’d wrap you in a dozen blankets and never let you leave the bed again. “And no one is going to attack us here.”

“You don’t know that” your husband argues. He steps inside the kitchen and wraps his arms around you, making you groan. “I need to keep you safe and happy.”

“Last night you made me very happy.”

Dean snickers as he remembers the way you were writhing on his cock.

“I remember you were a begging mess, Y/N. Loud and naughty. Just the way I like you.”

“Dean, we can’t make out in the kitchen again. Sammy will kill us,” you whine as your husband kisses down your neck. “I mean it, baby. We can’t get caught again.”

“But getting caught is half the fun,” Dean laughs in your neck, making you giggle. “Alright. If you are a good girl and go to our bedroom to lie down, I’ll make you the best breakfast you ever ate. I promise it’s not my dick.”

“You’re lucky I love you, Mr. Winchester. You’re a very naughty man,” you chuckle as he whispers dirty nothings in your ear. “If you don’t want to end up getting caught by your brother and Eileen, we better go back to our bedroom.”

“Sex before breakfast. I knew you were the one…” He hums in your neck. “But after you’ll eat all the delicious things I’ll cook for you…”

“A red rose, and food, huh,” Sam watches his brother carry a tray filled with breakfast and a single red rose out of the kitchen. “Did you leave some food for us?”

“Sure, Sammy,” Dean grins. “My wife needs the food. I wore her out.”

Sam shakes his head. Sometimes his brother has no shame…or like ever. “Luckily she’s already pregnant or you’d get her pregnant.”

“Who says I won’t get her pregnant again?” Dean chuckles. “We are having twins. Next time, I’ll fill her with triplets.”

“What do you say? Will she like it?” Dean shows his brother and Eileen the U-shaped pregnancy pillow he got for you. He has it draped over his shoulder to show it to Sam. “It’s good for the babies and her, right?”

Eileen smirks as her brother-in-law excitedly tells them about all the things he bought for you and the babies.

“It’s nice of you to get the pillow,” she finally says. Dean looks adorable with all the stuffies tugged under his arm. “What do you want to do with the rest?” She questions.

“While Y/N is having a nap, I’m going to decorate the nursery. We are almost done, but she’s a little under the weather this week. I’ll finish it and show her everything when she feels better.”

“Do you need help?” Sam offers willingly. “We are going finish the nursery faster if we work together.”

“Are you sure, Sammy?”

Sam flashes his brother a smile. “Well, I’m counting on your help when we are having triplets…”

“I love the pillow,” Dean states as you and your husband lie on the bed, the pregnancy pillow wrapped around your bodies. “They were right. It’s perfect for snuggling and cuddling.”

You grin as Dean moves impossibly closer to hide his face in your neck. “I heard you finished the nursery.”

“Sammy and Eileen helped. If there’s something you do not like, blame Sammy.”

“I know that I’ll love it,” you mumble sleepily. “Just like I love you.”

“I love you too, sweetheart, and the little beans,” he whispers in your ear while moving one hand to your belly. “I’ll always protect you and our babies. Always.”

Tags in reblog.

[insomniac-dot-ink]

Wolves at the Door

In a tidy well-built home on the outskirts of a village on the outskirts of the world, lives a doe in homespun skirts. MaryAnne lives in her ancestral home with antlers nailed to the mantle. Aged enough to be an old maid but not old enough for it to be charming, a howling comes for her. 

Oh, the Beast Folk of the north know better than to live alone. Lighting candles in the darkest months. Hanging Evil Eye charms in their windows to ward off wickedness. MaryAnne, all the same, cuts her own firewood and pickles her own vegetables. She survives the winter.

That is until that howling comes. Wolves are at her door. 

Claws scratch at the wood. A long snout snuffles at the windowsill. A voice croons, as they always do, in a plaintive song. In those long months, the villagers and MaryAnne bury their faces in their arms. Stuff their ears with wax. Cluster together if they can. That is how you made it through a winter in the north.

Yet, a howling comes.

That year, MaryAnne forgot to restock her wax. Too late to go out, she curls into a ball on the hard floor, buries her face, and refuses to look up. A voice floats through the cracks.

“Little doe.” A growl. “Why do you hide inside your nest?”

Mustn’t answer. A female wolf casts a long shadow through the window. Backlit by a yellow moon. She has a voice for turning wine to honey. MaryAnne squeezes her eyes shut tighter.

“You’ll turn to dust within these walls. Nothing left but bones.” The voice laughs, guttural and wind-rough. Heavy steps sound from outside, crunching in the snow. “The breeze is fresh. The snow is young. A night for running.”

Mustn't answer to the night.

“They have marked your door with Juniper. Tell me, what makes you so unlucky?”

A whine escapes from deep within MaryAnne���s chest. There is no escaping rumors it seems– even among wolves. A gentle sun-tanned face flashes through her mind’s eye. He is smiling there. The memory frays at the edges in an instant, like crumpling paper by the fire. He is frozen in that eternal melancholy look. Like he knew what was coming.

MaryAnne lets out a second hiccup of sound.

“There you are.” The voice laughs long and harrowed. A scratch drags down her door, rattling the hinges. “Why don’t you come out?”

“Leave me alone!” Her voice is hoarse from disuse. “Leave before I, before I. . . Leave!"

Oh no. She had answered. What a silly girl she was. The beast outside throws her head back and howls. And howls still.

—--------

Days pass in which MaryAnne doesn't hear the howling. She sweeps and mends and peels peas. Sometimes, the doe wakes in the predawn hours, half-frozen and shivering. She stokes the dead embers and looks out. Faded stars and quilted black look back at her. The night is quiet then, peeled to its barest layers and forgiving. An exhale. 

But those aren’t most days. A howling comes at her door. MaryAnne's ears begin to ring with it. She dreams of fangs and rust-colored waters. In the light of day, MaryAnne rubs at her eyes until she sees spots and some curling grin remains. I won’t survive the winter, she thinks. My time has come.

MaryAnne goes to the village Wise Woman. 

She trudges through the glittering snow and ducks behind trees when strangers pass. Mother Grace lived near the outskirts of town too. Though unlike MaryAnne, footprints ring her squat home– deep grooves of movement. MaryAnne follows the grooves and creeps forward like she might fade into her own shadow. 

The house is dark evergreen and churns enormous plumes of smoke. Charms for luck hang in the window and MaryAnne averts her gaze. Some of them look like pawed feet. She hunches her shoulders, tugs at her sleeves, and lifts a hand to the entrance. A door thick as slabs of good brown bread swings open at her touch. 

“Hello?” she calls into the gloom. “I am MaryAnne. Daughter of . . .” She doesn’t finish the thought. If there was one thing to know of Mother Grace, it is that she hates tedious things. “Mother Grace, I have come to ask you of the world. I’ve come to ask you what wolves fear.”

“Questions, questions.” A grumbling answers her. “For yourself, child? Or some grand cougar king. Conquering their enemies.”

“For me. Yes. Myself. I am, I’m a doe.” MaryAnne stumbles forward and eyes adjust to the dimness.

“I can smell that.”

An old woman sits before a stone shelf, wrapped in blankets and surrounded by books. An iron stove dominates the living space and the air shimmers with heat. Mother Grace rocks back and forth in her chair. She is entombed in pillows, waiting to remind the young that the winter is long. And bound to grow longer.

MaryAnne repeats her question. “Do you know how to rid yourself of wolves?” How to escape being hunted? She dare not speak those words into existence though. Hunted. Cursed anew.

The woman grumbles under her breath once more. Grey-haired and petite, her rabbit ears hang long and limp down her shoulders. Her milky eyes were unseeing and body bent forward. Yet, her bearing is steady and unflinching. MaryAnne wishes in some distant way she could embody the same self-assured air. A knowledge of herself, good or bad.

Unable to bear it any longer, she repeats herself. “Please. Wolves are at my door. You are the most learned Folk. What do they fear?”

Mother Grace doesn't look at MaryAnne as she speaks. Her voice creaks. “I cannot say. Fear is a shifting thing. Wolves, too, shifting creatures." The Wise Woman grunts a dry laugh. “Hard to separate the two.”

"Ah,” MaryAnne says like she understands, heart sinking to the bottom of her shoes. 

Mother Grace sets her jaw and looks past her. "Go to the mulberry tree at sunset and bow your head. Speak true and earnestly.” The Wise Woman gnashed her gums. “It will show you how to greet a wolf.”

MaryAnne swallows. “Will that save me?” 

The wisewoman does not answer.

—-------

The sun sets in in a purpling line, sending the towns folk scurrying behind their locked doors. The Beast Folk know better than to linger alone after dark. But MaryAnne is Juniper-marked and given a task. She approaches the Mulberry tree in the shadow of a hill. Red ribbons tied in its bare branches and framed by twilight.

MaryAnne bows her head and kneels on the snowy earth, her cheeks pinched with cold. The knees of her pants soaking through.

“How do you escape a wolf?”

The Mulberry bush sways in the wind. The ribbons turn a dull navy in the light and MaryAnne shivers.

Two knotted eyes blink and the nymph bows back. Her hair sticks straight in the air– naked branches reaching for sky. She considers MaryAnne for a long moment. 

“Your father came to me once. Asking questions.” A pause follows that could suck the marrow out of bones. “He could not deter his fate. You may not be able to either."

“Please.” MaryAnne swallows over and over, suppressing the stinging in her eyes. “There is a wolf at my door. She will not leave. She has my scent.”

“Ah,” the Nymph says, pity trapped in her wispy vowels. “A Stray perhaps of their terrible rituals. The Bone Cities are far and often cruel. Come closer, girl. I may teach you to greet a wolf and thus defer her task a while longer.”

—-------

The wind whips against MaryAnne’s walls, battering the sides of her home. The dark wood was tightly joined and held. A syrupy silver light bathed the snow outside and MaryAnne’s eyelids grew heavy. She had been watching her door since she returned from the Mulberry tree.

