#fuck this year with a rusty rake

[honestlywtfisgoingon]

GET A LITTLE LOUD. I DON’T MIND.

—WITH GOJO SATORU

REMEMBER: THE CLASSROOMS AT JUJUTSU HIGH AREN’T EXACTLY SOUNDPROOF…

content: teacher!gojo, teacher!reader, husband!gojo, smut, unprotected sex, p in v, semi-public sex, against the wall, over the desk, creampie, gagging, panty-theft, use of names slut and whore, not proofread

notes: i’m back this is crazyyyy!! i literally wrote every other day and thought about posting but i never finished anything and then all of a sudden it’s been years :O and im back w gojo brainrot. p.s. obi content is still coming but u just gotta be patient sorry i literally am so rusty

words: 3374

“toru! they’re gonna hear you, not me!” you worried your words wouldn’t get past the lewd sounds gojo was making as he rammed his dick in and out of your pussy. he did all this while holding you against the wall of the classroom— where anyone could come in.

“oh, i’m not worried about getting us caught” each of his words was let out between harsh moans, breath heavy as he kept his open mouth pressed against your neck. so he did hear your concern, it just made absolutely no difference to him. there wasn’t even a stutter in his pace, set hard and fast as soon as he slipped inside you only a bit ago.

“then why’re you covering my mouth?” one of his large hands smothered the entire bottom half of your face, but you managed to squeeze your words through the small sliver of space between gojos long fingers just like before.

“because i can actually stop myself from screaming. can you?” he was taunting you, sure, but the truth in it had you blushing. you were a little embarrassed of how easy it was to get a sound out of you. it was hard for you to keep everything in when you were naturally so vocal, and it only got harder the closer you were to coming. satoru always loved the moment he could see your conscious efforts to stay quiet become entirely abandoned in pleasure. once you couldn’t hold back, neither did he, fucking you as hard as he could, until he wrung out every little praise, and whimper, from your pretty throat. when you couldn’t help but shout his name for everyone to hear was his favorite, and he hated having to smother all the noises that always turned him into a horny teenager. he didn’t hold back his own grunts and groans though, letting them out freely in the classroom, which you didn’t think was very fair.

“that’s n-aah!” you couldn’t help but prove him right, a high-pitched moan jumping from your throat when he lifted you up, only to slam you back down where he was waiting to meet your hips a particularly eager thrust of his own.

“mhmm there it is.” he gave a smug little laugh that was always so familiar coming from him. satisfied that he had proven his point, he went back to making sure you kept quiet. instead of using his hands to muffle you this time, he smothered them with his own deep groan through a passionate kiss.

it didn’t help your case that your only response was an increasingly dazed look in your eyes. he clapped a large hand over your mouth again as you clung to him for dear life. your nails scraped at the back of his expensive dress shirt, feeling the muscles of his back react to the sensation. you raked them up to the softly shaved snow on his nape, pushing another groan out of him. only one of satoru’s hands were free, but he was doing the work for both of them. sometimes your husband was gentle and soft during sex— this was not one of those times. there was nothing sweet about how he groped your ass, gripping and kneading at the skin harshly. every so often one of his fingers brushed against your unoccupied hole while his palms spread your ass slightly.

gravity had you feeling like he was fucking his cock into you well past your pussy. you felt a pleasurable shock each time he hit that perfect spot, shooting up your body. how could it not feel that good with the way you met him with every bounce on his pretty cock. you both got closer and closer, but not quite there. you knew from the beginning that would be short, but you two couldn’t resist a quickie. honestly, you couldn’t resist any opportunity to fuck.

the truth is, he meant it when he said he really didn’t care about being caught from all the noise, but he also didn’t like that getting caught meant having to stop before he could make you finish.

even deeper than that desire, the one he didn’t want to admit just yet, was his possessive need. satoru wanted to keep those pretty little screams all to himself. he figured that he was the one helping you make them, he should be the one who decides that only he gets to hear them. people could still know just who was claiming you by his own pornographic professions of pleasure. Maybe he would let you cry out in the end to reward you, if only because he wanted to hear you say his name like you always did.

