#really it kinda goes back and forth between the two of them

[pomefioredove]

having a crush on you

summary: how they would act having a crush on you type of post: headcanons characters: pomefiore (vil, rook, epel) additional info: reader is yuu, reader is gender neutral, rook is rook, not proofread, hi I'm insane and I love pining, I NEED to write another fic but with rook. might write this same prompt with other dorms

𝐕𝐢𝐥 𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐧𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐭

don't take his calm and collected facade as apathy

he's slowly losing his mind about this

"pacing back and forth, mumbling to himself, falling asleep thinking about you" kind of losing his mind

it's my personal belief that Vil hasn't been in love before this

hasn't even really thought about it

so when you enter the picture it kinda throws him off balance

and with the exception of Rook, no one can even tell

he is an actor, after all, he can play the part of "totally platonic friends with room for Jesus"

(maybe a little too well)

but Vil isn't entirely emotionally repressed

he keeps things to himself, yes, but he's quite conscious of his own wants and needs

so when he realizes he's been craving your presence more than usual he does acknowledge it

in his head

and then does nothing about it for months

...what? he's busy

things like this can wait for him, and he doesn't want to put a rift between you two in case it might be a passing feeling

well... it doesn't pass

he becomes keenly aware of how much he wants you around him, how much he thinks about you, how much your very presence is enough to make him happier than he's ever... really felt

and you know what?

he is totally cool about it.

just kidding. he drives himself insane trying to think of the perfect way to confess, something that will impress you and meet his standards

he's dropping hints left and right and you don't seem to be picking any of them up

which again, just makes him crazy

(some days he really wants to ask you how oblivious one person can be, but he restrains himself)

I mean, how many times can he send you red tulips before you finally get the hint? he's practically spelling it out for you!

there is... a tiny, little part of him that worries you don't reciprocate

is he not your type? are you interested in someone else? perhaps he'd been too harsh on you, after all...

the fact that one little potato can make him so worried absolutely drives him mad

he is the vision of poise and grace and you are ruining him

and this sort of mood comes and goes in waves

just when he thinks he's pulled himself back together, you'll smile at him or say something cute and suddenly he's back to square one

(you're so adorable it's annoying -_-)

while he's sorting out a good way to express his feelings properly, he'll be spending all his free time with you

you need some new things? he'll be glad to take you shopping

you came over to see Epel? oh, well, he's not here, but you should stay for some tea, anyway!

your afternoon is free? he has some new lip gloss he's been dying to test out...

𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐇𝐮𝐧𝐭

contrary to popular belief, I don't think Rook would be so open about it

he still compliments you, of course, and sings praises of your beauty and elegance, and has little regard for personal space, as always

but he's like that with a lot of people, so it's hard to really tell when he likes someone

the truth of the matter is that Rook Hunt can be just as reserved with his feelings as anyone else

when he really, really likes someone, he keeps it to himself

why?

he's hunting you he's learning more about you before making his true feelings known

he feels it's necessary to have an adequate amount of information on his target before making a move, after all

for reference: you catch his eye at orientation, and do not have a single conversation with him until after winter break

(of course, after that, you start mysteriously running into him everywhere)

is he kinda weird about it? uh. yeah.

this is Rook we're talking about

on the other hand, he's completely lovesick about you and it's almost cute

he's definitely the type to write your initials in a journal with a glitter pen while kicking his feet back and forth and giggling

seeing if you would sound better with his last name or he with yours...

definitely has a very weird photo collection of you somewhere in his room

along with stacks of poems, pressed flowers, and little gifts he intends to give you once he's won you over

(when, not if. Rook is nothing if not patient)

you may find a rose left outside Ramshackle every so often

or a few cans of tuna for Grim

all while acting like the same old eccentric Rook, no discernable difference

except when you can feel his eyes on you at random places in the middle of the day

Ace and Deuce call you paranoid but you can't shake the feeling

though, every once in a while he'll get a little grumpy

Rook is easily jealous, and while that sort of possessiveness never extended to untouchable idols like Vil and Neige, he's already decided that you're his prey

and he'd kindly ask everyone else to find their own, thank you

he hasn't exactly planned the confession yet, but just know it's probably going to be the sweetest and craziest you've ever heard

𝐄𝐩𝐞𝐥 𝐅𝐞𝐥𝐦𝐢𝐞𝐫

first of all he's going to fight you for making him like you so much

second of all he's going to beg for a chance

maybe not in that exact order

Epel is constantly at war with his own emotions and having romance thrown in the mix is. uh. not optimal

not only does it ruin the stoic, strong male persona he's been trying to build, but it's also making him feel all soft and gushy

suddenly he cares about looking nice

(much to Vil's approval)

and now he wants to do nice things for you?

he's gonna bite you

how dare you make him think about kissing and holding hands!

don't you know he's supposed to be above all this romantic stuff? what is he, Rook?!

then, after his initial temper tantrum, he starts coping. hard.

he might be able to stomach the idea of being an item if he gets to wear the pants in the relationship

...yeah, right? right.

if you let him be the man, if you let him protect you...

he might be okay with it!

obviously he starts trying to show off his manly strength (seriously) every time he sees you

starts making comments about how tough practice was on him

will literally never let anyone else carry anything for you ever again

he even provides for you (in payments of apple juice)

obviously this backfires 'cause the second you do something that gives him butterflies he's back to giggling

(you'll have to ease him into the idea of being soft and romantic together, but he'll get there)

but, to his credit, he'd be the first out of all the above to confess

super suddenly and out of nowhere (and he ends up shouting it cause he didn't want to sound chicken) but it's sweet in its own way

[eddiesxangel]

Eddie’s Fantasy | Knight!Eddie x Princess!Reader

Semi proof read. Based off this blurb

2.4k

CW: Roleplay, reader addresses Eddie as 'sir' but not in a dom way, more of a respect kinda thing... it goes with the roleplay, you'll get it. Pure porn with some plot, oral (m+f), p in v, unprotected sex, breeding/cream pie, f!reader.

Needy kisses were passed between the both of you. You and Eddie sat on your bed, his hands gripped your hips, guiding them back and forth over his strained cock that was trapped beneath the black fabric of his jeans.

"Tell me your fantasies, baby," cooed him as you twirled a piece of his hair and sat in his lap.

The sex is always great and amazing, but you feel like Eddie is holding back on you; there is something he wants to share with you but is too timid to admit it. You’ve only just started dating. You’re at the stage where he just asked you to be his girlfriend, and you can’t keep your hands off one another.

"I-I-" he stutters as his eyes drift to the book sitting on the opposite side of your bed.

You follow his eyes and look over to see the book you had been reading before Eddie came over. You observe the cover he is looking at; a knight carrying a princess as he saves her from her capturers.

"Oh, baby, you want me to dress up like a pretty princess?" You smile.

Eddie nods his head profusely, mouth agape.

"Are you going to be my knight in shining armour? Do you want me to reward you for saving me from the dragon?" you ask with no judgment in your tone.

You hear Eddie curse under his breath as his chest rises and falls rapidly.

"Have my tits all pushed up in a pretty pink corset for you?" You lean in to brush your plush lips against his skin. "You wanna watch how they bounce as I ride my knight in shining armour?"

"Y-yes," he stutters.

"Okay, baby, I can be your damsel in distress"

You had it all planned out: You found your old Halloween costume, which you embellished a little with a pink corset like you promised, some petticoats for volume, and some extra jewels to really sell it. You curled and pinned your hair with smaller braids, just as he liked it.

You arranged to meet him at eight. As you were fixing your makeup, you heard a light knock on the door. You don't need to let him in, as he has his own key.

“Hey babe,” he calls out into the empty living room, seeing you were not in sight.

“Eddie! Quickly im in here!” You say with urgency.

You can hear his sock-clad feet pad down the hardwood floors as he rushes in to investigate, but he stops dead when he sees what you’re wearing.

You quickly turn, and he can see everything, the pink and blue lacy gown adorned with a lace corseted bodice that your breasts are pushed so far up his dick was hard in an instant. He loved the dainty curls that fell by your pretty face. You looked like a fairy princess, and he swore that’s when he fell in love with you.

“Oh, Sir Knight, thank goodness you are here!” You flung yourself into his arms. I never thought I would be saved!” You cupped his confused face and kissed him passionately.

“Baby, what is?—”

“Shhhhh, the dragon is so very hungry, they said I haven't much time.” You look around your room frantically.

“Ohhhhhhh!” And then Eddie gets it, and holy shit is he excited.

You give him a look to not break character.

“Oh,” he clears his throat. “I’ve travelled far and wide trying to track you down, Princess. It’s been an awful long journey.” He takes your hands in his and brings them up between your two chests to kiss the back of it.

“How could I ever repay, Thee?” You bat your lashes at him.

“It is my duty as your knight to protect you, Your Highness.”

“There must be something?” You creep closer and closer to him, letting your hands twirl a loose tendril.

“Well, there might be one thing,” he chides.

“Yes, Sir Knight?” You speak as you lean into his neck, gently brushing away his curls so you can leave a soft kiss on his neck.

“Shit, that’s good,” he whispers as your mouth travels lower to his collar bone and your hand glides down to his already erect penis.

“I would like to express my gratitude, Sir. Can I?” You start palming him through his cotton pants.

“Y-yes, Princess, I’ll do anything for you.” God, he was such a simp.

You give a satisfied smirk and sink to your knees. Your dress pillows out, and Eddie can’t help but moan, seeing your breasts falling out of the corset at this angle.

“Fuck baby, you’re too good to me; I am not worthy.” he cups your face, and you nuzzle into it. You’d do anything for him.

“Anything for my knight in shining armour.” You bite your lip, gazing up at him; your doe eyes don’t break contact until your hands finally help his cock out of its cotton confines.

You hear Eddie take a sharp breath as your glossy lips touch his reddened tip. You can taste the salty pre cum as you place it in your mouth.

Eddie wants to grip your head so badly in his hands but doesn't dare, knowing you spent all this time preparing for him. To be his pretty Princess. Just the thought alone was going to make Eddie cream his pants.

Eddie watches, not wanting to blink; he can't miss a moment of this. Your perfectly outlined glossy lips swallowing down his cock, your beautiful eyes gazing up at him lovingly.

You break eye contact when you feel Eddie's bush tickle your nose. Trying to slowly breathe, you swallow down and hear your knight moan from above. Slowly, you pull back, tasting every inch of him on your tongue before you push your head back into him at a much quicker pace.

You pump your hot wet mouth on Eddie's cock, enjoying every minute. You loved having this hold over your boyfriend, as you were the only thing he was focused on in the world.

"You suck my cock so good," he hisses, trying not to cum just yet.

With a pop, you release his cock from your mouth and replace it with your hand as you move lower to suck on his balls. No longer caring about your makeup, you smear your face into the wet skink of his undershaft, needing to worship him like he deserves.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck" Eddie was so close, your hand was jerking his so smooth and fast he almost exploded, but he stopped you just in time.

"I need you, princess, please." He begged.

"How do you want me?" You stand back up, and Eddie flips you around so you're facing the bed. You walk over together, and Eddie instructs you to lie down on your back while he undresses.

He gently guides your head down on the pillow, ever the gentleman.

"Need to treat you like the Princess you are." he hums as he gently peels up your skirts layer by layer to see you're not wearing anything underneath.

Eddie could see your pussy was already soaked, his mouth watered, and as he got closer, he could smell your arousal, which drove him insane every time.

The sweet aroma filled his nostrils; he had to taste you. Slowly, his soft lips trailed the inside of your thigh, leaving small bites to claim you as his. He crept closer and closer until the small hairs from your mound tickled his nose.

You hear Eddie take a deep breath and inhale sharply as you watch his eyes flutter shut, finally satiated.

Your eyes are closed, soaking up the moment; you feel a hand trail up and squeeze your breast as the other circles your entrance. You move your hand to cup the one that’s cupping your breast and guide it so the fabric releases your nipple.

Eddie loved your taste so much he could bathe in it. His sloppy kisses make your mind go blank as his saliva and the mix of your slick coat your inner thighs, the bed sheets and his face. You open your eyes and can see his face is glistening. You're absolutely dripping for him.

"B-baby! Baby! Baby! Baby!" You chant as your breath quickens. He loves seeing your chest rise and fall as he looks up at you through his lashes. Your sweet moans are his newfound favourite genre of music.

His tongue flicking over your clit over and over and over. Nipping and sucking and swirling as your wriggle beneath him. His strong large hands have your hips pinned down as you try and grind your pussy on his face. His fingers are diving into your plush hips, and the rough stubble from his chin and upper lip only makes the feeling much better.

Your orgasm hits you and your cum it's like liquid gold on his tongue. Eddie doesn’t hesitate to lap up your cum leaking out of your hole catching every. last. drop.

"Such a good job for me," he hums into you, sending waves of aftershocks through you. You gasp into his eyes, swearing you’ve never felt so loved, even if you have yet to speak those three words to one another.

“I need you, please, Sir.”

Eddie has totally forgotten about the roleplay until now. He was so consumed, pussy drunk, that your words only had him aching for you all over again.

“Time to show me your gratitude, Princess.”

You sit up and make room for Eddie to lie down on the bed because your usual position was for you to ride him. He loved to watch your tits bounce, to latch on your nipples while you bounce on his cock like his little bunny.

You go to take off your skirts because Eddie loves to watch as he disappears inside of you, but this time, Eddie stops you from undressing.

“No, please leave it on.” He asked while stroking his cock. You watch as his big hands grip the shaft, only making your pussy clench around nothing. No longer could you wait; the anticipation was too much.

Bunching up your skirts the best you can, Eddie guides your hips to be aligned with his shaft. He nods, and you sink down while he pushes himself up into you.

The sight before him is enough to have him cumming instantly. Your tits are so far pushed up that they’re basically falling out of your top, your head is flung back, exploding your neck, daring him to mark, your dress falls as you grip his shoulder for balance, and he is enveloped fully inside of you.

“Fuck you’re so tight.”

“You’re so big, I’m so full,” you moan as you raise yourself on your knees so you can ride him.

“You’re so perfect, my perfect Princess,” Eddie mumbles, leaning in so he can press his face in your chest. You start off slow, building up speed with each bounce.

A loud moan leaves your throat in reply to his praises.

Eddie is consuming you; even if he’s under you, you’re being devoured by him. His hands, his mouth, his thick long cock filling you so good you’re about to cry from the pleasure.

“Gotta take what’s mine,” he grits before he pushes the both of you up, and you land on your back, and he’s hovering over you. Quickly he pounds into you, eyes not veering from your chest as he watches your tits bounce.

“Are you mine, Princess?” His hips slap so hard into you that you feel his balls slap you with each hard thrust.

“Yours! All yours!”

Eddie swears his heart melts when the admission leaves your lips. He’s always waited for a girl like you to come around. Now you’re here, doing this for him and enjoying it? He never thought he’d be here with you.

“More,” you moan

“Not good enough for you, your Highness?”

“I-I-I,” you can’t speak, but Eddie knows what you need.

“Gonna fill up this pussy so good.”

Before you know it, you’re being flipped around, and your head is pressed so far into the mattress your neck is craned, and it hurts, but you pay no mind because Eddie has you propped up on your knees, your dress is flipped up, and you’re all spread out, and he is ravaging you with his mouth once more.

His nose pressed into your ass as he tongue fucks you.

Your moans are muffled by the plush pillows your face is stuffed into. A small wet patch is forming on it from your drool. Your eyes are rolled back, and you're in absolute heaven.

Eddie's hot wet tongue runs up your soaked slit before he pulls back with a moan before he breathes you in as his face is drawn to your pussy like a magnet.

“More” you need his cock once again. Nothing will be able to satisfy your needs.

“You want more Princess? You want me to fill up this pussy so good your belly will swell with my seed?

“Yes!” Your white knuckle grip on the pillow almost tears it apart.

"Mmmmm, that's my good girl. Tell me what you need. " he encourages as your mains rip from your throat.

“You, My Knight! You, you, you!” Your pussy clenches over nothing once more.

You're so close that you feel it building up more and more until you break. Eddie feels you quivering beneath him, and he pulls away and quickly inserts himself before you feel a sharp slap on your ass.

“Eddie!”

Nothing pleases him more than to hear you blissed out because of him.

“Oh, Princess!” He cried, flinging his head back, fucking you with reckless abandon.

Your legs almost give out as your body shakes with ecstasy. You can’t hold it any longer; everything is Eddie, everything is beautiful. Eddie, Eddie, Eddie, Eddie. You hadn’t even released. You were changing his name as your pussy clamps down on his cock like a vice.

Uneven thrusts continuously pound into you until you feel the grip of Eddie’s fingers dig into your flesh so hard as he cums deep inside of you, you squeak, and Eddie loosens his grip immediately.

“Need you,” you slur mindlessly.

“You got me, Princess.” You both collapse on the bed, and Eddie's weight is comforting.

“And they lived happily ever after?” You try and roll over to look at Eddie; he pushes up and but so you can roll back over.

He kisses your nose. “And they lived happily ever after.”

Tagging some mooties: @jamdoughnutmagician @littlexdeaths @voyeurmunson @ceriseheaven @munson-blurbs

[leovenuslatina]

BÉSAME

──★ ˙ ̟🍷 !!

THIS READING IS 18+ MDNI !!!!!

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

what you do that turns your FS on?

🔮

₊˚⊹ ᰔ౨ৎ₊this is just a reminder that tarot isn’t permanent or set in stone YOU decide how your life goes no one or nothing else now take a deep breath and choose the pile that calls to you ₊˚⊹ ᰔ౨ৎ₊˚⊹

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pile one - six of wands , queen of cups

🍀

you’re like really popular and that turns your FS on that you don’t mind being the center of attention and how many people love you make them love you that much more. you’re everyone’s favorite person including your FS. your FS loves how much you are true to yourself and how authentically you. what turns them on is how everyone wants you but he’s the only one that can have you 😏. you radiate high self esteem and how good you feel about yourself makes them feel that much better about themselves. what turns them on is how caring you are and how when i’m bed together you are very skillful in attuning life to his needs. you’re someone who is nurturing and healing to be around and a master with your hands for some reason your touch is like hypnotic to him you can literally make him do anything you want just by one look or touch. what turns him on is how well you take care of yourself yes you nurture and care for those around you but you but even more or just as much care into yourself and that’s really sexy to your FS because you give like a blueprint for how he can come in and take care of you.

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pile two - the world , page of wands

🌍

what you do that turns your FS on is how adventurous you are like you’ll literally try anything with them 😜 if you know you know ;)you’re seriously down for whatever when it comes to freak town w your FS lol he loves how you’ll throw out kinky ideas for the two of you to try and do in the bedroom. he’ll be really turned on when you buy books or send him articles about different sexual positions or just things to try to spice up y’all’s sex life. the two of you might also send freaky vids back and forth to each other like what you want to do to each other because you guys are just kinky freaks(in a good way ofc). one or both of you might be extremely hyper sexual and like will literally try to hump each other anywhere the two of you are i’m talking parties, events , bars , clubs you literally don’t care. but it turns your FS on how much you’re all over him and how much you not only tell him but SHOW him how attracted to him you are. your FS loves what a bubbly person you are and how you’re always moving and going and how impulsive you are being with you is literally a huge thrill for your FS.