And it had not ceased since the moon arose. A long cry mixed with the violent gusts of wind. A howling. MaryAnne’s shoulders set in a hard line, back aching and mood even more dour. Let it be over, she prays to the Great Mother Doe. Though, who knew if the starry mother listened. Let the wolf go home empty-handed.

MaryAnne’s head nods to her chest, jerking upright at the first sound. A scratch peels down her front door. Claws against wood. 

“Little doe, why do you hide?” the wolf sings in that beseeching tone. 

MaryAnne does not bother to curl into a ball. She straightens to her full height, nubby horns facing the door as if she might charge. Fangs flash in her mind’s eye and she takes deep breaths. MaryAnne forces her legs to work.

"Good evening," she booms. An imitation of how she imagines governesses speak to future kings. MaryAnne bows before the door, taking her time falling to her knees. Her chest tightens-- a thrum of terrible life. “I am pleased to meet you."

“Pleased?” The wolf sounds amused. Perhaps wolves can always afford that.

“Yes.” In slow increments, MaryAnne brings her wrists near the crack under the door. Bile rises in her throat and she pushes closer. “I see you've come to call on me. Perhaps I may have you over for tea. Do you take it with cream or sugar?”

The laugh is thunderous. A long snuffling follows and MaryAnne thinks she imagines whiskers under the crack.

“You smell like fear. Are you afraid?”

“Always,” MaryAnne says bitterly. “Is that not our nature? You, at our doors. Me inside my home. But you could knock.”

“I have a home too, you know,” the voice purrs. “Many leagues away and by the sea. Perhaps you might enjoy running to it.”

“You may have me over for tea,” she keeps her tone even. “Come back in the morning to exchange invitations. I have stationary you might borrow.”

Hot air blows against her wrist. The wolf audibly inhales. “You think yourself clever. Juniper-marked and clever.”

“What else could I be?” Her voice trembled and she didn’t like the way it broke on the last words.

“I can make a few suggestions.” The crunch of heavy paws against the snow. “Open up the door and I will show you.”

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” MaryAnne grits out despite herself. Run, run, run. her mind says. Her feet say. But the Mother Doe isn’t there to light her way. “My name is MaryAnne. I would like to invite you to tea.”

The door gives a violent shake, a weight thrown against it. Dust rains from the rafters. The hinges shrieks and the wolf lets out a howl to match. The door holds– as it was meant to.

Life spikes in her chest this time and fills her belly with warmth. MaryAnne holds herself perfectly still, wrists shoved to the crack in the door. 

“I am Shier of the Northern Pack,” the wolf spit out the words. “You may keep your twice-damned tea.”

-----------------

Part 1 of 3

[tokiwarcube]

I always wondered what the boys would think if their s/o was in a band (the genre is up to you) and they have the same position in the band as the boys. This has been a thought that won’t leave me alone, help me!!

P.s I love your writings for these 5 silly men !! :)

Aww, thank you so much!! I absolutely fell in love with this prompt -- and I had an absolute blast writing it! Now I will Also be thinking about this forever, haha. Enjoy! <3

(Implied NS/FW warning for Pickles' section!)

Nathan Explosion

My simple, multi-platinum krillionaire rockstar — for as much as he daydreams about what life would have been like if he got to live like a regular jack-off, it’s just not the path for him. So dating another famous lead vocalist? Right up his alley.

He actually likes it more than he thought — it’s nice to bounce lyrics off of you, and vice versa. Toying with pitch, cadence, and intonation, all the different vocal techniques without judgement of sounding silly… Your halls are always alive with the sound of music… even if the subject is about death and murder, it’s its own form of magic.

But singing at home and singing in concert are two very, very different beasts. He wasn’t prepared for how intense you could be on stage, with the band to back you up. Your confidence as you stride, growling so mean he can feel it in his blood before perking back up to bounce away? All of your little stunts? Half of him is taking notes for their next show, and half of him is utterly starstruck. Your eyes dart over to him every now and again, smiling when you notice his wide eyes. His breath hitches when you throw a little wave to him in response, and he can’t help the breathless “holy shit” that falls from his lips.

You’re not as popular as Dethklok, but you couldn’t tell that from inside the venue walls — with how easily you command the crowd, he’s certain you were a siren in a past life. Or now. You could tell everyone in this room to jump off a bridge, and they would, he’s certain of it.

That would make a good song, actually…

Pickles the Drummer

Pickles has a pretty sizable repertoire of instrument proficiency — bass, guitar, keys… a brief stint with an alto sax, as a bit… and currently, drums. He’s got a soft spot in his heart for all of it, each instrument representing a specific era of his life, but he’s found himself enjoying the drums the most. It’s strong, supportive — every song needs a beat! It takes a specific personality to play drums well, and it’s one that he both embodies within himself, and covets when in others.

This is all to say — he finds it very hot that you play drums.

And as a man who appreciates a nice set of legs, he very much likes the effects drumming has on your calves. Your calves might be sore after a long practice session, but that’s nothing compared to the bites he’ll leave later in the night.

He also loves to watch you play — sweat rolling down the column of your throat as you raise your hands above your head for another well-timed strike, lost in the rhythm… Woof.

You’ve kind of gotta beat him back with a stick while on tour if you ever want to go out for drinks after a show — if he had it his way, he’d be spending the post-concert glow in the hotel, letting you know just how much he liked your performance.

Skwisgaar Skwigelf

Anyone looking in would assume this would be a point of competition, but he actually really loves having someone he can talk technical with! Despite being in Dethklok, he doesn’t really get to talk guitar often — Toki, Murderface, and Pickles can play, sure, but the former two don’t give a fuck about technique, and Pickles just doesn’t care about it enough to chat about it outside of the studio.

He loves hearing about all of the little musical decisions you’ve contributed to in each song — don’t think he didn’t catch the time signature change there. Just a single bar, why? Or this section here, that was a reprise of the first song in the album — how are they connected? He catches all the little details, and he wants to know all about them. In this same vein, he’s also great to bounce ideas off of when you’re in a rut… but be careful! His ideas are damn-good, and at this rate, he might just need a spot in the writer’s credits.

It’s very fun to just sit down and jam with him, passing the melody back and forth as your improvised tune grows. He calls it practice — and in a sense, it is — but really, he just likes playing with you.

He pushes to have your tours alternate with Dethklok’s so he can be at all of your shows, and vice versa — you have his full attention during your solos, and he’s not above slapping the boys to get them to shuts up so he can hear you in all of your glory.

He’s pretty stationary on stage — such is the downside of working with a bunch of uncoordinated dumbasses. (He is not exempt from this.) But if you have the agility and focus to bounce around on stage while playing? Oh, he didn’t think he could fall in love any further. He didn’t think he was capable of being starstruck, but you’ve proven him wrong tenfold. He’ll happily brave a couple thousand rabid fans for the pit experience — sorry to all the people stuck behind his towering self, but being backstage is nothing compared to barrier. The flashing lights, choking fog and towering flames only make you look more beautiful than ever, and he can’t help but reach out to you when you waggle your fingers at the crowd.

Personally offended if you don’t throw him at least one pick on tour. He does not care that he is 1.) Dating you, and 2.) Has limitless access to your stash. It’s the principle.

You wear each other’s picks on necklaces <3

Toki Wartooth

You play rhythm too? Wowee! You’re so good, though — how are you not playing solos?

He is completely gobsmacked by the fact that not only are you not the lead guitarist, but that you don’t care to be, either. I mean, he has Skwisgaar to compete against — and as loathe as he is to say it, it’s a pretty fucking high bar to surpass. But you? You could easily play lead! You just don’t want to? What?

He doesn’t really get it, but he writes it off as just you being humble. Beyond that, your similarity doesn’t really play too big of a role in your shared lives! But when concert season rolls around, he’s insistent about hanging out at barrier, just so he can see what it’s like to be at one of your shows. And then, then, that’s when he gets it.

You never seem to stand still, bouncing this way and that, playing in ways he never even thought possible. You don’t need to play solos to wow the crowd — hell, he’s been practically raised by the most popular band in the world, but with you in front of him now, he feels like just another one of your adoring fans itching at the chance to even be seen. Nobody cheers louder than Toki, and he’s insistent on going to each and every one of your shows.

After show from here on out he’ll interlock hands with you, congratulating you on yet another show well-done. He traces the callouses on your fingertips, heart swelling with giddiness at dating such a badass guitarist.

William Murderface

Finally, someone else who appreciates a good bass line. A band is nothing without the bass, especially metal, and it’s nice to talk to someone else who understands that. Especially after being AJFA’d out off all their most recent albums.

Playing bass is a very thankless job — you have to support the entire band, giving them structure and direction without any of the thanks that the rhythm guitar or the drums get. The most, and I mean the most that he gets, is a solo at the end of the show. Which is fun, but you know… it’s very much a job that you take because you love the big picture, not the details.

That’s his point of view, anyways. Because the second he sees you in-show, his whole world gets flipped on his head.

You have a very confident poise on stage — unshakeable, much like the deep notes that you pluck from the instrument. And yet, you command attention from the crowd effortlessly. It’s like you were made for this — all long strides and sneaky smiles as you move around on stage. And despite the eccentricity of your fellow bandmates — a very energetic show, he’s noticed — you still draw a sizable amount of attention from the packed arena, and man does he wish he was in the pit right now so he could get that sly little smile head-on. And huh, maybe bass can be fun, after all.

He loves to brag about you, and will do so at any opportunity.

After seeing your prowess on stage, he starts practicing a bit outside of concert season… and then more, and more, until he finally feels ready enough to fight to get the bass turned up in the next Dethalbum. Thanksch, babe.

[tiredlilguy]

Hiii :)

First of all, your blog looks so pretty! I'm really looking forward to seeing more works of you.

Secondly, could I please request relationship headcannons for Verlaine? Only of you feel like it of course.

Hope you have a great day/night!

Bye.