to get you there, he was going to have to go just a little harder to push you over the edge. chasing both of your highs, he used all that famous speed of his to switch positions and bend you over the desk. it all happened so fast that even if he slipped out, you didn’t feel it.

the new angle already allowed him to go deeper, but it also allowed you to arch your back. satoru didn’t moan, he whined at the sight. he always loved seeing just how far you’d bend for him— literally. it made his cock throb inside of you, the blood pulsing through the veins along his shaft that were making each drag against your walls take you closer to heaven.

still muting you but no longer having to hold you up, he used a free hand to bully your clit as well as your hole. there was so much sap dripping down from your pussy, making the noise that rang out everytime your ass and his hips met even more vulgar. he easily gathered up some of the wet mix of both your juice and his precum on two of his fingers removing his hand from your mouth only to shove his fingers in instead.

“mmm fuck baby, taste yourself. taste us.” you gagged on them, the choking sound canceling out the much louder whines you were about to make.

he desperately tore off his blindfold, shoving it in your mouth as a gag and telling you to play with your pussy. even before his hand could grip your hips though, you were already meeting his thrusts.

he gripped your hips with his large hands, squeezing your body beneath him, “oh shit. yeah yeah please. keep slamming that ass back on me princess. please please please.” he begged as if he was at your mercy, even though his inescapable grip was the only thing keeping you from falling limp. he grit his teeth, feeling you tighten around him. you went from throbbing to squeezing him like a vice as your orgasm suddenly shocked through you. you shook, your knees knocking a bit as you used your last bit of strength to push back on him, feeling as much of his cock as you could while you creamed on it. your eyes rolled back almost like they were compensating for the screams you couldn’t let out.

as sensitive as you were, satoru wasn’t done yet.

“so so close, hold out princess.”

the gag slipped from your slacked jaw, but you bit your lip to stop any noise that came from the sensitivity. you nodded and satoru petted your head and smiled. with just your lip to stop you from making noise and you so close to coming, satoru didn’t give a shit about volume anymore. you were about to let out some of the sluttiest moans like you always do when you come, and he wasn’t gonna miss them for anyone. “You know what? get a little loud. i don’t mind,” just before ramming in so hard that he knocked over the desk. the last of your moans morphed into a panicked scream, mingled with the crash and bang of the desk falling, along with all the objects on it. you were nearly one of those things if satoru hadn’t tightly gripped your hips and your neck, keeping you fused together. so much was happening, but he made sure that you were right where you needed to be for him to pour all his cum inside you. it seemed that after everything, your voice couldn’t handle much more than a little whimper when you felt all his hot, thick cum filling you up. you always tightened your legs out of instinct to hold it all in, and it also helped you keep standing as he shuddered, letting a long stream of broken groans and eventually whimpers just by your ear. he wanted so badly to take his time watching his cum drip out of your hole just to gather every drop not inside you on his fingers and shove it back in. you always begged for his cum huh? he’d be a bad husband if he didn’t give you all of it.

shit. his mind cleared he assessed the damage less than a moment after. even with all this clutter on the floor, at least he didn’t add his cum to it he thought. still, the biggest mess was between your legs, and he couldn’t help but feel a little proud about the two of you.

he immediately picked you up like a ragdoll and sat you down on a desk. you still felt your tongue threaten to loll out but you threw a leg over his shoulder out of instinct, giving him access between your legs to clean up the slick that covered your sex and thighs with his blindfold. it was already covered in spit anyway.

“fuck. someone definitely heard that” he murmured during his rushed clean up.

“who’s fault now huh—“ you were cut off by satoru’s reaction to hearing approaching steps he yanked you forward to button your shirt as you realized the person was running, very, very fast. you were both so relieved that you still had your skirt and he still had his pants on, leaving you one less thing to trip over. while he fumbled with your clothes you zipped up his pants and buckled his belt. gojo had just finished the very important task of checking to make sure no cum was leaking past your panties before yuuji came bursting through the door. you immediately hopped off the desk and smoothed down your hair and your skirt, while gojo tried to pass off his ruffled hair by acting like he’d been running his hand through it.

