#the oysters were to blame

[ktownshizzle]

Watermelon & Suga | myg

✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x plus size female!reader ✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: idol!au, Fluff, Smut, Drama, Whirlwind romance, Love at “second” sight

✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: Inspired by the events of Dday Phuket Vlog, Yoongi meets you, the island girl of his dreams, and now he can’t stop thinking about you.

✎ ˎˊ˗ Warnings: Dday rockstar Yoongi, I love this MC I think she a baddie, writing might feel a little too indulgent at times, A world with no language barriers, A relevant time skip, check the dates. Sex on a boat, public sex/slight exhibitionism kink, unprotected sex (be safe!), oral (m&f), spanking, fingering, squirting (in that order lol), slight degradation and dirty talk but MC likes it, sweet pet names, tell me if I missed anything, but yeah… sex on a boat and then some, Yoongi is down atrociously bad for our curvy queen and is desperate to worship her and validate her <3

✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 10k!

✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: Finally!!! Worked on this for months ever since some of y’all plagued me with Phuket vlog Yoongi as honeymoon hubby material and I couldn’t stop the fantasy from unfolding. It did take me a while to bang this out (I blame the Nerds), sorry. Nonetheless I hope y’all enjoy this lil slice of paradise. 💜 Thank you Aqua for betareading.

🗓️ June 2023 - 📍Phuket, Thailand

The air smells like salt and sunlight, a mix you’ve grown so accustomed to that it no longer feels special. Just another Tuesday workday on the Andaman Sea. 

It’s nice and calm out today, barely a ripple on the surface. There’s a light breeze from the southwest, nothing too exciting, just enough to keep things cool. No storm on the radar, and the water's warm enough for a good snorkelling sesh. Basically, a perfect day to fall in love (with the sea).

Your usual clients are giddy tourists, high on Tiger beer and oyster omelets. But today seems quieter, more chill somehow, even though your group today is unlike your typical clientele. Today, you were asked to sign an NDA.

The rest of the group has boarded already. Some seven men and women that comprise a group of musicians currently in town for their concert tour. Now, you’re just waiting for the last member to join. The VIP, apparently.

So who’s the diva? 

Well, after 15 minutes, he finally decides to grace you with his presence. 

“Min Yoongi?” you call tentatively.

He nods, barely glancing up as he steps onto the boat. A quick bow, respectful but distracted. You direct him to a seat near the stern, his cologne lingering in the air as he passes you.

To be fair, he’s not flashy, no monogram logos in sight, no jewelry, or any other loud proclamations of being the proverbial shit. Dressed in a black and white shirt with a plain black rash guard and shorts, a baseball cap tugged low over his eyes, he could’ve been mistaken for anyone. But there seems to be a deliberate nature in how he moves, careful and understated, like he’s trying to avoid notice but not entirely succeeding. 

Swag can’t be faked, even if he did walk a little bit like your grandpa. Those New Balance slides? Yeah, you’ve seen it in your halbeoji’s home.

You turn to speak with Soomchai from the coast guard—a moderately cranky but well-meaning old man who’s been doing this for decades. He scratches at his scalp through his faded fisherman’s hat as you hand him the passenger manifest.

“You’re staring too hard,” he quips, licking the pad of his index before flipping the pages.

Huh? “I’m not.” You say.

“So they’re famous, eh?” he reviews the names on the clipboard, surreptitiously glancing over your shoulder.

You look behind you, half of them are already asleep, half basically on their phones.

“One of them, yeah. You know BTS?”

His face remains unchanged as he counts the passengers. “I don’t and I don’t trust the lot of them. Want me to accompany you?”

“Loong Soomchai,” you smile at the man who has taken you under his wing since you moved here last year. “Chill. Besides, I have a black belt in taekwondo, if you already forgot. I can easily toss them overboard, then they’ll really be your problem.”

“Aish,” he waves a dismissive hand at you. “I’m on line 3. Stay safe.”

“Roger, that,” you speak into your hand-held radio, your voice blaring on the receiver tucked into the older man’s cargo shorts. 

Soomchai’s slouched frame disappears as the boat pulls away from the dock. You brace your legs and adjust your stance. The boat shifts beneath you—but you don’t. Learning how to move with the water, how to balance your weight just right, was something that came with time.

Before you officially start the tour, you check your rash guard, snug across your chest, and smooth down the high-waisted swim shorts that you are wearing. You’re quite happy with your fashion choice today. It made you feel like a Bond girl—but curvier, tougher, more badass.

Usually, you would take a moment to observe your audience, make eye contact and exchange smiles to open the communication. Your VIP, though, sits with his arms resting on his thighs, gaze fixed on the water as though it holds answers to questions only he knows. You wonder if he’s the type to make small talk or if he’d prefer you stayed silent. 

Still, it’s your job to guide, to narrate, to fill the spaces between the silence and the sea. You start with the usual pleasantries and introductions, your go-to joke to break the ice, and you’re off. 

“If you look to the right,” you gesture, “you’ll see Koh Tapu. You may have heard of it as James Bond Island, because a scene from The Man with the Golden Gun was filmed there.”

A polite murmur rises from the other guests. Some snap photos. Min Yoongi doesn’t look up.

You let the silence stretch, wondering if you should say more. It’s not often you get guests like him—someone who seems so unbothered, yet weighed down at the same time. 

It isn’t until you glance back at him again that you realize he’s watching you now, his eyes sharp beneath the brim of his cap. Caught, you quickly look away, focusing instead on the shimmering turquoise of the water.

“How many times have you done this tour before?”

The question surprises you. You’re not sure if you should be offended, but you answer swiftly anyway. “Hundreds of times,” you admit with a shrug. “But the sea changes every day. It’s never exactly the same.”

You smile at him, genuine. “I imagine it’s a bit like your concerts. You practice it a thousand times, but it's still different in every show, every city, every audience… Makes things interesting.”

Something in your words seems to resonate with him. He leans back slightly, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “I get that,” he says softly, more to himself than to you.

After that, you noticed Yoongi’s guard begin to lower. He’d nod occasionally at your explanations, even ask a question here and there—about the history of a limestone karst or the kinds of fish they might see while snorkeling. His voice was quiet, with a faint rasp from overuse that made him clear his throat now and then.

“You know this fish?” Yoongi asks, holding out his phone to show you a screenshot.

“Wow, that’s beautiful…” you lean forward slightly.

He coughs a bit, scratching the back of his neck as he leans back. “Yeah, uh, they said it’s native to these parts.”

“I’m not familiar,” you squint. “Can you send me the photo? I can ask one of the other guides—I’m still no expert on marine life, I fear.”

There’s a pause. He gives you a look you can’t quite read, brows slightly raised, lips pressed in something not quite a smile. But it’s not disapproving either. Just... 

Oh shit. You just asked for his number. Or to exchange Kakao. Same thing. You basically asked to link up.

Such an idiot. A flush creeps up your neck. Stupid, stupid girl. You weren’t thinking. God, he probably thinks you’re trying to pull a fast one on him—playing the helpful guide when really, you just wanted an excuse. 

People don’t just ask for Yoongi’s number. Of course not. Unless they’re someone. You hope he doesn’t file a complaint after this.

You straighten, your voice a little brighter, a bit too eager to salvage what’s left of your professionalism. “But, um, actually, no need. We’ll see a ton of species later when we get near the caverns. I’ll make sure to keep an eye out for that one.”

“Mmh.” He nods. You can’t quite tell if it’s thoughtful or distracted by your word vomit.

But as you turn to walk across the deck, you can feel his eyes burning holes on your back. Low on your back. Maybe lower even.

Should you look? Maybe you’re just imagining it. 

You chance a quick glance. And your eyes meet his. Looking at you with an interesting glint. His lips lift slightly. You tilt your head, curious. Pulse racing. Giddy.

Okay, maybe your job is safe after all. But your heart? Eh.

When you serve them a plate of watermelon slices, the group’s energy shifts. One of them jokes about how they should’ve brought soju, while another eagerly reaches for a piece, groaning in satisfaction the moment he tastes it.

You place the tray in front of Yoongi, and he immediately plucks a slice. He bites into it, and for the first time all morning, you see a full-blown smile—pretty enamals and pink gums on show.

“Good?” you asked, unable to stop your own grin from forming.

He nodded, wiping his thumb along the corner of his mouth. “It’s perfect.”

“What’s your favorite fruit?” you throw out a neutral question as you struggle to ignore the stray liquid he’s trying to chase down with his tongue. 

“Tangerines,” he replies. “The ones from Jeju Island are the best. Have you ever been?”

“No, unfortunately.”

There was a beat of silence before he adds, almost to himself, “But this… this is nice.”

He pushes the plate towards you. “You should have one.”

“Ah, maybe later.”

“Don’t be shy,” the plate moves another inch closer. You pick up a slice, mumbling a thanks.

Sugar fills your mouth as you sink your teeth on the watermelon, juice dribbling on the side of your lip which you immediately catch with your tongue.

Unlike you though, he’s watching. Openly. Shamelessly. The way his eyes dart from your mouth to your eyes is not lost on you and you can’t help but feel excitement pooling in your belly.

“Sweet.” you remark, before sucking the juice from your thumb. Baiting him.

He smirks, “Looks like it.”

“You always flirt using fruit?”

“You’re the one licking your lips.”

You grin.

As a tour guide, you’re used to the art of the harmless flirt. It comes with the job—tourists with sun-soaked nerves and too much vacation confidence, tossing compliments like loose change. You’ve learned how to play along just enough, to keep things light, fun. A wink here, a tease there. Part of the act. People like feeling charming, and you don’t mind giving them the illusion.

But this feels different.

Right now, it’s just you, the sea, and this idol watching you like he’s the one mesmerized.

And maybe it shouldn’t matter, the way his gaze lingers—not over the places you’ve been taught to hide, but the ones you’ve learned to own. The dip of your waist. The curve of your hip where your swim shorts sit snug. 

There’s something about being looked at like this—not with hunger or pity, but with curiosity, appreciation, even. And it makes you want to keep his gaze a little longer.

‘Cause you know who he is. You’d recognized the name when you saw it on the manifest and when you signed the documents. He’s an idol. Part of Bangtan Fuckin’ Sonyeondan. A man with a carefully manicured image, a life guarded by rabid fans, dissected by media men with too many opinions, surrounded by sexy, slender women.

You’d think men like him don’t get to have ‘normal’ moments like this. They don’t make casual conversations about fish or share food with a rando. But here he is, acting like this is real. And god, why does it feel like it might be?

Honestly, maybe it’s nothing. Maybe you’re not the only one who knows the art of the harmless flirt. Maybe he’s not even that interested.

But you’re gonna play along. See where this goes. At least for now.

Later, after anchoring in a secluded cove, you bring out the snorkeling gear. Most of your guests dive in with ease, their laughter echoing as they race toward the reef. Yoongi lingers on the boat, fiddling with the straps of his mask.

“Need help?” you ask, stepping closer.

He looks up, sheepish. “Is it that obvious?”

You laugh softly. “A little. Here, let me.”

He hands you the mask, watching as you adjust the straps. His gaze feels heavier now, like it’s searching for something beyond the simple act of fixing the gear.

You’re used to people skimming past you with their eyes, but when Yoongi looks, you feel like your skin is on fire. His gaze dips, just for a second, on the spot where the zipper of your top sits against your boobs. He doesn’t comment, doesn’t smirk—probably thinks he’s being sly. But you’re on to him. 

“You’ve done this before, right?” you check, eyes teasing, as you pass the mask back to him.

He shrugs. “A long time ago. I’m out of practice.”

“Good thing I’m here.” You flash him a reassuring smile and step into the water, gesturing for him to follow.

You surface and nod. He hesitates only briefly before jumping in—but his foot slips slightly on the boat’s edge, and he lands with an ungraceful splash and shriek that echoes across the cove. You can’t stop the laugh that bursts out.

“Grand entrance,” you say, grinning as he surfaces with a shy expression.

“Glad I could entertain you,” he mutters, pushing his wet hair back, and if that isn’t one of the sexiest actions you’ve ever seen done by any human being. God.

“Here.” You take a chance to reach for his hand, and to your mild surprise and relief, he takes it. “Just relax. The water will do most of the work.”

He follows your lead, his fingers tightening slightly around yours as you float together. The reef comes into view below, vibrant and teeming with life. You glance at him, his face half-hidden by the snorkel mask, and find him watching you instead of the reef.

“You’re missing the best part,” you pull your hand away, pointing toward the colorful fish darting between the coral.

“Am I?”

You take your mask off only to roll your eyes. “Are you always this smooth?”

He pulls the mouthpiece out just enough to smirk at you. “Only when it works.”

You couldn’t help the giggle that escapes you. 

“Admit it,” he says, leaning closer, his voice low. “You’re having fun.”

You don’t deny it. Instead, you start wading away, gesturing towards the reef. “Come on. The fish are much better company.”

Back on the boat, the atmosphere is lighter. Yoongi is more relaxed now, his earlier distance replaced by a quiet warmth. As you steer toward the island for lunch, you feel his gaze on you again.

When you glance over, he doesn’t look away this time.

“What?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Nothing,” he says, though his lips twitch into an understated smile.

At the island, the group disembarks for lunch, their excitement palpable. Yoongi lingers by the railing, his gaze flickering between you and the others.

“Come with us,” he says, his voice low enough that the others don’t hear.

You shake your head, smiling apologetically. “I can’t. Protocol.”

He looks as though he wants to argue, because he seems like the type that gets everything he wants, but resignedly nods, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Next time, then.”

“Next time,” you echo, though you’re not sure if you believe it.

While they eat, you stay behind on the boat, finishing your own lunch, which one of the island ahjummas hands you as soon as you dock. There’s still some leftover watermelon, so you have it for dessert. It’s sweeter than any you have had all summer, but not sweet enough to distract you from the thought spinning in your head: Did the Min Yoongi really just invite you to join their group for lunch?

He was probably just being polite. Right? But then why did he stare at your lips for ten whole seconds when you were exploring the caves?

Fuck. You really need to get Lasik because your eyes cannot be trusted. Maybe a psychiatric evaluation too, while you’re at it.

Who are you kidding? At this point you can only afford the oh-so ahjumma-chic wide-brim hat so your lone brain cell is not fried by the sun.

BUT. Why does it feel like you had a connection?

Him with his kind eyes and that sexy smile. You’re so fucked.

Shaking your head, you grab a beer from the cooler and chug it, the cold brew doing its damnednest to wash down your delusions. For a moment, the only sound is from waves against the boat’s hull.

But then, footsteps.

You glance over your shoulder.

Yoongi is walking into the shaded area of the boat, pushing damp strands of hair with his beautiful fingers.

“Hey,” you say, clocking that he’s coming in alone. Your pulse races.

“Hi.”

“Craving more watermelon?” you ask, smiling as you gesture to the plate.

He leans against the table, his gaze steady, but there’s something else there. “I was,” he says, his voice softer now, “but I think I’m craving something else.”

Your breath stutters. The plate in your hand feels heavier. The tips of his fingers brushes along the edge of the table as he walks closer, and closer.

“There’s, uh, more delicacies on the island,” you try to use your tour guide voice, but you’re faltering. “Thailand has, umm, over 1,000 species of fruit, you know…”

“Mmm.” A faint smirk touches his lips, but his eyes are fixed on you. He’s literally in front of you now, so close that the air is sucked out of your lungs. You notice every macro detail—the faint streaks of sunscreen on his cheek, the fine grains of sand clinging to his hair, the way his scent is a mix of the sun and the ocean and his own musk. And those lips. Goddamn those lips.

“What is it that you like?” you ask, your voice small and shy as he studies you, too.

“I think I prefer,” he murmurs, before leaning in. “This.”

His kiss sparks upon contact against your mouth. His lips are a little chapped, but still soft. A hand slips around the back of your neck, guiding you closer until your lips part, and his tongue slides in. There’s not one second of hesitation, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

You angle your head and kiss him back, a little messy, a little breathless. It’s not the kind of kiss meant for daylight, not while you’re at work, not something that belongs on a boat in open water, but fuck if it ain’t so goddamn good you forget where the hell you are.

His other hand settles on your middle, firm, squeezing against your soft waist. You’re keenly aware of every place your bodies meet—your chest against his damp shirt, your thigh brushing his leg, the faint heat radiating off his skin in the humid air.

You’ve never done this. Nope. Not while working. Not with guests, especially. But Yoongi doesn’t feel like a guest anymore. Doesn’t feel like a fantasy or a celebrity or whatever version of himself the world thinks he is.

He doesn’t feel new–like someone you just met. It sounds crazy that you connected on a level that doesn’t quite match the short amount of time since you’ve exchanged names. You can’t even correct your actions at this point. Not when he tastes like coconut and you’re slipping farther away from clarity.

Your hands move on instinct, sliding up under his shirt, fingers tangling in the sticky strands at the nape of his neck. “Yoongi…” His name escapes you like a plea, like you’re already wrecked—and maybe you are.

His tongue strokes yours, and it’s incredibly filthy how he’s sucking it into his mouth like he wants to own it. Own you. You moan. Your knees weaken. Your brain empties. The only thing you can feel is him—his mouth, his breath, the growing pressure of his body against yours.

Fingers are slipping under the hem of your shorts, gripping you behind with no hesitation.

“This ass,” he mutters, then smacks, and the sound cracks in the air. Your breath catches, a gasp hitching from your throat as slickness floods your bikini bottoms.

“Shit–somebody might see us,”

“Nah, nobody else is gonna come here,” he pauses, smirks. “Except you, twice. Then, me.”

The confidence. “Oh my God.”

“We ‘bout to break protocol.” He squeezes your ass again, groaning into your neck. “You want this?” he rasps. His lips latch onto your throat, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver. “Tell me.”

“Fuck, yes,” you breathe. “Come…”

You grab his hand and lead him toward the hatch, pulling it open and motioning for him to climb down. He does without question, dropping to the lower deck with a soft thud.

You grip the ladder, descending slowly, legs already shaky with anticipation. But before you can hit the floor, his hands are on your thick thighs, firm. Squeezes once.

“Stop,” he commands. “Face me.”

Your heart stutters, but you obey, turning to face him as you grip the edge of the floor deck which is now at your eye level.

“What are you—?”

“You keep an eye out,” he says, voice low and dark with intent. “I'm just gonna eat you out real quick.”

Your breath catches—shocked, aroused, completely undone.

He curls his fingers into your waistband, tugging your shorts and bikini bottoms down in one smooth motion. A gust of humid air brushes your exposed skin as your knees nearly give out.

But you don’t get a second to process, because his mouth is already on you, making out with your pussy lips. His tongue licks a long, hot stripe through your folds, and your nearly fucking cum right there.

The metal ladder is cool against your ass as you struggle for balance. Your grip tightens on the deck, knuckles almost white. His hand slides up to part your thighs just a little more, anchoring you open for him. You feel his hot breath, before his tongue dives back in—savoring, circling, sucking.

You panic—just briefly. You spent hours in the ocean. You probably taste like—

“Mmm,” he hums against you, like you’re the best thing he’s ever tasted. His grip on your thigh is a bit harsh as if he could read your mind that you wanted to squirm out of his grasp. 

There is something so incredibly arousing about feeling him, but not seeing him. Hearing him, but not touching him. As if the sensations are heightened. Every feeling more palpable because of sense deprivation.

Next thing you know his fingers are teasing your entrance, collecting the slick from your pussy.