AAAAAAAAAA! thanks so much >:D i try to make it look pretty, i'm glad someone noticed tysm >o< this request is cute asf, so ty for requesting :D i hope you enjoy!!!

pairing: Verlaine X GN!Reader cw:desc: just some fluffy, romantic hc's with the silly french man mwehehe

oh my god, you finally got him out of the basement (congratulations)

Joking, but anyways

Im doing these hc’s of him post SB btw

he’s really sweet to you, but he probably doesn’t talk much

Will recite little lines of poetry that he wrote when u come visit him in the basement, sometimes sad, sometimes happy

But you’re his muse, the moment that you start frequently visiting him in the basement, you’re all that he find himself writing about

If you two are in the same room though, he probably won’t talk much, but he does enjoy your presence

He doesn’t mind if you talk though, he enjoys listening to your voice and hearing you talking about your day

Get him desserts when he’s down there, or just food in general; the mafia only gives him rations (and he barely eats them), but he’ll appreciate anything you get him

Love languages are quality time, likes to receives acts of service and strangely enough physical affection

Really hesitant to touch you at first because he thinks he’s going to hurt you for some reason, mainly because he has a hard time thinking that he’s worthy of human affection

If you touch him, he’ll probably go stuff at first before relaxing into it

When he did start initiating forms of affection though, he would probably gently put his hand over yours, or kiss you on the hand when he greets you

(Let’s say u somehow got him out of the basement)

He spoils you… he gets all this money from being a Port Mafia executive and so what's he going to do with it? I mean, you’re mafia too, but you don’t earn nearly as much as he does

You will be living in a penthouse on the top floor with way much more space that you actually need

He’ll get you luxury everything and anything, you have his credit card in your pocket whenever you’re going out by yourself and you don’t even realize it, he’ll just slip it in your wallet or pocket when you’re not paying attention

I can see him liking to slow dance with you, he’ll have a record player in the background and when you get home he’ll take you in his arms and slow dance with you

Can he cook? Hot take, but no. (Rimbaud taught him everything, just not how to cook), but I can see him being somewhat of a househusband (he cleans around a little bit and will get you groceries for dinner, but he cannot tell the different between a pickle and cucumber… please send him pictures)

If he’s not in the basement he’s in the penthouse, probably not doing much unless Mori calls him to go train another subordinate

He just likes to be at home, but sometimes he needs to get out of there too because he gets too much into his own head

If he is out with you though, he’ll enjoy going to a cafe or a library; somewhere where he can just enjoy his time with you whether you’re both quiet or talking

Or he’ll sit at the park with you, but only if there’s not too many people

He won’t be doing that on his own though, he’ll only do that with you

Is ok with PDA, but just hand-holding; he’ll kiss you on the cheek if he’s going to leave you for a second though

Likes to sleep with you on his chest, he sleeps on his back

Or he has an arm around you in some sort of way :)

will melt if you braid his hair/take care of his hair in any way-

Will hum lullabies to you, either consciously or unconsciously; he just enjoys being able to see you fully relax in his arms

And is happy to know that he’s not really a monster after all (aw, yay)

[slibraries]

Right Where You Left Me

Anyway, here's some angst

Contains: Carmy being angsty, al-anon meetings, male m*stburbation, The Box, mentions of s*icide

Carmy’s back in Chicago for less than forty-eight hours before Sugar brings you up. “You should go see her, Carmy.” He bites back what he wants to say, (“fuck off, Sugar.”) and takes a deep breath so he doesn’t feel like he’s drowning. 

(He still feels like he’s drowning.) 

“I know.” 

He doesn’t go see you, and you don’t come see him, and life goes on. He hires Sydney, because she’s fucking incredible, and he works on the menu, and he doesn’t miss you. 

(Except when he does miss you, which is all fucking the time. It’s worst early in the morning when it feels like there’s a knife shoved under his ribs.) 

((And if that ache settles under the finch tattoo on his rib cage, that’s nobody’s business.)) 

He goes to meetings and learns how to talk about Mikey and what happened and how to let people in. He’s at a meeting when he sees you for the first time since that Christmas he called you a bitch and then moved halfway across the world. You’re speaking, because the universe hates him, about your ex-husband’s suicide and him leaving the restaurant to his little brother. 

“I didn’t divorce Mikey because I stopped loving him, I love him more than words. I divorced him because I couldn’t do this.” You gesture at the people sitting in front of you. The light catches the diamond ring around a chain on your neck and Carmy stops being able to breathe. He’s out of the room before you can finish your share. 

He shoves you into a tiny box in his mind, labeled DO NOT OPEN in big, bold, red letters, and tries to forget. 

(When he inevitably wakes up at night, his hand is resting on his rib cage, covering the finch tattoo he’d gotten on your eighteenth birthday because he would’ve done anything you’d asked, and he doesn’t fall back asleep.) 

It’s Sydney who opens The Box, completely by accident. “Chef, somebody ordered a Finch special and Tina won’t tell me what it is,” (fuck, T’s still giving her trouble), “and I…it’s not on the menu so I’m just—“ 

“It’s an Italian beef sandwich with pickles, Lays crumbled on it,  a Diet Coke, and a cookie.” Your order is etched onto his mind. Carmy can’t name the capital of Montana or give directions or diagram a sentence (whatever the fuck that means) but he knows your order. Sydney gives him a strange look. 

“Is that all, Chef?” 

“Yes, Chef. Thank you, Chef.” 

He spends the rest of the shift trying to close The Box. 

He goes home and dreams about being bracketed by silky smooth thighs. He dreams about hands in his hair and gasps of pleasure. The piercing cries of the fire alarm pull him back into the world of the living. 

It takes him all of five minutes after CFD gives them the all clear to go back upstairs before he’s frustratedly shoving a hand into his boxers to palm himself. He’s still half hard from the dream and the memory of being wrapped inside you. His hand doesn’t compare but it sends sparks through his body nonetheless. Carmy doesn’t touch himself very often, too exhausted after work and too Catholic. 

He always thinks of you when he does. His first everything. Your smile, your eyes, the twinkle in your eye when you give him shit about something, the way you move when you’re dancing around the kitchen. His strokes speed up as he imagines your face full of pleasure. 

(The few times you’d had sex before he broke your heart and left were incredible for him. He’s certain you didn’t cum.) 

Carmy spills into his hand and onto his chest. He lets the cum dry there, evidence of his shame. 

It’s a Thursday when Carmy speaks to you for the first time since he came back to Chicago. 

(Because fuck Thursdays)

He isn’t even supposed to work front of house. Richie’s out because Ava’s sick, Fak’s in the back trying to fix the AC, Tina had to go pick up Luis from school, and Sydney needs everyone else so he’s up front. It’s been a shit day from the start. It’s hot as fuck outside, so his apartment is sweltering. He’d been covered in sweat before he’d even stepped out into the summer heat. The Beef isn’t any cooler

”Carmen?” 

And there you are, his worst nightmare and his most cherished dream, standing in front of him. 

You smile and it’s as beautiful (maybe more?) as he remembers. He can tell right away that the grief has taken a toll on you. Your hair is a little duller than in the wedding photo he’d found in the office, your smile not as radiant, your eyes tired. You’re still absolutely, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. He’s been to parties with the top models in the world (at which he’d sat alone in the corner) and you still take the cake. 

“Uh, hey Finch. Hey.” 

You look around him at the grungy Beef. “Haven’t changed anything, have you? Good, as co-owner, I get a say on any major changes.” You’re grinning at him but he’s brain stuck on that word, co-owner. You’d owned it with Mikey, of course you had, you’d been his wife. You laughed. “‘M kidding, Carmen. I let Mikey have it in the divorce. You can do what you want with the Beef.” He really shouldn’t feel such relief that you wouldn’t be here, and he shouldn’t hate you calling him Carmen as much as he did. 

“Finch, ya don’t hafta…you don’t have to call me Carmen.” 

Your grin, that grin her loved so much, faltered. “I know. But you never…we haven’t…what are…” it wasn’t like you to have trouble finding your words, and he hated that he was the cause of it. “Carmen is safe.” That shouldn’t hurt as much as it did. “You know you’re always safe with me, Finch.” Your look wasn’t quite withering, but it made him feel impossibly small. “Am I, Carmen?” Before he could say yes, you are, or I still love you, Fak appeared at his shoulder and started talking your ear off. 

You’re gone before he can take your order.

[shadystarlightgentlemen]

Gravity Falls Headcanons

Bill calls Ford, Icarus

Ford calls Mabel ‘sunshine’ and ‘princess’

Dipper sometimes sneaks out the house with Stan to go star gazing on the roof, they just talk about anything and everything

Mabel knows Fords hand size and makes him handmade gloves for when he’s self conscious about his hands and/or in public

Stan had a pet parrot when he was in high school

He named him Mr. Pickles

Stan tried to go to college a few time but either chickened out or had to skip town because the police were catching up

He eventually gave up trying

Ford had a fling with McGugget in college

Dipper and Robbie usually don’t get along but one time when Wendy was gone for a family trip, Dipper invited Robbie over to the shack for a horror movie marathon and they actually had fun (and also figured out that Robbie likes romcoms)

Mabel makes a new sweater everyday, sometimes makes one based on a person (she made a sweater for Lazy Susan made entirely out of cat hair) or a feeling she had that day (she once made a sweater entirely out of glittery fabric because she said she ‘felt like the crab from Moana’)

Pacifica and Mabel are dating but have to hide it from Pacifica’s parents because their homophobic (though if you ask a few of the guys around town, they’ll say Preston is a ‘wild cowboy’)

The Pines family tends to stay very far away from saying Bills name for the sake of each other except on certain days where they gather together and trauma dump to finally get the weight off their shoulders and just hug each other while watching Disney movies

When Bill would posses Ford in their early days, he would be violent but very flirtatious. This caused some old feelings in McGugget to return and eventually ask Ford out on a date, which he accepted but it never went further

While he was in between dimensions, Ford has been held hostage countless times and almost became a king of an entire planet