“hey, are you guys ok? we thought we heard something crash.” yuuji eyes darted to the desk on the floor, completely missing the raging blush on gojos face and the slight wobble in your knees. he opened his mouth to ask only to be shoved through the door when nobara came in hot behind him.

“hey! i thought we were all gonna check it out!” she scolded him with her whines.

“not my fault you’re slow!” he defended.

finally megumi strolled in, looking as nonchalant about the whole thing as he could be, in great contrast to his best friends.

“students!” you turned to satoru as he addressed them enthusiastically, “your teachers were just training and made a bit of a mess.” wow. that excuse just…well it sucks. you almost wanted to roll your eyes but had to do a double take. where did he get his glasses from? when did he put them on? leave it to gojo to keep his accessories on hand. it did help distract from how puffy and pink his lips were as he spoke.

“you were fighting in here?” yuuji tilted his head in question. combined with his big brown eyes, his actions had him looking like a puppy.

“it was impromptu.” you bolstered gojos excuse while trying not to cringe at how bad it was to begin with.

“ooh were you like couple fighting?” nobara jumped in with her question. it seemed she was way too intrigued by the prospect of drama to question how much sense it actually made, and you had absolutely no objections to that right now.

“wait things can get that heated to where you battle??” oh yuuji. he asked as if nobara knew all there was to know about the subject.

“no, no!” you waved your hands frantically, only to be completely tuned out once the two kids entered the mode of conspiracy. they talked lowly but didn’t whisper, as if you couldn’t hear them literally talking about you five feet away.

“i mean they totally look like they got into it.” nobaras chin was between her thumb and pointer finger while her eyes narrowed in inspection, yuuji mimicking her actions. after a second of tapping her cheek, she pointed directly at her sensei, making you and satoru almost jump a little bit. wow you had to get a hold of yourself. “no offense, but you should probably fix your hair.” nobara stated bluntly. gojo pouted. you thought he was adorable but also made a note to compliment his hair later.

megumi had been silent, not even really looking at you or the mess. his eyes just wandered the walls until it seemed like something clicked in his braim. his eyes darted back and forth between you and gojo. suddenly rolling his eyes letting out an exasperated “oh my god,” megumi just dragged a hand over his eyes and his face. he wasted no time turning around and walking away, seeming absolutely done with you two.

he caught nobaras curiosity and had her chasing him out the door and down the hall where you could hear her calling out “hey! hey, fushiguro come back!”

“hey wait what’s he talking about.” yuuji looked increasingly confused as he followed suit.

you almost slumped in relief you were so tired and you had to put effort into standing straight and not just falling into gojo. he looked at your relieved and tired face with a goofy smile. that smile. it disappeared as soon as you started slapping his arm.

“sa-to-ru!” a slap accompanied each syllable. “that was the worst excuse ever! there’s no way they’re not going to figure it out!” your hands kept slapping his bicep, but were just as quick to wrap around it right after. you pressed your cheek against the expensive cotton sleeve as you hugged his arm tightly and pouted just like he did as you looked up.

“c’mon let’s be real here, megumi would rather die than discuss our sex life with his friends. plus, we’re married, princess. i’m pretty sure a husband fucking his wife is like, the least surprising thing ever.” he rolled his eyes as he turned to wrap his arms around your waist, your hands resting on his chest.

“what about itadori? i’d hate for that kid to lose his innocence,”

“innocent? that kid is a self-proclaimed ass man.” taking advantage of the subject, one of satorus own hands came to rest on your ass. you quirked a brow but he pretended not to see your face and just continued, “i also saw a pinup poster in his room,”

“wait, really?” you stopped and shook your head a bit, like it would help you refocus on what you remembered you were talking about, “oh but still, toru, i know they know we have sex but—“

“but what?” he sighed, waiting for your most definitely poor reasoning.