You feel a wet tap against the side of your mouth and words aren't needed as you suck his digits in. You’re drunk of your own taste and heady scent, the feel of his bony knuckles massaging your tongue tipping you closer to the edge.

But then his fingers are gone and you almost want to bite it down but then he slides it into your cunt and Christ alive. 

He is moving in and out of you so shallowly, just knuckle-deep, the pads of his fingers barely scraping your inner walls. You move your arms to grip the ladder behind you, giving you the leverage to rock forward, coaxing it inner, deeper.

Fuck is he laughing right now?!

You halt your movements as you hear a throaty chuckle from underneath you.

“Why’d you stop,” he teases, kissing up the softness on the inside of your thighs.

“Hook your thigh over my shoulder,” he mumbles against your soaked heat, voice low and so filthy it makes your whole body tense.

You do as he says. Your leg lifts shakily, your body is burning with the exertion but his hand is already there, steadying you, guiding you, draping it over the curve of his shoulder like you don’t weigh nothing.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, just before his tongue dives back in.

It’s messier now. His fingers pump deeper, faster, the pace almost punishing as they curl inside you, finding that spongey spot that makes your thighs seize. His tongue flicks over your clit in short, relentless strokes, matching the rhythm of his fingers.

You cry out—loud, desperate, your hand gripping the ladder like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the earth. Your hips jerk, trying to escape, but he growls and tightens his hold, tongue moving even faster.

“Fuck, Yoongi—I’m gonna—”

And then it hits. A blinding, body-shaking orgasm that tears through you so violently your vision goes white. You scream as your legs almost gives out, but his arm braces your hips as you fuckin’ squirt, soaking his chin, his neck, the tops of his shoulders.

He lets out a surprised, delighted laugh, breath hot and sticky as he looks up at you.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, eyes glazed, chin glistening. “You squirted all over me, you dirty girl.”

You whimper, half-mortified, half-high, your body still twitching. “Sorry…” you squeak.

His tongue darts out to taste the corner of his mouth, and he grins—smirks, really. Completely pleased with himself. “Don’t. Sexiest thing I’ve seen in a while.”

You’re trembling so hard you can barely stay upright, your leg slipping from his shoulder. He catches it, presses a final kiss to your inner thigh, then plants your foot down on a step. 

“Come here. Be careful,” he says, voice gentler now. He guides you by the waist, helping you down the last few steps until your feet hit the floor.

Your body collapses into his chest on instinct, and he chuckles again, arms wrapping around your middle.

“You okay?” he asks softly, nose nudging yours.

You nod, breath still catching in your throat. “More than okay.”

He pulls back just enough to flash that lazy grin. “Good. ’Cause I’m not done with you yet.”

He spins you back around, pressing you against the ladder. You gasp as his hand flattens between your shoulder blades, your palms bracing the handles above you as his hips roll into yours from behind—slow and grinding, just to let you feel what he’s working with.

“Still want this?” he asks, voice low, gravel edged with need, his hard cock moulding itself against your plush ass cheeks.

You push your hips back into him. “Yes. God, yes.”

There’s a frantic shuffle of clothes, from his end, his swim trunks dropped and kicked away, and then… He slides in with one rapid thrust, burying himself to the hilt. Your mouth drops open, lungs pierced, your breath knocked right out of you.

“Fuck—shit,” you choke, forehead pressing against your arm.

“F-fuck,” he groans, fingers tightening on your hips. “You’re so fucking tight.”

He starts to move, hips snapping forward sharply. Each thrust drives you against the ladder, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the tiny space, the scent of the ocean mixing with the thick heat of your bodies.

Yoongi rocks against you desperately like he’s been holding back all damn day. Like he’s finally been let off the leash. Mercifully he slows down, but he is pulling you up by your hair so your back is resting against his chest. 

“Yoongi,” you say his name breathlessly, and he releases his ponytail grip as you struggle to stay upright. He licks the skin by your ear, whispering dirty things you’ve never heard of in your entire life, twitches against your walls.

“You like that, huh, you little slut?” 

Fuck. You didn’t expect to like the name so much. An involuntary clench of your pussy and you know he got the idea. It’s not just the name, but it’s the way he is literally manhandling you, fulfilling all your small girl fantasies.

“Mmh.”

“Yeah, you love it.” His fingers find the zipper of your rash guard top sliding it down just enough for his large hands to slip inside and grab a fistful of your breasts.

“Your tits are so soft, shit. Wan’ suck on them so bad.” He growls.

“Want it,” you mewl, pushing your chest forward for him to grasp.

“I bet you do, huh. Maybe later, if you’re a good girl I can suck on these. Make you cum just licking at your nipples—want that?”

“Uh-huh, please,” You sound so whiny, fucking back into him as he fondles and tugs and pulls at your sensitive nubs.

“Spit,” he instructs, his palm out. “Let’s get these nice and slick.”

A wet glob from your mouth lands on his palm and he slaps it against your tits. You whimper at the sting, but it’s quickly relieved by the soft massage against your breasts.

“Feel good?”

“So good. Ah–” your words are cut off as he folds you again to his liking.

Yoongi fucks like he is used to being watched, but right now? There’s no audience. No stage. Just you, bent over, body shuddering with every thrust, moaning like you don’t care who hears it.

Your hands scramble for grip, nails digging into your own skin as his rhythm gets rougher. His fingers trail up your spine, tracing the dip at the small of your back before curling into your hair and yanking just hard enough to make you gasp as he continues to rail you from behind.

“Harder, please, Yoongi…”

“So desperate,” he pants, breathing hot against your neck. “So fucking good like this. You feel—” a groan breaks his sentence, “—so goddamn perfect. A pretty little— cocksleeve just for me.”

You’re trembling now, thighs shaking as pleasure coils low and tight in your belly. You feel everything—his cock, thick, hot, hitting just right with every snap of his hips and your body is unraveling fast.

“Ahhh. Right there, fuckin there. That’s it…” You glance over your shoulder, and fuck he’s so fucking hot and he’s fucking you so good and…

“You gonna come for me again?” he growls, one hand sliding between your thighs. “Shit. Give it to me, you dirty fuckin’ girl.”

You cry out as your orgasm slams into you, body clenching tight around his cock, eyes squeezing shut as white heat galvanizes every nerve. Yoongi curses behind you, hips stuttering once, twice—and then he’s coming too, spilling deep inside you with a growl that sounds more animal than human.

You both stay there, shaking and sticky and utterly breathless. The only sound is the ocean lapping against the hull and your heart pounding in your ears.

Yoongi’s hand doesn’t leave your waist, his fingers sink against your soft skin a bit firmer, though somehow gentler, too. Then, his lips press once, twice, thrice, softly, against your shoulder blades. You don’t understand what’s happening. It feels intimate, too intimate.

“Umm…” 

“Is there a bathroom here?”

“A tiny one, yeah. Over there.”

You wince as he pulls his cock out, walls pulsing once as if you wanna keep him inside you if you can. 

“C’mon,” he taps your ass playfully, lightening up the moment. “Let’s get cleaned up.”

By the time the group is back on the boat, skin sun-warmed and bellies full from lunch, the mood is mellow. No one makes any comment as to why you and Yoongi are already on the boat, or why you both have different tops on. You’re slightly relieved. But it also makes questions swirl in your brain that you don’t really want answers to. You shove it in the recesses of your mind and focus on getting back to work. You’re still on duty after all. 

You check on the other guests, making small talk about the yummy lunch spread. You know they had grilled squid, pad thai, mango sticky rice… like every other group you’ve toured, and it’s always a dopamine rush to see everyone so satisfied.

Someone puts on music through a Bluetooth speaker, the kind of acoustic guitar track that feels like the end of a movie. The boat sways gently as it begins to head back toward the mainland.

You pretend not to notice when Yoongi lingers near the bow, waiting until the others have found their seats before sliding into the open spot beside you.

He doesn’t say anything. Just sits close enough that your arms brush when the boat dips slightly with the tide.

You glance at him once. Twice. On the third time, you catch him already looking at you.

Neither of you smiles. He just reaches for the beer you hand him and takes a long sip, throat bobbing.

The silence between you isn’t uncomfortable. It’s in limbo. Like neither of you wants to name what happened, not while you’re still in it. Still riding the aftershocks of something way too fucking good to put into words.

At one point, he rests his arm along the back of the bench behind you. His fingers graze your shoulder. And you know it’s not by accident.

Your hand brushes his knee when you reach for a stray towel. Not by accident, either.

The sun dips lower as the coastline comes into view, and a knot begins to form in your chest. The same one he must feel, if the way his hand keeps tightening around his bottle is any sign.

Eventually, the boat eases into the dock. The group starts gathering their things—bags, towels, sun hats, laughter loud again as people gear up to head back to city life.

You move to help untie the mooring lines, and when you return to the deck, he’s standing by the edge, a small bag slung over one arm.

The others are already walking off. Bowing to you and thanking you for the tour. He’s the last one to leave just as he was the first to arrive.

“This is where I’m supposed to say thank you for the tour,” he murmurs, eyes still on the sea.

You nod. “This is where I say, come back anytime.”

He turns to you then. And for a second, the tiredness in his eyes softens.

“Will you be here, if I come back?”

You don’t answer right away. Just offer a small smile. “Maybe.”

He nods like that’s fair. Steps forward like he might hug you, or say something more. Maybe he considered it. But instead, he slips past you with a final glance.

The dock creaks under his steps. He doesn’t look back.

You watch him walk away until he disappears into the crowd.

Your chest aches with something unnameable.

You know how this goes. Men like him probably have groupies all the time, in every tour stop. You were Phuket. And that’s fine. It’s fine.

At least, you tell yourself, he was a really good fuck and you finished twice, which is more generous than any other one night stand or quickie you’ve had. A great story to tell your future grandkids that you once fucked a very famous idol. Okay, maybe not your grandkids. Maybe not a story to tell, actually. (You signed an NDA!) But something to shove in your heart, let every ventricle lock it tight there. But the taste of him is still on your lips, and the way your heart stutters in your chest says otherwise, like the memory is already struggling to be freed.

You’ve just stepped out of the shower when the knock comes. You freeze.

It’s late—well past when anyone should be dropping by. You don’t get visitors out here. Not unannounced. Not at this hour. Wrapped in your towel, you tiptoe barefoot to the door, heart thudding.

Another knock. Slower this time. Softer.

You squint through the peephole and nearly forget how to breathe.

It’s him.

Yoongi.

You open the door, towel clutched tight, words lodged in your throat.

It’s really him. Hood pulled low. 

His eyes sweep over your form, too. Wet, barely covered… but he recovers enough to explain what is going on. 

“I know this is crazy,” he says, before you can even speak. “But I had to see you again.”

He stands there, blinking at you under the harsh hallway lighting in your apartment building, like he’s afraid you’ll shut the door in his face.

“How did you even—?”

“I went back to the pier. Found the old guy? Practically begged him. And he gave me your address.” He exhales, shaking his head with a laugh. “I think he only did it because he felt sorry for me.”

You’re still standing there, stunned, the scent of body wash clinging to your skin.

“Can I come in?” he asks, quieter now. Like he’s unsure of the answer. “You’re in your towel.”

You nod, even though you’re still in shock, stepping aside. You adjust the towel on your chest. 

“Make yourself at home. Let me just put clothes on.”

Yoongi slips off his shoes and steps into your little house like he’s done it a hundred times before.

He looks around. It’s nothing special—worn tile floors, mismatched furniture, an abandoned oatmeal bar on the coffee table—but he doesn’t look disappointed. He looks like he’s breathing for the first time all day.

You grab a shirt and sleep shorts, quickly changing in the bedroom. When you return, he’s leaning against your kitchen counter, eyes scanning the fridge magnets, the little details of your life like they mean something.

You glance up at the clock, 8:30 p.m.

“I was gonna eat ramen,” you say, trying to play it cool.

His lips twitch. “You got enough for two?”

You both end up cooking together. He cuts vegetables with a precision that is completely uncalled for for a cheap pack of instant noodles. You make a comment and he huffs his chest with pride, his knife skills now in full show as he chops the onions in record speed. 

You laugh at how he makes a face and complains about being in tears afterwards.

The kitchen fills with steam and the smell of broth. You sit on the counter while it simmers, beers in hand. He stands in front of you, and your legs part instinctively, letting him through. Like he belongs there.

It’s oddly domestic. Ridiculously comfortable. Why? You still don’t get it.

You’re talking about nothing—favorite childhood snacks, weird airport food, your least favorite sea creatures—when the silence slips in between you.

He’s watching you now, the way you laugh, the way you push your hair behind your ear. His beer forgotten on the table.

You meet his gaze. His eyes are dark, but unlike in the boat, they’re not unreadable. In fact, they’re very much readable and you don’t hesitate to call him out for it. 

“You’re gonna kiss me again, aren’t you?” you raise a brow.

“Been thinking about it since you opened the door in that towel.”

So he does. 

He kisses you slower this time. More careful. Not rushed, not frantic like it was in the boat. He cradles the back of your neck, the other slides beneath your shirt to rest against your waist.

You’re kissing each other like you’re trying to remember. Like you’re trying to make it last. His mouth moves with so much purpose, almost like he’s writing over the hurried, hungry moment from before and replacing it with this—reverence, sureness, clarity.

When he pulls away to breathe, you whisper, “This is crazy.”

He nods. “I know…”

At least you can agree on that.

Later, he’s between your thighs on the couch, and this time, he doesn’t tear at your shorts like he’s chasing a high. This time, he touches you with all the time in the world, so you feel it all. When he slides your shorts down, he pauses, eyes locked on your center, pupils blown.

“I wanted this before,” he murmurs, kissing your inner thigh. “But I didn’t take my time. I didn’t show you.”

“Show me what?” you ask, breathless.

He presses another kiss to your other thigh, then another, closer and closer to your mound. 

“That you deserve to be worshipped,” he says. He drags his tongue along your puffy folds, slow and tender. You arch into his mouth with a gasp, already so close just from kissing in the kitchen. But maybe it’s also the rasp of his voice, and the refreshing honesty, the way he seems to be convinced that you were special.

So this isn’t like the boat. You, suspended against the ladder. It’s not messy or wild. It’s not just lust, or tension exploding in secret.

This is something else. You, suspended in a different reality. Yoongi, telling a different story with his mouth.

He eats you out with care, overwriting that animalistic fuck at sea. His hands cradle your supple thighs as he buries his face deeper. His tongue works in slow, deliberate circles, building towards your peak. 

“Watch…” he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear between breaths. He puts his index and middle fingers in his mouth, dragging it across his sinful tongue. Teases it against your hole before pushing it in agonizingly slow, relishing the way your body is writhing in pleasure.

When he pushes the length all the way in, you fist the cushions. “Yoongi—oh god—”

His mouth envelops your clit in a gentle suction as his fingers go in and out of you. 

“Ahh, so close…”

He doesn’t stop. Not until you’re shaking again, voice breaking on his name, thighs trembling on either side of his face.

He stays between them even after. Kissing. Calming. Worshiping.

You’re still breathless when he pulls back, lips slick, hair mussed, cheeks flushed with heat and pride. He looks up at you like he’s just done something holy—and maybe he has.

You’re still dazed by the time he pulls back, lips glossy, hair wild from all your pulling but his eyes, soft, focused completely on you. He rises slowly, kissing your stomach, bunching up the fabric as he goes, and you can’t even bring yourself to feel a little embarrassed like you sometimes do, with every cover that’s shed, every piece of you revealed, because he is treating you with the kind of reverence you’ve never felt before. Blind to the flaws, he’s not about to leave any part of you untouched by the pink petals of his lips, helping you out of your cotton tee.

When his face meets yours again, you’re already reaching for him, pulling him close, needing his mouth, his breath, the low rasp of his voice in your ear. You’re so high on this feeling. Of being wanted–no–worshipped, for who you are. He kisses you like a man obsessed, hands sliding under your thighs as he coaxes you onto him, settling you over the hardness pressed tight beneath his sweats.

You’re straddling him now, knees sinking into the couch cushions on either side, your body still trembling from the orgasm he pulled out of you. And then—you pause.

You hesitate. Just for a second.

The reality of it creeps in and your saboteur whispers the insecurities you’ve worked so hard to hide. You’re heavier than him. Curvier, fuller. And even though he just made you fall apart on his tongue, there’s a flicker of doubt when you feel your weight settle onto him.

He notices instantly.

“Hey,” he murmurs like he knows, threading his fingers on your hair to pull you towards him, lips brushing the corner of your mouth. His other hand grip your hips, sliding back to your ass where he gives it a soft squeeze. “Don’t do that.”

“I just…” you look away, voice small. “You sure you’re comfortable?”

He lets out the softest fucking laugh, breath hot against your throat. “Baby, sit on me.”

His grip tightens, pulling your hips flush against him. You feel all of him—thick and very solid right against your slit and you can’t help the moan that escapes you, mixing with his own with the slightest friction.

You whine when he thrusts up just once, just enough to make your clit drag against the bulge in his boxers.

“Shit. You’re so sexy…” he breathes, hands sliding from your hips to your thighs, then your asscheeks, cupping them with both palms. “You feel what you’re doing to me right now?”

You nod, dazed, as you roll your hips, slow and testing. He groans like it’s killing him—in the best way.

“Wanna see you ride me… wanna feel you come on my cock. You think you can take it?”

“Shit, yeah…” You respond with a shameless grind. 

“I think I’m addicted to you,” he smiles, ogling your tits, the way they jiggle for him.

“Yeah?”

He licks his bottom lip, nodding.

“Off,” you gesture to his clothes, his tee tossed haphazardly on the floor. You lift your hips slightly to give him room to shimmy his bottoms down. 

His cock flops against his tummy, heavy and reddened. Your mouth wants it too but your hands are already guiding him to your slick entrance on its own accord like it knows better. You finally sink down onto him and his head drops back against the couch, jaw clenched, eyes fluttering shut.

“Fuck. You feel like heaven.”

You gasp, reveling in the fullness of him, the stretch. You ride him slowly at first. Letting him feel all of you. Letting him watch.

And he does. Watches the way your body moves over his, the way your breasts bounce with every roll, the way you take him so deep he can barely speak.

“Look at you,” he pants, hands moving everywhere—your waist, your ass, your thighs, back to your breasts. 

“Shit…” he pants, eyes moving to where you’re riding him. “You’re so fuckin’ hot… fuckin’ perfect.”

He palms your breasts, groaning low in his throat. “Can’t get enough of these.”

He leans forward, licking the valley of your chest before closing his mouth around your nipple, sucking hard enough to make you cry out. Your walls flutter around him in response, and he lets out a low, wrecked groan, before smacking your ass.

“Fuck!”

“Bounce for me, baby,” he gruffs hungrily against your skin, and he delivers another spank. “Come on…”

You do—riding him harder, feeling him twitch inside you. His mouth stays latched, teeth grazing sensitive skin. He’s relentless, filthy, utterly focused on unraveling you. 

When he finally pulls back, he finds your mouth again, devouring your moans between kisses as you both hurtle toward the edge.

“Gonna cum, Yoongi—” you gasp.

“With me, baby,” he pants. “Fuckin’ cum with me.”

He bucks into you harder, faster, harsher and finally you cum together—this time with his name sobbed into his neck—he holds you there, pulsing inside you as he paints your walls white, whispering things he probably shouldn’t say, things you ache to hear.

His head is fully tipped back on the couch, breathing heavy, body a little glossy from his sweat and yours. The aftermath clings to your skin, but the fire hasn’t burned out. Not even close. You’re not done.