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pile three - knight of swords, page of pentacles

⚔️

to turn on your FS you are very very bold ! when you want him you go for him whenever kissing him all over even peeling off clothes like you deadass don’t care even if you’re in front of people you don’t care ! you’re the type of pda couple that makes everyone else uncomfortable 🤭 (in a good way tho) he loves what a go getter you are . you may even be a little spicy and feisty and your FS finds that very hot you don’t put up with any bullshit and when you have an attitude he’s very turned on lmao. you’ll never do what you don’t want to and you know exactly what you want and that’s exactly what you get no matter what. your FS truly admires that you’re kinda stubborn and headstrong you are. you’re very quick moving and you go for things that most people might find impossible but you dgaf. i’m seeing this relationship between the two of you might also have gone fast because of you not being afraid to take things to the next level with your FS and they really appreciate you taking the lead on that. another thing that turns them on is your luxurious aesthetic and being with you feels like being on a vacation. you always look so pretty and taken care of and relaxed and he loves that about you.

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💘 for paid private readings dm me 💘

1 question - $15

2 questions - $20

3 questions - $30

long channeled message - $90

plzzz no questions about health or death ☠️

[mxtantrights]

Hello there, ‘tis I again! Soo happy you enjoyed the boxer!jason request!! I know, i love him too :)))

Today i bring forth another boxer!Jason ask, maybe you introduce him to your friends and they can’t see past the fact he kinda looks like a brute (even tho he’s such a big softie, i truly believe this man reads romeo and Juliet while waiting to get on the ring), and so at the end of the night he’s feeling insecure cause he could see how your friends looked at him and he starts wondering if they are right and you deserve someone who’s softer and more approachable. And obviously reader shows him just how amazing he is!!

Today i yearn for some good hurt/comfort, if you couldn’t tell lol

Hope you have fun writing this one!! Marvellous works 🩷🩷

Everything goes right before the two of you get there. Thats how Jason knows something is gonna go wrong at this hang out. You told him all week that if he felt like not going, you could cancel. But he didn't want it to seem like he was blowing your friends off. So he trudged through.

He trudged through and is sitting side by side with you in a booth. And three of your friends are crowded into the other side of it. They've had a couple of drinks before you came. You weren't really in the mood to play catch up so you stick to your one while Jason goes dry because he's driving.

They have conversations about the recent news, the latest gossip, and then they ask about your life. Particularly your life with Jason. You start gushing about him, as if he isn't there, and tell them about how you met and how he treats you.

"This guy? This six foot tall, three hundred pounded brick wall?" one of them asks.

You scoff, "How he looks has nothing to do with how he treats me."

"Yeah, but doesn't he-don't you box?" another one of them asks him.

Jason clears his throat and sits up straight. But you notice it. You notice how he is trying to make himself smaller. He did it at the very beginning of your relationship, to make you less scared. You talked to him about it when the two of you got closer, and you haven't seen him do it since. Until now.

"I'm a boxer, yes. But I don't bring any of that home with me." Jason answers.

"Isn't it hard though? When you're angry? I mean who's to say you won't-" the third friend starts.

Hell. This has to stop.

"Enough." you speak.

They all look at you, at a loss for words. While it's true the four of you grew up looking like people who were afraid to tell others no, and looked like doormats, you were far from that person. Those days are over.

"I'm not gonna let you speak to him like that. He has been nothing but kind and open with me, and not that it's any of your business, but he has never laid his hands on me, or raised his voice." you say.

Then you're getting up from the booth, holding your hand out for Jason. He looks between you and your friends and then he's getting up from his seat. He takes your hand in his.

"He's my boyfriend. I want him in my life and I wanna be a part of his. So either you get that or you get lost." You put finally.

You turn around and walk right out the door with Jason. Jason who hasn't said a word yet. Jason who is holding onto your hand in a way that tells you he's not completely paying attention.

When the two of you cross the threshold of the doors, you squeeze his hand.

"Baby?" you ask him.

Jason looks at you then. Like everything is coming back into focus for him. He has a sad smile on his face.

"I'm sorry." He says.

"Don't ever be sorry for being you. If my so called 'friends' couldn't see past what you look like and what you do for a living then they don't need to be my friends." you explain to him.

Jason shakes his head, "You've known them longer than me. It's not fair that-"

"Jason Todd, I am not willing to give you up. For anyone. Ever. You got that?"

Jason lets out a small sigh. "Okay."

You let go of his hand to hold out your arms. He pouts a bit before stepping closer to you and wrapping his arms around you completely. You nuzzle into him more.

"I'll spend the rest of my life proving it to you. I hope you know that." you add on.

"Yeah?" he asks.

"I swear it." you answer.

a/n: thank you so so much for sending this in! <333 I love some good hurt/comfort too!! I hope you like it!!

[zeevawyte]

Ok so, this is so far outside my usual stuff it’s insane, but this literally won't leave my brain and I don't know if I have time to write it so-

RadioApple fic idea under the cut:

TW: blood, mentions of cannibalism (it's Alastor, duh), semi-unsafe dom/sub (no actual sex), sub drops

Starts out your normal "stop interfering with my relationship with my daughter & you can have a snack whenever you want" kinda deal, with Alastor taking full advantage of the fact that he's got the most powerful being in hell at his mercy. Dude has a serious power trip the first time, & between that and the taste is hooked immediately.

And of course Luci isn't exactly complaining. Other than the occasional jumpscare via shadow, it hasn't been too bad. Kind of enjoyable actually, not that he'd ever admit that to the demon's face. And it's not like he hasn't been tied up or held down before either.

But then during one of their ‘meetings’ he ends up going into sub space on accident… and it keeps happening.

This wouldn't be a problem except Alastor (for obvious reasons) has literally zero information/knowledge about that sort of thing. And, being the dramatic asshole that he is, enjoys getting the last word and leaving without a backwards glance. Which means he's not there when Luci drops.

Hard.

But it's fine! He's fine! He's the King of Hell, he doesn't need some sinner to help him deal with the consequences of an arrangement he proposed in the first place. He's totally fine on his own.

Except he's not.

He is very much not fine, and it starts to show. It gets so bad that one day Charlie actually asks him if he’s ok mid-conversation.

Enter Angel Dust.

Now, by this point Angel’s like 98% sure the two powerhouses are going at it. Alastor has been in a good mood for months now (coinciding suspiciously with the two of them not being at each other’s throats all the time - at least in public) & he’s seen Luci coming out of a room straightening his coat and hat on one of the upper floors. Not to mention the down-right flirty undertones to any barbs they shoot back and forth.

Husk agrees that something is going on but heavily doubts it’s what Angel thinks.

Determined to prove that he’s right, Angel starts wandering the upper floors or heading up just as Alastor heads down (subtly, he’s not an idiot). Anyway, he’s up there one day being nosy when he hears a crash from one of the rooms. He goes in only to find Lucifer on the floor, having tripped over a side table and knocked over a lamp, disheveled and absolutely shaking.

He recognizes what’s happening almost immediately (fuck you very much Val) and gathers the little king up onto the couch, helping him calm down until he doesn’t look like he’s going to either spontaneously start sobbing or throw up on the rug.

Luci is understandably embarrassed and tries to offer him a favor for his help, but Angel waves him off saying he’s been there & that Luci doesn’t owe him anything.

The next day when Lucifer is off doing something else, Angel grabs Alastor and all but drags him into a side room.

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on between you and short king, and frankly it’s none’a my business-”

“No, it isn’t. And if that really is all you wanted to speak with me about-”

“Shut up! I’m not jokin’ alright? I’m bein’ 100% serious. You’re fucking up big time, and I’m pretty sure you don’t even know it. So if you don’t want this whole thing to end in a big fuckin’ mess you need to listen to me.”

Cue a hilariously awkward conversation where an unusually serious Angel explains dom/sub dynamics and the effects/consequences therein to an incredibly-uncomfortable-but-desperately-not-showing-it Alastor.

It ends with something along the lines of

"And look, I don't know if you actually care about the guy or if it’s just about gettin’ your kicks, but honestly? It doesn't matter. You've got your whole gentleman thing right? Openin' doors for the ladies and shit?" *pokes him in the chest* "Well as a gentleman, you've dropped the fuckin' ball. Only self-centered dicks leave their sub to drop alone."

Now if there’s one thing Alastor will not abide, it’s a loss of manners. Being told he’s been unknowingly committing a social faux pas gets under his skin immediately. It itches at him. To the point that his smile almost slips. More than once.

He needs to fix it. As soon as possible.

He’s visibly twitchy the rest of the day.

Husk corners Angel to ask what the hell he said to Al, but only gets a vague, noncommittal answer about letting him know about some information he was missing.

And the next time he and Lucifer have a ‘meeting,’ Alastor stays.

[ugh-yoongi]

the very last thing i decide | pjm

(or, the one in which a love exists that's easy and instinctual as much as it is painful and self-destructive.)

✘ PAIRING jimin x f. reader ✘ SUMMARY you learn what it means to love with blood on your hands. ✘ GENRE hitman/assassin au; angst, smut ✘ RATING explicit. minors dni. ✘ WARNINGS they are both hitmen (hitpeople?) so there's all the content that goes along with that: violence, death, mentions of blood (a lot) and weapons, murder, but no explicit gore. everyone is morally grey at best and downright psychotic at worst (especially yoongi). reader gets stabbed. no one knows how to be a functional human being. swearing, smoking, light smut (penetrative & oral sex), miscommunication and unrequited love but not really, i drop a classic tumblr meme in a line of dialogue. ambiguous/hopeful ending!! some of the themes here are kinda heavy and i am not entirely sure how to tag them so if you have any questions pls don’t hesitate to ask! ✘ WORDCOUNT 12k ✘ LISTEN TO manchester orchestra - telepath ✘ THANK YOU i cannot remember everyone i’ve showed this to over the years. @the-boy-meets-evil for looking this over and brainstorming with me today. @hot-soop for always being a help. @effortandmore because you told me an embarrassingly long time ago this was worth finishing. and i’m pretty sure i also sent this to @jihopesjoint at some point too. i did a quick edit of this on my own, but after nearly three years i just wanted it posted and out of my wips so i'm sure i missed things. pls ignore them. ✘ AUTHOR'S NOTE fic drops two days in a row?? who am i?? i started this in may 2021 and it was supposed to be a simple pegging fic. i abandoned it bc i was convinced no one would want to read it. between today and yesterday i have written thousands of words and made it across the finish line. i hope you like it. the violence is a metaphor for love or whatever.

[37.5665° N, 126.9780° E | Seoul, SOUTH KOREA]

Jimin’s hair had been red the first time he met you.

How fitting, he thinks, considering he’s currently bleeding out on a table.

Well, there’s still a bit of fight left in him. He hasn’t lost consciousness yet, which he assumes is a good sign; he can still hear Hoseok barking out orders quite clearly. The edges of his vision are fuzzy and the pain in his abdomen is sharp and unrelenting, but he still has enough brain power left to wish he’d died instead.

Because you’d saved his life. And now he’s further indebted to you.

(Jimin never leaves a debt unpaid, but he’s not sure how to make even on something like this.)

Jungkook and Taehyung are fetching supplies faster than Hoseok can ask for them. Two pairs of frazzled, spaced-out eyes. Four sets of trembling limbs. Namjoon’s wearing burn marks into the floor, his cuticles bloody and nearly worried to the bone since he can’t keep them out of his mouth.

And then there’s you.

Sitting cross-legged in a chair as you scroll through your phone. Jimin’s blood is still drying on your hands, leaving smears as you drag your thumb back and forth across the screen, and this doesn’t seem to faze you one bit.

Behind you, Yoongi takes a seat at the piano and starts playing Toccata and Fugue in D minor, and Jimin simply cannot die like this. He can’t die on a wooden table in a room with a piano on which Min Yoongi is playing Baroque organ pieces.

“What is this, a fucking funeral?” Hoseok snaps, though there’s a desperation creeping into his tone that Jimin does not like, does not want to hear. “Cut it out, Yoongi.”

Said man staunchly ignores the doctor, transitioning flawlessly into the fugue. Jimin barely hears the tinkle of your laughter but he hears it all the same, and he wants to pretend it doesn’t calm him, bring him back down to earth when he starts drifting too far away. But you do, and it does, and all he can think about is: will you miss him if he dies? Will it take you long to wash his blood from your hands?

Hoseok’s absolutely incensed, pushed to the limits of his stress at the thought of not being able to save Jimin’s life, and Jimin appreciates this, really, but not when Hoseok pushes two gloved fingers deep into the wound in his stomach so hard all he can do is cry. “Yoongi—”

You snort. You don’t even look up from your phone.

Namjoon, for all his leadership and stoicism and poise under pressure, is just as frantic and panicked as the rest. It’s not everyday one of his people is inches from death ten feet away from him. Most people usually die in the shadows. Kim Namjoon has faced down death more times than most, yet watching the life slowly fade from Jimin’s eyes is too much even for him. “Yoongi, please—”

But the fugue keeps going, tempo change after tempo change, the two pillars of this organization spiraling completely by the time the coda starts, unfocused and sweating and praying. To gods they don’t believe in, to hope, to chance—whatever and whoever might be listening. Jimin usually loves hearing Yoongi play. It’s the only thing that humanizes him, and Jimin had spent so many restless nights shoulder to shoulder with him on that exact bench in the blue hours of the early morning, hypnotized by the way the older man’s knobby fingers moved across the keys.

This is it, he thinks.

Jimin’s going to die with Toccata and Fugue in D minor playing in the background.

He’s imagined his death so many times. Stupid not to in this line of work. Violent, quick and painless, in his sleep, drawn out and gory, a message. And in all of those scenarios, it’s either jarringly silent or there’s someone screaming. Usually him, sounding much like he is now, two fingers stuck in his gut. In all of those scenarios, Min Yoongi is never playing Bach as everything fades to black.

You sigh. “Shut the fuck up, Yoongi,” you say, your tone as blasé and inconvenienced as ever.

Shocked at your audacity, one of Yoongi’s fingers slips and hits the wrong key, something dissonant and metallic as it rings out. But the music stops all the same, the silence nearly giving Jimin whiplash. Now he can hear the clinkof Hoseok’s tools, the squelching of his wound, Jungkook’s desperate pleading for him to just be alright, please God, just hang on. He wants the music back. He doesn’t want Jungkook’s crying to be the last thing he hears. Doesn’t want the sound of his own organs imprinted into his memory.

“What’d you say?” Yoongi asks, because no one talks to him that way. They wouldn’t dare. Most people try not to talk to him at all.

But you do.

And, inexplicably, Yoongi listens.

You roll your eyes. “You go deaf in your old age? I said shut the fuck up. Hoseok’s two knuckles deep in Jimin’s fucking stomach and you’re over there having your little Amadeus moment.”

He bristles. “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?” Yoongi repeats, and Jimin can’t see him, but he knows his eyes are narrowed, lips pulled back in a snarl, fists clenched at his side.

“Oh, princess,” you coo, and Yoongi’s fury is palpable, permeates every inch of this place, overrides all the fear and anguish. “I’m talking to you, baby. I know Jiminie’s busy trying not to die and that’s stressful for all of us, but please do try to keep up.”

Jimin hears the flick of Yoongi’s switchblade. Then he hears him say, “Please let me fucking kill her,” in that lazy Daegu drawl of his, like forming full words are beneath him. Not worth the effort when they’re directed at you.

Still seated, you uncross your legs and, through blurred vision, Jimin watches you grab Yoongi by his belt loops to tug him closer, grab the wrist that holds his knife and press it to your own throat. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, Yoongi. Be a good boy and make it hurt.”

Jungkook’s near hysterics at Jimin’s side. “What the fuck is wrong with you two? He’s dying!”

Jimin tries to say I’m not, Kookie, I’m okay but the pressure on his abdomen is too intense. He can barely breathe, and Hoseok’s still digging around, still looking for that stupid fucking bullet, had to do something and do it quick so there’d been very little anesthetic and finesse, and he’s silently screaming for someone to just comfort Jungkook, tell him everything’s going to be okay, but instead—

“Serves him right for being a fucking idiot,” you say, words muffled by the knife still pressed to your throat. “What a painful, permanentlesson in not forgetting your fucking vest.”

“Stop it!” Jungkook sobs, fingers ghosting along Jimin’s matted fringe.

Yoongi’s still scowling. “Just say the word, Joon-ah. I’ll make it quick.”

You actually laugh at that. The kind of full-belly laugh Jimin would kill to be able to produce. “You wanna fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid.”

Someone snarls. Probably Yoongi. “You’d look so good gutted on the floor like a fish,” he replies, and if Jimin knows him at all, he knows he’s got that dreamy, faraway look in his eyes. The one he always gets when he’s about to kill—the one that makes him so unhinged and dangerous. “Left there to bleed out and die all alone like the trash you are.”

No one’s survived that look before, but you just grin, as if being on the receiving end of it is nothing more than another simple inconvenience. “Do it, then,” you prompt. “You’re so big and bad, yet here you are, waiting for Namjoon’s permission like some kind of pathetic fucking dog.”

“I’m no one’s dog.”

Your eyes slowly flick over to Namjoon. “No?” you ask, smile widening as Jimin watches you drag your heeled foot up the inside of Yoongi’s calf, his thigh, stiletto coming to rest in the center of his sternum. “That’s a shame, princess. That pretty neck of yours was just made for a collar.”

There’s no doubt in Jimin’s mind now that he actually died back in that penthouse and is now residing in whatever level of hell is watching you give his associate a semi despite him being a millisecond away from murdering you.

Yoongi would do it, too. No hesitation. You’ve been on his shit list for as long as Jimin can remember, and you’ve been daring him to put his money where his mouth is and just kill you already for just as long.

Taehyung groans. “Can you two just fuck already so the rest of us can be spared of this?”

You click your tongue, tone melting like butter. You’re fond of Taehyung, soft on him. “No can do, angel. Yoongi here knows I only have eyes for our Jiminie, and god does that hurt his little feelings.”

Your wicked smile gives away nothing—whether you’re telling a bold truth or just unnecessarily needling Yoongi further—but Jimin’s caught off guard and chokes on your words nonetheless.

Hoseok’s forceps still digging around in his stomach, there’s a quiet hurrah of triumph as he finally locates the bullet. Jimin feels nothing as he retrieves it and plucks it out, a reverberated clank! as he drops it into a kidney dish, your words the anesthetic he’s needed as they play on a loop in his head.

When he finally blacks out, either from the pain or the adrenaline or both, it’s your face that greets him. He never gets the chance to tell you why he forgot his vest.