“i don’t know, just” you started blushing and he knew that little embarrassed look. he knew you always liked to play the good girl, to hold on to your pride. if it didn’t make for such a fun game he’d say it’s a total waste of time knowing, without fail, he’d have you on his leash in minutes (literally or metaphorically depending on what your setting allowed). a single long finger tilted your chin up, his face suddenly so close to yours.

“oh you’re not worried about them finding out about my wife being fucked, you're worried about them finding out that she likes to be fucked like a slut.” such crude words came out in delicate breaths that fanned across your face.

“no!” your voice died out instantly when he pulled you a little closer again, your noses now touching instead of just your breath.

“hard enough for the desk to fall and loud enough to scream.” you had had sex minutes ago, and even worse, had almost gotten caught, and yet he was saying and doing everything to make your pussy throb all over again. you were always so easy for him to play with, never offering any real objections despite your attitude. “yeah? you don’t want them to know how desperate you are, how you just couldn’t keep your legs closed until we got home? because that’s all you want, isn’t it.” he whispered in your ear, your eyes fluttering back with chills. the sensation of him placing kisses on your neck brought you back to your senses once again.

“please, as if you didn’t run around the whole school just to say you needed ‘help’”

“and you’re suchhhh a good little helper for me, baby,”, he went to kiss you on the mouth you returned it, but as soon as he deepened it, you pushed him away and he had the audacity to look hurt. you were getting whiplash from having to repeatedly pull yourself together just to fall right into his hands again.

“you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. i swear we almost got caught there’s no way we can go another round. you’re insatiable gojo satoru.”

“mhmm, we both are, mrs. gojo satoru.” he tapped your nose before lowering his voice once again. “so, how bout i take these panties, and we go home when my cum is about to leak past your skirt, huh?”

“fine. deal.” you huffed, but spread your legs quickly. he went on one knee to pull your panties down, enjoying the picture of your pussy and leaving a kiss on your clit which made you hiss, before he had the fabric dropping to your ankles. you stepped out of them and he swiftly pocketed them.

“i love my wifey so much!” he stood up and kissed you with a cute smile as if he hadn’t just shove your panties down his pants.

“that’s good because love you too toru,” you said softly, hands clasped behind your back and rocking back and forth on your heels with a lovesick look like a schoolgirl. honestly, he never stopped making you feel like one.

“aww so sweet.” he tucked a hair behind your hair, sending butterflies past your stomach and to your whole body, but you just knew that wasn’t all. “who woulda thought you were such a whore?” ah, theres your satoru.

“only for you” you patted his cheek jokingly, but he just groaned with his whole body. he had to do things in the most dramatic way possible of course.

“ugh. baby, you can’t just say things like that and then—“

you pushed him off, leaving him, arms still stretched out reaching for you, even after you walked out the door. he looked at the clock before deciding it was max 30 minutes before you asked to go home. you came back in 10.

— bonus:

“well i mean the honeymoon stage is like that, although it’s annoying and gross.” nobara shrugged while still stirring her boba.

“they’ve been married for 7 years. dated for 10.” megumi responded quietly, nobara consequently spewing her drink.

“no way! they act all starry-eyed and all that stuff still.” yuujis own eyes opened wider in surprise

“yeah that’s what i thought too!” it helped nobara that even yuuji had the same idea too. “ugh now that i know they’re just like that it’s kinda gross.”

“wait megumi if they’ve dated for 10 years, you lived with both of them at the same time, right?” both of megumis friends leaned closer to him, eager to hear where yuujis question went, but he didn't even look at them.

“yeah what about it,” he said as nonchalantly as ever. this was a topic he had always made a point never to dwell on.

“so you had to have heard—“

“okay, that’s enough. we’re never talking about this again.” ideas like yuujis were the exact reason why megumi refused to feel his interest. ideas like yuujis made him want to die from remembering just how many times he accidentally heard the two of you…daily.

“yeah gross, good idea.”

“um yeah, you’re right, don’t answer that actually.”