He worshipped you, called you a goddess. But, aren’t you his dirty girl? His slut? And when he looks like the hottest man alive—

He looks up when you shift beside him, his brows pulling just slightly. “Wait. What’re you—”

You don’t answer. Just move lower, letting your hands glide down his chest. His abs twitch under your palms. 

“I wanna taste you,” you whisper. “Suck you dry….”

He groans—low and hoarse—as you move between his legs, your mouth ghosting over the crease of his thigh. He spreads them automatically, lazy and loose, cock already half-hard and still wet with your juices. A drop of cum beads at the tip, glistening.

“Shit,” he breathes, pushing a hand through his hair. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You hum in amusement, dragging your tongue along the underside of his cock—slow and soft, just enough to make him twitch. Then again. Firmer this time. And when you wrap your lips around the head and suck, you feel the ripple it sends through his entire body.

“Fuck, that’s good,” he hisses. 

You take your time. Lap him up, your cum and his combined.  Lick up the length of him again, then back down to the base, tongue swirling as he expands in your mouth. The weight of him is perfect against your tongue, the way his girth stretches your lips obscene but delicious.

His hand finds the back of your head, not forcing—just resting there. “God, baby… that dirty mouth…”

You bob your head, eyes flicking up to meet his. He looks fucking ruined already, jaw slack, stomach trembling with every flick of your tongue. You clench your throat against his tip and feel him jolt. You love the way his body reacts, the little tremors in his thighs, the tension in his neck.

“Don’t stop,” he pants. “Just like that—fuck, you’re acting like a real slut right now.”

Yes, fuck. You choke involuntarily, swallowing against his tip. He groans, lips lining up into a smirk. You take him deeper, popping him off first to admire your handiwork, cock swollen and red. Let spit drip down your chin. Let your throat work around him as your hand pumps what you can’t take. You can feel him losing it—his moans getting louder, filthier, raspier. He swears under his breath, head thrown back against the pillows.

“Shit, shit—I’m gonna cum,” he warns, eyes fluttering open to find yours again. “Swallow for me, baby. Be my good fuckin—fuuuuck—”

You take him in faster, tongue firmly pressed against that vein as you slide up and down keeping your lips vacuum sealed, and finally—

He comes with a choked-off groan, hips jerking, both hands tangled in your hair now as his cock pulses on your tongue. You take it all. Every filthy, salty, slimy drop. You swallow without breaking eye contact. Brandish your tongue with pride.

He blinks down at you, stars in his eyes as he releases the grip on your scalp to move to your chin. “Shit. You’re unreal.”

You smile. 

You wish this was real.

Somehow he convinces you to move to the bed so he can clean you up. He emerges from your tiny toilet with a warm washcloth, damping it against your leaking cunt.

“C’mere,” he lays on his side, gesturing you to move into him. Alarm bells sound in your head but you can’t bring yourself to stay away when your lips are already towards each other like magnets.

Yoongi’s hand is splayed across your lower back, fingers idly tracing soft, lazy shapes into your skin. His other arm is tucked behind his head, smug and relaxed and still looking thoroughly fucked out.

The night goes on like that. You kiss, cuddle. Talk about small things—more favorites, random things—the suspicious little mole by his arm, scary things—his upcoming military service. And you share with him your own—favorites, why you sleep with an alien plushie, your uncertain future with your job and the economy going to shit.

Hours after, your heart is unrecognizable, suddenly morphing into the shape of someone you just met. It should feel wrong. You’re still not sure why it doesn’t.

“You’ve ruined me for anyone else, I fear,” he says, voice rough, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips.

Go away, butterflies! You snort into his shoulder. “Pshh don’t lie.”

“Why would I do that?”

You lift your head slightly, looking at him. “Okay.”

There’s a beat of silence—comfortable, but loaded. His thumb still circles lazily over your spine.

“You should give me your number.”

You consider him for just a moment. But decide to shake your head. Not because you wanna see him sweat, but because you resolve not to. 

His brow shoots up to his forehead like he didn’t expect that response.

“If you’re still thinking about me after two years…” you say, not quite looking at him, “Then find me. Just like you did today.”

He huffs, repeating his request. “Or you could just give me your number.”

You meet his gaze now, seriousness in your eyes. “I’m not gonna do that.”

“Why? You were hustling me for it in the boat…” he teases with a sly grin.

“Shut up, I just wanted to help you find your fish.”

He pokes his tongue in the inside of his cheek, still waiting on you, deciphering that look.

“Look. I don’t want to wait around for your text or your call. I’m not that girl.”

“Then don’t,” he says simply. “I mean, you won’t have to. I do plan to call. And I’m a pretty good texter, actually.”

You roll your eyes, tracing a slow line over his chest with your fingertip. “Be for real. You look like the type who won’t charge their phone for days.”

He gasps dramatically. “You’re… super wrong. And I have a fucking cool library of cat memes. You’ll be missing out.”

“I think I’ll live.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

There’s a moment. He tilts his head toward you, so adorable, so boyfriend, like you’re an old couple bickering about something mundane, like who’s gonna check the front door if it’s locked. Certainly not a conversation that basically dictated if you will ever see each other again. 

Then before you know it, you jut your lip, unable to stop yourself from acting cutely.

“Kiss me?”

He grins, cat-like. “I’ll do you one better. I can also give you tongue.”

You groan. “God, you’re cringe. You sure you have fans?”

“A fucking lot of em.” He hovers above you, his inky bangs tickling your forehead. “Shut up and take it.”

Tongue teasing against the seam of your lips, he kisses you breathless for the hundredth time tonight. His hand slides up to cup the back of your neck as he pulls you closer, deepening it just enough, with a lot of tongue, as promised.

It’s that feeling.

You could stay here forever.

And that’s the problem.

For now, you let it be what it is. Just a moment where your body fits perfectly against his, your laugh harmonizes with his, and it feels like—just maybe—you were really meant to find each other in the middle of the sea.

You’re both hovering by the door, breaking every rule in the one night stand playbook. This wasn’t supposed to feel like this..

But it fucking does.

He’s dressed the same way he came in last night—cap tugged low over damp hair that smells faintly of your shampoo. You’re in your oversized T-shirt and sleep shorts, bare feet brushing the cold floor. It makes the contrast feel starker somehow—him stepping back into the world, you still rooted in this little bubble of what the night became.

“You think we'll see each other again?” he mumbles, leaning his shoulder beside the door. It’s a quiet question, almost tossed out like it’s nothing.

“You’re you,” you say simply. “You have the world in your hands. It really just depends on one thing.”

His brows lift, a flicker of interest breaking through the fatigue in his face. “And what’s that?”

“How bad you want this.”

That makes him pause.

His eyes dip down your body like he can’t help it. Then his teeth sink into his bottom lip. 

“Don’t make this harder,” he huffs.

“I’m not,” you whisper back. “I’m just being honest.”

“I don’t want to leave,” he says, barely audible.

You shrug, trying for casual even though your chest feels like it’s about to collapse. “But you have to.”

And that’s all there is to it.

He turns, opens the door.

But he doesn’t leave. Not immediately. He stands there, hoodie sleeves too long around his hands, looking back at you one last time.

His gaze doesn’t wander. It lands right on your face, and stays.

“Maybe next time,” he says, just like he did in the island.

You nod, barely. “Maybe.” You try a small smile.

He hesitates for a second more. Tries that small smile to mirror your own.

Then he leaves. And this time, it’s goodbye.

The door closes with a soft click, and the room is too quiet all over again, everything intact like he was never even there. Except he left with maybe just a tiny piece of you and replaced it with a bit of sparkle that you don’t notice immediately until you step back in your room.

That morning, you fire off a text to Soomchai asking why he gave a stranger your address and demand he send you a generous portion of his seafood pad thai as a peace offering. He obliges.

🗓️ June 2025 -📍 Phuket, Thailand

Life goes on. You didn’t have much choice in that.

The tours picked up again after the rainy season, but not in the way they used to. Fewer tourists, more locals. The occasional influencer. You learned to smile a little brighter. Talk a little faster.

But when things got tight—and God, they got tight—you picked up a second job teaching English online. What started as survival became something sustainable. Eventually, something yours. Your own business, your own pace, your own students across time zones who asked if Thailand really was that beautiful. You always smiled when they did. You tell them how sugary sweet the watermelons are.

And then there was the bracelet.

The one Yoongi left on the nightstand without a word. Understated but expensive in a way you only noticed when you turned it over in your hand and saw the brand pressed into the clasp. You kept it for months. Until the rent was due and the electricity bill was on its last notice and your fridge was nothing but leftover rice, soy sauce packets, and a bottle of beer.

The pawnshop paid you enough to stay afloat for four months.

And then last week—after months of hard work, after finding your footing again, you walked back into that same pawnshop and bought it back. The bracelet. 

Not that he’d ever come looking for it. But it felt right having it again. Like you were reclaiming something. Maybe not him, but you.

You think of Yoongi sometimes. Not in the hopeful, aching, delulu way you used to.

He’s no longer in headlines. Gone stone cold on socials. Even ARMY wants to do a recon mission to find him. But he’s doing his bid to serve his country so the absence must have been necessary for him. At least you hope so.

You play his music when you’re cooking, or on the rare evenings you chill on your balcony with a cold one and the humid breeze and his husky voice and the sweet piano melody lulls you to sleep.

It wasn’t clear then, but it is now. He simply was a blip on your timeline. An unforgettable 24 hours that changed the pace of your heartbeat. And you don’t hold it against him anymore.

If anything, he reminds you of your favorite line from one of his songs: “Future’s gonna be okay.”

And deep down, you really believe that.

It was one of those nights. Adele was blaring through your bluetooth speaker. And you’re out singing the shit outta her in the kitchen, lyrics be damned, crooning in your frilly little apron with a wooden spatula being used as your mic.

“Never mind I’ll find, someone like youuuuu…

I wish nothing but the best for youuuuuuu toooooo

Bla bla bla I bet I remember what you said

La la la sometimes it lasts in love but sometimes it hurts instead…”

It’s probably the onions but you’re now crying and it feels phenomenal and oddly cathartic.

Your phone chimes with a text.

Soomchai: Hey. Sorry I know it’s late. Stopping by to drop off dessert.

Strange, but okay. Everyone likes a freebie. Especially when it’s sugar.

You’re rinsing dishes when the doorbell comes.

You wipe your hands, heart racing for a reason you can’t name. You open the door.

And he’s there.

Not Soomchai.

Min Yoongi.

Wearing a hoodie just like when you last saw him. His hair is a bit shorter, face slightly more gaunt and just as guarded. There’s a weariness behind his eyes—one you recognize instantly.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t step forward.

Says one thing as you struggle to regulate the thumping of your heart.

“Dessert?”

You stand there, barefoot and blinking at him, stunned into silence. You want to ask why now. You want to ask what changed. But instead, you step aside. Quietly. 

He walks in, a plastic bag with dessert in tow. Takes off his shoes. Looks around like the space is familiar and foreign all at once.

And then—

“I tried to forget you,” he says, voice a bit raw. “Turns out I can’t.”

You swallow hard, emotion clawing up your throat.

“Me too,” you say softly, lifting your wrist so he can see the glimmer of his bracelet. You haven't removed it since you got it back.

He nods, walking closer. He hesitates just long enough to make your pulse quicken.

You stare at him, waiting.

“Wanna try this again,” he says. “If you still want to.”

You don’t answer right away. You just step forward and wrap your arms around his waist, burying your face in the warm cotton of his hoodie. He exhales, slow and shaky, like he wasn’t sure you'd say yes. How could you not? He walks in with a pretty face, and even prettier words.

“I missed you,” you whisper.

“I missed you too,” he replies.

And that night, he proves how much.

“Butterflyfish,” you whisper.

“Hm?” His voice is drowsy, the sound vibrating softly against your forehead.

You tilt your head back, just enough to glance up at him—but his eyes are already closed, lids heavy, expression peaceful in that half-dream state right before sleep.

“The fish you were looking for,” you say quietly. “Back then.”

There’s a small pause. A breath. Then a soft, sleepy grunt of remembrance.

“Ah.”

His arms tighten around you, warm and sure, like he’s tethering himself to this moment. To you.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

You feel it more than hear it—his lips brushing your hair, the words settling between your ribs.

“For helping me find what I was looking for.”

The End :)

A/N: … and now we know deez fish. 🤭

I hope this story was like a brief vacay in the tropics just like in Yoongi’s vlog, and made you feel like you were there in the moment with him. 

Well—tell me what you think! Favorite parts? Please leave me a note and reblog if you enjoyed this story! 🙏🏼😘

Thank you for reading, you lovely, beautiful human. xo

Check out my masterlist if you want more Yoongi.

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[greenwitchfromthewoods]

self-doubt. l Harry Castillo

💔 a few ways to break your heart 💔

Summary:  they decided to show you your place

Warnings:  Self-doubt, complexes, imposter syndrome, gossiping, crying, breakups

A/N: I thought a lot of us struggle with this so I wrote this… will I fix it?

your feedback is very important to me and I thank you for all the reblogs, comments and likes. 🖤 sorry for all the mistakes

a few ways to break a heart [masterlist]

"I really don't understand why Harry showed up with that thing. Have you seen her dress? It was in style last season."

A soft giggle echoed through the bathroom, mixing with the sound of running water and the clicking of heels. Your heart was pounding so hard in your chest that it was strange that the women fixing their makeup in front of the mirror hadn’t heard you in one of the stalls.

Finally, the voice of the second woman rang out. "I heard they met at a café."

"No kidding! She probably worked there, huh?" the first one snorted. "She looks like she works at a café because she couldn't make it anywhere else. Harry's too good for her."

"Mhm. She'll probably get pregnant soon and inherit his fortune."

Someone slammed their hand on the marble counter, and the owner's voice rose noticeably. "Spit it out, Susan! Harry should at least have a little more sense. If he wants to have fun, fine, but he should watch her hands more closely. I'm telling you, she only wants his money!"

"And she's not even pretty."

You couldn't move. When the women finally came out of the bathroom and you knew you were alone, you realized you had been holding your breath and welcomed the oxygen in your lungs. Your fingers were icy cold and when you looked down at your hands, you saw they were shaking.

They were talking about you. You were sure of it, you had seen them earlier, watching Harry and you at that stupid sponsors' party. The best of the best, beautiful people with lots of money. Champagne, oysters, and other expensive food you've never tried.

You felt like you didn't fit in there, but now you were sure of it.

These women weren't wrong, though. You met Harry Castillo at a coffee shop when he accidentally spilled coffee on you. Plain and simple. But no, you didn't work there. You went there regularly and sometimes you saw a tall man with broad shoulders and a prominent nose. Once or twice you exchanged friendly glances and smiles.

It was easy to fall in love with Harry Castillo. He was charming, sweet, sensitive, and really listened. You quickly fell in love with his brown eyes, and on the third date he told you that “you were more than that.”

You had your insecurities, and your self-confidence had been shaken for years. How could you blame yourself? Growing up in the age of social media, magazines, and the constant rush to be perfect took its toll on everyone. You were no exception.

And even though Harry did everything right, and you felt like the most beautiful woman in the world, in that moment, in that fucking toilet, at that awful party, it all came crashing down.

Only, miraculously, the tears that were gathering in your eyes hadn't ruined your makeup yet. You stepped out of the stall and saw your reflection in the mirror. Despite the tears glistening in your eyes and the slight shock on your face, you still looked the same as when you arrived at the party.

The dress you and Harry had chosen complimented your figure beautifully. The makeup highlighted your eyes, and you could still picture Harry's look in your mind when he saw you like that.

"I don't know, maybe we should stay home..." he said tenderly kissing your neck "But I want to show everyone how lucky I am."

But in that moment, in that fancy bathroom of that damn expensive hotel, you felt like someone you weren't. You didn't belong to this world, to these people. All your fears and insecurities had found an outlet, and no rational words could change that.

What if they were right? What if Harry was just playing with you? Would he be capable of that? No, Harry wasn't like that. The man had a heart of gold, and you were sure of it. But he would soon see for himself that you weren't on his level, that you were far below him. The imposter syndrome kicked in.

Harry would find out soon. He would soon discover that you weren't who he thought you were.

The approaching voices brought you back to earth. To avoid anyone noticing how bad your condition was, you headed for the door.

You noticed him immediately. Your eyes searched for Harry and easily found him in the crowd. Damn, he looked so good in that perfectly tailored suit, his shirt collar slightly loosened. For a moment you wanted to go to him, but then you saw the woman he was talking to. She was beautiful. Her hand lightly grabbed his arm as she let out a sweet laugh. You wanted to be her so badly...

The lump in your throat was becoming unbearable. You didn't dare go back to the party, instead you headed for the exit. Yes, you were a coward. You were one too when you called Harry from the taxi you caught.

"I'm sorry, Harry, but this is pointless."

"What? I'm sorry, darling, but I don't understand. Where are you? I'll be right there." he replied. Concern was barely noticeable in his voice.

"I'm not there anymore." The silence on the other end was terrifyingly loud. Finally, you heard Harry take a deep breath.

"Okay, so where are you, love? We'll talk."

“Harry…” You stopped for a moment, feeling the tears already streaming down your cheeks. “Please don’t come to me. I don’t think we should see each other for a while.”

"Darling..." Harry started, but you interrupted him again. In the background, you could clearly hear him moving around, probably trying to find his driver and car.

"Harry, please. Respect my decision." you said, trying to keep your voice calm. "I need...space. This is too much for me. I'm sorry, but it's over."

And before he could say anything, you hung up. You were a fucking coward. You didn't care about your makeup anymore, you let the tears flow.

☆☆☆☆

Thank you for your time.

[hanafubukki]

Can be seen as a continuation for this fic and this one.

Riddle never thought he would be the type of father who would show off photos of his child to his colleagues when given the chance. If someone from Heartslabyul were the type to proudly show off pictures, most would guess Cater or Deuce, or even Trey. It doesn’t take much for Riddle to take out his phone or his wallet where he kept them.

The ones on his phone ranged from cute and proper photos to those taken candidly, angled and blurred in some and others of a face too close to the camera or only of a wide smile seen.

The ones in his wallet weren’t much different. Some were crisp-cut photos, freshly printed. While others are worn with age and many folds and some with cute stickers and decor.

If one were to visit his home, they would see a house filled with frames; of smiles tender and sweet.

Riddle kept every photo ever taken.

He wanted to blame you for the mess in the kitchen caused from baking, but Riddle knew he was just as guilty.

Flour settled on the counter after floating in the air from being flickered at each other.

Giggles heard as the little one drew smiles on the counter from where they stood on the stool.

He blew at the stray strands stuck to his face that were now coated in white.

Smiling at the squeal as he picked up his child and placed them on the counter. He placed the bowl on the little one’s lap and covered their hand with his.

This mess will need to be cleaned up later.

For now, the strawberry tart took precedence.

He lightly nudged you away with his hip and scrunched his nose at you when you asked if he wanted the oyster sauce.

Riddle would watch whenever his mother visited.

His relationship with her was cordial at best.

He respected her for her achievements, but even he knew she wasn’t the mother of the year.

She would make comments about his little one’s studies and development in magic. How they should have their unique magic by now.

Riddle maintained his child would develop it in their own time. Every child’s milestone is different and he felt no need to push his.

It was always a tense affair with her. More of a formal meeting with a boss than meeting a parent.

But she treated her grandchild well enough and with no incidents, he made sure of it.

If one were to ask him what his favorite time of the day was, he would reply nighttime.