[64.1466° N, 21.9426° W | Reykjavík, ICELAND]

Jimin’s hair is blue when it happens the first time.

It’s November. Namjoon has sent the two of you to Reykjavik and it’s dark all the time, the midnight hue of his hair blending into the impenetrable nighttime that surrounds you. Jimin works best like this—out of sight, part of the shadows. He’s light on his feet, lithe in ways no one else is, not even you, and he’s impossible to anticipate under the cover of darkness.

That’s why Jimin always takes care of the appetizers.

It’s your job to clean up the main course.

The two of you are two halves of the same lethal coin, working together flawlessly after years of carefully honed practice. Jimin slams an unsuspecting man’s head into a wall and you’re right behind him to put a bullet in it.

It’s just how it goes.

And he trusts you. He has to, otherwise he would’ve gotten taken out years ago. You’re not always in his line of sight, but he always feels you, senses your movements before you’re even on your feet. The times it’s gone wrong—and it’s gone wrong so many fucking times, despite how cautious and skilled the two of you are—you’re always right there to catch him before he even hits the ground. Just like a ghost, as if your only purpose in life is keeping Jimin safe and alive.

(It isn’t, but it sure feels that way.)

Tonight it’s another hit carried out in an overpriced penthouse overlooking the northern shore. You’re in and out, don’t waste a second more than you need to. Jimin doesn’t spare a glance at the carnage left behind. Nothing he hasn’t seen a hundred times before. All blood bleeds the same, but he still wonders, foolishly, if his looks different to you. If it feels wrong when it stains your hands and seeps into your clothes.

Jimin has never been covered in your blood before, but he likes to think it would.

The two of you don’t speak until you’re in the quiet safety of yet another hotel room, chain lock thrown across the door, deadbolt secured. A small arsenal of weapons is retrieved from ankles and waistbands and cleaned and packed away meticulously. Jimin’s the one who makes the call to Namjoon, tells him in code that the job’s done. You’ve barely broken a sweat, but under the fluorescent light of the bathroom, Jimin can see a small smattering of blood just along your temple when he closes the distance between you.

Someone else’s, of course.

Anyone who made you bleed your own blood wouldn’t be a quick, clean kill. Jimin would make sure of that.

There’s less to be done about the half-inch scar in the hollow of your throat—a pearlescent reminder of the twin scar he has just below his navel; a callback to the day your devilish mouth said the words Jimin can’t stop thinking about.

“No can do, angel. Yoongi here knows I only have eyes for our Jiminie.”

Maybe it’s stupidity. Maybe it’s the feral, years-long build up that’s been simmering between the two of you—low enough to keep warm, contained enough to never evolve into a rapid boil. Maybe Jimin’s just finally desperate enough to go seeking out answers to questions he’s far too scared to put a voice to.

(Really, Jimin knows it’s adrenaline. Nothing more than chemicals. The two of you high on it, heads floating above the clouds. Powerless; or, at the very least, indifferent to stop the very clear path that’s unfolding on the ground below.)

But, god, he needs to know.

Needs answers.

Needs to know if there’s even a chance you feel it, too: the magnetic ebb and flow the two of you have been dancing around for years. If you see how fondly he looks at you. If you have any idea how easy it is for him to get lost in you. If you know he’d let someone put a bullet between his eyes before he placed his life in the hands of anyone else.

Jimin knows he loves you. He’s known it for a long time, just like he knows all those other things that are second nature to him. Loving you is easy and instinctual as much as it is painful and self-destructive.

At least that’s what he’d thought. Until your devilish mouth said those devilish words and sent him into a tailspin he’s yet to recover from.

You have to feel it. God, can’t you? The way the air crackles between you. The way his skin ignites with a simple look from you. The trembling of his fingers at his sides, desperate to just reach out and touch you—fingers that have been bathed in blood, that have taken life. Fingers that now just want to graze softly across your cheekbones, catch on your bottom lip. Fingers that want to hand you the world on a silver platter. Jimin would do anything for you, give you whatever you wanted. You wouldn’t even have to ask.

Can’t you feel that?

He needs to know.

Jimin is composed, elegant. He kills with grace and still maintains as much of his softness as he can. Isn’t ruled by emotion the way Yoongi and Jungkook are. But now, as he teeters on the edge of the unknown, all he wants to do is jump. Wants to buck all his training, all his resolve and forethought, and jump.

“Did you mean it?” he asks, voice thick. Fingers curl into the expensive silk of his shirt just so they have something to do—something to keep them from reaching out and touching you. “Back in Seoul.”

You’re the smartest person Jimin knows. When you ask, “Did I mean what, Chim?” he knows you’re fucking with him. Dragging this out. You know exactly what he’s asking and he knows you’ll never give anything away so easily.

“What you said to Taehyung,” he answers.

You tsk, eyebrows raising in intrigue. As much as Jimin trusts you, as well as you know him, know all those dirty, dirty secrets he’d never tell anyone else, he’s never been so bold with you. “That those long fingers of his would look good wrapped around my throat? Yeah, I meant that.”

Jimin’s jaw clenches at your taunt. “Don’t play games with me.”

A smirk graces your lips. “Trust me, sweetheart,” you say, voice sickly-sweet as the affection starts popping at the last seams holding him together, “if I wanted to play with you, there’s nothing you could do to stop it.”

With Jimin pressed into the wall behind you, you turn to meet his eye in the mirror. Another smile, teeth bared as you run your tongue across your lips, and this one is his undoing. Makes his cock twitch in his dress pants. Makes him bold. “Do you want to, then?” He takes a step forward—close enough to smell the gunpowder stuck to your clothes, your hair. Close enough for the sulfur and metal to sting his nostrils each time he breathes you in. “Do you want to play with me?”

You love Jimin. Maybe it’s a trauma bond or the implicit, unwavering trust the two of you have in one another, but you know you love him limitlessly. But you also know you can’t love him the way he loves you, the way he deserves to be loved by someone, which is why your mask slips as you say, “I can’t give you what you want, Jimin.”

You try to make him understand that. Really, you do—because Jimin is the smartest person you know, and you know he’s thought about every possible consequence down to the most minute detail and has decided this is worth it anyway. You want to believe in something the way Jimin believes in you, even though he’s wrong. You want something worth throwing all of this away for.

Maybe it’s Jimin, maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s just been so fucking long since someone has looked at you with any gentleness in their eyes at all that when Jimin meets your gaze and says, “I don’t want anything more than you’re willing to give,” you take his hand and jump, too.

And there’s nothing gentle about the first time.

It’s all raw, urgent need, Jimin trying desperately to convince himself it’s more than it is while you convince yourself it’s less.

It’s the two of you finally giving up and giving in, letting yourselves be pulled taut by that invisible string tying you together.

It’s Jimin’s sharp intake of breath when you fully step out of your clothes, the sight rendering him immobile. Whatever plans he’d had before seeing the curves of your body, all the scars from years of working by his side, the mottled yellow-greens and purples from the bruises lining your skin—he has no plans now. Can barely think. Wouldn’t be able to tear his eyes away from you with a gun to his head.

It’s the final bricks of the wall he’d built around himself—around his heart, around all those words and feelings he’d never put a voice to—crumbling into ash at his feet. Now he knows he can’t go back. Can’t return to a reality where this isn’t his truth. Where there’s no you and him, him and you. Where it’s just a physical exchange, a give-and-take, tit for tat.

And god, he knows he shouldn’t think like this; knows he’s keeping the truth buried somewhere deep behind lock and key.

…But now that he knows how it feels to move inside you, what else is he supposed to do?

You’re everywhere. Clenched around him. Your taste on his tongue. The feel of you on the pads of his fingers. The smell of you making a mockery of all logical thought. No—no, he can’t do a goddamn thing to stop the avalanche now it’s started.

“Fuck,” he whines, fingers digging into your hips. The soft skin he finds purchase in such a contrast from your hardened exterior, but Jimin knows. He knows you, knows the person behind the mask, sees straight through you each time it slips.

What stared back at him had always been just out of reach.

Taunting him.

Screaming come and get me, come make me yours, come and fucking take what you want.

Until now.

Now it’s tangible. Now it’s breathy, fractured moans that echo off tile walls. Now it’s the sound of his name thatleaves your lips like a prayer. Now it’s the sheen of sweat that covers both of you. Now it’s nails scraping down his back, tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.

(And Jimin won’t tell you this, but those red welts are proof that this is real, this happened, and later on when he’s alone, when his mind is working overtime, he’ll look at them and he’ll smile. Because they’re real. Because this happened.)

Now, it’s the way blue becomes his favorite color. Because he can see his reflection in the mirror as he unravels and comes to his own demise as he spills inside of you; can see the fluorescent lights reflecting off the hue of his hair.

Jimin’s hair is blue when he realizes he’s in love with you.

[34.6037° S, 58.3816° W | Buenos Aires, ARGENTINA]

Jimin is blond when Namjoon sends you to South America.

The details had been scarce: a diplomatic advisor with a rap sheet of human rights violations that have been continuously swept under the rug and his equally-corrupt lawyer. A candid photograph paperclipped to another manila folder, Namjoon a fan of all those old cliches. Likes being a little cheeky that way when he can get away with it, because god knows he can’t get away with much, doesn’t have much of a sense of humor.

It’s a simple job. You and Jimin will have it dealt with in a matter of hours. Less if you’re lucky and the universe is agreeable. But the humidity sticks to your skin, has sweat seeping into your clothes and rolling down your temples, and if there’s one thing you can’t stand it’s the heat. Makes it hard to think. And Namjoon—Namjoon, who makes sure all of his agents want for nothing—is a cheap bastard. Rarely approves nice lodging, says it’s too risky despite your arguments to the contrary, that people don’t care what you do when you have money, so you’re stuck in some shithole motel room with an aircon unit that keeps blowing out stale, warm air.

And maybe you shouldn’t, maybe you should be more cognizant of Jimin and all his feelings, but it’s fucking hot, so you peel your shirt over your head and undo the button of your pants. Sit on the edge of the bed and try to think about anything other than the temperature, how it’s starting to prick uncomfortably at your skin.

Jimin clears his throat, keeps his eyes glued to the disgusting carpet. “Got a text from Seokjin-ssi,” he says, words strained. “Looks like they’ll be solo jobs.”

You groan. Leave it to Seokjin to change the plan at the last minute. “Tell Kim Seokjin he’s a useless piece of shit.”

“Done. Anything else?”

“Tell Kim Namjoon if he ever sends us to South America in the summer again I’ll kill him myself.”

Jimin has a laugh like an anodyne. A laugh that takes all those broken, bleeding parts of you and soothes over them like a balm. “Seokjin-ssi says he’s not passing along that particular message.”

“Tell him he’s a bitch, then.”

“He’ll kill me if I say that.”

“He hasn’t done field work in years and he’s probably too vitamin D deficient to leave the basement. He couldn’t even kill a fucking rat.”

There’s another laugh. More forced, less tinkling. You recognize it right away, the sound of anxiety. Solo jobs aren’t common for the two of you. For Yoongi and Taehyung, sure, but not you and Jimin. You’re a team for a reason, and though you’re more than capable of getting this done and out of the way, it doesn’t feel right. Settles in your gut like something rotten, knowing you’ll be without Jimin.

And you know he’s thinking it, too. How he turns the burner over and over in his hands, as if there’s some combination of words he can send back to Seoul to get Seokjin and Namjoon to reconsider. Plans don’t change often; not like this, anyway. These have been declared solos for a reason, and that’s a thought you can’t linger on too long.

“Are they leaving it up to us?” Jimin nods, still not meeting your eye. “Do you have a preference?”

He shrugs, tossing the phone on the small table in the corner. Nothing else to be done. “Not really. What do you think?”

“Nah, don’t care, either. Just toss me one.”

Santiago Aguirre… 47 years old… Resides in a high-rise luxury apartment in Retiro…

Your eyes skim the file, study the black and white photograph of the lawyer. Read over the list of all his high-profile, degenerate clients and all their high-profile crimes. You read about the previous attempts on his life, the seemingly never-ending list of people who want him dead. Your eyes go back to his photograph, frowning at the smug look on his face. What stares back at you is a man who thinks he’s invincible, who thinks a penthouse apartment on the top floor and a security team in the lobby means he’s impervious to harm. A man who has made money off people just like him: dirty, corrupt, hands stained red.

“Okay?” Jimin asks, looking up from his own file.

He’s so striking. So safe. And you know what he’s done, giving you the hit he thinks is easier, willing to risk himself on a solo mission to ensure you make it out. There’s no guarantees in this line of work, in life in general, but Jimin’s brand of selfless love is certainly one.

So you just nod, knowing someone slimy like this can quickly go sideways, and decide you can do the same.

“I’m gonna get ready,” you say. “The plan is the same as all the other solo jobs. Get in, get it done, get out as quickly as possible. Lay low. Don’t come straight back here.”

Jimin rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Anything else?”

You exhale. Try to quiet the nerves roiling in your stomach. Barely resist the urge to press a lingering kiss to Jimin’s forehead before you swallow hard and say, “Yeah. Stay alive.”

It comes out more like a plea.

—

You’re good at your job.

Rarely feel much guilt over it, either, which—well, you’re not sure what that means. That something is permanently broken in your psyche, probably. Being able to take life so easily and without remorse. It’s not natural.

Kim Namjoon is a man who plays God, is the one who decides who gets to live and who has to die. His word is the only law you adhere to. And that’s… that’s something. Makes it less burdensome, takes some weight off, because Kim Namjoon wouldn’t accept a morally-ambiguous job. He wouldn’t ask you to put your life on the line for some petty bullshit.

This is how you’ve lived for the last four years. Four years of blindly following Namjoon’s word, of being a good little soldier and doing whatever is asked of you. Four years of being responsible for not only your own life, but Jimin’s as well, just as he is for yours. Four years that have served you well, all things considered.

Until now.

Something about this job hits you hard. Doesn’t settle quite as quickly as the ones that have come before. For the first time, you’d looked down at the lifeless body at your feet and couldn’t stop the trembling, could barely quell the nausea. Thought what the fuck am I doing, what kind of life is this for the first time. Thought back to that day four years ago when Kim Namjoon saved your life and offered you a job and wondered, for the first time, what would’ve happened if you’d said no.

Now, as you suck on a cigarette, legs dangling off the roof of a building looking not far from collapse, a new thought:

Would Namjoon let you go if you asked?

He’s taken care of you. For four years you’ve wanted for nothing. Have socked away more money than you’ll ever be able to spend, even if you live to a thousand. You could go anywhere, become anyone, and no one would suspect a thing. There’d just be you and a million lifetimes’ worth of transgressions, alone under the weight of all that burden; alone, except for all the ghosts that come to greet you every time you close your eyes.

Doesn’t matter. Namjoon might be willing to let you go, give you the chance to salvage something from this life in the name of normalcy, but Yoongi would gladly put a bullet in your head before he let you disappear with all his secrets.

Doesn’t matter.

You stub out the cigarette and put the butt in your pocket. Make your way down to the street. Stay under the shadows—just visible enough to redirect any suspicion shot your way. You pretend to take a call, flawless Argentinian Spanish falling from your lips as you tell the imaginary person on the other end all about your fucked up day at work. How your manager never gets off your ass, doesn’t trust you, thinks you’re too fucking stupid to run a simple executable.

No one spares you a second glance.

Not here, on this nondescript street in a nondescript Argentinian neighborhood, and not when you stumble into the tiny lobby of your shithole motel. The poor kid behind the desk doesn’t even glance up, just mutters a good evening, miss under his breath that you return in a voice far too high-pitched to be your own.

Better to be seen and be unremarkable than draw attention to yourself trying to stay invisible, you figure.

The cameras in the stairwell are broken so you take the steps two at a time. Pull the room key from its place inside your boot, happy to no longer have it digging into your skin. Pause just long enough to make sure you don’t hear anything on the other side of the door before you’re unlocking it with your free hand wrapped around the trigger of your gun.

It’s empty.

Of course it is.

Jimin stashed the burner in a place no one but you would think to look. You text one simple word to Seokjin—Hey!—and you get two in return: Who’s this?

You know who it is, you fucking dickhead.

It takes a few seconds, but the reply is a simple—

Sorry.

Then you toss aside the phone and float in the darkness of the room. There’s nothing to do but wait, because you don’t dare to do anything alone. There’s sweat and blood and fuck knows what else stuck to your skin, your hair, but you can’t risk taking a shower. Can’t risk the water dampening your senses. Can’t risk being cornered in a moldy bathroom, only one way out. Can’t risk doing anything alone. Can’t take a fucking shower.

It’s this thought, more than anything else, that has your body flushing with rage.

What kind of life is this?

Namjoon had never mentioned repaying your debt. He’d never insinuated you owed him anything at all for saving your life, but you know something like that never comes for free. Namjoon doesn’t do anything just because. Has no goodness in his heart to do anything in the name of it. Watching Jimin nearly die in front of him had been the exception to his usual nature; a rare slip-up by an otherwise detached, uncaring man.

Still, whatever you owe him has surely been repaid by now. Tenfold, if the bloodstains along your collar are anything to go by.

It’s time for Namjoon to let you go.

—

Something is wrong.

Two hours have ticked by and there’s no word from Jimin. No word from Namjoon or Seokjin, either, which is the only reason you’re still in this nauseating motel room and not out on the streets searching for him. Solo jobs don’t go like this. The two of you are always in and out, tragically efficient. Back to where you started and then back on a plane, nothing left behind except a singular bullet hole and another fragmented piece of your conscience.

You’ve had a lot of jobs go wrong, but never two hours.

You’re about three minutes from coming out of your skin. Sick to your stomach with worry, anxiety weighing you down like an anchor. You wouldn’t be able to go out searching for Jimin like this even if you could, and there’s no point in dwelling on that, examining it further. All you can do is wait.

It’s another hour before you hear the click of the lock. You’re nearly on your knees in relief, but you stay rooted to the flimsy mattress. Try not to think about how you’ll have to sleep on it, even though you’ll be up half the night with residual worry. All those lingering ghosts.

Jimin doesn’t say anything, so neither do you.

[55.6761° N, 12.5683° E | Copenhagen, DENMARK]

Jimin’s hair is orange when you go to Copenhagen.

Not for a job, just to breathe. You wanted to see the city at Christmastime; Jimin’s never been.

You crack a joke. Point out buildings of similar color, have him stand in front of one as you take a picture. Everyone smiles when they pass the two of you on the street, Jimin’s eyes fond even though he rolls them as you pose him how you want. Still stands against an apricot-colored wall and flashes a smile and a peace sign, cheeks pink from the cold. Does a good job of pretending the two of you aren’t here just for fun, that this is something more.

It’s not.

The two of you fucked in a hotel room in Reykjavik and haven’t spoken a word of it since.

You nearly lost your mind over him in Buenos Aires and haven’t spoken a word of that, either.