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #satoru gojo #gojo satoru #gojo #satoru gojo smut #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x reader #gojo smut #gojo x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #megumi fushiguro #nobara kugisaki #yuuji itadori #jjk fanfic #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #jjk x reader #gojo x you

[shuchu]

stressed w enrollment but hrngngngn……….. surprising luxiem w a bunny suit…………… ive been thinking abt buying one to show off to my bf but OUGHRHGJRNGNH…………… shu teasingly calling u “usagi-chan” once he gets over his initial shock 🤤

i'm sorry to hear that you've been stressed, i hope enrolment went well anon!! & sorry for the suuuper late response to your thirst ;w;

gosh, how fitting is this now that it's the new year and it's the year of the rabbit

imagine getting a bunny suit to surprise the luxiem boys on new years' eve (〃 ω 〃) thank you for the idea ♡

i'm really fucking rusty so please bare with me ;w;

the thought of shu calling me usagi-chan got me screaming without the s

nsfw/suggestive, minors dni

ᐢ..ᐢ❀ VOX AKUMA

his eyes widen and his gaze rakes up and down you admiring how snug that bunny suit fits on you, showcasing all your curves

he gulps visibly, knowing that it's not gonna be long before his erection becomes painfully obvious

you giggle at his reaction and ask shyly, "you like it babe?"

"like it? good god, i love it." he says with a groan while walking towards you

"how can someone look so hot yet be so fucking cute? i don't know how you do it every time my love."

he gives you a peck on the lips before saying, "do a little spin for me."

you do as you're told and when you turn back around you see him scanning your body slowly from your head, down to your feet and back up

he strides towards you and leans down to capture your lips in a heated kiss

he then picks you up bridal style and starts walking to the bedroom, his erection straining painfully against its confinements

you know damn well that he's going to fuck you dumb in that bunny suit

ᐢ..ᐢ❀ MYSTA RIAS

you walk into his stream room to surprise him with the bunny suit

"babe, i just got this new outfit, how do i look?"

he turns to look at you and he does a double take, his eyes expanding to the size of saucers and his jaw drops

"holy shit y/n...y-you look amazing!" he says while shifting a little in his seat

you giggle, knowing that your boyfriend is getting a little excited

you walk a little closer to him to give him a peck on the lips

his hand moves to your sides, slowly moving them up and down, while he takes in the sight before him

a few minutes pass and he stands up abruptly and says, "we need to go to the bedroom, now."

"w-wait...why?"

"i can't take it anymore, i need you. work can wait."

ᐢ..ᐢ❀ LUCA KANESHIRO

"lucaaaa~" you call out to him in a sing song voice while walking into the living room where luca was chilling, watching some youtube videos

"hmm? what is it honey?" he asks before turning to look at you and his jaw drops. he's stunned and a slight pink tints his cheeks as he scans your figure

"do you like it?"

"do i like it? y-yeah i do...i really do..." he says before licking his lips slightly

his eyes are focused on the way the suit hugs your hips, accentuating it

you giggle when you realise where he's looking at and you say teasingly, "babe, my eyes are up here."

his eyes slowly move up to meet yours and you see the want and need in his eyes

he beckons you to sit on his lap and you do, he then kisses you, his arms holding you close to him

after a few minutes you had to lean back to catch your breath and luca whines a little chasing your lips

he slots his lips against yours again and mumbles, "you look so pretty, so so pretty."

"i can't help it...i want you y/n." he says in between kisses

he swiftly moves to lay you down on the couch, detaching himself from your lips to your neck

you know where this goes after that (￢‿￢ )

ᐢ..ᐢ❀ IKE EVELAND

"ikey can you come in here and help me pull the zipper up? i can't reach."

"sure! are you trying on a new ou-" he stops in his tracks and his eyes widen

you chuckle slightly and he shakes his head a little to come back to his senses before walking to you to help pull the zipper up

both your gazes meet in the reflection of the mirror and he gushes, "you look stunning my love. but what is this for?"

"well it's going to be the year of the rabbit so i just thought that maybe getting a bunny outfit would be cute."

ike hums and his eyes scan your body before wrapping his arms around you, giving you a kiss on the cheek

"my little bunny."

the mental image of you in that bunny suit will be stuck in ike's mind for a while and he blushes a little everytime he thinks about it

ᐢ..ᐢ❀ SHU YAMINO

"shu~ i need your opinion on the outfit that i'm wearing."