Filbrick abused Ford and Stan, mostly verbally and sometimes physically

Sherrie was a very protective brother but unfortunately wasn’t around when Stan and Ford started getting abused by their dad so when he came home after being in the military and he found out what happened, he nearly beat the shit out of Filbrick and gave Ford a serious talking to

Wendy is full on gay panic

She dated Robbie at first because she liked him but when high school started again, she quickly realized that testosterone was not her cup of tea

Wendy’s a lesbian, Stan’s bisexual, Ford’s panromantic and asexual, Dipper’s questioning, and Mable is pansexual

Bud and Stan used to date

Stan’s always wanted kids but once he was kicked out, he was never able to settle down and he was always afraid that he’d screw it up or be kicked out again

He still wants kids but he doesn’t think he deserves it anymore and with his age, he doubts he’d be able to land anyone with kids that are still kids

Besides, he’s got Dipper and Mable, his hands are already full during the summer (though he won’t admit it, he wishes he could keep them forever, he loves them so much and cries every time they leave)

Stan goes with Ford into the woods to see mythical creatures every chance he gets, wanting to make up for lost time

About a week before Mable and Dipper leave, the Pines family has a day where they all go out and sleep under the stars, telling fun stories of the summer and relaxing

After Gideon accepted Mable doesn’t like him, he and Mable became best friends and have countless makeovers, sometimes with Pacifica

Wendy teaches Dipper how to live in the woods and protect himself from wild animals

Ford takes Mable on small adventures to have mindless fun (he won’t admit it, but he’s considered her as his favorite from time to time)

Stan teaches Dipper how to box

Stan secretly threatens any bullies Dipper and Mable may have by just standing out in their front yard and ducking away when their parents come to check only to reappear doing something crazy like petting one of his fake attractions 

Ford used to help Stan through panic attacks during school and would fight, albeit lose, kids that would talk down to Stan

[hischierdevils]

Aweh!! Thank you for always keeping us posted on the y/n and Nico forget universe!!

Maybe there's a blurb about y/n waking Nico up in the middle of the night because she's craving something super niche and specific and he has to go searching for it in the middle of the night!

You're the best!

-canucks anon

A kick to the ribs wakes you up from a dead sleep. You groan as you untangle yourself from your pregnancy pillow and get out of bed. Your alarm clock lets you know it’s just after two in bright red numbers as you waddle your way toward the door.

The baby continues to kick as you waddle into the kitchen for a late night snack. Your mouth is practically watering at the thought of peanut butter and pickles but when you search the pantry, you can’t find either.

Tears prick at your eyes as the baby begins to roll around in your belly, causing pain as they kick you randomly as they stretch. “Listen kid I want you out just as much.” You grumble as you go to open the fridge in search of pickles. You find nothing.

You start crying in earnest now as you make your way to the living room where your husband sleeps on the couch. “Ni.” You poke his shoulder gently. “Nico.” You poke him again when he doesn’t move.

He stirs and slowly opens his eyes. “Wha?” He sits up, realizing you’re crying. “What’s wrong, love?”

“We don’t have peanut butter or pickles. Your kid thinks it’s play time and I want you in bed with me!” You sob.

He jumps to his feet and pulls you into a hug the best he can with your bump between the two of you. “Just my kid, huh?”

“Yes, he’s yours when he won’t sleep.” You grumble as you wipe at your eyes.

Nico kisses your forehead. “Maybe she wants me in bed too.” He places a hand on your swollen belly just as the baby kicks. It’s your third child but his face still lights up like it’s his first time experiencing it. “Let’s go to sleep.”

He tries to lead you to the bedroom but you stay rooted to the spot. “I want pickles and peanut butter.” You tell him when he looks back at you to find out why you’re not following him.

“Together?” Nico makes a disgusted face. “Right now?”

“Yes right now!” You stomp your foot in frustration. “We don’t have either!”

“Y/n, it’s two in the morning where do you want me to get that right now?”

You can tell he’s exhausted from sleeping on the couch and you know it’s not fair to ask it of him so you start crying again. “I’m the worst wife ever.”

He comes back to you quickly, trying to get you to calm down. “No you’re not, baby. I love you. I’ll go to the store okay?” Nico sighs and kisses your head before going into your room to put proper clothes on.

“I love you too.” You tell him as puts his shoes on to leave.

You check on Alex and Ben while Nico’s gone and pace around the house, trying to get your third child to calm down but it seems to be practicing for the Olympic gymnastics team.

Nico’s gone for almost forty minutes but he eventually returns home with a jar of pickles and peanut butter.

“Oh yes, thank you thank you thank you.” You kiss Nico on the cheek as he leads you to the kitchen and opens the jars for you.

“I’m grossed out but also curious.” He says as he watches you get a spoonful of peanut butter prepared to scoop onto the pickle.

“It’s going to be amazing.” You grin as you lean over the pickle jar to get one. As you smell the pickle juice, your stomach flips. “Ugh, get it away.” You drop the spoonful of peanut butter and run for the bathroom, barely making it in time.

Nico comes in behind you and holds your hair as you wretch. He rubs soothing circles on your back once you’re done and helps you stand up.

“We are never doing this again.” You tell him once you’ve finished brushing your teeth.

Nico sighs, knowing what that means. “I’ll go back to the couch.” He mumbles as the two of you walk out of the bathroom.

“You don’t want to hold me?” Tears well up in your eyes as you look at him. “Do you even love me anymore?”

“I fall more in love with you every day.” He whispers before kissing you. “Even when I have to go to seven eleven at two am.”

[ravendruid]

word: sleepy pairing: pickle & string bean

From this prompt.

It’s one of those rare summer nights where there’s a breeze light enough to cool down the body from the day’s heat. Although the night is still young, and Pike still has all of her watch ahead of her, she is slowly unbuckling the belts of her armor, ever so carefully as not to accidentally drop it and wake up her friends with the clatter of the metal. In another universe, someone bites their lip as they roll a die to check if Pike is successful in her endeavor.

Pike drops the silver breastplate on the ground in front of her, stretching her torso as tall as she can – which is not much for a gnome of her stature – sighing in relief as the breeze passes through the soft fabric of her damp undertunic. Plate armor by itself is already bad enough, it’s heavy and constricts her movements, but in the summer, it’s a million times worse as it traps the heat inside. On a regular day, Pike would have gladly taken off her armor by now, trading it for a set of fresh, clean clothes after a nice cooling shower. However, it was not a regular day, and Pike had no access to clean water to shower unless she wanted to wake up Keyleth and ask the druid to provide clean water. In hindsight, maybe that wouldn’t have been a bad idea. Perhaps the other girls would also enjoy a cold shower after sweating all day.

The pants go next after making sure Scanlan is deeply asleep in his bedroll, and Pike bends and twists, stretching her small legs. The boots are easy and fast, and soon, she is wearing nothing but her undergarments, allowing the breeze to cool off her fiery skin. Pike is not ashamed of her nakedness. She has been traveling with this group for so long, so many years on the road, sharing rooms and sleeping out in the open together. They all have shared baths too, either in the form of warm public spas or the cold rivers they cross. That is why she’s not worried when there’s movement ahead as a dark-haired head moves away from the redhead druid sleeping at its side. 

“Can’t sleep?” Pike asks him, sitting criss-cross with her back against a particularly gnarly trunk. Vax combs a hand through his hair, the colorful beads somehow silent as they clink on each other, and he sits by her side with a groan, stretching his legs in front of him. 

“It’s too damn hot.” He complains with a smirk. She’s too damn hot, he doesn’t say. 

They sit in silence for a while and even sitting down, Pike’s head reaches no higher than Vax’s shoulder, so she has to turn her entire body sideways and up to see his face. Vax is staring at the open sky above them, and Pike is sure the twinkling light of the stars is reflected in his dark eyes, although she can’t see it. 

“I forgot how beautiful the night sky can be,” He whispers, just barely loud enough for her to hear.

“I know. We became too comfortable in Scanlan’s mansion.”

“Pickle?”

“Yes, string bean?” Pike smiles to the sky at the term of endearment.

“Will you keep an eye on them?” Vax’s voice is low and sorrowful, and Pike’s heart clenches in her chest.

“I won’t have to.” 

“We don’t know that, and they will need you, Pickle.” Vax turns, bending his body slightly so he can look into her blue eyes. There is sadness in his expression, but at the same time, there is comfort and resignation. Vax knows he will have to leave them one day, he doesn’t know when or why, but he can feel it within his bones ever since he took that deal. “You are a light in our lives. You bring us all such joy, and when–”

“If.” She corrects him.

“If I go, I want to know they will not be alone.”

Pike looks at the other two women lying on the other side of the clearing. Keyleth’s soft breaths puff a string of red hair out of her face, but she looks calm and relaxed. Not far from her, Vex buries her head in Percy’s neck, her braid falling to his chest. 

“Not just them,” Vax follows the gnome’s gaze with a pang in his heart as his eyes fall on his girlfriend and sister. “All of them.”

“I promise,” She tries to convey as much honesty and reassurance.

Percy’s guilt for not being able to do something about the deal, for being responsible for Vex’s death in the first place, is something Pike knows will take the front seat in his heart if Vax has to leave them. Scanlan, who so often tries to hide his feelings behind jokes and music, will do just that, and Pike has to make sure he knows that it’s okay to feel things, to share his real emotions, and not hide them. Grog, their mighty Goliath whose heart is made of cotton candy, will be the hardest one to convince that no, we cannot follow Vax this time. He has to go on his own. Of course, Vex will have Percy to lean on and help pick up the pieces of her broken heart, but she will still try to be there for her friend when her guilt forbids her from going to him. Pike knows she will suffer and that her heart will break, but she takes solace in knowing that helping her friends through it will help her as well. It’s Keyleth she worries about the most. Keyleth, who is destined to live longer than history, will watch her friends die before the first signs of wrinkles show on her face. Pike doesn’t know what to do, how to be her light and guide her through that darkness, but she will try, and she will do her best for as long as she lives. 