Riddle loves reading books. He loves it even more when he reads to his little one.

Reclining on a softly worn leather chair, a blanket wrapped around him and his child as they read a book.

Riddle would let them pick a book and he would read to them. His child would join in at times or question a passage he didn’t understand. He would patiently explain it every time. He would wait as they would try to pronounce a word and gently correct them at times.

He loved to watch as his little one would yawn and curl into him as the activity of the day got to them. His voice would gradually quieten as their breathing deepened.

He would pick them up and carry them to their room. Too old to sleep in his bed but he made sure to tell them they’re always welcome to come in, his door unlocked for them always.

Riddle tucks them into bed, laying a kiss on their head, before leaving.

He joins you in bed.

His world is at peace.

Been in a Riddle feels lately, and then the newest JP twst update came for my throat and inspired this. Riddle doing everything he ever wanted with his family. 🥹💞💚 Never denying his child that love and comfort. He’s at peace 💞🥰🥹

Ngl I debated about Mrs. Rosehearts and her role in his life, and I think I like how I portrayed it here. Despite everything he went through, he still respect her and her achievements. Feelings and relationships are complex after all. But, I also believe he wouldn’t allow history to repeat itself with his child. 🥺🫶

I also thought of the whole parents who are strict becoming less so with grandchildren route but…honestly, that always irked me and gives me mixed feelings. Even irl, it’s like?? You put your child through so much? And suddenly think everything is okay? Or can be changed because you’re older? What about the hurt you caused?

Besides, I see Mrs. Rosehearts stubborn even in her old age lolol 🤣😆

I hope you enjoyed the fic 💞💚 I was probably a bit too telling with my notes but…it’s okay, I feel most of us Riddle fans have similar experiences and can relate to these emotions. 🙏🥺

[whitedarkmoonflower]

Need a ride?

Pairing: Valentin x reader (female)

Authors note: this was not planed, but that scene with Valentin on the bike was just too hot to process. You can officially blame my cat who woke me at 3 am today if this totally sucks.

Warnings: plot? never heard of it. Pure SMUT. Sex in public, Valentin giving quite some Dom vibes, fingering, oral, p in v

Word Count: 3,1 K

Summary: your tire is mysteriously gotten flat and you have no other choice as to accept the offer of a ride home from Valentin - the insanely sexy health mentor you've been eyeing from the moment you started working at The White Lotus luxury resort

“Need a ride?” a familiar, soft voice rich with that insanely sexy accent reaches you over the hum of the idling bike as it comes to a stop beside you. 

For a moment your confused gaze remains glued on the completely flat tire of your moped, as if trying to will it to reinflate by your sheer disbelief only, before you slowly lift your eyes to meet that cheeky smile you’ve been fond of since the first moment you set your foot on the grounds of the luxury resort that was supposed to be you new home for a while. 

It might not have been the most rational decision of your life to drop out of the university for a spiritual self-discovery trip through the East but it was definitely not the worst. OK, you ran out of money after something like one month, but that didn’t mean you were ready to give up on your plans. 

Thailand being your next destination after having left behind the breathtaking temples of Cambodia and incredibly beautiful landscapes of Vietnam, you decided to combine business with pleasure as you stormed the manager’s office of The White Lotus – the biggest and probably most expensive resort in the area – the advertisement from the local newspaper, announcing that the hotel was looking for an English speaking service staff, clutched in your hand. 

You weren’t naive, nor were you particularly experienced or life hardened. Something in between. You were impulsive, stubborn and still liked to believe in stories where the good guys saved the world and won the princess, even if deep down you knew it not to be true.

“I don’t understand,” you murmur with slight puzzlement in your voice as your gaze shifts back to your moped. “Everything was perfectly fine when I parked it here this morning.”

“Let me see,” the smooth, velvety voice makes your stomach flutter as the engine goes silent and a pair of leather gloves land carelessly on the tank as their owner swings off the bike and moves toward you.

“You’re new here, I haven’t seen you before,” there is something in the way he looks at you that makes you feel both – a cold shiver creeping up your spine and heat hitting your cheeks.

New is quite a relative term. Yes, you’ve been here for just three weeks, yet you are perfectly aware who is the handsome owner of the only Harley Davidson for the miles around even if he has apparently remained oblivious to your very existence.

But you also have to admit that it is hard not to notice Valentin – the resort’s infuriatingly handsome health mentor and fitness guru, especially when he remains number one topic of nearly every piece of gossip going around. 

Last week he was spotted sneaking out in the middle of the night from the private villa of that arrogant rich bitch from South Dakota, the one who had been terrorising the whole hotel for weeks already – the pool wasn’t warm enough, the massage table was not comfortable, the food was terrible and God forbid she was served the wrong champagne with the oysters. It seemed almost like a miracle to see her smiling the next morning at breakfast. 

Then there was that rumor that the swollen lip and the spectacularly bruised eye of one of the hotel’s personal trainers had nothing to do with the alleged jump rope accident but rather with an argument about a stolen client, apparently ending with Valentin throwing a punch. Though no one could really confirm if that part was true, some still swore of having seen him leaving the gym with blood on his knuckles.

Ah, and, of course, there was the affair, or at least, that’s what the housekeeping staff whispered about after noticing how the resort owner’s wife, easily twice as young as her husband, by the way, had taken an unusual interest in the fitness center with private stretching lessons,  late-night sauna sessions and meditation practices once of a sudden becoming a regular part of her so called wellness routine. 

Yet, despite all the fuss, you have to admit you’ve never actually seen him be anything but polite and smiling. And you have seen him. Just like everyone else, you find it impossible to look away from that broad muscular chest when he strides through the resort only clad in his yogi pants, heading to greet the new arrivals, or from those flexing biceps when you happen to pass by the training ground with him having a course - not that you’d ever admit to staring or having actually no business around there during that time of the day.

A broad chest clad in a snug dark green t-shirt that does more to accentuate than cover the perfectly chiseled muscles beneath, moves past you and your gaze involuntary drops down and lands on his hand, the conversation from the previous day rushing back absolutely uninvited. 

“Have you noticed how big his hands are?” The question had made you freeze mid-motion, the pillowcase in your hands nearly slipping to the floor. 

“Huh?” You had blinked and raised your brow questioningly, turning to Pam, your coworker, a nice girl you became friends almost immediately. 

“You know what they say…,” she had leaned in, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper and giving you a knowing wink.

You had frowned, not really getting it this time, until Pam rolled her eyes, her cheeks already turning pink, as she cleared her throat. “The ones with big hands have big… you know… big khm…,” she had nodded meaningfully toward the lower part of her body.

It still had taken you a second before it finally clicked.

“Ahhh, you mean his dick,” you had said, watching as Pam practically choked on air, her face turning red as a beet, while you burst into laughter.

Yes, it is big. His hand.

“I’m Valentin,” he introduces himself, extending his hand like he expects you not to already know his name.

You hesitate for a second before shaking it, his grip is firm but warm, his somewhat rough fingers sending an unexpected jolt up your arm.

“I know,” you say, then immediately cringe at how blunt it sounds.

His smirk deepens, amusement flickering in those sharp eyes. “You know?”

You clear your throat, crossing your arms over your chest. “Everyone talks about you.”

“Good things, I hope?”

You let out a short laugh. “Depends on who you ask.”

He tilts his head, as if considering your words, then glances at your moped. “Well, I hate to break it to you, but this tire isn’t going to fix itself.”

You sigh, rubbing your temples. “Yeah, I figured. I just don’t understand – how does a perfectly fine tire suddenly go flat?”

Valentin crouches down, inspecting it. “Sometimes, it just happens. Heat, pressure, bad luck. Or…” He pauses, running a finger along the rubber.

You frown. “Or?”

He straightens, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Or someone let the air out.”

A chill prickles at your skin despite the humid air. “You think someone did this on purpose?”

“I think someone doesn’t want you going anywhere tonight,” his gaze shifts back to you, and his tongue flickers between his teeth as he licks his bottom lip. 

Shit, why does it look so fucking hot. That tongue can definitely do more. Wait, no, stop, you innerly slap yourself but it’s too late, the next thought is already there as you wonder – is it true, that thing about big hands and big… you know…

He heads back to his bike, and leans against it, arms crossed, watching you closely. “So… need a ride?”

Your heart stutters at the way he looks at you – his lips are smiling, but there is something in his eyes, something you can’t quite put your fingers on, something that makes you feel like a mouse before a big grinning cat.

You should say no, you should figure this out on your own, but the way he’s looking at you – the way he’s offering, like it’s not just a ride but something more – makes it very, very hard to refuse. 

Fuck it, we ball, you smile back at him and nod. “Yeah, that would be nice.”

—-----------------------------------------------------

“Take it easy, little doll, relax and enjoy the ride,” the hot whisper against your ear does exactly the opposite, you feel your heart racing even faster, each thumping beat pulsing between your legs, as you struggle to calm your breathing that threatens to spill into moans at any second if those thick fingers don’t stop their slow, torturous movement. 

“I… I can’t… Valentin, please…,” you breathe, your fingers gripping the edge of the table for support but your thighs part just a little wider beneath it.

The bar is dim, only the dance floor flashing in neon bursts, drawing all attention away from the shadowed corners and the shallow booths positioned along the walls with tables and red leather, plush and comfortable sofas - all tucked away in just barely enough secrecy to keep you somewhat hidden. A small mercy you feel thankful for, the sound of the pounding bass of the music  being another one, as it drowns out that moan you can’t bite back anymore as Valentin’s fingers push your panties aside, part from your pulsing clit and glide through your wet folds, to slid inside you with devastating ease. 

“You’re soaking, baby doll, just sitting here, waiting for daddy Valentin to take care of you, aren’t you?” That velvety voice edged with steel is killing you, not that those fingers inside you, curling, stretching, teasing, his thumb brushing firm, controlled circles against your clit, is making it any easier to gather any coherent thought. 

“Mmmmm… mmhhh,” is the only thing that rolls over your lips, your body reacts instinctively, muscles clenching around him, spine arching slightly against the seat as you melt into the sensation and sink back against the cushioned backrest, legs falling open just a little bit more, surrendering. 

Valentine’s other arm sneaks around your shoulders, pulling you closer, his lips brushing against your earlobe.

“Such a good girl, aren’t you?” he rasps. “Want me to ruin you, don’t you? Want me to fuck that tight, greedy pussy of yours, until you can’t walk anymore?”

“Ahh-ahhh,” your moan is barely muffled as his fingers curl against the wall of your core and press into that spot inside you that makes your vision blur and your toes curl. Oh, fuck, he’s good. 

The bar is full, the booth next to you crowded with a group of friends, laughing and clinking their glasses, but you don’t care. You can’t. Your head is spinning, thoughts dissolving, and every last bit of your self-control is fading away, all your senses dulled and consumed by the feeling of his fingers inside you, by that hypnotic voice dripping filth into your ear. 

How did you even end up here? The ride, the bike, your arms wrapped tight around his steel cut abdomen, holding for dear life – the memory is somewhat hazy, swept away in the whirlwind that is Valentin.  You can still feel the wind lashing against your skin, your breath stolen as you tucked yourself against his broad back.

“Wanna go out for a drink? You have a free day tomorrow, don’t you?” The question had sounded so casual but there was something in Valentin’s voice, some slight metallic tone, that  should have been a warning, a sign to you. 

“Yeah, sure! Why not?” words had left your lips too easily, although you couldn’t shake off the feeling like you were a prey stepping into a trap, absolutely willingly – if you wanted to be honest with yourself. 

Because of all the whispers that followed Valentin, one was clearly absent – he never went out with anyone from the staff, never even really flirted. Never. Not that they didn’t want him to. The majority of the serving staff being girls, you knew for sure that most of them would kill to go out with the dangerously handsome health mentor, but he never asked. Not until now, not until you.

And you were certainly not letting this chance slip away through your fingers, to see more of him in real life, outside the resort's controlled microclimate. Was it a Russian roulette you were playing? Absolutely, and you were all in for it. 

“Fuck… yes,... oh shit, it feels so good…,” your whines are swallowed by the pounding music, your body trembling as you feel his fingers move faster, expertly working you toward the edge and then you’re coming undone in a bar full of people, music thumping in your ears in sync with your rapid heartbeat. 

Your eyes are heavy and half lidded, head fallen back against the plush backrest, your panties are ruined, completely drenched, and your hips keep rocking instinctively chasing the pleasure he’s drawing out of you. Was this how you thought the evening would end? Fuck, yes! And something tells you it’s far from over. 

“Breathe, kitten,” Valentin’s voice is a dark purr in your ear and it slowly brings you back to reality, as he withdraws his fingers from you. You whine quietly, your thighs twitching at the loss, and your eyes flutter open, finding his gaze already on you. 

Valentin is watching you, a spark of satisfaction dancing in his gaze, his thumb brushes over your bottom lip, a teasing ghost of a touch, then he leans in.

“I want you to put that pretty mouth of yours to work, sweetheart. Will you do that for me?”

You sit up, straightening your spine as you reach for the champagne glass on the table, fingers slightly shaking. 

“Here?” you ask, turning to him. “You want me to give you head here, where everyone can see?”

“If you are up to it, baby doll,” Valentine’s smirk deepens, amusement dancing on his lips, and it just makes your heart skip a beat. 

“But I think you are very much enjoying this, aren’t you?” He leans closer, taking the glass from your fingers, lifting it to his lips and taking a slow, deliberate sip. 

Then, without breaking eye contact, he pulls you back against his chest, while his hand captures yours, guiding it downward and pressing your palm against the hardness straining beneath his pants.

“Look at what you’ve done to me.” 

Fuck, even through the thick fabric, he feels huge, and you can’t help but smirk as the thought slips in that it must be all true, that thing about the hands and the dicks.

Your eyes wander around the room, taking in how the dance floor pulses with bodies under shifting neon lights, the waitresses weaving between tables, laughter and music filling the air, you swallow harshly as the thought alone of sucking him off here practically in public in the tenuous cover of some shifting shadows sends a fresh surge of heat pooling in your core.

Your fingers already move on their own as the heavy buckle unfastens with a soft clink and the zipper parts beneath your touch. You slide a hand inside, wrapping around the length of him, drawing him out.

Valentin inhales drawing air through his teeth, a low growl rumbling in his chest, as your fingers tease over his leaking tip, his fingers weave through the strands of your hair with just enough force to make your scalp tingle, as his grip tightens and he urges you down, his silent command unmistakable.

You glance up at him, meeting his darkened gaze, the corner of his mouth lifts in amusement, watching you, waiting.

Your fingers trail along his length, teasing, feeling the weight of him in your palm. Fuck, he’s big, thick, hot, pulsing against your skin.

Slowly, you lean in, your lips parting as you let your tongue flick over the swollen tip, tasting the beads of precum gathering there and Valentin exhales sharply, a curse slipping from his lips.

"Good girl," he murmurs, his voice dissipating in the thumping bass of the music.

You take him deeper, wrapping your lips around him, savoring the way his breath hitches as he disappears into the wet heat of your mouth. 

“May I get you something else,” you hear the voice of the waitress through the haze and you freeze, unsure what to do, adrenaline surges through your veins, making your heart hammer in your chest. Panic and arousal clash violently inside you, but Valentin’s hand in your hair firmly keeps you exactly where he wants you and you don’t know what you feel more shame or the intoxicating thrill of surrender. The way he controls you, the way he holds you in place without a second of hesitation, sends a sensation through you that you've never felt before and it's rush is so deep it steals your breath.

“Thank you darling, we are well served,” his voice is smooth, utterly composed as if he weren't sitting here with his cock buried in your mouth. You can't see the waitress, your face covered by your disheveled hair, the footsteps fade away, and before you can even process what just happened Valentin guides you back down his cock, resuming the steady rhythm of your movements, and you can't but moan around him. Your tongue glides along the thick vein running down his length and you hollow your cheeks, taking him deeper, feeling him twitch against your tongue, his groan is low and guttural, barely restrained and that sound alone makes your core tighten with need.

"Just like that, kitten," he rasps, his hips jerking slightly, pushing himself further into your mouth, your own pulse pounds in your ears, matching the rhythm of the music, the sensation of him filling you overwhelming and electric. Your fingers tighten around the base of his cock as you set a steady pace, sliding up and down, working him with eager precision, and you feel his thighs tense beneath your touch, the muscles flexing under your fingers. 

You take him deeper, moaning around him, letting the vibration send a shudder through his entire body.

"Fucking hell…," Valentin’s hand tightens in your hair, his head falls back against the booth, his jaw clenched, his chest rising and falling unevenly, you can feel how close he is to letting go and coming undone right here and now, and that thought alone makes you throb between your legs, but before you can push him over that edge, he tugs you back by the hair, pulling you off him with a slick pop. Your lips are wet, swollen, and you look up at him, dazed, your breath coming in short gasps, Valentin smirks down at you, his chest heaving, his cock still thick and flushed in your hand.

"Naughty little thing," he murmurs, his thumb swiping over your bottom lip, his voice rough with barely-contained lust. "That was good. But I’m not done with you yet."

He drags you up, his mouth hovering just above yours, as he whispers. "Now, let’s see how well you take me when it’s your turn. Do you want daddy to fuck you? I know you do,” and before you can even respond, he’s already moving, pulling you into his lap, his strong hands gripping your hips as his fingers push your panties aside once more, the head of his cock is already at your entrance. 

“You know how to play this game, don’t you?” he asks, his mismatched eyes boring into you. You nod, swallowing hard.

“Your colour, baby doll?” 

You know exactly what he’s asking, your mind is hazy, body burning, every nerve tuned to him but there’s no fear, no hesitation, only raw, unfiltered desire.

“Green,” you breathe, and he pulls you down in one swift motion, burying himself inside you to the hilt.

A sharp gasp rips from your throat, your body shuddering as his thick shaft fills you completely in one go, while one of his hands wraps around your throat and the other digs into the soft flesh of your ass beneath your dress, and with that nothing else exists anymore.

The bar, the people, the distant pulse of the music, it all fades away, the only thing that matters is Valentin and his cock twitching inside you, stretching you just right, the firm grip on your throat owning you completely.

You don’t care about anything, there is no room for shame or doubt in your mind, it’s too overtaken by the indescribable pleasure of that simple feeling of giving up the control, of surrendering to that commanding voice and those mismatched stern eyes.

And then he fucks you, his hips thrust up into you, filling you deeper, harder, while his hand guide you, making you bounce on his cock, while his grip on your throat tightens—not too much, never too far—just enough to make your head spin in the best way, and soon, you're a mess, a drooling, moaning, wrecked mess.

—-----------------------------------------------------

When you open your eyes, the sunlight streaming through the curtains tells you it’s already well past midday.

Your head is heavy, your body sore in all the possible ways, and you have no idea how you got home, but here you are, back in your bed tucked beneath your light blanket.

You shift beneath the sheets, and that’s when you feel it, an arm draped around your waist and a firm chest pressed against your back.

Your breath catches, the memories of last night crash over you all at once, flooding your senses as you jolt upright, a soft, mortified moan slipping past your lips.

"Good morning, sweet baby doll," the voice is rich, smooth – so damn pleased with itself, you turn slowly, and there he is. Valentin, bare-chested, relaxed, watches you with that signature smirk that sends heat pooling low in your belly.

"Can I get you something for breakfast?" He stretches lazily, completely unbothered by your flustered state. "You must be starving."