"sure, let me see it." he says, turning to face the door

when you walk in with the bunny suit on, his eyes widen and his cheeks turn a little red

"w-whoa..."

you do a little spin for him and you ask, "so? what do you think of it?"

shu visibly gulps and stutters, "um...i- i think you look great!"

"really?" you giggle a little, "i thought it'll be nice to get since it's going to be the year of the rabbit y'know?"

shu smiles, "i like it babe."

"my little usagi-chan." he says with a slight smirk, teasing you

now your cheeks start heating up and you can't maintain eye contact with him

shu chuckles and stands up from his chair to embrace you, "you're adorable."

#luxiem #hana replies ♡ #anon ♡ #luxiem x reader #vox akuma #mysta rias #luca kaneshiro #ike eveland #shu yamino #vox akuma x reader #mysta rias x reader #luca kaneshiro x reader #ike eveland x reader #shu yamino x reader

[fortheloveofwonderland]

Rusty | Chapter 7 | S.R

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Chapter Summary - When you find Spencer mid dissociation, you fight to bring him back to reality. You provide him some comfort in the aftermath with unexpected results.

A/N - this starts with the full phone conversation that transpired between Spencer and Luke in the previous chapter and the picks up while reader was getting dinner and shows the build up to Spencer’s dissociation. I do not have hands on experience with this, everything regarding Spencer’s condition was taken from internet articles.

Pairing - Spencer Reid / Fem! Reader

Category - strangers to friends to lovers | angst | smut minors DNI

Warnings - detailed depictions of dissociative state from both Spencer and readers perspectives, blood, self-harm, swearing, cleaning wounds, talk of mental health and medication, PTSD, kinda sensual massage(?), lots of touching, coming untouched, Spencer comes in his pants.

WC - 6.1k

Chapter 7 - Where Were You (When the World Stopped Turning)

“I only called because-”

“Because you felt guilty? Because you finally decided you can’t run from me forever?” The voice on the other end of the line cut him off. 

“No, no…” Spencer shook his head, regretting this already. 

“What then?” 

“You have to stop-”

“Stop what?” Luke’s incredulous voice cut him off once more. 

“Please?” Spencer whined a little.

“So you don’t feel bad? Don’t care at all? Because that’s how it feels, Spencer.” 

“No…I said-”

“You haven’t said much of anything. For two years!” Luke scoffed. 

“Please just listen to me for a moment?” Spencer huffed out a breath, feeling dizzy from this conversation. 

“Do you know how much that hurt?” Luke spoke again. 

“Yes, I know…I get it, I do. I-I-”

“You just left, Spencer. You left and haven’t so much as called me once since. It hurt, it really fucking hurt.” Luke’s voice shook. 

“You’re not letting me speak. You have to-”

“What are you trying to say?” 

“It’s been two years. I…” Spencer trailed off with a shake of head, unsure what he was trying to say. 

“And you think in two years I’ve just forgotten about you?” Luke grumbled. 

“No. Please? I just want-”

“What? What do you want?” 

“Need-”

“Need what?” 

“To heal.” 

“To heal?” 

“Yes.” 

“And I don’t?” Luke sounded incredulous once more. 

“No. Please can you-”

“Do you realise how much it hurt hearing from Emily that you’d left? And not just that you’d left the BAU, but you’d left the goddamn state?” Luke was pacing, Spencer could hear his heavy footsteps.

Spencer closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d known this was a bad idea. 

“Yes, yes I know I need-”

“What?” Once again Luke cut him off. 

“Space.” Spencer huffed out. 

“I’ve given you space! I’ve given you two years of space!” 

“More space.” Spencer’s jaw ached with the constant teeth grinding he’d been doing. “In time I might-”

“In time? It’s been two years! How much more time do you need?” Luke practically growled. 