“Can I do your hair?” Vax breaks the silence. Pike assents and moves to sit between his legs in a position familiar to both.

Vax undoes her braid softly, combing his fingers through her hair to rid it of knots, and Pike’s shoulders relax. He parts her hair in two and slowly starts twisting one side, creating a bun above her ear and tying it with a piece of leather. He repeats on the other side, and by the time he’s done, Pike’s lids are heavy with sleep.

“I’m getting sleepy,” She mumbles, letting her head fall to one side.

“Go lay down, Pickle. I’ll take the watch.”

Pike gives Vax a quick hug, trying to pour into it all of the affection that she has for her friend and reassurance that everything will be okay.

As Vax looks up to the night sky, now just him and the shadows of night, a light breeze flicks his hair, and a feeling of comfort and certainty fills his heart. He will have to go one day, but now he knows that they will not be alone, they will be taken care of, although it hurts to know he won’t be the one caring for them, and he says a silent thankful prayer to Serenrae for bringing the gnome into their lives.

[uenodivision]

Even at this late, the legendary birthday of Ueno's notorious sukeban hasn’t yet come to an end as she finds the package wrapped in a pink furoshiki lying peacefully inside the mailbox in front of her current residence.

To be precise; this kind of wrapping style has already become the trademark of a certain division in Kansai. So, it’s not so hard to guess who is the sender of this one peculiar present.

Unwrapping the cloth with curiosity, the first gift exposed to her sight is a bit small but attracts her eyes nonetheless; it’s the portable crimson bluetooth speaker with a cool retro design. With this little buddy, she can enjoy listening and even sharing her favorite tracks anytime and anywhere she wants! This is no doubt a gift from a certain music lover who lives in Nara.

And the other gift resting at the bottom is a box full of sakura mochi stuffed with anko (sweet red bean paste) and strawberry. Honestly, there are too plenty of them to eat alone. On the box, there is the message scribbled with cutesy handwritings. 

“My grandma might have been carried away for a bit. She also said you have reminded her a bit of her distant youth, and by the time I noticed; we have already made a lot of them more than we expected... Haha, may you share them with others as you please.”

P.S. Last time I was in Ueno, I picked some cherry blossoms from the park to make the Sakura Shiozuke (Pickled Cherry Blossoms) and I also used some of them in the recipe this time. Ehehe, sorry for picking them without any permission ~So, as an apology, please enjoy the taste of your hometown’s blossoms.”

—————————————————————

…Meanwhile at Harumatsuya, Nara City.

“Oh~ So this time YuuYu is the one who delivered the gifts? How rare of you going somewhere else outside of our town.” 

“Hasn’t you remembered? Yumeno-sensei has invited me for some chat, so I took that as an opportunity to relay our presents to Busujima-san and Norikoru-san.”

“Eh? And if I remember correctly, isn’t today also your—”

“...Tell that old man I won’t stop by his mansion today.”

“Woah, OKAY? Why are leaving so soon? Just so you know, me and my grandma are always happy to have you as our dinner guest. We can even throw a party at Saigo-san’s place. He may be a bit grumpy but I think he doesn’t mind letting us doing something nice for you at least once in a while.”

“Thanks for your kindness, Hi-chan. But I feel like going home today, so I’d sadly like to have a pass.”

“Hey—”

With no more explanation left to be said, his friend and division leader has suddenly left the shop with the unreadable emotion reflected in his eyes.

Truthfully speaking, the wagashi artist felt like his usually kind and upbeat bestie was acting a bit weird for today.

Ah, it seems like this day is going to be a long day after all...

Looking at the gifts that had arrived, Aranai smirked, particularly at the Bluetooth speaker. Ever since she had misplaced her iPod, she had been saving up to buy a new one. But she had never thought to buy a Bluetooth speaker, so this gift was unwelcome. And hey, it kept more money in her pocket.

"I'll have to remember to take this thing with me when I go driving," Aranai said, setting it off to the side as she looked at the mochi. Truthfully, the former rebel didn't care much for rice cakes. She's tried them, but could never develop a taste for them. Still, the guy or whoever was nice enough to drop them off, so she reluctantly took a bit of one.

"Hmm, not bad." She said as she bit into it again. "Maybe I'll leave some for Shisuta. She goes nuts for these things."

Finishing it off, the former Bōsōzoku placed the rest in a plastic ziplock bag and tossed it in her handbag. Walking outside, she smirked as she turned her new Bluetooth speaker onto a random song by 86. Still with a smirk on her face, she quickly ignited her engine before speeding off down the street into her city of Ueno.

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

These will be updated here and there. It’s likely that there’s some I won’t stick to when it comes to requests and even story ideas where they won’t fit.

He hates pickles. Anything that is green and smells that bad does not belong in the food section.  But he loves pickled pigs feet.

He likes sex but can easily live without it. 

He hasn’t been a virgin since his early teens (thanks to Merle and a handful of drug money)

It would take some serious, repeated encouragement and assurance (and a lot of time) before he’s comfortable having sex.

He is the type of guy that goes one step at a time, testing the waters. Making out, touching you, letting you touch him (slowly because his brain has been conditioned to flinch away). Everything would be through the clothes and then progress. Slow and steady wins the race.

He’s a switch. Sometimes, he wants all the say (so to speak) in the bedroom, watching you whimper and beg. Sometimes he just physically needs to give up control to balance the chaos. 

Rarely, when he’s extremely needy, he wants you to tell him he’s a “good boy” and praise him for how incredible he makes you feel. He’d never ask for it but when you call him that on accident, his reaction was quite telling.

He can easily go from gentle to rough. He would never want to hurt you. Squeezing your throat, slapping your ass, teasing your breasts, or leaving love marks with his teeth absolutely do not count as hurting you.

Consent is a huge deal to him.

He’s always been quiet during anything sexual; On the rare occasions he talks, it’s reassurances and quiet, gentle praise. Otherwise, grunts and whimpers and low growls are what you get until he’s about to orgasm.

However, sometimes he’s just so wound up, so needy for you, that he can’t help but moan loudly or call your name.

He always tells you he’s close to or has already started cumming. No real rhyme or reason. Maybe just his way of letting you know that you took him there.

He has a genuine dislike of cats. He doesn’t hate them by any means but if he had to pick an animal that was secretly plotting world domination, it’d be cats. 

He prefers boxer briefs. 

The only name brand clothing he ever owned was underwear because his junk deserves only the best. 

He’s superstitious, even if he pretends not to be. 

He doesn’t like giving his significant other pet names beyond “sunshine,” “pipsqueak”, or “woman.” Things that you find endearing regardless. On rare occasions, he’ll use “doll” or “darlin’.”

He secretly adores when you call him “baby” or “sweetheart.” Pretty much any endearment that labels him as yours.

He rarely (but it does happen) says “I love you.” He’s more of an actions guy and if you say it first, he’ll usually only say “me too” or rub his knuckles over your jaw.

He can’t sleep if his feet are hot. 

Spiders freak him out. 

He wears cords/laces around the bottom of his jeans to keep ticks out of his boots.

He hates showers, not because he just doesn’t like them. Being in a space with scars on display makes him feel vulnerable. The water touching the scars forces him to relive when he received them.

Contrary to popular belief, he does keep specific areas of his body acceptably clean, using the bathroom sink or river/lake/creek when he’s in the forest.

The dirt and grime that coat his skin is a grounding reminder of who he is, so he doesn’t completely lose himself in that dystopian world.

He has never hunted for sport, only for survival. He respects nature and what it provides.

He loves to read. His favorite book is The Outsiders.

He doesn't/wouldn't understand why his girl can't talk to him instead of a stranger. He would need some mental health education as the urging of Carol or Michonne before even remotely understanding. He wants to be supportive, first and foremost.

He fights tooth and nail to avoid getting "his head shrunk" but in the end, if it meant not losing his girl, he'd give in.

He is a horrible patient for physical ailments and even worse for mental ones.

He would 100% pass out while watching his partner give birth.

He would go above and beyond to give his kid everything he wished for as a child. He would risk life and limb for material objects: bikes, candy, stuffed animals.

[ceilingfan5]

🛒blupped jeans!

“So we’re, you know, two grown adult scientists,” Barry says, staring into the refrigerator. He could easily make a list of the things that are inside. It would not be a long list. “You’re even a really good cook.”

“Ya-huh,” Lup says, not looking up from the delicate Jenga-fication of the shit making their dining room table unusable. They’ve had three living room floor picnics in a row. Honestly it’s been nice to have dinner with her so…consecutively. “What’s the flattery for?” She slips with one of their bills, and the whole tower comes down, squashing a brown bag that might or might not have some kind of specimen in it. “Balls.”

“Not balls, no, not that I’m opposed,” Barry says thoughtfully, squatting, like maybe his perspective on the empty fridge is the problem. 

Itemized list: 

Pickles

Mustard

Kimchi that might be super, super expired, like chew through tires expired

Four kinds of energy drinks (should he list those separately? What kind of taxonomy is he working with here?)

One slice of ham

Limp zucchini, singular

The freezer is not much of an improvement:

Freezer burnt Ben and Jerry’s

Frozen meal Lup won’t eat (x4)

Slice of wedding cake (what’s the tradition supposed to be? Barry can’t remember and he’s too afraid to ask)

Shredded cheese

“We could make…ham…chos. Ham nachos. For one.” 

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” Lup winces, looking up from her playful disaster mess. “Like, bad bad?” 

“Well, we still have… mustard…zucchini…bull. It gives you wings, but you’ll regret it.” 

She laughs, and walks over to wraps her arms around his middle. She peers over his shoulder and sighs. “It’s time, isn’t it?”

He nods gravely. 

It’s Saturday, and the grocery store parking lot is packed, and both of them can smell impending doom like a tragedy at the comically large vat of acid factory. 

“We can do this,” Lup says. “Definitely,” Barry agrees. “We’ve got like, 5 degrees between us.”

“Five and three quarters.” 

“We even have a list this time. And it doesn’t just say ‘Food’.”