Instead, his hand finds yours as the two of you walk around Tivoli Gardens. You marvel at the lights and Jimin marvels at you. You share mulled wine and spiced doughnuts. Jimin tries to drag you on the swings but you plant your feet and refuse, laughing through your refusals. As dangerous as your lives are, motion sickness might be the most. He gets his revenge and poses you in front of a giant nutcracker, then again in front of one of the endless Christmas trees.

Jimin pays for the two of you to decorate honey cakes. You’re surrounded by families with shrieking children and palpable adoration, and it’s all you can do not to wonder if anyone you’ve taken out had ever had something like this. Something that makes your soul warm; something that still lingers in your bones years later.

The two of you take a selfie when it starts to snow. It stings when you have no one to send it to, so it just lives in your phone. Maybe it’s enough.

On another day, Jimin holds your hand through Torvehallerne. This time you marvel at him while he marvels at all the food, eyes wide each time he turns to ask if he should buy something. You always say yes and he always shares, and it’s all you can do not to think about why you don’t have to budget yourselves. Why you’re able to walk through the market and buy whatever you want; how you could buy every item for sale and it wouldn’t make a dent.

(You pick up small trinkets for Taehyung and Jungkook. Not because you want to, but because it feels nicer than remembering that you have no one to buy gifts for. Not really. Not anymore.)

Jimin wants to ice skate, so you do. He holds your hand then, too. More out of necessity than anything else, and he has none of his usual grace. Someone hands you a free cup of hot chocolate, just because. Jimin pouts and then it’s his hot chocolate. It’s all you can do not to kiss away the whipped cream on the corner of his mouth.

Back in your lavish hotel, after countless days have blurred together and Jimin’s fresh from a shower, skin flushed, you finally ask yourself if it’s worth putting up such a fight. If it’s really all that bad to care for Jimin and be cared for in return. If it’s all that bad to be someone else, just for a little while: someone with a normal life who makes a normal living and has a normal capability to love. Someone who isn’t damaged beyond repair.

That will never be you. Not fully, and certainly not in this lifetime, but maybe it could be, a little.

“Jimin,” you say, because you need to try. Jimin loves you in ways you’ll never understand, and you want to be better for him. “We should talk.”

Your voice is small and hesitant, and Jimin hates it. Sees trouble where there’s only vulnerability, so he misreads. Shakes his head. Takes a risk and stands between your legs at the edge of the bed—yours, because there’s two—as he tilts your head back, thumbs pressing into the contours of your cheeks. The scar still sits in the hollow of your throat, and that version of you feels so far away. That life feels so far away.

There’s no violence here. There’s no blood, no fugues. There’s just you and Jimin, whose voice is small like yours when he shakes his head and says, “You should kiss me instead.”

The second time is nothing like the first.

Jimin moves delicately. Feels like silk lace, tastes like spun sugar. Moves both his mouth and his body fluidly, no hesitation, yet he still takes his time. Still pauses to look at you with endless devotion; with awed reverence. Makes a map of your body and marks all his favorite places with his lips.

“Tell me what you want,” he says. Speaks the words against the skin just beneath your ear. “Anything. I’ll give you whatever you want, just have to ask.”

What you want isn’t tangible, isn’t possible, so you stay quiet. Thread your fingers through Jimin’s hair, gasp when he mouths along the column of your throat. Jimin reserves all his softness for you. Bathes you in it. Would kill anyone to keep it that way.

So you say, “Want your mouth,” and let slip a quiet moan when he gives you what you’ve asked for. When he situates himself between your thighs and sucks and licks until you’re writhing, making a mess, grasping fruitlessly at the sheets, his hair, his shoulders, only calming when his hands find yours and your fingers interlock.

Jimin mouths at you until you’re trembling. Until you’re needy and desperate, hips moving on their own, fucking yourself against his face. Until nothing exists except the heat in your belly, the stars behind your eyelids, the heady, fucked-out sound of Jimin’s voice as he talks you through it, murmurs praise against your cunt.

Jimin mouths at you until you forget.

This isn’t your life. This is not something you can have.

But, in the grand scheme of things, what does it matter? You’ve made peace with death, and there’s only one of two ways it’s going to come for you in the end: by Namjoon’s hand or someone else’s. So what does it matter?

This time, Jimin fucks you slow. Kisses you with your taste still in his mouth. Thumbs over a hardened nipple just to see what earns him a reaction, and what you truly want is more time—something else that’s impossible.

Jimin’s hair is orange when you think you might be in love with him.

[ 48.8566° N, 2.3522° E | Paris, FRANCE ]

Jimin’s hair is pink when—

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the toilet.

Soaks a washcloth in warm water. Wrings it out. Stands in front of you, and there’s water dripping onto the floor and Jimin doesn’t care, doesn’t seem to see anything in this moment except for you, your hands covered in someone else’s blood, and he reaches out, gently grabs your wrist. Palm up. Someone else’s blood. Everything smells like copper and iron. Looks too surreal beneath the fluorescent lights of this hotel bathroom for your mind to make sense of it.

There is care in the way Jimin cleans your hands. There is tenderness in the way he both refuses to see what you really are and the way he’s the only one to ever see you so entirely, when you look down at the blood he’s washing away and all you can see is stigmata. When all you see is sin.

“I know you don’t love me,” he says, and there is a conviction in his words that stuns you into silence. “Not the way I love you, anyway.”

That tenderness is still there as he says this. As he presses the wet fabric into the meat of your palm, wipes the stains away, and the warmth is as calming as it is undeserved. It feels like something forbidden. It feels like salvation and condemnation all at once, like whatever sick depravity permeates you is contagious, will take over Jimin, too, just from touching you.

Jimin is close enough to reach out and touch. Close enough to see the violence that he exists in alongside you: the rips in his clothes, the scars that decorate his skin. Close enough to know he smells sickly-sweet, just like death. Your hand shakes as it reaches for him and never follows through. Doesn’t want to contaminate him.

“I do,” you finally say. Whatever is in your voice is not conviction. “I can’t.” You suck in a breath, try to steady your breathing. This is where it all comes crashing down, you think, because in all the years you’ve done Namjoon’s bidding, you’ve never cried. You can take life so freely and without thought, but you cannot love Jimin. “Someone like me isn’t capable of it.”

Jimin pauses, the washcloth stuck in the space between your ring and middle fingers. “And who is someone like you?”

Water is still dripping to the floor. Serosanguineous: blood tainting something untouched. Not something one thing or another but both, watery-pink. Looks like Jimin’s hair. “I’ve killed a lot of people,” you answer. “More than I can count. More than I can name. More than the ones that come to haunt me at night.” Your free hand moves to your chest, covers your heart. “There’s nothing here, Jimin. I’m not sure there ever was.”

The washcloth drops to the floor, and all that blood belonging to a man whose name you never bothered to learn before you put a bullet between his eyes finds a new place to rest. “I think,” he begins, clasping your unclean hand in his own, voice dropping to a whisper, “you forget, sometimes.” You gasp as he places your palm to his cheek, drags it across his face, smears a stranger’s blood across his skin. “That we’re the same.”

Jimin is always overwhelming, but the love he has for you is even more so. It consumes you entirely, embeds itself beneath your skin, makes a home, would tear you apart, body and soul, to return to him.

[ 47.4979° N, 19.0402° E | Budapest, HUNGARY ]

Jimin’s hair is lavender when it all goes to shit.

“You’re being followed.”

Seokjin’s voice is garbled through the earpiece, tinny and metallic, and you roll your eyes. Some things don’t need to be said, because you’ve known someone was following you for the last three blocks. Average height, black peacoat, close-cropped haircut. Not the kind of person that’d stand out here, and that’s exactly why you’d sent Jimin in the other direction.

“No shit,” you respond in Hungarian, because you already know the man following you doesn’t speak or understand it. “Give me somewhere to go.”

It takes Seokjin a few moments to run the translation. “There’s a side street up on your right,” he answers. “It’s tight, but there’s an alleyway at the end. You can buy some time if you’re quick.”

“Where’s Jimin?”

You pass a vendor selling lángos and duck into the street behind the stall. Just as Seokjin had said, there’s a small alleyway up on the left, and your footfall is near-silent as you break into a sprint to reach it. “Safe,” is all Seokjin says.

You take a second to steady your breathing, knowing you’re good on time—the man following you was close enough to know where you’d turned, but, if you’re lucky, not much after that. That plays on a loop: if you’re lucky, if you’re lucky, if you’re lucky. What is luck, what does it look like, in a life left entirely to chance? In a life with no guarantees?

You tuck yourself away, focus on Seokjin’s metallic breaths. Think about his basement in Seoul, why he’s in it. Ask, “What happened in Addis Ababa?” because it feels important to know.

There’s not much you know about Seokjin’s life. Whatever happened in Ethiopia had been before your time, reduced to hushed whispers and gossip fodder after your arrival. No one spoke of it, Seokjin especially, but every now and then something would slip in the same way weeds grow in sidewalk cracks.

A job gone wrong. A bombing at the consulate with Seokjin inside.

His reply is simple, words spoken carefully: “I loved someone once, too.”

He can’t see it, but you nod nonetheless; an answer that doesn’t require a response, because you know. It’s enough to fill in the rest. What Seokjin’s trauma looks like. Why he doesn’t do field work anymore. Why he prefers the solitude of the basement, rarely a sound beyond the electric thrum of the server racks.

Who had gone in to retrieve him, and why Yoongi has the scar over his eye.

“You loved someone,” you conclude, “and he would’ve been willing to die for you.”

“Yes,” Seokjin says, and it’s like the word’s been punched out of him. Sounds like something repressed, something left to rot in the darkest corner of the world.

Love, to Seokjin, looks and sounds the same as death.

“I think most people spend their entire lives searching for a love like that,” he continues, and if you could see him you think he might look dazed, off-kilter. You think he might be an avatar. Seokjin is prying his ribcage apart, unwrapping the barbed wire from his heart, saying I once was in love and this is all I know of it. “But, to me, in this life, it’s a prison. Once someone is willing to die for you, how do you keep them alive? How do you—I kissed that skin. I worshiped it. I pressed my lips to it with whatever softness was left in me. How do you look at that same skin and know you’re the reason it’s mangled?” He exhales, all tremor. “You can’t. You can’t.”

You know this all too well. You know what it feels like to look at Jimin and know, intrinsically and subconsciously, that you wouldn’t even hesitate. You’d take and give life to keep him alive and safe. You know that when you exit this world at someone else’s hand his face is the last thing you want to see.

You know it’s a liability.

You know it’s a target painted on your back. Between your eyes.

You know there’s nothing left to say, that this particular conversation has run its course. The two of you sit in an amicable silence, and you hope Seokjin can hear the life that surrounds you, however mundane. Hope he can hear the lángos vendor trying to hawk his goods; hope he can hear a city 8,000 kilometers away; hope he can hear these regular, everyday people going about their lives and remember there’s hope beyond his four walls.

I think you’d like it here, you think, but you don’t dare to say it aloud.

Time passes in a meaningless blur. Could be minutes, could be hours. No one’s come to kill you, so you reckon you’ve long since been in the clear. And maybe it speaks to Seokjin’s idea that love is a prison, because you know something’s happened to Jimin long before Seokjin speaks it into existence.

You’re up and out of the alleyway before you’re told to move. Have no idea where you’re going, but you’re racing through the streets of Budapest with a panic you haven’t ever felt in your life. Feels like quicksand; feels like molasses; feels like you have to wade through all the blood you’ve spilled, now congealed, to get to him.

“Where am I going?” you demand. Your lungs are on fire. In the split-second of silence it becomes a desperate scream. “Seokjin, tell me where the fuck I’m going!”

“The—fuck, the wa-warehouse up on your right.” You can’t think about why he’s crying. “I don’t—I don’t know wha-what’s there, you need to be careful. Please, you have to—”

Twenty seconds and you’ll be there, you’ll be with Jimin, you just need to keep running. You need to keep your head on straight. Remember your training. Remember you’ve built a life in a viper pit.

A man in a uniform is unloading a shipment around the back of the building. Faces away from you, bent at the waist. Takes very little effort to smash his head into the stone exterior and knock him unconscious, pocket his badge. You can’t get stupid now. Tell Seokjin to make sure all the cameras are cut, ask what floor when you shut yourself inside the freight elevator, unwilling to take the stairs and run into anyone who might be waiting. All the way to the top, he says, so all the way to the top you go.

—

Over the course of your life, you’ve made peace with death. Have stared it in the eye more times than you can count. Have dealt it out, evaded it, shook its hand.

You are wholly unprepared for the sight that greets you.

Red. Everything is red—the walls, the floor, what used to be a beautiful parquet pattern in the wood. In the center of the room: two bodies, maybe three. Not much that’d be able to identify them beyond a pile of teeth, no saying whose is whose. Slaughterhouse scraps.

And this is not—Jimin doesn’t work this way. Isn’t his MO. Jimin’s kills are elegant and neat, topped with a bow. What you see before you is ultraviolence. It is unhinged, it is fury, it is a complete loss of control. It’s what love looks like to Jimin, because he sits at the very edge of a rotted chair, legs crossed. Face streaked with blood, clothes covered in it.

“Jimin,” you say, because what else is there?

He tilts his head to the side, smirks a little, looks at you beneath his lashes. Eyes that used to find you across a room and calm you. Eyes that have locked onto you in the throes of pleasure. Eyes you’ve seen yourself reflected in, bathed in love and adoration.

Eyes that now contain nothing.

“Jimin, what the fuck happened?”

He removes his gloves with his teeth and doesn’t flinch away from the taste of iron. “They said they hurt you,” he states simply, “so I did what needed to be done.”

“What—” Nausea claws at your throat; for the first time, it’s all too much. This isn’t Jimin. This isn’t your Jimin, who smiled as you posed him against apricot walls in Copenhagen, who took a bullet to the stomach to protect you and never, ever told you. This is not the Jimin who wasted the last of his goodwill on loving you. “What did you do?” you whisper.

He rises to full height and it makes you flinch. You are scared of Jimin for the first time in your life: scared of who he is in this moment, what he’s capable of. And he sees it, lets that brand of anguish overtake him. Reaches for you before he decides against it and lets his hand drop to his side. Says, “I would never hurt you,” as if the words could brand themselves into your skin so you’d never forget.

“No, you’d just—” You squeeze your eyes shut. Don’t think about how one of the men nearly embedded into the floor was the one trailing you earlier.

Instead, you think about Seokjin: Once someone is willing to die for you, how do you keep them alive? You think about: How do you look at that same skin and know you’re the reason it’s mangled? You think about: In this life, it’s a prison.

You drop to your knees. Let the blood seep through your clothes and into your skin, undeserving of shying away from it.

Namjoon should’ve let you go.

You think about the men in front of you. Who they were, who they loved. The grief all of this is going to leave behind, and it becomes impossible to breathe. You grasp at your throat, think about all the times you’ve been strangled and who’d been there to cut the rope. There is no limit to Jimin’s devotion, and you understand now, how it drove Yoongi to madness. How he loved someone so much he would’ve retrieved their corpse from a building and how that same person can no longer bear to look at the damage they’d caused.

“This isn’t love, Jimin,” you choke out.

He stands in front of you. Stigmata. You’re worshiping at the altar of some kind of devil. At least his hands are clean when he places his fingers beneath your chin, forces you to look up at him. “What is it, then?”

“Destruction.”

A quiet huff of cruel laughter. “See, this is the difference between me and you, darling.” He takes back his hand, runs it through his blood-streaked hair, and your chin sags to your chest without his support. “Because I already knew that. Because I have destroyed myself every single day loving you.” He squats down, eye-level, and he says, “I need you to listen to me when I say this, sweetheart: you do not love me the way I love you, because I would do worse. When it comes to you, there is nothing on this earth I would not destroy to keep you safe.”

He clears his throat. Collects whatever’s in his mouth and spits onto one of the bodies. “If this is enough to have you tucking your fucking tail between your legs, then go, because this doesn’t even scratch the fucking surface.”

You can’t bring yourself to say anything, and sometimes that says it all.

Jimin presses a kiss to the top of your head. Makes a call. Cleaners will be here soon, he says, better get going.

You watch him go.

[ 37.5665° N, 126.9780° E | Seoul, SOUTH KOREA ]

Jimin’s hair is black when Namjoon calls the meeting.

He takes the seat across from Namjoon’s desk because they don’t meet like this often. Assignments are usually manila folders slipped under doors, hushed whispers in hallways confirmed with a nod or a text on a burner phone. Assignments are not last-minute assemblies in conference rooms and offices.

But the way Namjoon is looking at him, with his clenched jaw and a gaze that’s meant to look barbed to anyone who doesn’t actually know him—Jimin doesn’t need to ask what this is about.

Had he bothered to look, he would’ve known by the way you stood in the far corner of the room, face obscured by the mid-afternoon shadows. Yoongi’s close to you, for some reason: dressed head to toe in black, perched on a lateral file cabinet, using a metal corner to sharpen his switchblade. Just like a harbinger of death. Some sort of fucked up omen, a warning that’s come too late.

Didn’t I tell you this would end badly, he hears Yoongi taunt in his head. This is what happens when you lay with trash.

Easy for Yoongi to say when he doesn’t know what it means to be cared for by you. Doesn’t know how it feels to give in to the freefall and plummet at your feet, stripped back and laid bare. Doesn’t know how it feels to kiss secrets into your skin like constellations, to map his tongue along every unspoken confession.

Easy for Yoongi to say, because he doesn’t have to survive the aftermath. Doesn’t have to feel the heartbreak, the agony of having you and watching as you slip through his fingers. Yoongi doesn’t have to struggle just to breathe, doesn’t have to endure the nights staring at the ceiling, watching as the daylight creeps into the corners of his vision. Doesn’t have to watch you looking so unaffected.

“Jimin.” Namjoon’s tone is flat, needlelike.

Behind him, Yoongi chuckles lowly. “What?” Jimin asks, his gaze trained on the painting behind Namjoon’s head. Looks like one he’d seen in Berlin, the time the two of you had gone just because and spent an afternoon ducking in and out of museums to escape the rain.

When he closes his eyes, he still sees the raindrops stuck to your eyelashes. The beads of water rolling off the sleeves of your leather jacket. How blinding your smile had been. The laughter in your voice as you ordered beer after beer after beer for the two of you in flawless Berlinisch. A brief, fleeting glimpse at normalcy. At the kind of life the two of you could have if you were just… different. Lived different lives. Were different people.

“You’ve gotten sloppy.”

Namjoon’s words are a cold bucket of water. Snap him back to reality, yank him back to the present where he’s forced to leave those river-lined streets behind. You’re silent and Yoongi’s still snorting laughter. “Okay,” is all Jimin can bring himself to say.

Jin had gotten sloppy once, too, and Namjoon stuck him down in the basement to work logistics. Might not be so bad, Jimin reckons. He’d be away from you, spared of this fucking misery. “So you know that’s unacceptable.”