[harmonic-intervention]

You're killing me with chemistry - Chapter 1

Buck knows he's bi. He knows what he wants. And what he wants, right now, is Tommy. Maybe his hand in marriage, because he's getting desperate. Because, despite all of his attempts, and all of the positive responses from Tommy, for some reason, Tommy just ... doesn't act on anything.

Tommy knows Evan is straight. He asked both Howie and Hen about it, and he trusts their word on it. It doesn't stop Evan from pulling him in, and making him fall head over heels for him anyway. Tommy knows better than to fall for a straight guy, he does, but ... he can't change it.

Everything would be easier if they just talked to each other, but where's the fun in that?

A little story based off on this post by @disaster-j and I hope I did your idea justice.

This story will have three chapters, the rest of which will be coming out in the following days. Rating and tags will change as we go.

Word count: 13,556 - canon divergence, bi disaster!buck & oblivious!tommy, sexual tension

Excerpt:

Buck was in hell.

You’d think that finding out he was bisexual would make things- easier? Clearer? The world was his oyster or whatever.

Okay, fine, the clarity of finally realizing what he was feeling for men was nice, freeing. Looking back on things, so many of them suddenly made sense – namely following Connor to LA from Peru. And a couple of other things. It brought him perspective.

He’d tried for a couple of relationships with men, but they fizzled out like his thing with Natalia had just before. Finding the right partner who matched him wasn’t easier with men, it seemed.

Whoever said that as a bisexual man, he’d have twice as many options – Eddie – was a liar and also naïve. It only got worse.

Until the night Bobby and Athena decided to re-enact Titanic in the most dramatic way possible. Buck did feel kind of bad about connecting so much joy with that night, but hey, nobody could blame him!

Not when Chimney introduced him to the most beautiful man he’d ever seen in his life.

Buck saw him, and he thought that he couldn’t be real. Men like Tommy Kinard didn’t exist. He was tall, broad, had a kind smile and pretty eyes, looked like the textbook definition of handsome, had large and strong hands – Buck almost lost his breath when he shook his hand – he was a firefighter and a pilot, and he was also batshit insane, it seemed. At least enough to fly them into a hurricane.

Buck heard his voice, and he knew immediately that he needed to hear him say his name. He felt like his insides melted when Tommy said, “Nice to meet you, Evan,” with a soft smile, his words so genuine that Buck felt something rearrange inside of him.

What the hell was Buck supposed to do? Not fall ass over teakettle for the guy? Okay, they barely talked that night, and the words they exchanged were tense. But Buck got to watch Tommy work, got to watch him confidently stride across the hangar and bullshit his way into getting them off the ground, got to watch him guide them through a storm with steady hands.

And then he got to watch him and hear him make fake mouth static at the fire chief, and Buck was gone. Men like Tommy weren’t real, but here he was, right in front of Buck.

[continue on ao3]

[alyjojo]

PAC - January 2025 - Who’s Stalking You? 👀

Pile 1: Whips 💥

This would probably be the first pile one thinks of when they think of their “stalkers” - jealous bitches 💯 of the worst variety. Whips with Fury shows them being so bitter they can’t stand it, like you’ve stolen their opportunities or blessings, it’s your fault they don’t have what you have - or they just hate you for it. These are people that do NOT want you to win, and if they had the choice, they’d enact some kind of revenge on you to make sure you don’t…but it feels like most are powerless to do so, that’s why they’re so bitter, they can only watch you win and be all pissed off about it.

This stems from feelings of regret, wishing they’d have made different decisions or were offered different opportunities. If you have money, they don’t. If you had some kind of blessing or privilege to your life, they don’t. For some reason they were/are unable to do what you do, and rather than admire you or give you your flowers 💐, they just burn inside because it’s not them. These are not self-aware or mature people, they feel powerless to direct their own life (valid or not), some may be genuinely struggling (they’re largely unconscious of this behavior) and others just suck and it’s definitely intentional hate & evil eyes 👀 being thrown your way every time you have something positive going on, or just you existing. Your light irritates tf out of their demons 😈 They are all unaware or don’t care that this kind of energy & behavior won’t get them anywhere positive.

I don’t see them changing either, if they’re unaware then they’re unable, this is not a growth-minded group of people. They’d rather blame everyone else and point fingers, nurturing revenge fantasies and hating you then ask how you did it, or learn from you. Patience can show they may have felt this way for a long time, there’s no helping them. While it does show they could be in a not great situation, it’s also showing you are not expected to give af, they’re assholes. Red Moon shows their intentions, perceptions, fears, and triggers as delusional, pessimistic, hateful, angry and toxic. You can’t help these people, it’s up to them to help themselves and with 9 Pentacles rev, they won’t. If you even tried, they’d just despise you for being a person that tries 😆 Do you. Keep shining 🌟

Signs: Heavy Virgo & Cancer, Taurus, Scorpio, Aries & Sagittarius - Jupiter Virgo, Mercury Taurus, Mars Scorpio

—————————————— 🤎

Pile 2: Sun ☀️

You are the pearl in the oyster and this is the group of people that knows this but they don’t have you anymore, and they miss you. It’s also the pile most likely for you to give them a call, because for most it’s family. Parents, grandparents, ex’s that aren’t toxic, but most feel like guardians of some kind. Teachers, bosses, leaders, older siblings, people who tried to steer you in a direction that wasn’t for you - and you went your own way anyway and SUCCEEDED. That’s the thing, and there is shame here in these people…but it’s like the intentions were good? People misjudged you. They thought you were like them, or the rest, or some other experience that narrowed the mind and put you in a box.

All of you have reached some level of success, recognition, status, maybe fame in some way - or at least on the path you’re on, you’re well known. Or you will be. There’s guilt here about not supporting you in the way you needed, not loving you correctly, and ultimately losing you. Could be divorced parents for someone, an estranged parent, someone that…it’s like they didn’t believe in you, or brushed you off. Like your whole life you drew pictures and got in trouble - now you’re an artist, that’s the vibe. They know they can’t take credit and that they tried to force or steer you in directions that weren’t for you. If you’re one of several children, you could’ve all been parented the same way; these are the rules, these are the goals, in this family we all go to this college and study Business…and you’re the artist. Or the gay kid. Or the theater kid, I’m definitely getting theater strongly. That’s the vibe 💯

The point of it all is love, Eternal Love with the white heart is showing purity and coming from the right place, even if they were wrong. They want forgiveness, want you to call, if it’s an ex they see you clearly now and want you back. For some there was a particular event that caused an ending, there could’ve been heavy Judgment energy and a lack of feeling supported, some of you may have ran away or did something impulsively - or they did. It ended. There’s also a note here about passed on loved ones, if a tragedy happened where you couldn’t say goodbye or the last words were in anger/judgment, they’re okay, they’re with you all of the time and support you now 🙏 There’s no lingering anger just love.

If none of that applies, then these people simply miss the time they had with you, the lollipop 🍭 shows childhood - for most it’s your parents or someone like that. They’re nostalgic and look at old pictures of you, they miss the little kid coming in with muddy shoes even though they always yelled about it - now they wish they didn’t. This one made me cry ngl. Call your grandma or whoever this is…they feel like they can’t access you. Either you’re busy, they think you’re angry, they don’t want to impose, The Pathless shows them feeling like there are no options or you’re not on their path anymore and they can’t. For some that’s true. For others they’re leaving it up to you, but the love is genuine, they are both proud of you and ashamed of themselves in some way - maybe too much - and they don’t want you to know that, because they do want you to be happy. Even if you don’t, the love is never ending and they’ll just keep watching from afar 🧡 For the passed on loved ones, they know you’re sad or lonely without them, and they just want you to know they’re okay and they’re watching you WIN - they want you to win & they’re proud 👏

Signs: Heavy Scorpio & Cancer, Gemini & Capricorn - Saturn Gemini, Mars Taurus, Mars Aries

—————————————— 🧡

Pile 3: Letter ✉️

Heh 😏 This is the “you were right” pile 😆 You are some sort of a teacher to this person, could be a parent, ex, friend, stranger, doesn’t matter - YOU are wise and they are/were…manipulative, liars, schemers, cheaters, fools of some variety, and you didn’t deserve it if they did any of that to you. Now it’s 50/50, sure some are sorry but they’ll never admit it; others would just do it again and they know they would, even if they also know you’re right.

Even if they’re wrong, and even if you’re often right, these people quietly judge everything you say or do just looking for the one thing that’s like SEE THEY’RE WRONG LIKE ME, like this somehow excuses their own shitty behavior. They think YOU think you’re better than them when you’re just an honest person, and you even drop some pearls of wisdom on them because you’re not a judging sort of person either - you share the wealth of whatever you’re doing. A genuinely kind person. So you are better, as a human generally. Fuck you though 😆 They could too but they’d rather be immature and sabotagy. These are also people you need to watch out for, they see your kindness as weakness, stupidity, or naïve - while also knowing you’re a good person like wtf guys…if you have a platform or social media, this would be the trash diggers of the bunch. Digging for trash so they can compare yours to theirs, you to them, and I’m seeing raccoons 🦝 which made me laugh. Some may want to or try to steal from or copy you, manipulate things, even try to flirt or butter you up - but it’s with this shady ass manipulative energy - it’s not going anywhere. You feel untouchable to them because they’re not on your level, whatever level that is, it’s that simple.

Letter shows you receiving good news, which makes these people squirm, anything positive being said about you or happening to you. Everyone has their haters /ignore. If you post helpful things, recipes, dance is here showing some amazing craft or talent you do, religious stuff, wholesome happy healthy anything - these people don’t understand wtf healthy or wholesome is, so they mock and criticize and dig for trash. Let them? I mean they’re still watching. Your biggest haters are clearly just misguided fans �� Some may be complete strangers, most of them even, I don’t see these people being in your life for the most part, nor do I see you noticing or caring at all. You just keep doing you boo, clearly you’re doing something right or they wouldn’t have to dig so much for something that’s wrong. You’re out here dropping wisdom, knowledge, guidance, helpful advice, whatever - let them talk, at least they heard you, and if/when they find themselves in positions where they need what you’ve said, the best karma is the burn they feel when “you were right.” Unconsciously even, for most 🤗

Signs: Heavy Scorpio, Libra, Cancer & Taurus - Venus Sagittarius, Mars Virgo, Jupiter Scorpio, there’s also a Gemini vibe but it feels like you or communication is what it’s all regarding

———————————————- 🖤

Pile 4: Garden 🪴

I’m getting two sets of people with this pile, the fans and the opposition.

The fans see you as a Muse, whatever it is that you do, you probably have a lot of friends, fans, admirers, love options potentially, and they’re afraid they don’t compare, that you don’t like them back or you’re out of their league. Deep rooted insecurity, shyness, projections - but essentially they just want to BE you or at least be in your energy. Some may want to be with you romantically, but that’s a side note not the main idea, most are fans. Friends, people that think you’re really cool and they wish they could hang out with you or do what you do. You’re like a guide for these people and they deeply appreciate your contribution to whatever it is you do 🥳 You may inspire them to make decisions in their own lives, and not even know it.

The opposition feels like “the patriarchy” or some shit, that’s the vibe. You don’t do things their way, you contradict their “facts”, they may not appreciate the gifts you have to offer and as such they only want to control, cage, maneuver, schedule, criticize, keep you small because how dare you be out here just doing you and being great at it. Or they feel that way about you and it’s all switched. You could be part of a group that is in opposition to another group and it’s the whole other group watching. It’s like white collar jobs vs. community volunteers, you can’t compete where you don’t compare and these people do not compare but they’d be the ones like “glad our tax dollars are going towards playgrounds”…shut up. No one cares. Luckily, this group is a scattered few.

Most are fans that ADORE you, your group or community, and whatever you’re doing. You inspire others and really make an impact with whatever you do. Teachers, counselors, community centered things, music directors, it feels very people oriented and not very rigid - it’s the rigid people with an issue or comment. “The man.” Does not have to be A man. I’m miserable and you should be too. I’m taught one way, you should be too. Ick. For some it’s literally the government or some higher organization that doesn’t support what you do. I’m seeing Planned Parenthood, don’t @ me I promise idgaf, I see what I see be mad. I’m also seeing charities…and what are those dances that everyone gets together on the street and films for TikTok or something, I’m seeing those too. Community support or a generational thing even, the boomers are mad at you guys 😆

The fans though, you’re making a difference in the lives of other people, changing perspectives, inspiring change, getting support, and you’re doing it in a way that’s giving people LIFE. Changing the narrative. Forging your own path with all of this Aries energy, both within and some stalkers maybe. Most people want to be you, or they want to help, want to take a part in this or have a seat at your table - in support. It’s admirable and most of you that chose this, I don’t get you being closed off to anyone, though they may fear it. Locked Heart ❤️ came out reversed, you’re someone always willing to make new friends, invite people to your table, it’s giving “the more the merrier,” which is great! Ignore the naysayers and let them squirm idk, for the most part it’s showing them as silent. In this pile, the winners are louder than the losers 📣 and if you’re feeling unappreciated, just know there are way more people that love and support you than hate you - you got the sauce and you’re widely adored. Idk if you’d even know the haters, they’re quiet and will stay that way, just leave ‘em be. You’re deeply appreciated where it matters 💚

Signs: Heavy Aries, Virgo, Leo & Capricorn - Jupiter Aries, Moon Leo

[p-taryn-dactyl]

dreams on fire: an introduction

a/n: hi guys! i thought this was a fun idea, which came to me after watching Black Widow and all of the X-men movies. in this one, you (reader) is based off of one of my mcu ocs BUT since i hate the whole 'giving reader a first name' thing, Y/N is used and not my ocs name. also, warning, idk if none of the timeline stuff makes sense bc this is fanfiction word count: 2.1k warning(s): descriptions of torture, experimentation, and abandonment | if you don't like charles xavier then you're not in luck here | Y/N is gay, you're gay, what a surprise | blood and blame | the world is my oyster | um please don't hate this pairing(s): yelena x sister!reader & (potentially) valentina x fem!reader

plot: Yelena and Natasha weren't the only daughters of Melina, weren't the first family assigned to her. You're her first daughter, the one Melina had allowed Dreykov to study the difference in your genes. Now, after seeing your 'sister' on TV, you reach out to show her the world is only going to get crazier and that for what's coming, her team and your school needs to be alligned.

Yelena remembers only flashes of the Red Room, flashes that plague her dreams and wake her up in cold sweat, the screams of her victims and pleas of her sisters echoing throughout the walls. Tonight was no different, her dreams quickly turning to nightmares. But, new memories soon resurfaced, faces she had long forgotten making a reappearance. 

This dream felt real, like she was back in the Void. 

The hallway was cold and metal, screams bouncing off the walls and crashing into Yelena, sending her stumbling backwards as she tried to walk forward. The screams echoed, overlaying and intensifying until Yelena fell to her knees, hands over her ears. 

“Bob? Bob, stop, please!” She cried out, mind reeling with the idea of Void returning. Only, nothing happened. Until the screams narrowed down into one voice, one terrified, painfilled screech. 

“This isn’t him,” a voice, too familiar yet too distant, sounded behind her. Yelena shot around, hands now reaching for weapons she didn’t have. Her eyes widened as she took in the woman sitting on the floor behind her, back against the wall as she stared at Yelena. 

Y/N Vostokova. The first daughter of Melina Vostokova, before Natasha, before Yelena, before her fake marriage to Alexei. 

“Привет, сестренка.” You spoke, your voice soft and strained, like the screams had been coming from your throat. Yelena’s mind reeled, her eyes blinking like you were a phantom and could disappear at any moment. You sent her a small smile before standing, raising an eyebrow at Yelena who flinched at your movement. 

“None of that now, I have something to show you.” 

You held out your hand, watching the blonde who looked at it like it was a bomb. Eventually, she took your hand, allowing you to pull her to her feet. You didn’t let go of her hand, your warmth seeping into Yelena, the realness of your form confusing her. Instead, you linked your arm with hers, like you were just two friends on a stroll, and started walking down the hallway with ease. The screams started again, yet this time, they didn’t push against Yelena. 

“The first time is always disorienting, though, you know what they say - you never forget your first.” Your teasing tone caused Yelena to stare at you, her expression incredulous. You shrugged, flinching slightly as the screams got louder, like you were approaching the source. 

“What is going on, Y/N? How are you-”

“Alive?” You finished her question, your grip on her arm almost becoming painful. You scoffed, shaking your head as you took a deep breath. 

“There are many things you don’t know, маленький паук, about the Red Room, about our world, about our mother.” Your voice broke on the last word, like it physically hurt you to remember her. Yelena jolted as you suddenly came to a stop, your eyes staring into a room, one that wasn’t there before. The doorway felt like it was both a few feet in front of Yelena but also a few miles. She felt her mind go hazy, the walls and the floors inverting on themselves. She stumbled against you, nausea building in her throat as she felt everything around her get brighter. Yelena felt warm, too warm, too real, hands cupping her face, pulling her focus back to you. 

“Someone is waking you up. We can talk again later, сестренка.” 

Your words were the last thing she heard before Yelena’s eyes shot open, arms flailing, fists attacking the figure shaking her shoulders. 

“Hey, hey, hey! Stop that!” Ava’s voice centered Yelena, bringing her back to reality. Her fists fell limp against her mattress, all the fight drained out of her as her friend brushed her hair off of her forehead in concern. 

“We could all hear you screaming, I phased through your door before one of the boys could break it down so you can thank me for that later,” Yelana laughed half-heartedly, swatting Ava’s hands away as she sat up. 

“I had a nightmare,” she paused, looking down at her hands, the warmth from yours still lingering, “of someone who died a long time ago.”

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

The next night, Yelena found herself slipping into a peaceful and deep slumber. Maybe it was the essential oils Bob had sprinkled over her pillows and room, maybe it was John’s reading Moby Dick out loud, or it could have been the white noise Ava projected over the speakers. Either way, she felt herself fall into sleep like one falls into a comforting hug. 

The bed under her shifted, the soft mattress changing into a firm cushion. Light flickered in from a window she swore she closed the curtains on. Yelena’s eyes blinked open, sleep heavy on her limbs as she rubbed her eyes, looking around in shock as she realized where she was. 

“Ah, the маленький паук awakens! Or, well, I should say, have fallen asleep since you’re technically sleeping right now.” Your voice alerted Yelena to your presence, her eyes finding you as you stirred coffee in a mug. You smiled at her, a real smile - not one weighed down by haunting screams. “I thought this may be a better location this time, since you don’t seem to have many places in your mind that give off comforting vibes.” 

Yelena just stared at you, mouth agape as you, oblivious to the circus happening in the blonde’s thoughts, looked around the house. 

“It is a nice house, even if it’s in Ohio. Very sturdy, very clean. Better than I ever had.” You sounded bitter towards the end, your smile growing strained as your eyes met with Yelena’s, the intensity causing her to move deeper into the couch. Rolling your eyes, you waved a hand in the air as if you were brushing off your memories. 

“Bygones or whatever. It wasn’t your fault what happened to me, even though sometimes I wish I got it easy like you.” 

The words, meant to hit Yelena hard, anger her, shot through Yelena like a bullet, causing her to leap off the couch, aimed to attack you. But you simply snapped your fingers and Yelena paused, mid-attack. Setting down your mug on a coaster, you took a seat in the leather recliner Alexei had bought, flicking your hand towards Yelena. The blonde, as if time was reversed, found herself back on the couch, her legs tucked under her and a cup of steaming tea in her hands. 

“You think I had it easy?” Yelena spoke through gritted teeth, all confusion from what was happening overshadowed by your words. You smirked before picking up your mug again, your eyes softening as you shook your head. 