“In and out. Just, just enough for two weeks of meals. We don’t have to feed an army. And we only need a few treats.”

“Minimal, reasonable amount of treats,” Barry echoes. 

“We’re hot and smart and in love and this Safe-Way cannot defeat us.”

It’s one hell of a rallying cry, but does Lup immediately take the cart on a joy ride when they get inside? Of course. Does Barry overanalyze the produce to the point of overwhelm? If lottery tickets were that predictable, you could call them billionaires. Do they get three kinds of chips? Well, Barry mentioned nachos. It was unavoidable. 

Sure, by the time they get to the checkout, they know they’ve done a disaster problem. And they’re going to hurt for it. But also, they’re winded and red in the face from laughing and kissing between the aisles, and they’ve held hands to the point of the cart crashing into shelves at least three times, and Lup didn’t panic about food security and Barry didn’t wimp out and order pizza for the umpteenth time and they can afford it, and everything is okay. Good, even. 

“Every little moment with you is a sweet adventure,” he murmurs, kissing her hand. He’s still holding it tight. 

“Gross,” Lup says, after giggling so hard she snorted, red and freckled as a strawberry. “What are you, in love with me or something?”

“Yeah,” Barry says. “Bag our fifteen kinds of chips so we can leave this beastly den of fluorescent lights.”

[snackhobi]

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

Taehyung goes through a lot of different phases.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jesus Christ.

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

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

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

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

And then you have a miniature breakdown at Pickles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

… Anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

(You have the backbone of a chocolate éclair.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How’s your shoulder feeling?”

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

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

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

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

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

--

Your luck doesn’t last.

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

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

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

“What do you think sounds best?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He just shakes his head.

“Okay,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Taehyung?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(You’re going to die.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry.” He sounds genuinely apologetic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

(It’s not cool.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Better?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(What is he doing?)

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

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

“Taehyung.” Your voice is high and faint.

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

“Taehyung,” you repeat. Your voice shakes.

He hums, low and indulgent. “Yes?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(But.)

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

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

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

“Taehyung.” Almost pleading. 

“Yes, love?”

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

(You’re not.)

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

Before you can think, you nod.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Anything you want,” he murmurs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course you want to.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Let me move.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, Tae,” you beg. “More, please.”

“Whatever you want, sweetheart.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You got edible massage oil from your course?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You really are perfect,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, fuck—”

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

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

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

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

“‘M sorry,” he murmurs. 

You pause.

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

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

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

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

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

There’s a pause. “Really?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Taehyung?”

“Yes, angel?”

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

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

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

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

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

--

(“Hey, Pickles.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

taglist: @beyoncesdragon​

[nishiannoya]

You know exactly why they invited you out to lunch after finishing up the details on your group lab report. Sure you had become friends with them during the course of your working together, but you could easily read into the true reason behind their invitation.

For the past two weeks these guys can't seem to shut up about their dear friend Iwaizumi Hajime, or Iwa-chan as they so affectionately refer to him as. It starts as casual point outs in similarities between you and their friend ("Oh, Iwa-chan likes bike rides too!" and "I think Iwaizumi said he likes that band," and "You like big dogs? Iwa has the cuddliest German Shepherd!"), but eventually become so frequent that you can't help but to question why they keep mentioning this person.

You ask your roommates if they know anything about this guy, and through the power of social media, you're able to find a picture that jogs your memory. That's right, you had briefly met him at a party at the beginning of the school year. You had tried talking to him, and while you found him attractive, he was rather short with his answers that didn't leave you with much to work with in terms of a conversation, thus encouraging you to seek out more engaging company for the night.

Perhaps your lab group doesn't know of your past encounter with their friend and genuinely think that you two would make a good match. There is another hypothetical, that despite his less than stellar conversational skills, you had actually made an impression on him and he's mentioned it to the other guys. It's a flattering idea, and while you wouldn't be so bold as to assume the latter, the thought makes you a little giddy - he's quite handsome after all.

So you agree to go to lunch with them, and to no surprise, the much talked about Iwa-chan is waiting for them at the restaurant. The other guys less-than-subtly crowd together on one side of the table, leaving you to sit next to their friend. You try to play it cool, though it's tough when you take note that he seems bulkier than you remember and the sleeves of his shirt seem to squeeze at his biceps as he scans the menu. You ask him what he's going to order and he keeps it short, just as you remember, by simply replying, "A burger."

Thankfully, the rest of the guys are rambunctious enough to keep you from feeling too pressured to keep trying to talk to him. He's a lot more lively with them, full of sharp insults that are seasoned with a hint of endearment, and funny facial expressions that quickly fall back to neutral whenever he glances at you studying him. The meal goes by fairly quick, though it seems painfully slow as you feel a little guilty for not hitting it off with the guy next to you. But something catches your eye, something leftover in his basket amongst the crumbs of fries and smear of ketchup.

"Can I eat your pickle?"

Oikawa spits out his drink, Mattsun starts wheezing with laughter, while Makki slaps the table as he tries to repeat your question between gasps.

Well, fuck.

You didn't mean it like that.

Iwaizumi looks at you with wide eyes, but his face is otherwise blank and unreadable. The back of your neck heats up from how dumb your question sounded. He definitely thinks you're awkward now. Why do you have to be so weird.

However, he clears his throat and nudges the red plastic basket towards you.

"Yeah," he sighs, face burning as he refuses to make eye contact with anyone, "you can eat my pickle."

You'll be teased for weeks about when you're going to "eat Iwa's pickle," but it won't stop you from running over to talk to him whenever you see him about campus. And even though there will still be some pauses in your interactions, you'll find he's a lot easier to engage when you know that you make him flustered.

[ahkaahshi]

steadfast [miya osamu x reader]

pairing: miya osamu x fem reader + miya atsumu x reader x suna rintarou

genre: smut (18+)

warning(s): explicit sexual content, group sex (threesome), cuckolding, dirty talk, swearing, praise, daddy kink, deep throating, squirting, brief mentions of jealousy, and just a lil bit of that competitive spirit ya know?

word count: 4.3k

overview: after years of witnessing suna and atsumu shamelessly flirting with his girlfriend, he decides to give them one chance to change her mind knowing damn well she won’t.

By nature, Osamu is observant. Few things escape his attention, whether it’s trace amounts of ice cream disappearing from his tub in the freezer or the longing look you always give him moments before you press your lips against his in an affectionate kiss. Though he wants to pay full attention to the intense game of Super Smash Bros.a few of his former teammates are playing, he can’t help but let his eyes wander to your form as you shuffle into the kitchen to grab another beer. It’s not for you, but for his twin brother who places a lingering touch against the small of your back upon accepting it.

To the untrained eye, the action would appear as a gesture of appreciation and nothing more. But Osamu understood his brother well enough to know that he’d always had a habit--or intention, rather--of being handsy with you. His dark, stone-colored gaze quickly flicks back to the game on the television, however, when you saunter over to him to lean down and place a gentle kiss against his temple.

“Need anything, babe?” you ask, (e/c) eyes tracing over the handsome features of your boyfriend’s face.

He shakes his head and assures you, “Just ‘cause this is our place, don’t mean ya hafta play hostess, y’know.”

“I know,” is your cheerfully spoken response before you turn your attention to the chaos unfolding on-screen. “Damn, who knew Kita-san was good at video games?”

Aran, who overhears your comment, laments, “Not me. This guy acts like it’s his first time holdin’ a controller ‘nd then proceeds to give us an ass-beatin’!” That deceptively sweet smile you’d seen many times before soon spreads across Kita’s lips as he casts it in your direction. Moments later, you notice his chosen character catapult Aran’s off the side of the screen, making the man sigh and hand his controller over to a somewhat unsettled-looking Ren.

The exchange makes you laugh, and your amusement quickly spreads to Osamu, who smiles as he pecks your cheek. “Why don’tcha come sit down, honey?” he suggests, patting his knee and slowly pulling you closer by giving your hand a gentle tug.

“Later. I’m gonna go talk to Rin real quick.”

Giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze, you back away and dart past the television to where Suna’s standing on the balcony outside. Osamu doesn’t miss the lazy grin that tugs at the corners of his friend’s mouth when you greet him and seat yourself on the chair beside him. Though he’s noticed how much of your attention Suna must’ve been aiming to steal away the entire evening, he doesn’t comment or intervene. Instead, he sends a sideways glance at Atsumu, who plops down on the couch beside him, pops another sliver of pickled plum into his mouth that Kita brought with him, and returns his attention to the game onscreen.

It’s not until later that he decides to speak on the issue, when everyone’s left the informal team reunion but Atsumu and Suna. As you’re scanning the apartment for any trash that may have been forgotten—though there’s not much to find since Kita and Aran scolded anyone who so much as left their drink unattended—you find yourself tripping over the rug sprawled across the wooden floor. Atsumu, who’s seated on the couch nearby, avoiding any tasks associated with cleaning up while tapping through his own Instagram story, quickly extends his arms towards you to steady you as you stumble towards him.

Feeling his hands on your hips and hearing him say, “Careful, there, girly,” brings a rush of heat to your neck and face.

“Thanks, ‘Tsumu!” you chirp quickly, pushing yourself away from the couch with haste.

“Anytime, hon,” is his nonchalant response. Normally, you wouldn’t think much of it because he’d developed a habit of giving you affectionate names over the years you’d known him, but, in this situation, his reply has you glancing over your shoulder at Osamu. Though he remains silent and focused on the task at hand, that quiet but dominating presence of his is intense. You know his brother’s actions are hardly going unnoticed, so you hustle into the kitchen to start cleaning the dishes Kita had neatly piled in your sink—which you’d had to practically beg him not to clean for you by insisting that he was your guest.

Osamu’s dark gaze narrows at his brother in a silent warning once you’re occupied again. Atsumu, being competitive and provocative as ever, simply raises an eyebrow at him as a challenge. However, both their attention soon snaps to you when they hear you and Suna snickering about something that must’ve been just hilarious while he helps take care of the dishes. Jealousy isn’t an emotion Osamu’s entirely used to, seeing as he’s always been secure in his relationship with you, but knowing the types of things his friend and his brother have said about you in confidence before the two of you started dating makes a flicker of it burn within him.