Jimin just shrugs, resigned to his fate, whatever it may be. “I’m reassigning the both of you,” Namjoon continues. “You’ll both have new partners for your next assignments, since you clearly can no longer be trusted together.”

“Who?” Jimin manages to choke out.

Namjoon raises an eyebrow, clearly having expected an argument. “You’re being sent to Shanghai with Jungkook. You,” he says, turning his attention to you, “are going to Moscow with Taehyung.”

She’s fond of Taehyung, Jimin wants to say. But you’d been fond of him too, once upon a time, and that’d only ended in heartbreak, so who fucking cares.

They’re cruel, the tricks Jimin’s mind plays on him. How he convinces himself you look pained. How his fingers wring together at the thought of entrusting his life in the hands of someone else, someone new. At your life being just as at stake; at Taehyung being tasked with keeping you alive. Would you die for him, too, the way you’d always told Jimin you would for him? Would Taehyung take a bullet to the stomach to keep you safe the way Jimin had?

Even more cruel is the way you scoff, pushing yourself off of the wall as you fold your arms across your chest and say, “That’s bullshit, Kim Namjoon.”

No one talks to Namjoon that way except you.

Yoongi’s knife stops twirling. Just like a bird sensing a storm, senses on high-alert as he flicks his gaze over to you. “I’m sorry?” Namjoon says. “What part of Jimin losing his mind and nearly outing all of us seems like bullshit to you?”

“Hm, let me think,” you retort, a manicured finger tapping against the hollow of your cheek. “The part where you’re reassigning me for someone else’s mistake?”

Which part was the mistake? Jimin wants to ask. Needs to know how much you regret. Was sleeping with you the mistake? Falling in love with you? Getting too caught up in all these daydreams and letting reality get away from him?

“This organization is more important than Park Jimin getting his goddamn dick wet,” Namjoon snaps. “Keeping all of you safe—keeping you alive—is more—”

You scoff. Take an entire container of gasoline and pour it right on top of Namjoon’s flammable ire. “Then perhaps you’d be so kind as to explain to me why Min fucking Yoongi can fuck damn near everyone in this establishment, yet I have to sit here and listen to your goddamn mouth—”

Jimin doesn’t think Yoongi even knows his arm is moving.

There’d just been the trading of barbed words. His own name being spoken into the ether. Yoongi’s arm moving away from his body, switchblade clasped tightly between his fingers as he plunges it into your flesh.

Jimin watches it puncture your arm in slow motion. Feels the bile in his throat, the heat in his belly. Looks first at Namjoon whose jaw has gone slack, skin pale, as he stammers over words that won’t come. Then he looks at Yoongi—expects to find shock or guilt but finds only a muted disinterest and flared nostrils.

Finally, he looks at you. Watches the white cotton sleeve of your shirt slowly turn red and sticky-wet. Watches as your lips move around syllables and vowels and consonants Jimin can’t decipher.

“—fucking piece of shit, this is my favorite shirt! I’ll never get all this goddamn blood out of it—”

Jimin thinks he hears Yoongi say you deserve it. But Jimin isn’t really thinking much as he clambers out of his chair and moves in Yoongi’s direction. Doesn’t think at all as he lets instinct take over, lets adrenaline steer him headfirst into yet another bad idea.

He’s always known there’d come a day he’d be face-to-face with the sight of your blood. Had always known it’d come from someone else’s hand. Had always promised himself that hurting you would be the last thing anyone ever did.

Jimin has his fingers wrapped around Yoongi’s throat and he finally understands it—the joy Yoongi finds in taking life.

“What’s the matter, Jimin-ah?” Yoongi taunts. Jimin tightens his grip. Suddenly hates that fucking scar across Yoongi’s eye. “You’re never on clean-up duty. Always make your girlfriend do the dirty work. Finally grew some fucking balls, huh?”

“Fuck you,” Jimin says stupidly. Can’t think of anything more to say. Not that he needs to. Wrapping your hands around someone’s throat sends enough of a message, he thinks.

Namjoon’s still tongue-tied as you yank Yoongi’s blade from your arm, immediately pressing your other hand over the wound to stem the bleeding. The sight of your blood is making Jimin dizzy; the smell of the iron hanging in the air. All he wants to do is choke the life out of the man in front of him, but more than that, he just wants to hold your hand. Wants to comfort you, even though he knows you don’t need it. Not from him, not from anyone, but he still wants to. Wants to press his lips to the sweat at your brow.

And Yoongi can see it, too, because he starts laughing. It’s an odd, fractured noise. Jimin isn’t sure if he’s ever heard him laugh before, decides he also hates the way it sounds. Feels all wrong watching it leave his crooked smirk. Makes Jimin’s stomach plummet to the ground.

“Oh, you’re fucked, aren’t you?” Yoongi teases around Jimin’s slackened grip. “You weren’t just fucking her, you’re in love with her.”

Weird how Jimin is the one with his hands around someone’s neck and feels like he’s the one suffocating.

[ 31.2304° N, 121.4737° E | Shanghai, CHINA ]

Jimin watches the life drain from an innocent woman’s face and feels nothing.

Jimin watches Jungkook cut a man down and feels even less.

When it’s over, he cleans up wordlessly and doesn’t eat for three days.

[ 37.5665° N, 126.9780° E | Seoul, SOUTH KOREA ]

Jimin’s hair has faded to brown by the time he returns from Shanghai.

The more complicated job had gone to you and Taehyung. Jimin had tried not to take it personally. The Russian hits are always unnecessarily violent and Jungkook still isn’t fully trained. There’s still a phantom pain in Jimin’s stomach that warns him of the consequences of taking on more than he can chew. So, sure, Shanghai had gone fine, but his mind had been nearly 7,000 kilometers away the entire time.

Good thing he’d returned to Seoul unscathed, too, because he’s sure Namjoon would’ve eliminated him without a moment’s hesitation if he’d fucked up again.

But Shanghai had only served to prove the leader right. Jimin can’t work with you anymore. Can’t focus, can’t stomach the violence, can’t keep his goddamn head on straight.

He sighs as he glances at Jungkook to his right. Jimin had watched him murder two men in cold blood not even thirty-six hours ago and now he’s doe-eyed and sucking down his third banana milk of the morning. It really makes his head spin, being paired with this grown-up infant of a man now instead of you, but for all of Jungkook’s apparent shortcomings, he’d kept Jimin alive. He isn’t dead.

And then you walk in with Taehyung and he wishes he was.

Because you’re laughing and Taehyung’s got his arm slung around your shoulder and you look happy. It’s the kind of happiness that should be contagious, bloom warmth in his chest, but it doesn’t. It just takes the last frayed strand of hope he has and sets flame to it.

You don’t look like you miss Jimin at all. Don’t look like you’ve lost sleep or skipped meals.

“Didn’t take you long, did it?” Jimin says, because he’s wounded and lashing out. Not because he means it.

You must know he doesn’t, too, because you don’t react. “Watch your mouth, Park Jimin,” Taehyung warns, because he doesn’t know, and this only sets Jimin off more. You don’t need defending. Or had you, and Jimin had simply thought it wasn’t his place to provide it? That you wouldn’t want it?

“Or what, Kim Taehyung?”

Taehyung is cherubic. It’s part of his charm, one of many reasons why he’s so effective. If you’re looking to die, you look for the guy who looks like Yoongi, not the one who smiles wide and warm like Taehyung. So when he sets his jaw and pokes his tongue into his cheek and says, “Or I’ll cut your fucking head off, you stupid fuck,” your attention is finally piqued.

“I’m so sick of this,” Jungkook wails, banana milk tossed carelessly in the trash. “All of you need to get your fucking shit together!”

Taehyung rolls his eyes at the same time you pretend to inspect your nails. “Is that why you’re so temperamental, Chim?” Taehyung prods, looking every bit the pretentious, murderous angel he is. “Because you got sent to China on a babysitting mission while the grownups did real work?”

“Fuck you,” Jungkook snaps, rising to full height. “I’m not a fucking child.”

“Oh? Could’ve fooled me.” Taehyung’s words are razor-sharp and smell like kerosene. “Tell me, then: were you on babysitting duty? Had to look after our precious little Jiminie while he nursed his broken heart?”

You sigh, full of faux-exasperation, and place a gentle hand on Taehyung’s forearm. Dig your nails in just enough to be a warning, and if Jimin hadn’t been looking he’d miss it: the way Taehyung deflates instantly, anger dissipating like smoke, back in control. Just because you’d touched him. Just because you were there. Jimin knows that touch, how it feels to be under your control, and it makes his chest ache. Makes everything feel like it’s sitting wrong in his stomach, and he’s either going to be sick all over Namjoon’s overpriced fucking rug or wrap his hands around Taehyung’s throat the way he’d done to Yoongi.

He’s out of his goddamned mind; he feels untethered. Helpless. Like it was always going to end like this, and maybe Jimin knew that and had just ignored it. Maybe now he’s paying the price—maybe he’s finally found something he can’t afford.

Jungkook’s still going off, nasty gaze set on Taehyung because he’s the only one playing along. They’re exchanging words Jimin can’t make heads nor tails of. Words he doesn’t care about. Words that ring empty and hollow because they sound nothing like the way you say his name. Shapeless, unlike the way your lips move around those syllables.

“Jimin,” you say, the sound finally registering and bringing him back down to earth. All he can do is stare. “Can we talk?” Taehyung and Jungkook are still trading barbs.

Wonders how he got here. Looks around the room and wonders if each and every one of them is destined for this same fate, this madness. Wants to tell you why he forgot his vest, why he was three hours late in Argentina. Wants to grovel and beg and leave this place and never look back.

More than anything, he wants to know what it feels like to actually be human.

So he shakes his head. Tries not to be haunted by the way your face falls at the rejection.

There is a scar on his abdomen and a scar on your arm that both tell the same story. There is a man in the basement who is in love with a man above ground and is too weighed down by guilt to do anything about it. There is a man here who plays god, has soldiers to do his bidding, and there is very little here that Jimin has only for himself.

The two of you will have that conversation, but he needs to be human, first.

[ 34.6901° N, 135.1956° E | Kobe, JAPAN ]

This is a waste of your fucking time.

Whatever Namjoon had thought would be here doesn’t seem to exist. Yoongi can barely tolerate you on a good day, threatens to stick a dagger in your neck at least twice an hour, but the more time the two of you waste chasing ghosts, the closer he comes to unraveling entirely.

“Stop fucking staring at me,” he snaps, blowing the smoke of his cigarette right in your face.

You tut. “But you’re so beautiful, Yoongi, I just can’t help it.”

He digs his switchblade from his boot. Makes a show of flipping it open. “I can cut your fuckin’ eyes out of your skull,” he intones. “Maybe that’ll help.”

In your ear, Jimin’s laughter rings like crystal.

Ricochets off of all the corners of Seokjin’s basement, makes the echo sound warped through the earpiece. “Please tell Yoongi-ssi to keep an eye on the man with the shaved head. In front of him, roughly sixty degrees to his right.”

You relay the message. Watch as Yoongi transforms—sharpened gaze, rigid posture, disappears into the shadows. More apex predator than man. “And me?” you ask.

“Backup,” comes Seokjin’s voice. “We haven’t found your mark yet.”

You hum. Pick up the cigarette Yoongi left behind and stick it between your lips. Smoke it nearly to the filter. “You got it, boss,” you tease, just because it flusters him.

“I’m—that’s not—knock it off.”

Exhale. Stub out the cigarette. Butt in your pocket. “Anything else?”

“Yeah,” Jimin says, and his voice is soft, sounds like spun sugar. “Stay alive, all right?”

Jimin’s hair isn’t dyed at all.

if you've read this far: thank you so, so much! i am more appreciative than i can put into words. this is very different from what i typically write, but i hope you enjoyed it nonetheless.

i would love to hear your thoughts if you have any. &lt;3

[shuugumi]

a/n : this was kinda rushed but i hope it's good LOL not proofread, requests are open

virgin!bf who already is overstimulated and shy at the fact the two of you are going to that stage in your relationship. rambling left and right about how he should set something up, get the mood prepared for you but all you want from him is to shut up and continue kissing you.

“but i read all these things like, i should light candles, give you a massage to get you in the mood—okay…i’ll—i’ll stop thinking..” he sighs as you continue placing your numbed lips onto his, deepening the kiss as you straddle him. catching him off guard.

virgin!bf who almost cums in his jeans when you grind a bit too hard on his virgin hard on. thumbs digging into your hips as he tries to stop you before he dumps his load into his pants.

“sorry. i’ll try..try to hold it. i don’t want to cum quickly…” he apologizes, unbuttoning the bottom part of his button up just barley exposing his abs and his happy trail that made you feel a lot more warmer down there. “can i—can i take your top off?” nodding he pulls your shirt up and your pretty breasts are on display for him, cupped so greatly by your bra. “i-i didn’t know taking a bra off is this…difficult—ah thank you baby.” he tries attempts to unclip your bra until you help in, your bra sliding down your torso and his eyes become big. looking at your freed breasts he’s shy. stuttering his movement, his hands travel up your torso and softly grabs one of your mounds. squeezing and exploring. “god…these feel so squishy—i-i love them. can i—” “do what you want.” you giggly and immediately he attached his lips to one of your nipples, lapping away at your nipples.

virgin!bf who cums a little bit while he eats you out for the first time. squeezing his balls to try and contain himself but his cum had other plans and wanted to escape! he’s pussy drunk right as he places his tongue in between your slit, flicking his tongue back and forth as he slips a digit in.

“you’re…moaning. do you like when i do that?” his words are muffled, soaking into your soppy cunt as he moves his finger in and out. and sucking on the bundle of nerves, grinding yourself into his face, “i wonder-wonder if i can write my name on your clit..” he starts to spell his name out and he looks up to see how much your enjoying it, adding another finger and sucking until you come undone on his face. drops of pre-cum mixed with his cum dripped off his hands, “shit i came a little…i-i grabbed my balls really hard.” he laughs as you come down from your high, he immediately goes back in between your thighs and starts licking once more until you push his head away, he’s begging to do it again.

virgin!bf only lasts a few second’s before he’s releasing himself in you. his back against the couch as you ride him slowly. rocking your hips back and forth, littering kisses and marks down his neck. he’s begging for you to kiss him. hands on his chest as you rock back and forth, connecting your lips to his.

“ah fuck baby—g’nna cum. kiss me baby please.” he whines, grip getting stronger on your ass as his dick starts to twitch in you. kissing him with passion, you ride him harder, chasing his and your highs. “fuck your pussy is just squeezing me—ah fuckkk, feels s’good.” he moans out into your lips, “g’nna cum!” breathless you moan out, wrapping your arms around his neck as you continue your pace. soon he’s painting your walls white and your cum mixed with his is leaking down your thighs and onto his own dick.

BONUS:

“how often do you think we can do it?” he pants over you, playing with your hair. “mmm, how many times do you jerk off?” you ask, grabbing onto his bicep and he thinks. “everyday.”

“then we can do it everyday.”

“fuckk you’re making me hard again..”

© 𝐬𝐡𝐮𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐦𝐢 ; do not translate, copy, plagiarize or upload elsewhere!! all content is owned by me unless stated otherwise.

[inthe-dark-tonight]

end up here

frankie morales x f!reader

summary: you’ve had a distaste for frankie for as long as you can remember, so how did you end up here?

word count: 1.6k

warnings: 18+ mdni!!, smut, unsafe p in v, porn with literally no plot, pet names, creampie, kinda enemies to lovers vibes, no mention of age gap so read however you’d like

notes: soooo i basically only wrote this as a little exercise to get myself back into writing after not feeling it for awhile. i wasn’t really going to share it but!! here we are lol. i used the prompt “if you hate me so much, why are you letting me do this?” from this list as inspo to write this. if you decide to give this a read i hope you enjoy <3 also a big thanks to @javiscigarette for being a big part of helping to making the writing process enjoyable for me again i love you so so much my baby & @pr0ximamidnight for also encouraging me and taking a peek at this before posting i love you mother 🩷 MWAHHHHH xoxo

You’re not quite sure how you ended up with Frankie pressing you against the wall in his apartment as he desperately kisses you and grabs at your waist, but it’s the last thing you would’ve expected. Your distaste for the man, if you could even call it that, goes back further than you can remember. At this point you’re not even sure what caused it, the two of you bickering and making snide comments whenever there’s a chance, but here you are now, hands wandering up his broad chest as he presses his tongue into your mouth.

He breaks the kiss for a moment, breathing heavily as his dark eyes roam your features. “Bedroom?” His low husky voice sends heat straight to your already burning core.

You frantically nod your head and he grabs your hand, not wasting any moment. As he leads you from the living room down the hallway towards his bedroom, your heart beats rapidly in your chest, adrenaline from the way he was pressed against you just moments ago rushing through your body. Your eyes are glued to the back of him as he pulls you into the bedroom, roaming over the expanse of his broad shoulders and the way his hair curls along the back of his neck. He pulls you close to him when you enter the room, spinning you around before kicking the door shut and attaching his lips to yours once again.

You let out a small moan as his lips press into yours, soft as they move in sync. His hands trail down the sides of your body and over the curves of your waist, stopping at your hips as he grabs onto the fabric of your shirt. Slowly he starts to walk you backwards towards his bed, never breaking the kiss. The back of your legs hit the mattress, he lets out a small grunt as you squeeze his biceps to keep yourself steady and break away to look up at him.

“Lay back for me baby.” Baby , something you never thought you’d hear him say, at least not towards you.

You don’t hesitate, taking a seat on the edge of the bed and laying back with your legs slightly spread where he stands between them. His hands immediately latch back onto the hem of your shirt, you raise your arms allowing him to pull it up over your head in one swift motion before tossing it across the room.

“Christ…” he shakes his head in awe of you.

Becoming impatient, you grab at the hem of his own shirt causing him to remove his unbuttoned flannel leaving him in a gray tshirt and dark jeans. You bite your lip in anticipation, arms falling to your sides and grasping the comforter of his bed. His large, warm hands trail down your stomach before toying with the hem of your bottoms. He slips his finger below the hem and runs his knuckles back and forth on your soft skin, causing you to shudder, before pulling them off along with your underwear. Your hips lift off the bed the slightest bit as he takes a good look at your dripping cunt.

“All this for me?” You don’t say a word as he cocks his head to the side, a sly grin on his face as he looks down at you.

“Yes.” Your hands grip tighter as you hear the sound of his belt coming undone.

He unzips his jeans, pulling them down to reveal his hard cock and you let out a low whine as you watch him. He’s huge, precum already dripping from his dark red tip.

“How long have you thought of me this way querida?” Two large fingers run through your slick folds as he speaks, teasing you.

“Frankie,” you groan, grabbing his shirt and pulling him down toward you to capture another kiss. “I hate you.” You whisper, a small smile toying on your lips as you stare back at him.

He rests on his elbows, one on either side of your head as he laughs at your statement. “If you hate me so much, why are you letting me do this?” His voice is just above a whisper.