“No. None of us did, I’m sorry. I’m working on the whole blaming others for my trauma thing, although it’s just so easy to do.” 

You took a large sip of your coffee, eyes widening as you pulled the mug back to look at the coffee inside. 

“Проклятие, this is good. Do you know how hard it is for me to get a good cup of coffee nowadays? It’s like British people are allergic to anything other than tea-”

“Y/N.” 

The trembling in Yelena’s interruption made you pause. 

“What is happening? How are you doing this? How are you alive? Melina, mama, mourned you - we all did, even if Natasha and I were mourning the time we never had with you.” 

You stared at her, something unreadable in your eyes. 

“You really don’t know?” Your question was soft, but sharp. It cut through Yelena, making her hands shake and slightly spill the hot tea. She jolted at the feeling, even more confused as to how this dream felt so real. You stood up, coffee gone - as if it was never cradled in your hands like a lifeline, your eyes a weight against Yelena’s chest as you stared at her. 

“Pigs weren’t her first test subject,” you started, hand clenching and unclenching into fists at your side, “But at least she was able to choose to experiment on them. Dreykov made her hold me down, take my blood, my tissue, my DNA, and play with the electrical response in my synapses. Chemical subjugation or mind control is so easy to discover when you obtain a mind so moldable.” The last sentence sounded like you were imitating Dreykov, the harsh accent rolling off your tongue like thorns caught on skin. Yelena blinked, shaking her head. 

“No, no - he only started everything after Natasha blew up his daughter and-”

“Сука, don’t tell me you really think that it all happened so fast? You really can’t be that dumb.” Gone was any warmth in your tone, any semblance of comfort had been seeped from the room. The walls now felt cold, the sun blocked out and the couch prickled under Yelena’s skin. Yelena’s breath started coming in bursts, realization solidifying into panic in her throat. She shook her head, standing up, raising her hands in the air. 

“What the hell is this? You appear in my dreams, seemingly controlling them, ALIVE, tell me that Dreykov had been planning the subjugation for years and what? What for? What the hell is happening, Y/N?” 

Your eyes widened and you bit the inside of your cheek, something flashing in your eyes as you looked at the woman in front of you, someone who in another life was your sister. You shook your head, drained from all the emotions. You collapsed back into the chair, crossing your arms like a protection. 

“I saw you on TV,” You started, the simple sentence making Yelena also return to her seat, “part of the ‘New Avengers’,” you spoke with air quotes, smirking as Yelena glared, “and realized there are things you needed to know about. Not about Dreykov or Melina or the Red Room. I’m sorry for even bringing it up, emotions are always heightened in the dreamscape.” You seemed to relax after Yelena nodded, accepting your apology. She was too confused to hold a grudge. Amusement flashed in your eyes and you sat up, holding your face in your hands as your elbows balanced on your knees. 

“By the way, who’s the woman who announced your team? I think I’ve seen her on the news but I was too focused on staring at her rather than learning her name.” You bit your lip, holding back a laugh as Yelena struggled to comprehend what you said, pure disgust painting her features. 

“Valentina?!” She exclaimed, looking at you like you had two heads. You snapped, pointing at her. 

“Yes! That’s it! Is she single?” 

Yelena choked on air, shaking her head while pretending to gag. Your face dropped slightly and you narrowed your eyes at her. 

“Are you homophobic? That would be crazy due to your haircut and your makeup and your general aesthetic-” 

“No! I’m not homophobic! I’m Valentina-phobic though.” 

You snorted, slapping your knee before once again looking serious. 

“Okay but is she single?” 

“Y/N! Gah, I think so? I don’t really care about her life that much.” 

You nodded to yourself, not to subtly fist pumping the air next to your hip. 

“This is great news, anyways, I think it’s time for you to wake up.” 

Yelena felt like the air had been grabbed from her lungs, reality hitting her. For a moment, she had imagined what life could have been like with you and Natasha as her sisters. Her heart grieved for the sister she lost and the one she never had. 

“What? No, it’s only been- it can’t have been longer than thirty minutes and you still haven’t explained everything.” 

Your smile was knowing and tired as you stood up, the air and room around you fading away. 

“I thought it would be easier if it felt like no time was passing. Sorry if it’s weird but you’ve definitely been asleep for a good eight hours,” your brow furrowed and you cocked your head to the side, “I think John Walker is making pancakes and Bob just asked for chocolate chips.” 

Yelena focused, only hearing faint words, like someone was speaking underwater. When she opened her eyes, you had left the spot you were standing. She turned around quickly, seeing you open the front door, the outside an endless light. You waved goodbye, your expression telling her this wouldn’t be the last time she’d see you. 

“Next time, we talk in person,” You promised, like it was written in the book of fate, “and maybe I’ll even find out for myself if Valentina is single.” Your laugh echoed as you left the room, influenced by Yelena exclamation of disgust. 

As the dream fell apart and Yelena found herself waking up to the smell of fresh pancakes and coffee, there was a pit in her stomach. 

Something was coming and you were the herald.

a/n: hi please don't hate this i have so many ideas. im also going back to my bestie!yelena Drabble/fic series bc i love it so much and thunderbolts has given my brain the kick it needed.

[galaxy-stardust]

"Fast mind, faster heart - Gaz sees everything, but only lets you see him."

Name: Kyle Garrick

Codename: Gaz – Short for “Gas Mask” from his early days with CTFO, where he was always the first to breach, first into the unknown, and always wearing one. Now it’s just who he is.

Date of Birth: February 15th 1995

Zodiac Sign: Aquarius – Clever, steady, calm in chaos. Always thinking one step ahead, always watching.

Height: 5'10" (1.78m)

Build: Lean, athletic, built for agility over brute strength. Runners' legs, cut arms, defined chest - not bulky, just sharp.

Eye Color: Hazel - warm brown and gold flecks that catch the light and cut through bullshit.

Voice: Smooth London accent, calm and quick. When teasing, it dances. When serious, it lands hard.

How he smells: Fresh cedar, clean soap, warm spice - like he always just stepped out of a hot shower, but with danger in his wake.

How he tastes: Mint, black coffee, and something electric. His kiss is teasing, slow, and then suddenly not.

Favorite season: Spring - life, change, growth. He’s never been one to fear new beginnings.

Favorite food: Chicken tikka masala. Spicy, rich, comforting.

Favorite dessert: Chocolate fudge cake. He’ll act chill about it, but don’t come between him and a slice.

Food he hates: Oysters. “Slimy sea snot. No thanks.”

Favorite drink: Spiced rum and cola. Laid-back, strong, easygoing.

Favorite spot for vacation: Anywhere coastal. Warm air, loud music, a view of the sea. And you.

Favorite weapon: M4A1 with custom attachments. Precise, flexible, dependable - just like him.

Favorite pet: A sleek black cat. Independent but loyal. He secretly adores animals with attitude.

Skill on the battlefield: Urban infiltration and CQB (close quarters battle). Fast thinker, faster hands. He’s the one they send when time’s running out.

Nervous habits: Rubs the back of his neck. Cracks his knuckles when something’s eating at him.

Bad habits: Gets cocky when he shouldn’t. Flirts to deflect. Plays things off until they boil over.

Cute habits: Always takes your side in an argument, even if you’re wrong. Sends you memes from warzones. Smiles when he sees you before he speaks.

What he does in private: Listens to music with headphones and dances like no one’s watching. Talks to himself while doing laundry or repairs.

What makes him soft inside: Your sleepy voice. The way you reach for him without thinking. When you kiss his scar just under his jaw like it’s precious.

Worst nightmare: Betrayal. Giving his loyalty to the wrong person. Trusting a team, a commander, a cause - and finding out too late it was all a lie. Innocents hurt because of his decision. Looking into the eyes of someone he tried to protect and seeing hatred, blame. Gaz fears being the reason good people die. He fears the weight of that responsibility more than bullets.

Worst nightmare when it comes to you: Letting someone die because he hesitated. You bleeding in his arms - he’d never recover.

What he does without realizing it: Mirrors your body language. Softly touches the small of your back when guiding you. Notices the tiniest details about your day.

Unexpected skills: Can sing. Like, really sing. Will never do it in front of anyone unless drunk - or unless it’s just you.

Thoughts about having kids: He jokes about it, but sometimes he stares too long at kids playing in the street. It’s there. He just doesn’t know if he deserves it yet.

Favorite spot to be teased at: Right under his jaw. A kiss there makes him twitch.

Breaking point – when does he snap?: The night he saw someone flirting with you in a bar. He played it cool - until you were alone. Then he locked the door and said, “Mine. Say it.”

How he calls you:

In public: “Babe” or “Sweetheart,” usually with a wink.

During teasing: “Angel,” “Trouble,” or “Look at me, pretty.”

Something that would make him imperfect: He hides pain behind charm. Sometimes he needs help but won’t say it. You have to see it in him, and call it out gently.

Summary:

Gaz is fast wit, fast hands, and a heart that doesn’t stop beating for those he loves. He’s the guy who cracks a joke in the middle of a firefight, but when you need someone steady, he’s already there. His love is playful, grounding, and constant - like a song stuck in your head, always making you smile. But there’s more beneath the charm: loyalty so deep it aches, fear he keeps hidden, and a softness that only you’re allowed to hold.

[yuurei20]

Twisted Wonderland Main Story Summary: Book 1

(A short summary of Book 1 milestones by request, but reading the in-game story is highly recommended! 🌹)

The prefect dreams.

Ace visits the prefect in their dorm that night. He has had his magic temporarily removed by his Housewarden, Riddle, as punishment for eating a tart, breaking a rule of his dorm.

He goes to apologize and meets Cater, another member of Ace's dorm Heartslabyul, who has the group paint roses for him before kicking them out for not having an apology tart, in accordance with the rules.

They meet Trey, the Heartslabyul vice-housewarden. The dorm's students are suffering from Riddle’s rules.

The prefect dreams.

Ace brings a chestnut tart to Heartslabyul's unbirthday party, which is against the rules. Riddle orders Trey and Cater to eject the group, and they comply.

They meet Chenya, who seems to know both Riddle and Trey.

Trey shares Riddle’s history (pt1 / pt2) and Ace blames Trey for what Riddle has become.

Crowley suggests that Ace and Deuce challenge Riddle for leadership of the dorm.

The prefect dreams that night and, the next day, Ace and Deuce lose their challenge against Riddle for the role of Housewarden.

Ace punches Riddle and Riddle’s dorm members revolt.

Riddle overblots and Ace stands his ground. Cater tries to get the group to evacuate and Ace accuses Cater of only fighting when he knows he is going to win.

There is a flashback: Child-Riddle is begging his mother for a strawberry tart, but she refuses as he is kept to a strict diet.

Riddle meets Trey and Chenya when they go to his house and convince him to sneak out through a window to play with them.

After playing together for several weeks the children go to Trey’s family’s cake shop for a strawberry tart, where Riddle’s mother catches them, forbidden him from ever seeing them again.

Riddle regains consciousness and confesses that he actually wanted to eat Ace’s chestnut tart and wanted to play more with Trey and Chenya when they were children.

Trey tells Riddle to give everyone an apology but Ace refuses to accept it unless Riddle makes a tart on his own for a new unbirthday party.

Grim eats a rock.

Riddle’s tart is too salty because he added oyster sauce, a prank played by Trey that he’d never expected anyone to believe.

Chenya is revealed to be a student of a rival school. The end.

[dioslesbianwife]

Hello!! This is “✨” !! I’m glad you were able to catch up and hopefully you’ll get to write the things you wanna write. I have a jofoe house headcanon ask!!

What do you think some of the jofoes favorite foods are? And ranking who’s the least to best cook in the house?

hii ✨! i seriously love writing jojo villain house type stuff lol tyyyy for requesting and i hope you enjoy :3

Dio Brando

Favorite Food: Rare steak (emphasis on rare—he barely cooks it at all). Also enjoys expensive wines, black truffle pasta, and blood oranges (for the drama).

Food Vibe: He eats like a man trying to intimidate the concept of dinner itself.

Kars

Favorite Food: Sushi or sashimi, something pristine and refined. Occasionally obsesses over perfect fruit, like a single flawless pear.

Food Vibe: He treats food like art. Refuses to eat anything he deems “aesthetic sabotage.”

Wamuu

Favorite Food: Simple meat dishes, probably grilled or roasted. Likes hearty stews.

Food Vibe: He eats like a disciplined warrior—efficient and clean. No crumbs. No mess.

Esidisi

Favorite Food: Spicy food. Like, nuclear-level spicy. Loves curry, chili, anything that makes others cry.

Food Vibe: He's the kind of guy who bites into a raw chili pepper like it's a carrot.

Yoshikage Kira

Favorite Food: Sandwiches. Also a sucker for elegant, perfectly sliced fruits. Low-mess, silent foods.

Food Vibe: He likes food that won't leave messy fingerprints.

Diavolo

Favorite Food: Rich, gourmet Italian food—like creamy risotto or veal parmigiana. Will absolutely not eat leftovers.

Food Vibe: He eats like a snob and makes weird eye contact while chewing.

Doppio

Favorite Food: Ice cream and sorbet. Also spaghetti.

Food Vibe: Will eat frosting from the tub with a spoon- he insists it’s a quick way to get energy when he’s working late nights.

Enrico Pucci

Favorite Food: Something elegant and symbolic like wine-poached pears or communion wafers dipped in espresso.

Food Vibe: He eats in contemplative silence, like he's analyzing the soul of the meal.

Funny Valentine

Favorite Food: Classic American fare—apple pie, roast chicken, and cornbread. Likes anything tied to national pride.

Food Vibe: Thinks a well-made burger is a work of art. Probably grills shirtless.

Diego Brando

Favorite Food: Raw meat (when transformed), otherwise loves rare steaks, oysters, and fancy champagne.

Food Vibe: Only eats expensive, high-protein food. Has carnivorecore energy.

Tooru

Favorite Food: Super trendy foods—matcha lattes, honey cakes, mochi ice cream. Loves wasabi peas and chewy candies.

Food Vibe: Eats whatever’s in right now, but makes it look effortless.

🔪 Cooking Skill Rankings (Worst to Best)

11. DIO – 0/10

Thinks cooking is beneath him. Tried once, set the oven on fire, blamed the oven.

“Why would I prepare food when I can command it to be brought to me?”

10. Kira – 1/10

Can technically make a sandwich, but that’s it. Also terrifyingly precise with a knife.

Scary clean kitchen, but soulless food.

9. Diego – 2/10

Has never cooked in his life. Took forever to learn to use a microwave.

Eats raw meat more often than he should. Do not trust this man in a kitchen.

8. Tooru – 4/10

Can cook decently enough..

Makes food look pretty but it’s always lukewarm. Leaves a huge mess for someone else to clean.

7. Diavolo – 5/10

Can cook, but acts like Gordon Ramsay. Yells at everyone. Screams at the sauce.

Overcomplicates everything. It’s just pasta bro.

6. Pucci – 6/10

Bakes occasionally. His muffins slap. Calm, methodical cook.

However, half of his dishes are based on religious symbolism. Sometimes gives strange sermons and acts like he’s teaching a cooking class.

5. Valentine – 6.5/10

Good at traditional comfort foods. Surprisingly competent with a grill.

Will tell you the “founding fathers ate this” every time he serves something.

4. Esidisi – 7/10

Passionate cook, but everything is spicy enough to kill a normal man.

Loud, fiery chef. Gets emotional for no reason while he cooks.

3. Wamuu – 8/10

Precise, tidy, and patient. Excellent at grilling and roasting. Makes hearty meals.

Will never cook anything too fancy, but everything he makes is solid.

2. Doppio – 8.5/10

Surprisingly amazing at baking and cooking homestyle meals.

Sweet little homemaker vibes. The only problem: sometimes Diavolo takes over mid-meal and ruins it.

1. Kars – 10/10

He’s the best cook in the house. Flawless. Could probably invent new flavors.

Cooks in silence, but every dish is breathtaking. Will not take feedback.

[rafayelsgurl]

these dark waters - prologue

summary : the village of greyslew is in deep trouble- crop rotting , finding parts of dead lemurians ashore and not to mention the sudden death of their folk due to mysterious circumstances. being fishermen and pearl catchers, no fishes were getting caught in their nets and oysters they catch never bear any pearls. the godspousing ceremony, a tribute to the legendry lemurian sea god that ensures their abundance, is in shambles as all the girls selected by the village chief are being returned and rejected. but a divine vision lets them know that the only sacrifice the sea god wants is the secluded and feared necromancer that lives at the edge of the forest, with her peculiar coven. only because she is might be the key to mysterious deaths of the lemurians and the humans alike.

pairing : seagod!rafayel x necromancer!reader

genre: romance, muder mystery, arranged marriage/godspousing, reader is a necromancer

notes: i know i said i would upload the prolouge days before but irl stuff happened and caleb's myth came so i was busy guys, i am so sorry for the delay! also its not proofread or edited, so expect spelling and grammer mistakes! i have decided to invent my own terms and items for the story, so it won't follow canon lads story! likes, shares and comments are always appreciated.

♡ masterlist : prologue, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, epilouge

taglist: @nambii

reader's pov

"do you know this is the fifth body we found in the shore?" the panicked tone of the village head did not produce any reaction in me as i stood behind huge oak tree, in a such a way that obscured my entire frame. the wind blew in an ominous way and the tanginess of the salt hung in the air like an impending doom. well that's not too far from wrong since there was a decaying body lying on beach shore now, maggots making it's home around the left over entrails.

"chief, what can we do? the girls we sent for the godspousing ceremony are being returned to us by the sea. i think they are not happy with them. not to mention the villagers are spooked too, about the mounting of dead bodies" another man who was examining the maggot infested corpse spoke, as the chief wiped the beads of sweat away from his forehead, looking nauseous.

"i am sure that damn necromancer must have something to do with these dead bodies. she must have killed them for her own selfish purposes " hearing the chief say this, a small laugh escapes my throat. these villagers never change - blaming every single misfortune on me and my coven, as if i or my coven all had the time in the world to go and kill.

there was a pause on the conversation as the sound of the waves churning made those two go wide eyed with fear. the waves began to lull towards the shore in huge surge, as if it was seeking vengeance. the chief and his helper quickly began to mount the rotten corpse on the back of a wheeler. before they can go back to the village, i step out from the hiding spot, strutting towards them. they turn to my direction , their exhausted expression morphing into dread and disgust as soon as they lay their eyes on me. i offer them a dazzling smile in return.

"what a somber day, isn't it chief?" i say as i slowly move towards both of them. i could see them trying to wheel the dead body and leave the place as fast as they can but was staggering due to weight and fear. internally laughing, i stand there as i watch them struggle and leave the shore towards the village - a mere speck of grey and brown line near the beach. in spite 0f my nonchalant behavior just now, i am cautious about the sudden deaths too. i need to investigate more about what really is happening.

as soon as they are out of my sight, i turn back to the path from where i came, to return to the warmth of my coven. but something in the far wave catches my eye. no something lurking beneath the waves in the distance that is. before i notice what that thing is, a sense of dread creepes up along my spine. i could feel the hair on my skin raising up and drops of sweat appearing. the salty sea breeze blew over a feeling - a feeling of being watched. as if someone or something is waiting for me beneath those murky foam. my eyes scanned the surface of the dark blue-grey waters, and caught a pair of iridescent eyes flash in my direction, before sinking beneath the tumultuous waves.

as i hastily make back to my coven mansion, i realise one thing. the chief might be right - greyslew is in danger from something sinister lurking beneath those waters.

rafayel's pov

this is the third death i have seen in a span of two weeks. immortals like us scattered around , our bones crushed and flesh mutilated was a sight none of us could ever imagined we would lay our eyes on.