Finally, he speaks, not even attempting to hide the curtness to his tone when he questions, “Why don’t the two of ya just fuck ‘er already?”

The silence that befalls the house following his outburst is deafening, and you freeze in your act of handing Suna another plate to stick in the dishwasher. The three of you collectively turn your gazes to him, though theirs clearly portray an intrigue to learn more about what he means.

“What’re ya sayin’ that for, ‘Samu?” Atsumu asks rather coyly, leaning forward and placing his elbows on his knees.

However, your boyfriend isn’t having any of his twin’s attitude tonight, since he retorts, “Don’t fuckin’ act like ya don’t know what I’m talkin’ about. I know you’ve been wantin’ her for years now. I see the way you both fawn over her whenever I bring ‘er around.”

“Baby…” you coo softly and dry your hands so you can approach him.

The daggers he sends sticking into you with a sharp glance in your direction stops you in your tracks, though, as do his words. “What? It’s not like yer doin’ anythin’ to stop it.”

You swallow thickly, your eyes sinking to the floor as shame wells up inside of you at the truth his statement holds. You had never intentionally flirted with either of them, but you hadn’t done anything to put an end to their advances. Even though Atsumu and Suna were close friends of yours—and had been since high school, when you’d first met them along with Osamu—you knew they’d both harbored feelings for you at some point over the years. Part of you didn’t stop them because you hadn’t wanted to think the worst, which was that they still had any remnants of desire for you when you were clearly in a committed relationship with Osamu.

However, as you look around and find yourself the subject of not one but three hungry sets of eyes, you realize that they’ve still been hunting you regardless of the fact. “’Samu, I—”

“Do ya wanna let ‘em fuck you?” he interrupts. The fire you can sense burning behind his ash-colored eyes robs you of a response, so he adds, in a softer tone, “’S okay if ya do.”

Atsumu chuckles, “Might not wanna give ‘er the chance since she might rethink her decision about who she chose.”

Without thinking, you shake your head diligently and argue, “I would never leave him.”

“So, is that a yes, then?”

As you take a moment to ponder his inquiry, you notice Osamu moving closer to you before he takes your face in his hands. Tenderly, he kisses your cheek and leans towards your ear so he can murmur, “Why don’tcha let ‘em live out their li’l pipe dream for one night, (f/n)? You’ve got nothin’ ta lose, since I’m the one who suggested it in the first place.” A slow, shuddering breath escapes your lips when he adds, “In fact, I want you to do it. Show ‘em a good time; hell, enjoy yourself too.” He lets his finger run over the gentle curves of your neck, sending tingles down your spine. “I hope they make you feel good—or at least try to, since I know there’s no way they’ll be able ta make you squirt like I can, pretty baby.”

His words quickly fill your core with heat, and you’re consenting with an enthusiastic nod without so much as another thought. A small smile ghosts across his lips for a moment before he gives you a gentle nudge in the direction of the hallway leading to your bedroom, silently telling you to lead the way. Even though your body’s abuzz with excitement at what you’ve willingly gotten yourself into, you can’t help but feel somewhat sheepish at being the subject of three intense gazes. Having them follow you down the narrow hallway makes it somewhat hard for you to breathe, but it’s not long before they’re finding more physical ways of taking your breath away.

Upon entering your bedroom, Atsumu’s the first to paw at your shirt, taking the soft fabric in his grip so he can pull it over your head. Your bra is unclasped moments later and tossed aside haphazardly before you’re pushed onto the bed. The suddenness of your body hitting the mattress makes you squeal, eliciting a low chuckle from Atsumu as he leans over you and captures your lips in a surprisingly tender kiss. While your eyes are closed, you can feel one set of fingers trailing lightly along your sternum while another pair of hands tugs at your pants before removing them, along with your embarrassingly wet panties.

“Mm,” Suna hums gently, pressing his lips to the inside of your thigh, “Soaked already?”

“Lemme feel.” The fingertips grazing the expanse of skin between your breasts soon travel down closer to your core, plunging inside and emerging coated in your essence. A soft whine escapes your mouth at the fleeting sensation of being somewhat filled, and you watch with half-lidded, (e/c) eyes as Atsumu slides his fingers into his mouth. “Just as sweet as I expected,” he comments before placing another passionate kiss against your lips so he can swipe his tongue along yours to give you a taste. “What did ‘Samu say that gotcha all worked up, honey?”

From where he’s sitting on a chair across from the bed, Osamu grunts, “None of yer damn business. And don’t call ‘er honey.”

Suna understands why Atsumu’s attempts at using this pet name for you are futile when he sees the way you clench around nothing at hearing it leave Osamu’s mouth. “’Samu,” you whimper softly and look in his direction. In spite of the way Suna and Atsumu’s hands feel against your skin, you’re still pining for the familiarity of your boyfriend’s touch. Eager to bring you back to the matter at hand, Atsumu turns your face back towards him and occupies your lips once more.

Meanwhile, Suna sets himself to running his fingers through your glistening folds and pleasuring your sensitive spot, making you moan into Atsumu’s mouth. When his digits venture inside of you, your hips instinctively buck against them, desperate for the thumb you know he’s intentionally keeping away from your clit. “Keep making those pretty sounds, baby,” Suna coaxes, using his free hand to palm his erection through his pants. Between him thrusting his long fingers into your core and Atsumu pinching your nipples with his, it’s not long before you feel the knot in your stomach threatening to come undone.

What pushes you closer to the edge is the smooth, wetness of Suna’s tongue dragging over your slit. “Rin!” you squeal, grinding your hips against his face to get as much contact with his mouth as you can. He squeezes your thighs gently, holding them in place over his shoulders where he kneels on the floor at the side of the bed. At hearing his name leave your mouth between kisses from Atsumu, he rewards your behavior by flattening his tongue against your clit and licking in broad stripes. Suddenly, a wave of ecstasy crashes over you, reducing you to a moaning mess as you cling onto Atsumu’s arms and squeeze Suna’s head between your thighs.

Your wanton cries have all three men in the room mesmerized. However, their awe quickly transforms into something more animalistic, and, in your ecstasy-induced haze, your body is nothing more than putty in their hands as they maneuver you into a different location and position on the bed. You’re vaguely aware of your own hands reaching for Atsumu’s shirt to remove it before unzipping his pants so his erection can spring free.

As you move closer to him to take his cock in your mouth, Atsumu grabs a fistful of your (h/l), (h/c) hair to keep you from doing so. “Oh, sweetheart, I love how eager you are to suck me off, but I’m dyin’ ta see whose cock you like better: mine or ‘Samu’s.” Osamu growls with irritation at this comment but feels his dick throb painfully at knowing what he’s about to witness. With that said, he relinquishes his grip on your strands of hair so that he can readjust your position, bringing you face to face with the tent in Suna’s pants.

This time, it’s him who’s threading his fingers amongst your locks, but with a much gentler and more affectionate grip than Atsumu’s, and his sandy-colored irises fasten on you as you work on unzipping his fly to give him some relief. If anything, knowing he’d just brought you to an orgasm with his mouth spurs you on to use yours so you can do the same for him. The way you eye his erection hungrily once you’ve freed it from the confines of his pants has him tugging your hair backwards to tilt your chin up towards him. He’s always wondered what it’s like to kiss those delicate lips of yours, and they look far too delectable—slightly swollen from Atsumu’s bruising kisses and glistening with the saliva he can see dripping off your tongue—for him to show any restraint now that he’s been given a free pass to do so.

“Are you gonna be good and take all of it?” he wonders, his mouth brushing against yours with each word. Your diligent nod earns you a deep kiss, and you moan into his mouth at the feeling of his tongue trailing along yours, carrying the taste of you. “Gonna drool all over my dick for me with that pretty, little mouth of yours?”

You’re barely able to let out a breathless, “Yes,” before his lips are over yours once more. But, just as quickly as his onslaught of kisses started, he’s pulling away and moving your head down south. Saliva collects in your mouth at the sheer size of him, and you cast him a demure glance up at him through your eyelashes as you lick a long trail from the base to the tip, causing a low groan to rumble in his throat.

At feeling the head of Atsumu’s cock teasing your sensitive clit, a whimper rolls off your tongue. “I’m gonna fuck this sweet, little pussy of yours so good, (f/n),” your boyfriend’s twin murmurs, his hands moving your hips so he can push the tip inside of you, “so you’d better take it like a good girl.”

“Don’t hurt ‘er, dumbass,” Osamu barks, the hand he has shoved down his sweatpants coming to a halt at the thought of your comfort being compromised by his brother’s greed and desire to show off. “She’s sensitive.”

“Oh?” Atsumu challenges as he inches more of his cock inside of you, making you remove your mouth from Suna’s dick to mewl loudly and drop your head towards the comforter. “It’s ‘cause yer not used to bein’ filled up are ya, sweetheart?” Another lascivious cry from you is stifled by the thick duvet when he snaps his hips against yours, sending himself deeper into your clenched core. “Don’t worry; I’ll take care of ya in all the ways ‘Samu can’t.”

Osamu’s face burns ever so slightly with humiliation and anger, but he finds he can’t tear his gaze away from the scene before him. He watches in silence as Atsumu’s fingers dig into the supple skin on your rear and snake around your hips, pulling you closer to him as he sheathes more of his cock in your greedy cunt. Then, his eyes are darting to where your pretty lips are wrapped around Suna’s dick, eyes gazing upwards at him in an affectionate manner that he thought was only reserved for himself.