One of his arms moves between the two of you and without a warning, he lines up his cock with your throbbing entrance and slowly begins to push in. You let out a gasp, mouth falling open as you grip onto his shoulders.

“Oh my- fuck!” Your eyes fall shut as he splits you open, stopping only once he’s filled you to the brim.

He stays still for a moment, letting out a pleased hum as he tucks his face into the crook of your neck, one hand grabbing at your waist as he tries to compose himself. Your arms wrap around his large frame, splaying out across his back as you hold him close to you. Once his breathing starts to steady, he begins to move, not hesitating to quicken his pace.

When he lifts his head from being buried in your neck, his eyes dart back and forth between your own. You can’t read the expression on his face as he continues to thrust in and out of your sopping wet cunt.

“I’ve thought about this,” he lets out a huff. “so many times.” His hand moves to caress the back of your neck as he kisses you again, deeper than before, if that’s even possible.

You sigh, wrapping your legs around his waist as your nails dig into the fabric of his shirt covering his upper back. He’s thought about this so many times. You try to wrap your head around the words that just left his mouth, unable to believe that it’s true even though you’ve thought about it many times as well.

“Frankie-” he thrusts deeper, causing a whine to leave your lips and interrupting your thoughts as you clench around him.

His eyes close and he lets out a shaky breath as he pauses, relishing in the feeling of your tight cunt wrapped around him, the heat of your bodies pressed against each other as he hits that perfect spot in you. The pool of heat in your stomach is growing by the second, his unexpected words fueling the fire.

“I’m close.” You rasp, barely able to form the words.

His thumb gently swipes across your cheek, other hand moving from your hip to caress your covered breast. “Let me feel you baby.” He presses a sweet kiss to your lips, then begins trailing them down your neck and chest.

Your back arches, a low hiss leaving your mouth when his large hand removes your tit from your bra. His soft, wet lips latch onto your already hardened peak, tongue circling the sensitive skin as your hands find their way to tangle in his curls. The combination of his quick thrusts and his tongue drawing circles on your breast finally send you over the edge.

You can’t help the cry that leaves your mouth as the coil in your stomach finally snaps sending a white hot sensation throughout your body. Frankie doesn’t stop his thrusts as he stares down at your trembling body beneath him. As your orgasm starts to come to an end, you tug at his curls, instantly triggering his own orgasm.

“Fuck.” He whimpers, forehead pressing against yours as he unloads himself inside you.

His body stays still, falling limp against you as he closes his eyes and catches his breath, shirt sticking to his damp skin. You lift your head to plant a gentle kiss on his lips, he lets out a deep sigh before he jolts up, eyes flying open.

“Oh shit I- I’m so sorry.” He looks down between the two of you where his spend is seeping out around his cock, still buried inside you.

You grab his cheeks, stopping him from moving any further. “Hey, it’s okay. Promise.” You give him a reassuring smile.

His hand smooths over your cheek as a smile grows on his own face. “Let me get you cleaned up.”

You give him a small nod before he pulls out of you and you gasp at the loss, sitting up on your elbows as he goes in for another kiss. You watch him constantly as he pulls his jeans back on and runs a hand through his hair before sauntering off towards the bathroom.

You sit there for a moment while you wait for him, wondering how the hell this all happened before he returns with a washcloth to clean you up.

“What is it?” He stops in front of you, a wondering look on his face.

You snap out of your thoughts. “Hm?” You look up, eyes meeting with his.

“What are you thinking about?” He reaches down to start cleaning you up.

“You.” You say shyly.

He hums, nodding his head as he tries to control the smile on his face. Once he’s gotten you cleaned up he grabs a tshirt from his drawer, helping you put it on before changing his own and slipping out of his jeans. He pulls the comforter back so you can crawl in and nestles himself behind you as he pulls the blankets up.

“Still hate me?” He whispers as his hand drapes over your waist, pulling you closer.

“Hmmm, don’t know. Ask me again in the morning.” You press your lips together trying not to smile.

He lets out a deep laugh that shakes the bed as you turn to face him, snuggling into his chest as he rests his chin on the top of your head. He plants a small kiss there before the two of you drift off to sleep.

thank you for reading <3

[spiteless-xo]

since we're being semi soft today.... do u have any fluffy thoughts on any of the marley boys ?

🙊 i'm answering this out of order from the requests in my inbox because i was HOPING someone would ask this after i posted the fluffy thoughts on the other boys -- so thank you for this 🥰

╰┈➤ fluffy headcanons pt. 2 - aot.

ft. colt, reiner, porco, zeke. cw. gender neutral reader

⋙ colt grice.

colt coaches falco's soccer team. he gets up early in the morning, dressed in a fleece half-zip with some gloves to set up pylons on the field for the kids' drills. he knows every kid by name and doesn't give any special attention to falco just because he's his brother -- parents love him. doesn't notice that some of the younger moms are hitting on him until you point it out, and then he gets awkward and flustered every time he sees them.

please just picture this man with little pink-flushed cheeks from the early september chill, blowing steam into his hands to keep them warm. he's calling out encouragements to all the kids as they run back and forth on the field -- always praise, because they're just kids and this is only for fun. he looks back at stands and just beams at you, excited that you were willing to get up so early just to watch him coach a bunch of little kids

idk why, but in my head, colt is not funny 💀 like he just doesn't understand comedic timing and isn't quite a quick or sharp as some of the other boys, but he appreciates every single one of your jokes!! he absolutely kills himself laughing every time you make a joke and he gets so excited about them that he'll tell other people your jokes (poorly 😭) but be laughing so hard they don't even understand him

ALWAYS kisses you and tells you that he loves you when he says goodbye. it's something that he does with falco already (that falco hates, btw), and one day it just slipped with you like "mwah! love you, bye!" and he goes beet red in embarrassment when he realizes, but you quickly kiss him back and now you do it every day 🥺

⋙ reiner braun.

this man only knows angst i think reiner really cherishes quiet moments of intimacy with you. like driving in the car with your hand laced in his, or having a nice meal at home that the two of you cooked together. it means a lot more to him if you show him that you love him through small gestures, instead of telling him.

he looooooooves head massages. he'll sit on the floor between your legs on the couch while the two of you watch tv so you can run your fingers through his hair and scratch his scalp. guy is vocal about it too, groaning and moaning when you rub his temples. 💀 and his knees go absolutely weak whenever you scratch his head

he has a really hard time falling asleep when he's alone 🥺 he gets really anxious at night sometimes, so if the two of you are apart he hardly gets any sleep at all -- but when you're in bed with him, this guy falls asleep the second his head hits the pillow. he feels so safe and comfortable with you that it helps ease some of his worries just knowing that you're beside him.

if you roll away from him in bed when the two of you are sleeping together, guaranteed in a sleepy haze, this man is grabbing at the bed trying to find you again. the second his hand rests on your body, he hooks his arm around your waist and pulls you tight against his chest -- sighing into your shoulder and sleepily kissing your neck. when you tell him about it the next day, he says he doesn't even remember doing it 😭

⋙ porco galliard.

porco is perpetually grumpy and bratty, except for when it comes to you. this man literally will talk to you in a baby voice when the two of you are alone together 💀 if you've ever seen those tiktoks where the girl calls her bf and makes him do the baby voice when he's with their friends -- that's porco.

like "babyyyy, i'm weawy hungee, can you make me a snack?" and he's looking up at you with big dumb eyes and a little pout while he rubs his belly. lowkey kinda cringe but the shift between his baby voice when he's alone with you and his normal voice when he's with the boys is just too funny 💀

also -- loves snacks. has a stash of chips and cookies and treats in the cupboard because he's always munching on something. if you're cooking dinner for him, he'll take a snack tax and munch on one of the foods you're prepping for dinner. you always tell him he's going to spoil his appetite, but he hasn't yet!

LOVES GOSSIP!! when the two of you are out with your friends and one of them says some out-of-pocket shit, you see porco in the corner of your eye looking at you like 👀 and you just KNOW he's going to talk about it on the car on the way home. in fact -- when the two of you go on road trips together, you don't even listen to any music. you just spend the entire time filling each other in with drama at work/school/etc. and gossiping about how other people's relationships aren't as good as yours 💀

⋙ zeke jaeger.

zeke is in his early thirties but he acts like an old man. whenever he gets up from sitting down he's pushing himself up with his hands and groaning. cracking his back with a loud moan. sighing heavily and collapsing into the couch like 💀

really into grilling? like spent a bunch of money on a fancy grill and now will take any excuse to have people over for a barbeque. he's got an apron that says something dumb like "women love me, fish fear me". you guys will be having a bbq and he's standing by the grill, watching the meat, with a pair of dark rayban sunglasses and a beer in his hand.

loves feeding you. like physically feeding you. like, if he wants you to try something that he cooked, he'll hold it in his fingers and get you to open his mouth for him 💀 he sets a little piece of cookie down on your tongue or between your teeth, and watch you expectantly as you chew it and tell him your opinion

loves building things, too. like you'll mention offhand that you think it'd be nice to have a garden and the next weekend he's coming home with planks of wood and building you raised garden beds 🥺 you don't even have to ask, he's just like "she wants a garden? ok, i'm on it!" and he immediately gets to work.

[the-cat-and-the-birdie]

There are two different versions of ATSV in theatres - and the only difference between them in Hobie Brown.

Okay ya'll I came across something so bizarre.

So I've seen Across the Spiderverse twice now, and my theatre was going to stop showing it this weekened - so I went to see it one more time.

Originally, I had seen version one. I knew there were two out there, but I had only heard of version 2. This time I saw it. And the ALL the differences has to do with Hobie Brown.

My man really hate consistency, I guess.

LOOK: This is the shot of Hobie saying 'I quit' that's most used. - THIS is version one

But when I went this time, this is what I saw:

THIS IS VERSION 2. (omggggggg!!!!)

As you can tell, instead of his normal colors - in this shot Hobie is a violet-pink instead, with a lot more texturing on his model.

And these are common throughout Hobie's screentime!

If you saw the top photo - you saw version one.

If you saw the bottom photo - you saw version two.

Chances are if you watched the movie early in it's release (first week or so), or you watched a fancam you have seen version 1.

I was able to capture most of the changes on camera - and it's kinda jarring to see but omg i find it so interesting!!!

I took photos of all the differences and compare them down below, including an explanation of why this happened.

Please let me know which version you saw, and when you saw the movie! Have you seen both versions? I'm so curious!

For the first half of Hobie's appearance the two version are entirely the same - except for what seems like either a different take or wording of his 'Gwendy, how much have you told him-' line. However, the changes begin at the end of Hobie's scene with Miles.

I spoke here about how in some versions Hobie says 'Don't enlist unless you know what war you're fighting', while others 'Don't enlist unless you know just who you're fighting'.

But the biggest differences are his last scene.

Last week I used THIS screencap that was taken from a Version 1 fancam. In it, Hobie is in full color:

In Version 2, he's pink. Also - it's extremely faint in the photo, but if you look closer you can see there are also red spiderwebs behind the blue ones in Version 2:

You can see his pink color better here:

Later in the scene, Hobie changes colors. In Version 1, he maintains the same normal color scheme for the duration of the scene, however in Version 2 he's changing back and forth - even turning black and white at one point.

Version 1:

Version 2:

And can I just say -

This is to show how Hobie is literally the only one in the room who is 1) Literally and physically 'in Miles' corner, (literally) standing 'in the right' - to the right of Miles,

and 2) the only one being honest to Miles (why he turns black and white, he also turns black and white while talking about Miles' parents.)

As the scene goes on, Hobie stays this color - which leads to one of my favorite differences:

His last shot.

In Version 1 - Hobie is white & black for one shot, as he says 'Here we go'. This is the same.

However - for version one, he returns to his natural color for his final line of the scene - 'Good'. And for Version 2, he turns purple.

So why did this happen?

According to the ATSV there are two (and only two) versions that were released in US theatres. Version 1 was released when Sony shipped early copies to translators so they could translate the script for international viewing. The version sent was about 98% done, and made to give the translators a jumpstart prior to release.

However, that version ended up being released.

Afterwards they swapped it out with the full, correct version - Version 2.

It seems like Hobie wasn't meant to be natural colored for the duration of the Canon-Events scene, and that in the whole film, he was the final thing they were putting touches on.

There are other small changes in version 2 - including when Miguel calls for backup - in Version 1 Lyla points at Miguel, however in Version 2 she takes a selfie with him on a AI cell-phone.

In Version 1 - Miles says 'No, no no!' at Pavitrs chai scolding, and 'Sorry, sorry' in Version 2. There are other small adlibs, and they said they removed Gwen's voicelines when she was searching for Miles and the child in the rubble (?? don't know why).

I also think - and I DON'T KNOW, I haven't checked my recording but I did record it - I THINK the watercoloring in Gwen's scenes have different colors in some shots, or different strokes, but only subtly. It just looked more detailed and vibrant to me, but idk. But the trans colors remain completely untouched in every way.

However, it seems that your best and most obvious way of telling which version you saw is by looking at Hobie's lines and coloring in different scenes.

Mans really hates consistency, damn.

______________________________________________

Outside of some split-second shots and ablids, He's the only things that's largely changed, and when seeing it in the theatre today I was literally shocked as HELL. When he said 'eh, what of it?', I was like 'mfer WHY R U PINK'. I hadn't noticed until right then. But I'm literally over the moon I got to see both, I feel like I found something secret.

Maybe being Hobie obsessed and Neurodivergent pays off.

Oh - and here's two more shots that were also changed that I didn't get footage of. If you have a photo or footage of these shots from Version 2 - PLEASE post or send them to me. Thanks!

Version 1 - 'What of it?' / In Version 2 he is a BRIGHT pink color

Version 1 - Standing behind Miles while talking to Miguel / In Version 2 he is black and white with newspaper around him (also doesnt he look so cute look at that slutty waist ugh)

SO uhhhhh yeah Idk if anyone else finds this interesting but I DO and I enjoyed it so much and I WISH I could get better footage of Version 2.

Had I not watched his scenes everyday for weeks and wrote out a dissertation about every one of his lines I might not have noticed lol

If you're not normal about Hobie Brown and found this interesting like me, thanks! Let me know if you read this far and please tell me what version you saw and when you saw it! Ok thxs again bye :)

[jenosbigtoe]

nct dream mtl likely to be fwb? recently fwb jisung has been making me feel some type of way 😭😭 especially like the way u wrote him in ur fic where he goes from shy to cocky ITS SO GOOD

okay this was kinda hard. i didn’t know whether i should rate them on how likely they would to be in a fwb situationship or who would be least likely to catch feelings or what so i just kinda did a mix of both. DISCLAIMER THIS IS JUST MY OPINION AND YOU MIGHT DISAGREE BUT OH WELL

next fic idea after catgirl x jaemin might be fwb!haechan brrr

MOST

chenle. i feel like he’d also be the least likely to catch feelings if you entered a fwb arrangement with him. you two would be those friends that everyone is like “oh you guys aren’t dating yet?” and eventually the sexual tension between you two got too much and yall started fucking on the dl.

haechan. okay this is like an obvious answer but hear me out. hes literally just as delusional over you as you for him and any opportunity he gets to jump your bones, hes taking. hes been down bad for you since day 1 and isn’t afraid of hiding it. literally would just look at you and you already know he wants to fuck the shit outta you in that moment.

renjun. i feel like it could go either way with him. he’s down for whatever makes you happiest, whether that mean being fwb or bf/gf.

jaemin. i feel like he wouldn’t want to play with your feelings like that but he also wouldn’t be able to resist being able to fuck you anytime anywhere. yall would end up dating after like 2 weeks max

jeno. this is such a surprising answer for me bc i would literally commit crimes in 87 different countries to be his fwb but i don’t think jeno would be very likely to have a relationship like that. like just date him already damn he’s such a sweet boy why would you play with his feelings like that

mark. bitch stop playing with his heart like that😭when he really likes someone, his heart would not be able to handle all that uncertainty and back and forth. he needs to have you as his girl and not just some situationship or he will lose his mind and kill himself or something. he will carry your babies idk

jisung. okay jisung would definitely think yall are dating if yall start fucking 😭 like wdym youre not his girlfriend when he knows what you taste like? when you’ve literally had your face shoved down his cock n balls? when you introduce yourself as just his girl best friend to someone, he would whip his head around so fast and look at you so betrayed. would he be down to be fwb with you? sure. but good luck trying to convince him that doesn’t mean he’s your actual boyfriend. so really the answer is No

LEAST

[cupid-styles]

would you ever write about ymsl harry & y/n finding out they’re having a girl ? i can imagine harry is wishing for a girl the whole time 🥺

omg yes I decided awhile ago I wanted them to have a girl (and I kinda revealed it in the newborn blurb) butttt here u go :))

word count: 814

content warnings: pregnancy/pregnant y/n

ymls masterlist | main masterlist

talk to me

. . .

"You're making me dizzy."

Harry resists the urge to roll his eyes at Y/N's annoyingly cavalier demeanor. He knows they're here every few weeks, but she's gotten surprisingly calm at spreading her legs under a scratchy paper gown as her doctor pokes and prods at her uterus and growing tummy. Today, however, is different, and Harry refuses to pretend like it's not a big deal — today, they can find out the sex of their baby.

"Sorry," he mutters, pausing his pacing to shuffle over to the table she's sprawled across. She still maintains the whole "no-standing-down-there" rule, which he's happy to respect. "Just nervous."

"I know you are, but there's nothing to be nervous about. It's either a boy or a girl. Really, it's all bullshit anyway, they may decide differently once they're here—"

"I know that," Harry says with a huff. Typically, the roles between them are very much reversed — she's constantly irritated with his chatty nature, but he's learned that he gets rather... irked when she acts so flippant about certain things, especially pertaining to their child. He tries not to let it get to him, knowing that they essentially have opposite personalities and communication styles, but it's a bit tougher when he's swimming chest-high in anxiety.

Thankfully, a knock at the door puts a fast stop to their back-and-forth; the entrance of Dr. Ruth serving as a much-needed distraction.

"Hi, you two!" she greets happily as she takes a seat on the small swivel chair, "Are we ready to find out the sex today?"

"Yes!" Harry replies all-too quickly, making Y/N snicker from the table. He issues a glare her way and it only makes her laugh harder.

"Harry's a little... anxious about it."

Dr. Ruth hums as she prepares Y/N for her sonogram, "That's a very normal way to feel. Tons of parents to-be come in here feeling nervous about finding out. Don't worry, Harry."

He nods, leaning his elbow at the top of the table Y/N's laying on. "And what about if someone's not nervous? Is that normal?"

"Harry," Y/N chides with squinted eyes, "Shut up about it already."

He's grateful that Dr. Ruth is used to their bickering and ignores them. Once she turns the light off so they can see the screen better, the room goes silent — their incessant need to banter is instantly forgotten, three pairs of eyes glued to the sonogram as Dr. Ruth moves the wand around Y/N's lower stomach.

"Alright guys," she murmurs, glancing over to see two eager, expectant faces, "You're having a girl."