'i have to get to the bottom of this malignant murders before i lose anymore of my people.' i think to myself as i clutch the worn out paper in my hands, the one that came like a lending hand from the universe itself. a page from an encyclopedia from the looks of it. i found this coincidentally in front of my yard this morning.

NECROMANCER - MYSTERIOUS PEOPLE WHO CAN SPEAK WITH THE DEAD AND EVEN RISE THEM

the title of the page suddenly struck a chord in me as soon as i saw it ,an hour ago. if a necromancer can speak with the dead, then surely these grisly murders can be solved. or at the very least some clues would come into light.

finding a necromancer is not tough job, since i have heard about rumors from the human village of some girl being accused and sent to outskirts of the town to live due to her being a necromancer. but how to bring that girl here? it would be blasphemy if i kidnap a human. so what should i do?

suddenly a brilliant idea began to form in my head, an idea that would bring that necromancer to Lemuria without any difficulty. I race to find Merith, my friend and owner of the apothecary, my heart high with hope for the first time in a while.

"Merith, i need the Dreamslider Vine you have" i say as i burst into his store.

Merith gives me a convoluated look before he searches for the plant among the tiny glass bottles on the shelf. "My dear man, why do you want it? And why do you have that crazed out look in your face?" he questions slyly as he hands me over the tiny blue vine I asked. A small smile spreads over my mouth as I examine the vine.

"I believe i found a solution"

i will try to upload the next part by next week, irl is really hectic guys! hope eveyone have an amazing day, stay safe & healthy!

[katuschka]

Olalla Chapter Fifteen

Jake Kiszka x f!OC, Josh Kiszka 3.330 words (revised, May 2025)

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, intended for adult readers. Any resemblance to real persons is purely coincidental. Also, if you're under 18, go find some other entertainment elsewhere.

Warnings (are spoilers): not much different from the previous chapter... mentions of war and invasion (no gore), emotional defeat and depression, emotional turmoil, heavy angst, burreocracy, mentions of violence; this time I really got political, and I'm not sorry for that; mentions of kissing, fluff, always, an unhealthy dose of heavy emotions and feelings

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Previous chapter Olalla masterpost

Two hearts fading, like a flower And all this waiting for the power For some answer to this fire Sinking slowly, the water's higher... Desire

Jake, April 16th 2026, Nashville

—

“How is she?”

It felt strange to hear Josh’s voice again; soothing and annoying at the same time. Leaning against his kitchen counter, Jake ran a hand through his hair as he tried to think of something that would make his agitated twin at the other end of the line stop worrying. “Coping,” he sighed and unwittingly squeezed his eyes shut, because that was a blatant lie. Withering away would be a much more appropriate word choice. “…but… we might have to leave town for a while… to clear our heads. I mean, I already rented a cabin in New Hampshire.”

“New Hampshire?!? Jake… for fuck’s sake. Are you sure that’s wise now? In… her situation…”

Yeah, right… her situation. What the fuck is her situation? She’s his wife, for fuck’s sake. Wife! That’s her situation. 

Jake felt the bile rise in his throat as the recollections of the past few days once again invaded his tired, sleep deprived mind. All his life, he had felt free, safe and confident of his own place in the world, which was his oyster, basically. That’s why this plan also seemed like a perfect idea and a sensible solution, despite her objections and fears. And even when the plan started to crumble, he was still confident he could figure the way out. The hasty wedding in “Europe’s Vegas” helped them secure an immigrant visa for her quickly, so they could worry about the rest later. Hopefully, “the rest” would also include his previous vision of her in a beautiful white dress and mom with a beautiful wide smile, watching… Just like he had wanted it to be in the first place. What a fucking fairytale, right? She was his damsel in distress and he had all the power to change that. Right?

Except he had none. 

Instead, he just watched helplessly how she shut the world out and just stared at the same spot on the wall for hours, while barely acknowledging his presence in the same room. All because of them. This wasn’t how it should be. This house was meant to be her home. A safe haven where she could finally relax and let him love her. He had promised her he would take care of her and protect her, and once again he failed her. Almost completely.

How could he blame her, though? Jake himself felt like a complete stranger in this new dastardly version of what once was his world. 

Well aware of the changing tides, he and Josh had of course expected potential trouble, and they prepared for it accordingly. At least he had thought so. Jim, Jake’s lawyer, was supposed to meet with them in Boston right at the airport. Just in case. Jake wasn’t naive. 

But Jim’s flight got delayed and he didn’t get there on time. And the CBP were already waiting for them. Sham marriage. The accusation hit him like a freight train. This was no random TSA check; they surrounded Jake and Neszka like prey, and treated her as such. The moment they separated them and took her away for secondary inspection, he knew they were fucked. 

The fear etched on her face when she looked over her shoulder one last time before she lost sight of him still kept haunting him everytime he closed his eyes. The knot in his stomach never loosened either, not even when they finally got in the relative safety of his own house. The urgency with which she squeezed his hand, digging her trembling fingers deep into the flesh of his palm, seeking assurance he could not offer. It kept replaying inside his head involuntarily, like a recurrent nightmare. Except the fact that it had all really happened. 

All those hours of waiting when they kept him in a constant, crippling state of panic and dread. All those sneers and all those repetitive questions and threats; they still rang in his ears. 

“I can have you arrested, Mr. Kiszka.” 

The only response was Jake’s stony stare, but deep inside he was screaming. It was a psychological game, because it meant the ICE probably already got her so there was no need to keep pretending anymore.  

And it worked, even though probably not how that uniformed asshole intended. The officer might just as well slit Jake’s stomach open and twist his guts with his bare hands; it would feel the same, because Jake was not pretending anything. He was genuinely scared. For her. 

The world had gone completely mad, and these people had joined the army of madmen. How come they could not see what he saw, or feel what he felt? The hospital in which Josh lay helpless just several months ago, it was now in ruins, attacked by drones on March 9th. That was the reality they wanted to send her back in. By the time Jim finally arrived – together with Sam, thank god – Jake was already on the verge of tears. 

Two days later in his pristine kitchen, Jake’s fluttering heart still refused to calm down. “I’ve never felt so powerless, Josh.” On the other side, his brother exhaled raggedly, matching Jake’s own stress-ridden existence. 

“Care to tell me what actually happened? Because you got all the papers. You got the bona fide evidence, so what the fuck made them suddenly think it was fraudulent?”

“So, Sam didn’t tell you?” 

“No, because he had promised you he wouldn’t, you asshole.”

“Yeah, fuck you too. Anyway, I didn’t expect him to actually keep his word,” Jake sighed again, rubbing his eyes. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Josh to know about what had happened at the airport; Jake just knew that it would make his twin go nuts and he had no strength left in him to deal with any of it. He was just exhausted, not ready to face anything or anyone else, just wishing to go home, climb in bed and comfort his woman… if that was even possible. ‘Please, just tell him that we’re ok and that I’ll call him.’ All he had asked for were just a few days of peace. But as expected, there were already tens of missed calls from Josh when Jake finally turned his phone back on. At least Josh had been sagacious enough not to pay them a personal visit. For more than one reason.

They had spent the first day in bed with drapes closed to prevent the sun from disturbing her troubled slumber. The second day, she ventured to walk around the house. Happy and hopeful she was finally willing to take a step into his life and claim his private space as her own, Jake followed her footsteps and tried to show her everything. And to everything, she responded with just ‘mmmhm’. The third day, after she ate lunch he cooked for her, she browsed through his bookshelves, intrigued enough to pick a volume about astronomy that she took with her to the couch. He asked her if she wanted tea, and she nodded with a soft smile. So at last, Jake mustered enough energy to call Josh to revisit and explain the events of April 13th. 

The timeline was just suspicious, and how could it not be? Neszka had applied for the basic travel authorization shortly after the invasion and when it got revoked due to new circumstances, she married Jake hurriedly and let him pay for her priority visa. Everything they did screamed ‘refugee’ in bold red letters. 

“And? It still makes no sense. Since when is helping refugees a fraud? You don’t even have a prenup. What could you possibly gain from a fake marriage?”

Seriously? Jake groaned, admiring Josh’s unrelenting naive belief that love conquers all; and loathing it at the same time. One could argue that it had been seen as fraud for quite some time, but he didn’t want to have that unnecessary conversation now. He knew Josh knew, but knowing something and accepting it are two completely different things. This was his fucking dreadful sound, blaring right in their faces. “You’re searching for logic where there’s none, brother. Jim has a theory, but please don’t make me repeat it now. It’s making me sick.”

“The hell I care! I spent days worrying, so you better repeat it.” 

Jake didn’t respond right away. Instead, he put the phone on speaker and helped himself to another can of beer. Fourth that day, even though it was only 4 pm. 

“JAKE!” 

He took a healthy swig before he continued. “Her being a refugee is THE problem. I mean, Jim thinks they probably came up with this idea that I did that for the story. A stupid lib musician helping a vermin against all odds. What a cute narrative, right? Not for them, though. My personal reasons never mattered, because they had already fabricated their own version of reality in their heads. They didn’t even search her phone. Or mine.”

“Well, that’s good…?”

“No, it’s not. If they had, they would’ve found our texts, dating back to September. Hours and hours of conversations you don’t even know about…” Jake paused, waiting for an expected backlash. When it didn’t come, he continued. “There was no need for it. It would be even counterproductive, because they thought they already had what they needed…

“USCIS found no formal flaws... so they just did their own quick background check without giving us the opportunity to prepare for it. And what’s easier than my socials, right?”

“... there’s nothing in there…”

“Yeah, I mean, not entirely true. They browsed through tagged posts, too… turns out Lisa had posted a few pretty interesting photos of us during Christmas. And she tagged me. She had never done that before, and I never bothered to check. Not even after what she did. And what’s even worse, there was one with the two of you, in the background, kissing.”

“Shit… Jesus Christ…” 

Yeah… Josh’s response resonated with Jake’s once again. How come they missed that? There MUST have been an uproar within the fandom. And there was. The usual shit, that died down before New Year’s Eve. Nothing which the management should really care about, so it naturally slipped through their fingers. 

It certainly didn’t paint an admirable picture of Agnieszka. An opportunist who was trying to prey on a couple of idealists, that’s how they saw her. Being a EU citizen, there was no justifiable reason for her to go overseas. …other than some personal gain…

“He told me Neszka already admitted to the things having been a bit more complicated, and that they could let me go with just a fine to pay if I admitted that I had been used in good faith…” Jake could feel himself becoming sick again. He took a deep, grounding breath before he continued: “...or that we could call Lisa…”

On the other end, Josh remained silent for a while. He already gathered that they had, otherwise Jake wouldn’t mention it, but it confused him greatly. How could that bitch possibly make things better? “I can’t believe Jim agreed to that.”

“He didn’t. He literally yelled at me afterwards, but later admitted I was right to listen to my guts instead of him. It was obviously another trap and they didn’t expect that I would agree to it, AND not agreeing would be equal to confessing that there was no real relationship. So I agreed… and they couldn’t back away. I was crippled by fear, but Lisa was my last and only option. … she had texted me a few times in January, saying she was sorry. I never answered those. I couldn’t care less. But, I mean, she was the only sliver of hope I had left.” 

To everyone’s surprise – including Jake – Lisa quickly gathered why they called her. Boston Logan TSA, Jake and Agnieszka Sikorska was enough for her to put two and two together…

… and then she told them the truth. At least her version of it, which was even more interesting, because it included a story about Jake cheating on her with the said detainee…

“But that’s not all,” Jake continued. “I doubt this alone would do the trick. It was just a failed attempt to make me budge. But Lisa didn’t stop there. Turns out, calling her really was a mistake; just not my mistake. She had kept track all that time, Josh! It’s some disturbing shit, but it saved us. The picture of the three of us in front of Biedronka – she had it saved, as well as various screenshots of fans’ comments and theories. In the end, she told them that our relationship was already a hot topic and she was sure it could escalate if anything bad happened… so, the thing they wanted to prevent… they were suddenly faced with the possibility that they could make it much worse if they deported Neszka back… or worse, kept her locked up who knows where.”

For a long while, both brothers remained silent until Josh’s voice came out of the speaker again, husky and subdued.  “Did you talk to her afterwards?”

“Lisa? Yeah, I called her… I tried to thank her, but she didn’t want to hear that, saying that she hadn’t done that for me. She wished me good luck and once again said she was sorry, and then she hung up.”

With that, Jake let out another long exhale and took another swig of beer. Putting it all into words at last was not easy, but once he finished, he realised that talking to Josh brought some relief he so desperately needed. As much as Jake had been dreading this conversation, he could feel the tension which he couldn’t shake for days dissipate, little by little. His twin brother had always been an anchor, a source of comfort, and only now Jake realized how much he had missed that. Every time he felt alone or moody, he remembered the feeling of Josh’s arms wrapped around him while his twin whispered that his own broken bones would be ok, that everything would be ok, that the arm would heal and Jake would be able to play again... And it was ok. More than ok, eventually. And then, some five years later, Jake once found Josh alone in the garage with lights off, sobbing…

“Josh?” Jake paused, trying to find the right words. On the other side, his brother waited patiently. “Remember how you once said that you felt there was a target on your back?”

“Yeah…?”

“I don’t think I really, fully understood what it meant. Until now.”

Another moment of silence. 

If they could just see each other, they would know, as they never really needed words to understand each other. But even now, the silence held a meaning, so they kept to it for another moment. Thousands of thoughts were exchanged during that minute of shared silent contemplation, before Josh cleared his throat.

“You weren’t telling the truth, were you. She’s not ok…”

“No, and that’s why we really need to leave. She refuses to leave the house, the city scares her right now… and I think I know what she needs. She never told me what had happened there, but… Josh, she has a nasty bruise on her left jaw. Never… in my wildest dreams…” Jake’s voice faltered at that and he could no longer hold back a sob. A sudden, almost inhuman roar, followed by the sound of something shattering, made him jump a second later. “Josh?”

Several seconds of silence, followed by more noise… like a chair being overthrown or something like that.

“Josh! Stop demolishing your house. She’s ok now. See, this is exactly why I didn’t want to talk to you sooner.” 

“Do you realize how lucky you got?”

“No Josh. I already lost six pounds from NOT being able to realize shit.”

“I didn’t mean…”

The tone of Josh’s voice was too much to handle. Yeah, Jake knew very well what Josh meant, and for the very same reason he appreciated Sam for stepping in like a steadying force he so desperately needed, calm and logical. “I know. I’m sorry,” Jake mumbled, wiping away the excess tears with the heel of his palm. “I… thank you. I need to go now. I promised her a cup of tea…”

With no secrets, no obsession This time I'm speeding with no direction Without a reason, what is this fire? Burning slowly, my one and only...  Desire

“Saturn is my favorite as well.”

Neszka was sitting on the exact same spot on the couch as when he had left her, with the open book propped against her crossed legs, her hand just resting on a pretty photo of Saturn’s rings. But instead of reading about it, her eyes were looking past the pages, once again focused on an empty spot in the corner of the room. “What?” she mumbled absentmindedly without looking at him. 

“Sa… nevermind. I brought you the tea.” He placed the cup on a small table in front of her and sat carefully next to her. 

“Dziękuję.”

“I put some honey in it. I hope you don’t mind,” he added and leaned closer to kiss her hair gently, always careful not to invade her personal space too much. It was met with no reaction, so he dared to place his hand over hers and intertwined his fingers with hers on the cool, coated paper. She let him do that, and emboldened by it, Jake ventured even further to stroke her pinky with his thumb pad. But not even that could break her silence and penetrate her sudden apathy. “What’s going on, babe? You were ok earlier. What happened, hmm?”

It was like this ever since they arrived. Sometimes she leaned into his touch and let him hold her, other times – during moments of complete dissociation – she ignored him completely. It usually happened after she remembered something. Something from a life that no longer existed and Jake had no place in it. 

Back in Denmark, things had been different. 

Almost like dating. They spent their days making up for all the lost time and all the natural steps they had unnaturally skipped. Long walks along the port, hours spent just talking and occasional silence filled with kisses. Sometimes he even made her forget why they were there in the first place, until the slightest reminders brought her back to reality. But it was slowly becoming somewhat bearable. 

The nights were all the same, but he didn’t mind. Sometimes she cried and didn’t want to tell him the reason why, but he knew. The truth felt like cement at the pit of his stomach, but he had agreed to be patient, hopeful that one day she would look at him and see only him, and no one else…

After a couple days, Maya visited them and the sisters spent the whole weekend together. They often excluded him from their private conversations, but Jake didn’t mind, because for the first time since New Year's Eve, a smile returned to her face which was once again lit up with life, and – he desperately hoped in was not just his imagination playing evil tricks on him – love, when she looked at him. 

And then everything got destroyed…

Her feeble voice disrupted his train of thought with a response he had expected. But at least she talked. That alone was a success.

“Dominik used to have a small telescope,” she mumbled, her accent more prominent, just like every time she felt distressed. It was usually cute, and even now, the ‘smol teleskhoop’ made him smile involuntarily. “We rented a room in Murowaniec once and spent the whole evening watching the stars. Saturn was beautiful that night.” 

The moment she finished the sentence, the apathy lifted and she started crying again. 

Jake squeezed her hand in silent understanding and then, lifting it a little, he closed the book on her lap with the other one and put it aside. “I can’t let you be like this, Veela. You can’t live in memories. Let’s go make new ones.”

You know me, you know my way You just can't show me, but God I'm praying That you'll find me, and that you'll see me That you'll run and never tire... Desire

@thewritingbeforesunrise @fleet-of-fiction @writingcold @lvnterninthenight @its-interesting-van-kleep  @takenbythemadness  @edgingthedarkness @myownparadise96  @gvfstuddedmajesty @josh-iamyour-mama @jazzyfigz @tripthelightfantastix @sanguinebats @wetkleenex-gvf @peaceloveunitygvf @kiszkas-canvas @fleetingjake @lizzys-sunflower @hollyco @emojakekiszka @gvfmarge @dayumclarizzel @lipstickitty @clownstarr @musicislove3389 @i-love-gvf @blankvz @psychedelectable @allof--mylove @joshylanefleet @thewaythatshebreathes @irenereedcane-mamagreta @justwantjosh @stardustsam

[thelien-art]

Tar-Miriel; Last Rightful Ruler of Numenor

The Strelitzia flower symbolizes freedom, and also represents immortality. White symbolizes purity and death depending on where you are in the world. Pearls symbolize faith - it was once believed pearls were angel tears collected by oysters and it is therefore bad luck to wear them and will bring you misery and sorrow (they were also usually blamed for an unhappy marriage).