He feels as if he should be enraged by the whole situation—by the way he’s being forced to sit and watch while his brother and his friend fuck your pussy and your mouth, respectively—but he isn’t. In spite of being excluded and having derogatory remarks thrown his way by Atsumu like daggers, he loves it. He loves every moan of their names that leaves your mouth because of how good they’re making you feel, as well as the hungry looks in their eyes at how good you’re making them feel. Because no matter what his twin says about how he’s “gonna make ya feel better than ‘Samu ever will,” he knows he’s wrong. In a scenario where Osamu should be the one feeling inferior, his ability not to lose sight of what he knows is the truth is what keeps the warmth burning in his stomach.

No matter how much you drool all over Suna’s cock while he thrusts deeply into your mouth, batting your eyelashes at him each time he sends a compliment your way, he knows whose pants you’re pulling down after he’s had a long day at work. Even as Atsumu’s hips snapping against yours reap a myriad of mewls or moans from your mouth that bring a self-satisfied smirk to his face, he’s confident that you’ll always be louder for him. Nobody knows how to treat you quite like Osamu does, and nobody knows how to fuck you like he does either.

So, as he slowly strokes himself off to the sight before him, he’s able to ignore the sting of every off-handed comment thrown his way and the sound of you begging Atsumu for more in the moments when Suna’s dick isn’t down your throat. He might as well let them have all the fun they want with you, seeing as it’ll be their last time doing so. He only intended to give them a taste of how good you are as a way of getting back at them for all of their shameless advances towards you in the first place. What’s better revenge than giving them something amazing that they can only remember, but never recreate? Nothing, he thinks.

“Lemme cum inside ya, pretty girl,” Atsumu coos, though his voice is raspy from his heavy breathing as he slams into you. Removing your mouth from Suna’s dick with a loud pop, you shake your head, making them both look at you with raised eyebrows. “Why not?” he asks.

Osamu nearly finishes on the spot when you whine, “Only ‘Samu can.”

Atsumu shoots his brother a withering look that he beats down with a smirk but obeys your wishes anyway. “Whatever ya want, princess,” he murmurs, placing a gentle kiss against your spine before continuing to thrust into you at a breakneck pace that has you crying out with ecstasy in no time.

Your breathy moans sending vibrations along Suna’s dick have him finishing inside of your mouth, and you swallow his seed as you sink into the bed once more. Atsumu’s hands keep your hips flush against his as he plunges into your spasming core until he can hardly take the sensations your body’s offering him anymore. Once it gets too much for him to handle, he obediently pulls out of you and cums on your back, spreading warmth along your skin and eliciting another whimper from you.

As you come down from your highs, you feel Suna’s long fingers stroke the side of your face affectionately, as if trying to communicate the praises he can’t find the words for. Meanwhile, Atsumu takes one last look at your back coated in his release before grabbing a tissue and cleaning you up. “So,” he mentions, interrupting himself to place a gentle kiss against the nape of your neck, “whaddya think? Did we change your mind?”

There’s not even a moment of hesitation before you shake your head and reiterate, “I’ll never leave him.” The soreness you feel settling into your body does nothing to quell the warmth in your belly, especially with the way Osamu’s gazing at you hungrily from his seat at the other end of the room. It’s almost as if your body moves by itself as you get up from the bed and shuffle over to him so you can seat yourself in his lap. “I want you, baby,” you breathe as your arms instinctively wrap around his neck.

A shit-eating grin appears on his lips as he places his hands on your waist, pulling you closer to him. You moan softly at the bulge in his pants pressing against your sensitive entrance as he mentions, loudly enough for the other men in the room to hear, “How cute. Even after getting’ fucked by them two, ya still only wanna be stuffed full of my cum, huh?”

“Please.” Your plea escapes you in a soft whine when he bestows a fleeting kiss against your lips. He hums into the tender skin on your neck, eyeing Suna and Atsumu over your shoulder while he does so as if to clearly convey to them who’s won this challenge. However, his silent gloating is soon put to an end when you wriggle your hips against his, move your face closer to his ear and beg, “Please, daddy.”

In an instant, he’s barking at Suna and Atsumu to get off the bed so he can push you down onto it. “So good for me, honey.” Osamu’s loving words have you clenching around nothing as he shoves off his sweatpants and positions himself at your entrance. “Shoulda never doubted ya. I know how much you love me, don’tcha, baby girl?” he muses, flooding you with heat once more.

“Mm!” you chirp enthusiastically, “I love you so much, ‘Samu.”

His smooth voice becomes ever so slightly strained as he pulls your hips towards him, slides his cock into your warm, velvety core, and replies, “I love you too, (f/n).” Having him inside you once more brings you a pleasant sensation of comfort that you felt as if you’d been missing earlier, and you reach for one of his hands. Sensing your desire to be more connected with him, he wraps his fingers around yours and presses the back of your hand against the mattress beside your head.

You moan softly at being filled once more when he bottoms out inside of you. Glancing over at where Suna and Atsumu are sitting nearby, he comments, “Ya feel so good, honey,” and increases the volume of his voice before adding, “it’s like yer sweet, li’l pussy was made for me, wasn’t it?”

“Just for you, daddy,” you agree with a small smile, eliciting a low groan from him and spurring him to start thrusting into you with long, deep strokes. From where he’s standing at the edge of the bed, he’s able to lift your hips upwards to drive himself even deeper into you than he’s sure Atsumu could reach. Any overstimulation you felt initially has since been replaced by pleasure once more as he showers you with kisses accompanied by compliments that you confirm enthusiastically, earning you more of what you want.

“Why don’tcha tell ‘em whose cock ya love the most, baby girl?”

You cry out his name once.

“Who’s making ya feel so good right now?”

Twice.

“Who’s gonna make ya cum harder ‘nd faster?”

Thrice.

He leans down towards you to press those slow, passionate kisses against your lips that you’d missed so much, spreading your legs further and pounding into you with more speed. It’s clear he knows the map of your body that he’s made through experience like the back of his hand, since he’s able to hit that sweet spot within you time after time with more accuracy and precision than anyone else could. “Right there!” you cry, fingers dragging along the muscles rippling beneath the skin on his arms as your toes curl.

A few more thrusts send you over the edge again, and the strength of your orgasm is felt by every man in the room. Atsumu and Suna realize your cries are much louder than they were before, and Osamu smiles when he feels you squirt as your walls clench tightly around him. He doesn’t mind that you’re getting his clothes and the comforter covered in your essence—he only cares that he’s delivered the promise he’d made for you earlier. It’s not long before he reaches his high and fills you up with stuttering snaps of his hips and labored breaths. You moan breathlessly at the sensation of warmth inside your core, and let your head come to rest against the bed while he finishes inside of you.

As much as you want nothing more than to crawl under the sheets with him and rest, you’re reminded of your guests when Osamu casts his dark gaze in their direction. “Ya got whatcha wanted. Go home,” he announces, eyes narrowing at his twin brother who, along with Suna, are clearly still in awe at what they’ve witnessed. 

Turning back to you and planting a tender kiss against your collarbone while they rise to their feet and head for the door, Osamu adds deviously, “So much for rethinkin’ her decision, huh? Now ya know why she won’t.”

treat me to a coffee! ⭐︎ kinktober masterlist

taglists (see pinned post on my blog for form)

general: @dinablossom, @newfriendjen​, @devlovesramen, @ohbyunhunn, @aftcrlust, @mister-future, @kyleclxin​

osamu: @pretty-setters​, @misora-msby​, @why-aminot-dead​, @atsunakaashi​, @heyhinata​, @why-aminot-dead​

[mochisdoll]

hello can i request headcannons Chris Miyuki and Kuroamochi with a shy male s/o who is a bit of a shut in that draws and creates their own characters and storys. i thought this would be cute lol

Ayyy, three best boys were requested, although I might replace Miyuki with Sawamura

Shy Artist Reader Headcannons

Feat. Chris, Miyuki, & Kuramochi

Male reader, although I think I only used pronouns for MC like twice

Warnings: none

Chris

Thinks your art is the best he has ever seen, and he always makes sure you know this

Will cherish every piece of art from full art pieces to tiny doodles on your homework

Please just draw on his notes so when he studies he can see it and be reminded of you

He could listen to you ramble on about your plans for stories or character concepts

Loves just watching your face while you talk, only speaking up to show that he’s still listening

Favorite pastime is cuddling in bed with you while you tell him about your different characters

He’s pretty introverted as well, so staying shut in with you sounds like the perfect night to him

While he is also soft spoken, he’s willing to speak up for you

“Excuse me, he asked for no pickles”

He’s just the best boyfriend, and yes I’m very biased

100% supports and encourages your creativity, like who wouldn’t, you’re so talented

Miyuki

Lives for when you draw on his notes or his hands

Won’t let on much, but he thinks the doodles you leave on his papers are adorable and he probably hangs onto them

If I’m being honest, if someone talks too long about something non-baseball related I think his brain just shuts off

But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care or doesn’t try to listen!

When he does listen he retains almost everything you say and can repeat it back to you

Really just enjoys being in the same room as you as you draw and he does schoolwork

Would literally pick staying in with you over anything else on a Friday night (ok maybe not playing baseball but you’re a close second)

Since you’re shy he will definitely put words into your mouth if you’re too afraid to say anything

“Hey Kuramochi, (y/n) thinks you’re stupid and your batting needs work”

“Miyuki, take that back! I didn’t say that!!”

“He thinks you smell too!”

Kuramochi

He likes to draw a bit too, he’ll pass a note with a drawing on it to you for you to add on to, you pass it back, he adds on, and it continues on like that

It’s fun until a teacher confiscates the note and asks you to read it but it’s just a drawing of of mothman and Bigfoot playing poker with the Miyuki dressed as the devil

You sit behind him in class so he sits sideways at his desk to put one arm on your desk so you can draw on him

His arms are regularly covered in marker from either you or him doing it himself

He’s willing to listen to any and everything you have to say

If you tell him about a certain OC he’ll be able to remember that and be like “Is that the one with the different colored eyes?”

Does not mind you being shy because he can be outgoing enough for the both of you

Would rather stay in and play video games with you than go out on a Friday night

Probably over at your dorm constantly since you don’t leave it much, says it’s his favorite date spot