An explosion of fireworks sets off in Harry's stomach. He never admitted it to Y/N, but he was hoping for a girl — he'd love and cherish any gender, but there was something about being a dad to a little girl that just got him.

A toothy grin is painted over his face as Dr. Ruth continues to prattle on about the baby's growth. All he catches is that she's looking healthy and everything's great, which is a win in any case. It's only when she turns the lights back on and exits the room to give them privacy that he glances at Y/N, who has tears streaming down her cheeks.

"What's wrong?" he asks, confused. "Were you... were you hoping for a boy?"

Quickly, she shakes her head, raising her hand to haphazardly wipe the tears away.

"N-no. I wasn't... I was fine with anything... but we're having a girl. Harry, we're gonna have a little baby girl."

He realizes then that they're happy tears — something he doesn't think he's ever seen from her before — and he smiles with a nod, gently smoothing her hair back.

"Yeah, we are," he murmurs softly, "Are you happy?"

She nods, "Yes. Yeah. I feel like it's... right, y'know? I don't really buy into fate or any of that shit but something about this... I don't know, it seems good."

"It is good," he agrees, "She'll be the sweetest little angel."

Y/N laughs softly as Harry helps her up. He hands her her leggings and underwear and she makes quick work to pull them up her legs.

"Well, actually, if she's anything like her mumma, she'll be tough and won't put up with anyone's shit. Especially mine."

She rolls her eyes and issues a light smack to his chest, making him laugh.

"Your shit isn't too awful to put up with, by the way," she mumbles as she grabs the scrunchie from her wrist, forming a ponytail with her hair, "We're getting dim sum for lunch now, right?"

He nods. They're quiet as they leave the doctor's office, ever a maze of hallways and elevators, and head down to the parking lot where Harry's parked in one of the expecting parents only spots.

When he glances over at Y/N, who has her hand over her growing bump as always, he resists the urge to tell her that he was only nervous because he wanted her to be happy.

He's so happy they're happy.

[the-way-of-words]

You Will Not Be Mine, So Give Me The Night

Noah Sebastian x OFC Content Warnings: Fingering, P in V sex, and infidelity. There are no miscommunications, no misunderstandings here... just two people making the conscious decision to be unfaithful. Contains sexual situations with a fictionalized version of a real person. This is fiction, none of this is real. But if RPF isn't your thing, please hit that back button.

This was a smut prompt request from @itsvictoriaarose with #189 "You're really telling me to stop while both your hands are up my shirt?" and #182 "You can't leave marks." I kinda went back and forth over this for a while, trying to figure out what direction I wanted to take and then I got hit with an angst spell and decided to take it out on Mr. Noah Sebastian. So enjoy?

Special thanks to @signs-of-ill-portent for beta-ing this and just overall being the amazing person you are, and to @throwingmetothelions for telling me to just go for it haha.

tag team: @signs-of-ill-portent @ladyveronikawrites @nerdraging4point0 @cncohshit @jxstthisonce, @shaydayhere @kingdomof-omens @thebadchic