Colored background below:

[sleepyhouse2art]

i feel like a nothing

i tried burning my thigh with cigarettes because im not allowed to cut and my husband took away all the good things to cut with

i miss seeing myself tear a hole in myself. a hole i made. me.

my therapist will be so disappointed in me on wednesday. im supposed to have gotten better. but gradually since coming home i have ceased to be able to function at all. i can barely draw. i feel nothing or i feel anxiety and fear of reprisal for everything i do. people are getting mad at me because im depressed and they say im not taking their advice. i wish i could take sleeping pills every time i wake up and sleep till this is over, but i have so many hospital nightmares. i had my worst one this morning and woke up crying. in my dream i was begging it to be a dream.

i hate everyone whos hurt me. i wonder who id be if my mom didnt trade me to the upstairs neighbor. they ate oysters and he took pictures. i got genital warts and she blamed it on my dad. that was the first time someone hurt me. i was too little to remember anything but his face and the camera and my mom slurping oysters out the shell and then my parents fighting in the car on the way home from the doctors office. so many men have fucked me who i didnt want them to. they dont care. all they want to do is fuck you and kill you. when i go to heaven i still stand off the side of the highway and catch all the little dead girls in my arms. i will be their sister or their mother. a good one.

i think about that strap yanking my neck backward. the man who notated my tattoos while the woman with the big hair watched. straps and screaming and haldol and the drool. the thing in the vent id stare up at that looked like a swastika. the faces i saw in the sheets. they got so mad at me for being scared. piss running down my leg. so thirsty all the time. the belt and the cuffs. that girl who slammed my head against the wall. my infected track from the iv my friend said they should have been cleaning and checking. the nurses in the er kept blowing my veins. the yellow bruises on my arms from their hands. my magen david in a urine cup smelling of whose piss i dont know. that girl left to sit in her period blood. the man who literally gave me the shirt off his back because i was cold. they were going to send him to the state hospital. at least i can come home to somebody who gets mad at me for not adjusting. he tries to be nice. he is nice. but he gets frustrated with me. because im bad.

i just want people to be nice to me. i am so tired of people being mean to me. please please please please please be nice to me. god watch over me and keep me from doing something bad. god please protect my family and my friends. love sleepyhouse2

[edajcheel]

MY SECRET DESIRES ~

Synopsis: What are their darkest fantasties about you?

Characters: Floyd L. & Jade L.

Gender of MC: Your choice

TAGS: YANDERE. Gore, very sadistic, delusion, cannibalistic, control, self-centered eels, bloody, forceful, weird experiments, messed up sense of love, BEWARE.

Floyd ♡

He loves squeezing the lives out of people's bodies. He loves seeing the agony in their faces. The eyes bloodshot and wide, and their veins popping. Floyd Leech is a man with unique tastes. A very sadistic creature all and all.

Whenever he gets tasked to deal with Azul's special clients, Floyd couldn't be more rapturous.

Cornering his victim, and wrapping his large hands around their throats just so he can give a harsh squeeze. The wails of his victims getting cut off instantly after their windpipe gets crushed on. and their pleas for him to let go.

You look like your havin' a difficult time there, huh?

He squashes their throats brutally with no mercy, waiting for their eyeballs to pop out of their sockets– as if it was just a simple toy in his hands. Their skin soon pales and then death waits for them at the door. Shortly, he throws them on the ground, and discards them. Nonchalantly walking away from the poor soul that had their esophagus compressed into mash.

Floyd Leech wants to consume you.

His eyes trail over to you everytime your in his vicinity. His eyes were always captured by you. His heterochromia eyes that looked you up and down. and was always the blame for his fantasies. His delusional thoughts that made him lick his bottom lip sinisterly. One could never see through what his eyes and mind made up.

He wants to take you in his grasp. and shower you with all his affection and love. He wants to give you his candies, and skip classes with you. He wants to cradle you, and bother you everyday. He wants to be the only one who gives you food. He wants to be with you, every hour of the day. He wants to squeeze you, so you can feel his never ending love for you.

He wants to hug you tightly, and squeeze out all the air from inside you. He can't help but get hot under his collar by seeing you gasp for air. F-floyd..! S-stop! He's infatuated with the way your veins pop in adrenaline. Your eyes that widen like oysters make his heart melt. Your overwhelmed by his amount of love.

Floyd Leech can't get enough of you.

No, he's not hurting you. Are you slow in the head, shrimpy? He's loving you! Why would you accuse him of something like that.

Blood drips from your lips, the result of your teeth that had to nip into something out of stress. But your eyes are locked on Floyd's eyes. His eyes are full of misinterpretation and worse, obsession.

Floyd wants to pop you like a balloon, so your blood can splatter everywhere around his bedroom. So he can smell you everyday in his life, that will surely make him happy every second of the day. Nothing could make him any more content than you. This is why he's doing this. He's showing you his true love for you. He wants you to know that he loves you so much that he even wants to devour you.

Floyd wants to burst you open and capture the sight of your guts littered onto the floor, and your blood splattered about on his walls. He wants to snap your bones, and cut you open so he can see that bloody, and tasty flesh. He wants to bite into your fresh and warm body hard enough that he takes a chunk out of you. He'll sink his canines into your flesh and chow down.

He'll suck on your fingers and eat you all up, even licking the small puddles of blood. He won't leave anything behind. Soon, you'll finally become one with him.

But he won't do that just yet. He wants to be able to smell your scent, hear your comforting voice, and listen to your breathing patterns for much longer.

Your not one of those many lame toys he's squeezed.

No, your different. Your something he truly loves. And your going to have to deal with his sick view of what love is.

I'll squeeze in so much of my love for ya, that you'll just be my brainless lil' shrimp! ♡

Jade ♡

Jade Leech adores the unexpected. The exciting and almost ecstatic stimulation of getting outwitted, and kept on his toes is what keeps his drive. The surprising abnormalities and unanticipated results are things he observes with pleasure.

He's always waiting in suspense for the same thrill to fill up in the pit of his stomach. He's quite fond of letting Mother Nature naturally decide what chaos to ensure next.

But, he doesn't mind making havoc by himself either.

For instance, his terrariums. He loves them dearly, and tends to them whenever he can. Although, the thing a terrarium desperately needs to survive and persevere is an almighty God that would take care of it consistently. and a man like Jade is perfect for that job.

He's an experimentalist. When he's interested in something, his curiosity may be endless at times. His curiosity may never be a good thing either...

To damage his own creations for his interest– he wouldn't hesitate. He is their God, after all, he doesn't need to worry. He can fix them right back up again. He doesn't have any limits, or rules to abide by while observing his terrariums.

Similar to how he examines an organism like you.

He studies you frequently, passing by halls, the cafeteria, Mostro Lounge, and even the few classes you both share together. He eloquently writes down his observations in his personal diary about you like it's his regular day task.

Jade Leech is aching to tie you down and inspect you.

Such an intricate specimen. A land dweller with the most interesting features. Something he's never seen. He wants to study every aspect to you. Print all the research he's done on you in his little diary dedicated to you.

But things could be a little bit tough. and some might say overboard. Sharp edges of knives, masks that conceal, rope that could tear skin, collars that may so constrict the breathing, needles as sharp as the deadliest sea creature that draws blood, and claws that tease your gut.

Let out those delectable reactions of yours, and entertain him as best as you possibly can. Let your blood seep from the thin, but deep cut on your arm into the tube. Let him collect every riveting piece of you so he can commence with his research efficiently.

Jade Leech wants to hold your beating heart in his bare hands.

As much as he adores looking at your external features. His curiosity can't help but tug even deeper. His, or, your most prized possession is the bleeding, and alive heart that sits right underneath your chest.

The heart that quickens within when he draws near, but slows in relief as he leaves.

He wants to plunge into your body, and snatch your heart. He'll protect it by all means and even make a terrarium just for your love.

The fleshy and squishy substance in his hands are evidence to which that your love will, and always, belong to him.

Jade grins with glee, as he holds your love gently and sweetly while he places his other hand right over his chest where his own heart is. Jade connects your hearts together like the red string of fate, a show of how soulmates could never part. You are his soulmate as much as he is your soulmate.

As long as he holds the epitome to your love, never will you escape. and never will he let you. Do remember, red strings could never be cut after you've finally met your one.

His diary filled with information that you probably didn't know yourself lays in front of him. While he sits on his bed, in his own world.

Floyd, his dear brother, calls out to him and that's enough to crack his thoughts into half.

Perhaps.. That experiment could wait another day.

He still has several blank pages to fill out beforehand.

My deepest apologies, I didn't realize that it looked like I was staring in your perspective. Do forgive me. ♡

A/N: have been busy as helllllll 💔💔💔 but managed to get these short scenarios down. Promise I'll finish the overlord! Leech twins soon... I got some juicy ass fanfics in the future tooOOOO

Loved writing this- YANDERE IS MY SPECIALTY

Another A/N: I wrote Floyd while thinking about how wild and chaotic he is. My impression of him made me write how he was in this small fanfic. He's pretty possessive, and perhaps even selfish. He's a cheerful, cute son of a bitch, but that doesn't take away his ravenous and whole rollercoaster of mood swings. Which is why I made his section more... unexpected? I don't know how to explain it. But I tried making his fic more unpredictable and.. chaotic? I hope I accomplished that.

Again, the same with Jade. He's a pristine, and elegant son of a hoe. He's very formal with his ways. Which is why I decided to make his more.. well-behaved and refined unlike Floyd. But, again, he's also very.. sly and crafty. Selfish too. So I tried my best trying to add that detail into his fic too.

[hades-in-bloom]

A Swim

Leon S. Kennedy x Reader

summary: Colorado wasn’t the only self-indulgent vacation that Kennedy took before he found a road to sobriety. When the world is the oyster, Bangkok is the pearl.

warnings & contents: cheesy af (help me), older Leon, drunkard Leon, thus mentions of alcoholism; mentions of/implied thoughts of suicide, kinda light angst (obviously); Hunnigan with an agenda; gn! and a tad bossy reader with Interpol background; heavy sexual tension, swearing

a/n: that was unplanned and uncalled for, so proceed at your own risk. Also, I need to scream about the man in Death Island. Omfg. Minors DNI! Masterlist xoxo

***

Ingrid called you in the middle of the night, reassuring that only you could track down the infamous Leon S. Kennedy. You breathed out a sleepy “…Why?” and got a response that you could barely consider an explanation. He took a vacation, Hunnigan said. He seemed to disappear, and she needed him back immediately. You could not see her face, but you could hear a pretty please in her voice.

“I am not even under D.S.O. command.” You groaned lightly. You have been working with several D.S.O. agents for the past couple of years, particularly with agent Kennedy, but you have been directly reporting to Interpol instead.

“I have already cleared you for this assignment,” Ingrid confessed. You stayed silent for a moment and then sighed. There wasn’t anything that Hunnigan could not do, after all. “He trusts you.”

As for you, Leon Kennedy trusted no one, but you wouldn’t get into this argument.

“Where was he seen last time?” You pulled yourself out of bed and walked towards the pair of jeans that were casually hanging from the only chair present in your room.

“Ingrid?” You called again when radio silence was your answer.

“We assume he is Bangkok, Thailand, since two days ago.” You sensed a touch of guilt in Hunnigan’s voice. “You have already been booked for a commercial flight.”

It took your tired brain a bit of time to do the math.

“Isn’t it like fifteen hours or so from JFK?” You inquired, genuinely concerned.

“Twenty hours,” Ingrid confirmed mercilessly. “You need to be at the airport within an hour.”

Rushing to your wardrobe, you devotedly cursed Kennedy to the high heavens.

***

Bangkok was hot. Your shirt became almost transparent in minutes and now felt like a second skin clinging to your body. You didn’t like it. You didn’t like any of it. Not until you find the son of a bitch, Kennedy, who went rogue due to no particular reason and made a decision to vacay on the other side of the planet Earth.

The taxi driver that you hailed on the street was painfully chatty, thanks to your creeping headache, but your suffering was about to end when your cab stopped in the middle of the road abruptly.

“That’s the place.” The driver told you in broken English, and you swiftly left the creaking vehicle that smelled of cheap cigarettes and incense.

The place was a dimly lit bar with little to no likable people inside. Damned Leon S. Kennedy was occupying one of the bar stools but was also spearheading the list of human beings that you felt no sympathy for at this particular moment.

He was drunk. You knew he appreciated his liquor, but you had never seen him even close to the condition he was in right now.

You briefly messaged Hunnigan that you have just found her “runaway bride” before shortening the distance to Leon’s chair. He made no effort to check out the newcomer, and you took it to your advantage.

“Surprise, you asshole.” You greeted him coldly. The agent blinked; you could see gears turn inside his intoxicated head while he was trying to identify you.

Finally, he grunted.

“The heck are you doing here?” His voice was hoarse. You blamed it all on some cheap brandy in his whiskey glass. “I am on vacation.”

“Your vacation is my vacation now, too, after Hunnigan made me fly twenty fuckin’ hours to find you.” You grimaced and took over the closest seat to Leon. He looked annoyed. You didn’t care.

“You look like you’ve had enough.” You concluded, having his drinking spree in mind.

He let out a drunken laugh that was devoid of joy. “What’s it to you if I have? I can take care of myself.” He scoffed and slurred his words a little.

A stubborn dumbass—you let out a heavy, irritated sigh. You felt your heat-infused headache intensifying.

“You cannot.” You gave him an unimpressed look. “At least I don’t consider it self-care when one drinks himself to death.” That was harsh, you thought. But right now he probably deserved it.

Your comment seemed to strike a chord with him.

“I told you I can take care of myself!” He raised his voice slightly, and some of the patrons looked over.

Jesus Christ. You wouldn’t consider yourself religious, though.

“How are you planning to take care of yourself?” You raised your voice slightly, too, giving him an unappreciative look. Suddenly, you quietly snapped. “I don’t know what you are thinking, Kennedy, but this is not a vacation. That’s a bloody suicide waiting to happen.”

You have seen alcoholics in your line of work before, and it didn’t matter what Leon thought of himself in this situation – but he looked like one.

To your surprise, he went silent, visibly taken aback. He blinked; there was a noticeable glimmer of confusion in Leon’s eyes.

Did not he realize that he was hurting himself this much?

“I’m fine…” Kennedy groaned, although his denial was slowly crumbling. “I’ll be fine…”

You could see he fought it – the alcohol numbed his feelings, but now, with a glimpse of sanity, they seemed to return to him in droves.

You watched him in awkward silence while he was babysitting his demons until he looked at you, both headstrong…

… and embarrassed?

“I swear, it would be better if Hunnigan sent some D.S.O. shrink, not you.” He grunted in disappointment, unwillingly sobering up. This vacation was over.

“Ingrid is worried about you.” You muttered, then scoffed. “And I’m your witness, Leon – you haven’t been fine in years. I know you long enough.”

He didn’t have to like what you said, but you thought he needed to hear this.

Leon gave you a dirty look. How could you see through him? The rest was tiptoeing around his alcoholism for ages, nurturing his drunken arrogance. You might not be nice, but what the others did was not kind.

The man cursed and fumblingly pulled his wallet out of the back pocket of his Hawaiian-looking shorts; these made you stifle a chuckle. The image of invincible Leon S. Kennedy looking like this would be imprinted into your brain forever and ever.

He threw a few – too many – bills in local currency on the table and got himself up heavily from the bar stool. Now he towered over you grumpily. “What a buzzkill you are,” he mumbled, and you could smell that cheap brandy you noticed before on his breath.

You smirked, showing no remorse. “Let’s get you a cab, handsome.”

***

He stayed in one of the hotels right at the beach, and, stepping out of the taxi, you froze for a second, enjoying the view.

“That's one thing people got right about Thailand; it's beautiful here.” Leon hummed, approaching you from behind.

You still had your gaze fixed on the curves of the twilight bay when Kennedy spoke again. “You're right... I haven't been fine in years.”

You raised your eyebrows at him, making no attempts to hide your flabbergasted facial expression. Was this man admitting that he was wrong?..

Then pigs were about to start flying.

But Leon kept going.

“Do you want to know what's been happening in my head... How badly have things affected me?”

Was he even drunker than you thought?

“Yes, you dumbass.” You replied softly. Whether it was Ingrid’s push or not, Hunnigan was not the only one who cared about Leon to follow him around the globe.

The man walked towards the seashore, letting the waves lick his feet.

“My mind is so chaotic these days,” Kennedy admitted; his voice was barely a whisper. “Sometimes, I even lose sleep at night because of the nightmares of...”

Leon hesitated. You didn’t nudge, afraid of ruining his mood. He has already called you a buzzkill once.

At last, he sighed. Why was it so hard to talk about it?

“I made promises I couldn’t keep; that’s all you need to know.” Leon summed it up without looking at you. Did he really want to talk about it? You followed his tired, unfocused gaze, staring at the horizon.

“How about a swim?” Your suggestion came out of nowhere. You tilted your head, waiting for his response, and he glanced at you, confused, for the first time in the past moments.

Leon then let out a laugh in a drunken manner. “What? Now? In my state? I'll sink straight to the bottom.”

“You decided to vacation in Thailand – and not to swim?” You rolled your eyes at him jokingly and pulled him by his wrist. “Come on, Kennedy.” You begged. You might have been a tad aggressive back then, in the bar, but now…

You thought he deserved a break.

Leon groaned slightly but didn’t fight it, tagging along behind you. He felt a little dizzy; the cheapness of the served brandy was finally getting to him. Despite it all, he scoffed, his tone friendlier than before. “You are not going to let me forget that I am on vacation here, are you?”

You smirked, stepping into the gentle ocean waters and shamelessly ignoring his question. “We are not going to go far. I won’t let you drown, Kennedy.”

He smirked. “I trust you.” Oh, did he? Suddenly, shivers ran down your spine when you recalled Hannigan’s words. Why were you special?

You submerged in the water further with no regard to your clothes, now soaking wet. Leon, to your amusement, did the same.

“That should help with your hangover tomorrow.” You gave him a dirty look, and he huffed out a laugh.

“What's with all the dirty looks you've been giving me all day? You think I deserve it?”

“Oh, you deserve all of them.” You snorted - right before he pulled you by the waist, making you scoff out of surprise. You froze, barely reaching his chin covered with two-day stubble.

“You are drunk, Kennedy.” You reminded him softly, still making no attempts to leave his embrace. His intense gaze was trained on you.

“I'm not that drunk,” he scoffed, a grin forming on his lips. What the heck was going on?

“Oh, you are that drunk, Kennedy.” You smirked at him.

And then you felt it; his lips crashed into yours. Unconsciously, your hand darted to his hair, playing with the dirty blonde strands. A soft moan escaped your lips.

What were you thinking? It felt so wrong; you have been partners for years, and you didn’t like to mix work and pleasure. And if he had an excuse, let alone an awful one, to kiss you, you had none.

It felt so good, though.

Leon pulled away from your lips only when your lungs started to burn with a lack of air. His grin was too cheeky for your liking.

“You don't mind spending the night with me, do you?” The audacity.

You smirked. “I’ll spend a night with you when you sober up, handsome.” Otherwise, one of you might have regretted it – while him standing in front of you with wet hair and a soaked-up t-shirt made you hot and bothered. Damn, that man was fine. One way or another, at least.

“You should get to bed, Kennedy.” … And sleep through that hangover.

“Just one more…” He mumbled—one more taste of your lips. “... For today.”

Liar. So you whined into his lips softly when he kissed you again. And again.

Forcing yourself out of the water later, you looked at the boiling ocean; the waves crashed against each other as the sun set behind them. It took you all your willpower to let go of him this evening, and the only thought that brought you peace was that he was suffering at the loss of contact as much as you were.

***

You called him the following morning when you were making yourself a coffee.

“Hey.” Your lips curved into a smile. “How is your hangover, handsome?”

Leon, barely awake, first laughed, then groaned, and there was an audibly sound note of hangover in his voice, too.

“A dreadful headache... And I can still taste you on my lips, which doesn't help.” Your breath hitched. His comment about him tasting you stained your cheeks bright pink.

He yawned. “…I feel like crap.”

You mischievously bit your lip, although your tone was innocent. “Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?”

Leon, no doubt, knew precisely what would make him feel better right now.