If you would like to be added to a taglist, feel free to send me a message

My master list can be found here

~~~~~~~~~

It starts innocently enough. She's the new guitar tech, shadowing JB and learning the ropes to take over for him now that Jimmy needs him more. Noah can’t help but be a little standoffish. It’s always hard to bring someone new in, but it goes well. She’s good at what she does, and she’s a quick learner when it comes to all their little idiosyncrasies, technical or otherwise, noting Jolly’s preferences and taking them to heart. His people are happy, so he’s happy and he starts to relax into this new normal. 

Three stops in, shit hits the fan and while the rest of them are bustling around, trying to fix it and not lose their collective shit when new girl steps up pulling a fix from God knows where. It gets them through the night and off to the next city, where they have a day off to figure out exactly what went wrong. He stops worrying for a bit after that. 

They’re three weeks into their eight-week run when Noah realizes he might have a problem. At first he notices the way her nose scrunches when there’s something she can’t fix right away, how she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth as she thinks it through. He catches himself staring at her mouth more than once, wondering if her lips are as soft as they look. With a mental shake, Noah forces his eyes away from her, letting the sparkle of the ring on her finger taunt him as he unlocks his phone. 

His girlfriend’s face smiles back at him from the home screen, and it’s enough to get his thoughts off of her for the time being. 

But it only works for so long. The more time they spend together, the worse it gets. He starts to catch her looking at him when she thinks he’s not looking, her head quickly turning away when he looks back, their friendly touches beginning to linger a little too much on the side of Too Long. So he tries to put as much distance between them as possible, but it's not exactly easy when they’re practically living on top of each other on the rig.

She corners him by week five, appearing at his side to lean against the bar next to the stool he's parked himself on.

“Did I do something to upset you?” 

Noah can feel her gaze as it burns into him, the same stare he’s felt the past few weeks when she thinks he’s not paying attention. It was one thing when he thought it was one-sided, but he doesn’t think it is anymore. 

“Nope,” is all he says, refusing to look at her. Instead, he lets his eyes wander to the other side of the room, watching a few of the others face off at the pool table. 

“You sure?” she asks, incredulous. “Because, apart from a sparing glance, you’ve barely been able to look at me for the past two weeks.”

He sighs, letting his head hang as he closes his eyes. "I think you know why…"

"I know," she replies, voice quiet. 

"I'm not the only one who feels it, right?" Noah asks as he finally lets himself look at her. She looks tired as she sits on the stool next to his, running her hands up and down her thighs. He tries not to focus on how thick they look under the tight material of her leggings, and how they might feel under his own hands if he were to reach out and touch her; instead, he keeps his eyes trained on her face.

“No. No, you’re not.” The confession makes something flutter in his chest. Excitement, maybe, but it’s quickly tampered by the cool wave of dread that settles over him when she continues. “So, where do we go from here? I really like this job, but if it’s better for both of us if I--”

“Hey, wait, no,” he cuts her off quickly, reaching out to take hold of her hand. “That’s not what I want, and that’s not what I think you should do… because you’re good at this. That shit the first week? The whole show could have gone south if you didn’t figure out a way to fix it. I don’t want to lose you as a tech just because we’re attracted to each other… okay?”

“So what do we do then?” she asks tiredly, staring down at their joined hands. Her skin is warm under his and he can feel the beginnings of electricity sparking under his thumb where he runs it across her knuckles. 

Noah shrugs, “We deal with it, okay? You’re engaged for fucks sake, and I have a girlfriend, that’s more than enough for us to push whatever this is to the side and remain professional. We can even use JB as a go between if we need to.”

She scoffs, but it’s more amused than derogatory. "Just ignore it. Is that really the solution you’re suggesting? Healthy.”

That pulls a laugh from him as he raises both of his hands in a mock surrender. “I’m all ears if you have any other suggestions… besides quitting.” He needs her to know he’s serious, because apart from JB, she’s the best tech they’ve had and Noah’s pretty sure Matt would strangle him if he had anything to do with them losing her. 

“Okay…” she says, exhaling loudly. “You’re right. We’re both adults here, we can be mature about this. It doesn’t need to be anything more than a strictly platonic work relationship.”

“Exactly.” 

Their new found understanding is shaky at best, and it only takes JB’s departure for it to all come crumbling down. 

~~

It's the last week, the home stretch. JB's gone off to do his own thing with his own band, and in his absence, all the things that hold them back seem to not matter anymore. Without him as a buffer between them, the ring on her finger doesn't sparkle quite as bright, and the face that smiles back at him from his home screen doesn't carry the weight it once did. Not when she throws her head back to clear the hair out of her eyes and his eyes trace the line of her throat, wondering what kind of sound she'd make if he did the same with his teeth. 

He tries not to over-indulge when he’s around her. She feels magnetic when he’s sober, sparks crackling under his fingertips where they brush against hers when he’s riding that first beer feeling, and he knows it’ll only increase the more he puts away. Noah can’t tell if she’s doing the same thing for the same reasons, but he always notices when she stops at one as well. And much as he loathes to say it, he knows right then that it’s only a matter of time before they do something they shouldn’t. 

It all comes to a head after their last show. The night goes off without a hitch, and everybody's riding that high, despite how tired they all are. At the after show party, he stops at one, like he always does, but it’s not enough this time. 

He tells himself that it’s not a conscious decision to offer her his hand. That it’s the alcohol’s influence as they sneak away hand in hand, out to the rig while everyone else is otherwise occupied.

Noah’s the one who kisses her first, but she kisses him back with fervor, sitting on the table by the small kitchenette, spreading her legs to let him into her space. He gasps into her mouth when her hands slip under his shirt, trailing fire in their wake as they wander the broad expanse of his back, heat pooling in his gut when her tongue slips into his mouth to slide against his. His hands grip her thighs, tugging her closer and it’s not until he pops the button on her jeans that she breaks away.

“Stop…” she pants, the words slipping out between gulping breaths. “We… we gotta stop.” 

She’s right. He knows she’s right, but. “You’re really telling me to stop while both of your hands are up my shirt?”

That pulls a breathless laughter from her chest, and Noah tries to ignore the way he mourns the loss of her touch when her hands leave his body, a chill quickly replacing her warmth. “You know I’m right… we can’t do this.” 

His head falls forward to rest against her shoulder. “I know.” 

But he doesn’t move, doesn’t back away to let her go before they do something they can’t take back. Instead he kisses her bare shoulder, and she doesn’t stop him. Nor does she stop him when he skips over the thin strip of her tank top before letting his lips mark a path to the curve of her neck. She just tangles her hand in his hair with a sigh of his name, tipping her head back as he continues his way around throat where he whispers into the skin, “I don’t want to stop.”

He can feel her throat bob as she swallows before taking a deep breath, her following sigh loud in the empty space around them. It’s quiet as the minutes tick by until she tugs at his hair, pulling his gaze up to meet hers. “You can’t leave marks.” 

It’s all the permission he needs. 

Noah tears at her jeans, pulling harshly at the zipper before shuffling the denim down her legs until she can kick them off. Sucking two fingers into his mouth, he steps back in between her legs to push her underwear aside, circling her clit before he sinks them into her, all the way to the knuckle. 

“Fuuuuck.” Noah curses. She’s so wet inside, and the knowledge that it’s all for him makes him delirious as he fucks her with his fingers. He works her to her orgasm quickly, the sound she makes when he thumbs at her clit just before she shudders around him makes it hard for him to think about anything other than getting his dick inside her. He shoves down his shorts and underwear, trying not to trip as he steps out of them before kicking them somewhere behind.

Noah grips her thighs, pulling her closer to the edge of the table underneath, spreading her legs wide with both of his hands. She’s still spasming when Noah pushes his way inside, the clench and release of her pussy as he bottoms out forces him to pause as he tries to hold his own release at bay, and he refuses to think about anything but her as they rest their foreheads together, panting into each other’s mouths. 

“Hey, look at me,” he requests, setting his thumb beneath her chin as his palms rests against the soft skin of her cheek. Her eyes slide open just as he pulls his hips back and the way her mouth falls open in a silent cry as he thrusts back into her is nothing short of beautiful. 

For a moment, he wishes things were different, that he could have her spread out beneath him on a bed and take his time, instead of a hurried fuck in an empty tour bus. But then she cants her hips up to meet his, and he’s rocketed back to the present moment so hard his head spins. She floods his senses; all he can see, all he can feel, all he can smell is her, them, as they rock together.

She clutches at him as she cries out, hands fisting into his shirt when he feels his dick brush against a particular spot inside her and he can feel her cunt begin to tighten around him. 

“Shit,” Noah gasps, “A-Are you gonna cum again? Gonna cum around my cock?” 

She nods, working one of her hands between them to play with herself. “That’s it… that’s a good--” he cuts off with a groan as the quiver of her inner walls threatens to pull him over the edge. Pulling her mouth to his, he smashes their lips together, swallowing her moans as he fucks her through it. 

“Oh god…” he pants against her lips, rhythm slipping, “oh fuck, I’m gonna--”

Noah groans, kissing her deep one last time, pumping into her twice more and then he’s pulling out, working a hand around himself until he cums, his release spilling onto the curls above her center and the soft part of her lower belly. 

Her hands find his face, brushing the hair that's fallen forward back before pulling their foreheads together. He knows exactly what it is, this soft moment in the afterglow; it's a goodbye for something that never even started and he lets himself bask in it. 

With ears still ringing, he pushes away from her, stumbling towards his bunk to pull out an old shirt lodged at the edge of the mattress.

Noah grimaces as he hands it to her. “Sorry, I didn’t have anything else to--”

“It’s okay.” She interrupts. 

Noah waits for the guilt to creep in, but nothing comes. Nothing but more want when she pushes past him on the way to her own space, bare ass in full view. He can feel his dick stir back to life at the thought of nipping at the soft cheeks with his teeth, griping the full flesh in both of his hands to hold her open while he fucks her from behind. But he lets it go, choosing instead to find his shorts.

They don’t talk as they redress, crossing in the parking lot silence and returning to others a few minutes apart, just in case. 

.

.

.

.

He gets the wedding invitation three weeks later.

[fhrlclln]

Omg so like what if reader is at a party and it's late at night but there are some guys there that are scaring her. Her dad isn't home to call to come pick her up and she can't drive since she's been drinking so she calls eddie instead. He does have a reputation in town and he looks mean so when he shows up everyone kinda moves out of his way and he goes to look for her. Once he gets her home and cleaned up for bed he starts scolding her for being so thoughtless (responsible eddie showing his age lol) but she starts to cry because he's never talked to her like that and he ends up feeling really bad and it's just them having like a little fluffy moment. Also I'm thinking this is like further down in their relationship where her parents know about them and stuff.

older!mechanic! eddie x fem! reader

I LOVE THIS IDEAAAA, thank you anons 🙌

and yes, eddie being his old matured ass, he is very protective of reader. i am kneeling rn. 🧎‍♀️

also, so sorry i took so long to respond !!

also here’s the imagine connected to this !! older!mechanic! eddie

suggestive themes under the cut

｡･:*˚:✧｡

“pick up, pick up, pick up. pleaseeee.” you muttered to yourself nervously, the landline phone on your ear close, glancing back and forth from where you are in the kitchen, glancing to see the group of guys staring at you from the far corner of the living room. the sea of people dancing only the barrier as you quickly looked away. you cringed, glad you still had some sense even though you felt drunk as hell. a party had been going on the up street neighborhood, it was like all house parties, everyone is invited and everyone is free to join. college frat parties like so.

it was fun at first, but you are just itching to go home now after one dude had been too intent on asking you out a while ago. you already told him you had a boyfriend— which was entirely true, but the said creep didn’t back down after countless no’s and fuck off’s. but you managed to stray away, and now his group are watching you like hawks, ready to strike at your most vulnerable. which is why your drinking stop, you already felt tingly and dizzy and it was time to go home. the music was getting boring anyway.

you opted to call your dad but he wasn’t home, probably having a drink with his friends too. you couldn’t call your mom, knowing she’s asleep and could literally yell at you for being at a party and would make things worse for your headache. you decided it would be eddie, who’d you call. your parents trust him enough knowing the established relationship between you two. and to mention, your dad is so very fond of him. a win-win perhaps.

“hello, who is this?” your breath stilled as the ringing finally stopped as you heard his voice. not enough time to respond back, still a little dizzy as he cuts you off. “if this is that one jackass prankster who keeps barking, i’m fuck—“

“eddie. it’s m-me.” you meekly replied, feeling groggy as you hiccupped.

“sweetheart? what’s going on? where are you?” he immediately asked as you hummed sleepily. wanting for him to be here.

“can you come pick me up?” you hiccupped, “‘m at a party right now. i need you.” you glanced back to the group of guys staring at you. you let out a shaky sigh ass you could hear eddie shuffling in the other line. “there’s a bunch of creeps staring at me. please hurry up.”

“creeps? baby, are you alone?” eddie asked worriedly, hearing the music blare in the background of your voice.

“y-yeah. ‘m friends—“ you hiccuped, lying a bit knowing he’ll be mad that you’re alone. “my friends are somewhere h-here…i’m in the kitchen.” you gulped, feeling the nausea slowly start to sink in. you whined as you rest your head on the wall, holding the landline phone dearly on your ear.

“give me the address now. i’ll be there soon.” you muttered the address coherently, saying it two times wanting him to come to you quickly. the sound of a squeaky door opened loudly on the other line as eddie’s footsteps were heard. “you just stay there where you are, sweets. do not fucking go anywhere alone.”

“i will, eddie.” you whispered hearing him hang up as you lazily put the phone back on the receiver. you leaned on the counter, sobering up a bit as you tried your best not to fall down on your ass.

to say,

eddie was fuming, in utter complete rage. he swerved his van to a vacant spot in front the roaring house. getting out hurriedly as he slammed his van door shut. the party was still lively with a lot of people in it from outside to inside. music blasting from the inside, horny young adults kissing, drinking— he could remember the times he had been in parties back then making bucks from dealing, but that didn’t mattered now. he can smell the alcohol as he neared the door. he opened it, earning the attention of the people near the entrance.

“shit, that’s mr. munson—“ one of the boys muttered, staring at the leathered jacket man with a hint of fear in his face. eddie felt the whole room stare at him now, all partially intrigued and intimated seeing the tall mean-looking man step forward to the sea of people. a shiver ran down eddie’s spine, concealing his discomfort of the stares, it felt he was in highschool again— which sucked.

“move.” he grumbled to the dancing people blocking him towards the kitchen. they immediately part a way for him, seeing him already unpleased with the scent of sweat and alcohol in the air. god, he hated parties so much. all stood silent as he finally sets his eyes on you and to an incoming man inching towards your sunken form, as you desperately tried to hold yourself up the counter. he felt his heart surge knowing you mentioned some guys giving you the creeps, in which he immediately stomped to stop the said man eyeing you.

the creep furrowed his brows as eddie came into view before he could grab you. “hey, man. what the fuck—“

“fuck off.” eddie’s voice dropped as the creep backed down. a vein bulge on forehead as the creep scurried away, knowing hell who eddie is. oh, eddie knew he had a reputation in this town for looking intimidating. he still dressed the same like in highschool, just that the evident matureness on his face and more ink on his body caused him to be gossiped around how scary he looked.

which was not true. at least to you, as you felt arms wrap around your waist. you were about to protest until the familiar scent of oak cologne and cigarettes passed your nostrils. your heart thumped as you immediately looked up to see the man you’ve been waiting for as you drunkily smiled at him. your boyfriend. that looks pissed.

“eddie!” you hiccupped, jumping up to encircle your arms around his neck. his shag hair brushing against your cheek as you nuzzled closer to him. chest brushing against his.

“baby, let me get you home.” he mumbled, patting your back gently. you nodded, kissing his cheek as he kissed your forehead. not caring if anyone saw the you two. on the way out, people eventually parted a way for him and you, not questioning anything, it felt sort-of a win, knowing his intimidating presence made anyone flee. hurtful it felt sometimes, but at least the drunk you in his arms said otherwise. you were clingy, clingy for his touch and his affection. he gave it you before you’d sober up and the massive scolding he’ll have to do afterwards.

eventually he helped you up the stairs now in your house, up to your bedroom. your mother was asleep and you told him to be quiet, afraid you both would be getting a yelling from her. you got to plop down to on your bed, before you could feel yourself blacking out. every ounce of strength you had left diminished after such a exhausting night. you tried not to sleep, hearing eddie shuffle inside your room. you could hear him open your closet, shuffling through your clothes then back to somewhere else. you groggily let out a sigh, brain a little mushy but a little sobered up.

“sweetheart, sit up for me.” he tapped your thigh as you lazily complied. sitting up with a groan, back slumping forward as eddie held your face up. your eyes fluttered to see him holding a towel, he gently wiped the sweat on your face. his calloused hands gripping the side of your head as gently as ever, you rubbed your face against the palm of his hand, feeling a little fluttery how good he smelled up close. the comforting silence passed by as you started to feel the drowsiness again until he finally spoke.

“i thought you said you had friends over at that fucking frat party.”

“hm? i-i did, they’re—“

“don’t fucking lie to me, sweets.” he sighed, letting go of your face as he threw the towel on the bed. crossing his arms as he stands in front you with a clipped look on his face.

“i swear, eds, i was just having fun.” you mumbled embarrassingly, feeling his anger.

“fun? that was fun? getting almost cornered by those creepy shitheads was fun? do you have any idea how fucking worried i was, y/n?” you stilled, not used to hearing your name come from his mouth, let alone how angry his tone is. you stared at him in silence, his nostrils flared as the vein on his forehead bulged. you averted his gaze, feeling shameful. his eyes burned holes through you as he waited your answer.

“i’m sorry.” you quietly mumbled, feeling your eyes water. “i-i just wanted to drink ‘s all—”

“i fucking swear, in the middle of the fucking night. you’re hurting my head...” he grumbled, stepping away as he rounded to your closet, opening it as your lip trembled. he never talked to you like this, it was the first time you ever heard him so pissed off at you and you felt bad. your fingers fiddled with each other, disappointment filling your chest. you merely look down at your hands, tears dropping as you tried to hold-in a sob, feeling a little pathetic now that you were fucking crying just because of this.

eddie sighed to himself, picking out clothes in your closet so you can change in. he wasn’t necessarily mad-mad, just that it pained him to think about if a scenario like this could happen again. he wouldn’t restrict you from parties, hell, he was an active out-goer back then in his young 20’s. right now, he didn’t think of it as fun anymore sometimes. he works, he has a job, numerous responsibilities, he doesn’t remember half the thrill he had back then unlike you now. he guessed this came with his oldass.

he turns around, freezing on the spot when he sees your head titled down, little sobs coming from your mouth along with sniffles. you were trying so hard not to make it obvious but seeing as he saw you, the tears started flowing again. guilt filled his chest as he cursed to himself seeing that he had made you cry. shit.

“hey, hey, baby. why you crying, sweetheart?” he kneeled down to your level, grasping your hands to his. you looked up to his brown orbs, the tears blurring your vision. you sniffled, feeling like you made a fool out of yourself infront of your own boyfriend.

“i-i’m sorry. i’m used to to you…” you paused, gulping. “not seeing you angry at me. i-i’m sorry, eddie.” you sniffled, wiping away the wet tears as eddie softens his gaze. “just wanted to have fun this night. you were working and i didn’t have anyone else. i’m sorry.”

“i know, sweetheart.” he says heartedly, this week has been busy on him. he spent days in his shop, working for every customer. “but you know you gotta take care of yourself.”

he wipes the tears on your cheeks as you look at him, nose sniffling as you nodded, still feeling a little sleepy. eddie hummed seeing as you eyes sparkled as he gives you a small smile, indicating everything was alright. he leaned in, capturing your pouty lips to his, soft and slow as you eagerly reciprocated, missing his closeness. sitting up straight, letting out a small moan between as his tongue joined in, making the sweet kiss a little sloppy. all pent-up feelings being brought out. the stubble of his beard sent shivers down your spine when it tickled your chin. you pulled him closer, wanting everything for him to be on top of you right now. but he had the opposite idea as he pulled away making you whine lowly.

“not tonight.” he whispered hoarsely, cigarette scented lips too intoxicating for you to not stare at them as he chuckled. “you’re wasted and tired. i’ll give it to you in the morning, don’t worry.” he kissed your cheek with a promise as you nodded, pecking his lips, thankful he was here for you making your heart flutter. how did you bagged a man like him? you always wondered how lucky you are right now.

“i love you.”

“i love you too, sweets.”

｡･:*˚:✧｡

WHEN IS IT MY TURN?!?! anyways i’m back. 🙄

[hitlikehammers]

eating fancy

rating: e ♥️ cw: domestic fluff, not-quite-but-not-not-dirty talk, playful banter, silly boys being silly asf, love is when the food is also kinda foreplay, first encounters with a crab rangoon, eddie munson's mouth makes innocent food obscene—fact ♥️ tags: established relationship, fluff, domestic fluff, slice of life, idiots in love, softness

for @steddielovemonth day nine: Love is sharing food (@sparklyslug)

you may recall a very important scene that takes place over crab rangoons for the rockstar!husbands in  je ne regrette rien; this would be their first go-round

“Ooo, we eating fancy?”

Steve rolls his eyes and plops the bags on the countertop, the grease already drawing wide circles on the paper.

“Chinese takeout?” he snorts and raises a brow Eddie’s way because oh yeah, very fancy, but he unloads the bags and padded them to Eddie to open up so they can grab from them, they’ve learned it’s easier to just eat out of the containers and pass them back and forth, but then he’s folding the bag up and he catches his beloved fucking boyfriend—

With all of the little white boxes arranged, and very clearly not opened, but almost making…a snake or something. Maybe a path?

“I like the little cartons,” Eddie comments brightly, with that innocent sort of grin of his that goes and melts in Steve’s chest and drips like honey over his ribs, draped molten, every goddamn time: “they’re like mini houses, you could build a city,” then his head snaps up, eyes wide and glinting, molten just the same his lips part and his grin because something bigger, fuller, taking up more dimensions at a time:

“Oh, fuck, I could,” and he’s moving the boxes around quick, and Steve knows him well, can tell when he’s devising a plan and his hands fly manic to excuse the vision: “a whole new campaign, I could map it out with—“

“How about one,” Steve catches Eddie’s palm on top of the cashew chicken; “you finish the campaign you havefirst,” and Eddie tries those eyes at him, the pleading edge of them almost widened to their fullest advantage but Steve’s developing some degree of tolerance, now, and can at least tip his head just so to indicate that he doesn’t intend to budge—it works, on Eddie and himself, about thirty-percent of the time; and this is one of those third-of-the-time occasions, because Eddie pouts his lower lip and pulls a hand back from building his kingdom or whatever, which means Steve can give a little in return, because that’s what they are, they’re give-and-take almost relentlessly. They’re a fucking team, and a damn good one at that.

“And two,” Steve takes it upon himself to start untucking the tops of the cartons and sticking forks in; “we order, like, just a bunch of white rice for that, so your little buildings aren’t full of fucking grease.”

Eddie brightens up for that, excitement hitting first before he looks at Steve and softens in a breath, looks so fucking huggable, kissable, touchable—

No. Not yet: they have dinner. Maybe not fancy, but Steve would like at least the first round eating what he bought to be warm-ish before it goes the way of leftovers-straight-from-the-fridge.

“So smart, baby,” Eddie croons, and Steve bites his lip over a grin, and yeah, maybe his pulse still flutters a little when Eddie’s voice hits that pitch, or when he says that kinda shit, and means it—Steve not gonna pretend otherwise, or fucking apologize for it.

He’s down to the little bags of eggs rolls and almond cookies, the shitty and really-unnecessary-but-they-come-with-so-they-have-to-try chopsticks, and oh, yes.

He grabs one of these babies out of the little crinkly bag with the bleeding ink and pops it straight into his mouth in one peace, champing it gleefully before smiling at Eddie, who’s grabbed his set of stick and is poking at the bag carefully, almost warily, like something’s gonna bite him.

“What the fuck is that,” Eddie’s eyes dart between Steve’s mouth and the still-half-ensconced wanton-y things in the bag.

“Hrah hanhoo,” Steve tries to talk around his food but it’s a lost cause: he did eat the whole thing in one go.

Fucking worth it though, and Eddie just stares until he swallows, then stares while he swallows, follows the motion down his throat and Steve can clock how his pupils dilate for it; never fails to give him a rush as he clears his throat and breaks his pair of chopsticks apart to scissor them clumsily against the point of another piece:

“Crab Rangoon,” Steve says simply, but Eddie’s eyes just…kinda get wider?

“So is it crab, or,” he asks, very carefully, measured and hesitant: “or is it raccoon?”

Steve’s lucky he didn’t put another one in his mouth yet for the way he goddamn snorts.

“Rangoon,” he tries not to laugh too hard; “crab and cream cheese in a little fried,” he gestures to the pointy crispy could-be-a-ninja-weapon-if-ninja-weapons-were-delicious.

Wait, could ninja weapons be tasty?

“Aww, it’s kinda little a star,” Eddie’s saying as he lifts one out from where he skewered it straight through with one of his chopsticks, which Steve was about…ninety-eight percent sure wasn’t the right way to use them, like, at all.

“And the crab is,” Eddie takes his other chopstick and pokes at the top where it’s all gathered in together and crisped: “oh, a little pouch that’s all,” he moves his head around to study it from all side; “puckered up, and kinda red,” and oh, his tone hasn’t changed but Steve knows this man; “also kinda,” and yep, the tone stays perfectly even but he gives himself away in the way he licks his lips:

“Kinda milky—”

“Stop,” Steve cuts him off, and for good measure he knocks Eddie’s clinical examination of the food out of they way to inexpertly-but-at-least-there’s-no-stabbery-involved lift the wanton up and shove it at Eddie’s lips until he bites half, and shuts up so Steve can make plain his term:

“Not in front of the food,” he declares, and then drops the other half on his tongue because fuck, they’re good.

“You don’t even know which end I was referring to,” Eddie whines a little once he’s chewed through his half.

“Honestly, either fucking pucker is not what I am focused on right now,” Steve nails him with a stare—not a glare, it’s not angry, it’s just pointed—as he goes to finally fucking open the rest of the cartons and start goddamn eating dinner.

“Hmm,” Eddie pouts, and yes, Steve is very much aware he’s displaying one end’s pucker for a fucking reason like the petulant dickhead he is: “that’s a pity.”

“It’s gonna get cold,” Steve volleys back easily because it’s not like this is new. It’s not like he doesn’t know the rules of engagement here, the terms of the game.

It’s not like he’s not head-over-heels in love with this jackass, or anything.

“Fair,” Eddie concedes, and it’s….it’s too easy.

Steve lets himself give into the pepper beef but…he’s careful. He doesn’t take his bites too big, lest he choke on whatever Eddie’s cooking up.

And right on goddamn cue:

“Are you rimming the rangoon?”

“No,” Eddie says as he slowly slurps his tongue back between his teeth to look at Steve dead in the eyes before diving back in:

“I’m making sure,” and he licks; “I get all,” and he swirls that tongue, the fucker, he’s unhinged; “the creamout,” and Eddie may only just make it without grinning as wide as it’s very clear he wants to, but his eyes.

Always: his eyes give him away.

“You’re absurd,” Steve huffs evenly and very much does not shift a single inch for the weight starting to strain at his jeans.

“Just making sure you have a full understand on what you might be missing,” Eddie notes blithely, as he pulls gently at the points of the wanton wrapping and stretches the pouch out for Steve to see and…Chinese takeout should be this obscene. It really shouldn’t. It wasn’t built for this.

And yet here’s Eddie Munson, everyone: so of course it was going to be making its pornographic debut in that sinful fucking mouth, Jesus Christ.

“We fucked on this table like, two nights ago,” Steve points out, almost incredulous but he can’t even pretend to be because this is Eddie, so: this not wholly unprecedented beahavior: “I’m gonna fuck you when we go to bed in a couple hours,” he adds meaningfully, because it’s also fucking relevant; “I am not missing anything.”

Eddie dips his chin and eyes Steve shrewdly, almost pityingly, god.

God.

“You’re missing me licking you like a crab raccoon right this moment, though,” Eddie counters with something like dismay, or, or, like lament in his tone. “This singular sliver of time,” he sighs, and shakes his head: “and you’re sitting there with your lo mien.”

In fairness: it is Eddie’s lo mien. They share all the cartons but Eddie is the one who orders the lo mien, who brought that into the order that’s become their regular; theirs.

But that’s just technicalities.

“It’s delicious lo mien,” Steve sniffs, juts out his chin and sticks his nose in the air a little before he gives up the chopsticks to spin the noodles round-and-round dizzy on the fork.

“Not compared to me,” Eddie tacks on, leans in almost touching just as Steve lifts the fork to his lips. He pauses.

“I do not compare my boyfriend to food,” directly, or like, out loud; “just because two things are edible doesn’t make them,” he licks his lips to finds the right word: “equatable,” yeah, that sounds right enough.

Eddie snorts in disbelief, shakes his head:

“Says you.”

But then he’s turning to stab a stick in the crinkly bag again, and Steve grins before he impales another crab-pucker—oh Jesus, shit, he’s gonna equate those now, isn’t he, that connection’s stuck in his brain forever, holy fuck.

“They’re good though, right?” Steve asks as he comes to terms with this new horrifying association he’ll never be able to escape.

“Fucking delicious,” Eddie admits, grin curling so his dimples pop and he glows: “let’s definitely get more than one bag next time. I, umm,” he Pickens a little before he flicks his eyes up to Steve just shy of apologetic; “I maybe ate more than my half of them?”

Steve chuckles and shakes his head, swirls some more lo mien on his fork before he replies:

“Don’t sorry, babe,” he gestures with his noodly-utensil; “I’ll have my share of red-milky puckers later on.”

And Eddie chokes a little, and fucking good: Steve damn well better not be the only one stuck with the consequences of that fucking image in his head.

The bad ones…

And of course also the good ones.

tag list (comment to be added): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch

♥️

divider credit here

[iamatinydinosaur]

🍀Clay🍀

First Encounter

Five trolls walked into an abandoned Bergen golf course. Poppy and pastel blue troll with a brown afro clung to each other as they walked through the eerie golf course. "Are we sure that he's here." Y/N said getting closer to her friend. "WHO GOES THERE!" Everyone screamed into terror as a giant clown glowed bright red talking to them. Y/N and Poppy ran and hid behind JD. "What the hell! You hoping it eats me before you two!" He shouted at the two girls. "Better you then us!" Y/N shouted back, making the other two brothers chuckle.

"Look we want no clown trouble.... We're just looking for our older brother Clay!" Branch exclaimed stepping forward. "Wait you five are trolls?" The clown asked. "So what you're a clown!" Branch retorted back. Suddenly the mouth of the clown opened wide and a golf ball jumped down the tongue. The five trolls stared confused. The golf ball popped open and stood before then was a female pink trolls with blonde hair. Y/N looked between her and her younger friend back and forth. 'They look like each other." She thought. "Well hellooo, My names Viva, it's so fantastamazing to meet other trolls!" She exclaimed rushing forward gushing over all of them. "Is she like Poppy's doppelganger?" Y/N whispered to Bruce making him laugh. "I think so." He agreed earning a glare from Branch.

"Are you hungry, thirsty? Fries, Fries I see fries! Bring out the works!" Suddenly they were all surrounded by fries, milkshakes, hot dogs and pizza the other trolls brought out. Viva downed a milkshake. "Great now I have some energy!" Viva shouted. Viva suddenly flew past Y/N and Poppy. Poppy looked up at Y/N and vice versa. "Did you just braid our hair!" Poppy exclaimed jumping up and down, while Y/N stared in disbelief.

"These fries are amazing! They'd really go great with a burger." Bruce said munching away. Suddenly there was a scream and all the other trolls ran away. "Whaaat isss happening...?" Y/N and Bruce said in unison. "We don't say that word, cause burger sounds to much like Bergen." Viva whispered nodding. "We call burgers! Meat circles." The 6 trolls turned round and saw Clay standing above them. "Clay!" The three brothers exclaimed. Clay went over to Bruce first and did an handshake with him, catching up. "Clay!" John shouted jumping forward opening his hand for a hug. "Hmm, John." Clay said bluntly. Poppy and Y/N watched the everything unfold while giggling.

"OMG Baby Branch!" Clay exclaimed running over. Finally Y/N saw Clay up close and stared at him. He's cute in person. Clay was her favourite in the band. She watched as he squished his face. "Anyway, Clay this is Poppy." Poppy jumped forward hugging the middle brother. As she asked him to do the robot and he did his "well-oiled robot" saying it's no fun Y/N giggled, catching the tall trolls attention. "It still kinda looks fun though." She said smiling at Clay. "Oh Clay, this is Y/N my best friend." Poppy said pushing her friend forward, making her stumble into his chest. The two trolls went wide eyed and turned away from each other blushing, muttering sorry to each other. JD and Bruce smirked at each other.

As time went on Clay's brothers explained about Floyd. "Okay let's go!" Branch exclaimed grabbing Poppy's hand running towards the exit. "No you can't leave you just got here, let me show you around!" Viva shouted, grabbing Poppy's other hand pulling her out of Branch's grip. Suddenly Poppy, Y/N and Branch's hug time bracelets went off. "Hug time!" Viva shouted hugging Poppy. John tried to hug everyone by pushing Y/N into Clay arms wide open. Y/N push JD away. "Nuh-huh!" Was all she said crossing her arms, making Clay chuckle. He was intrigued by this troll.

It wasn't until Viva was staring into Poppy's face walking towards when the other trolls noticed what was going on. "Sorry, who's your father?" Viva asked. "Uh- King Peppy." Poppy answered cautiously. Viva started to twirl Poppy around saying she couldn't believe she was alive. Everyone looked confused. "Poppy I'm your sister!"

Before everyone knew it Poppy and Viva started singing. Soon the Brozone bros started singing together. Y/N felt out of place, like an intruder. Clay looked over and saw how Y/N stood off from everyone. Clay walked over and grabbed her hand. Y/N looked at their hands and up to the back of his head. "You should sing and dance with us." He said not turning around. Y/N smiled up at the troll, because his back was to her she didn't see the slight blush forming on his face. As they sang Y/N and Clay danced together laughing.

Timeskip

The trolls ran into Ronda. Y/N sat on the couch waiting for Poppy and Branch to come inside. She felt the couch dip down. She turned to her side seeing Clay sat next to her. They smiled at each other being comfortable in each other presence.

A/N: I didn't realize how long this one is. I love me some Clay and I kinda got carried away. Hope you like it. I don't know why but I've always seen Clay being with a sassy troll. I don't know why.

@pendephoebe