“I don’t kn-”

“This was a bad idea, maybe you shouldn’t have called.” Luke sighed and Spencer could practically see him raking his fingers through his hair. 

“No, no.” He tried to insist but Luke was most certainly right, he shouldn’t have called. This was a terrible idea. 

“I just wanted to hear your voice, cariño. I was worried about you, I needed to know you were alright, because I care.” Luke softened and Spencer felt his chest tighten.

It was easier to distance himself from it, to forget about what he’d lost, if he only let himself remember those last few bad months after prison. 

If he allowed himself to recall the good times, to dwell on how much he’d missed hearing Luke call him cariño, he would crumble. 

“Okay.” He swallowed. “Thank you.” 

“Please look after yourself, Spence.” 

“I’ll try.” Spencer nodded to no one but himself. 

“I, uh, have a, uh, good day I guess.” Luke knew better than trying to prolong a conversation Spencer didn’t want to be a part of. 

“You too.” Spencer whispered and then the line went dead. 

***

Once alone in his lodge, pressing the ice pack against his throbbing knee, Spencer’s mind wandered of its own accord. 

He replayed his earlier conversation with Luke on repeat, a constant loop playing in his brain like a broken record. 

It was the first time in two years that Spencer had spoken to him. He’d heard his voice since, the first six months after he left DC, Luke left him voicemails at least once a week. But Spencer never picked up the phone or called him back. 

Honestly he couldn’t quite understand where the gumption had come from today to finally call him. Perhaps he needed it to be over, finally really over, so he could try and move on with his life. 

But whatever relief he thought he may find had been a pipe dream, and the call left him on edge all day. 

Once he was alone he couldn’t stop dwelling on it and he felt that anger bubble swelling in his stomach. 

He knew before the dissociation happened that it was heading that way. He tried to stop it from escalating, he really did. But it was no use. 

When he felt the rage rising he’d dropped the ice pack on the floor and got up from the couch. He found himself leaning on the kitchen counter just trying to focus on his breathing, quell the anger. 

“I am still whole. I am still whole. I am still whole.” He muttered under his breath, eyes closed. 

But he wasn’t, was he? It was a lie. His therapist had deceived him into believing he wasn’t missing pieces. His old team had tried to placate him with false truths that he would make it through this darkness.

His anger grew. His fury was multi fold, at Luke, at the rest of the team, at his therapist and even at himself. It expanded, stretched from his stomach to his chest to his limbs. The rage bubble was nurtured by his meddlesome thoughts, cultivating, spreading until every atom of his being was on fire with a maddening flame. 

And then it happened, like a cord snapping in half. Spencer Reid left his body. He wasn’t him, his body didn’t belong to him any longer. 

Where was he? What was this place? He didn’t recognise anything in front of his eyes. He was in some kind of ether, a thick fog of nothingness. 

He was on the couch. But there was someone leaning against the kitchen counter. The foreign body stood up right, and walked towards his bedroom. 

Where are you going? That’s my room, you shouldn’t be here. 

He got up from the couch, followed the retreating form into the other room, through the haze. The unknown person didn’t stop, continued on into the bathroom. 

The floor beneath him felt as though it was cracking, like walking on a thin sheet of ice. He was cautious in his movements, following the stranger into the other room. 

And then he felt light, too light, as though he were floating. The fog around him grew thicker and the other body was barely visible through the dense haze. 

Where are you going? Get out of here! 

He heard his voice but it was distant, somewhere far away. He continued to hover above the ground, floating his way through the nothingness. 

Who are you? 

It was only when the other body turned around, face peering through the void that he felt a strange pang of recognition. 

Brown orbs flecked with gold. Messy, tangled curls. Dark purple circles and chapped dry lips. 

Is he me? Am I him? Who am I? 

What do you want? Why are you here? 

The man that was, but wasn’t him didn’t hear him. And Spencer just watched on as he walked back over to the bed, something tucked inside his palm. 

Floating. Buoyant. Hovering. Light as air yet heavy as a led weight. Spinning. Spiralling. Pirouetting through the mire. 

Who are you? Who am I? Why are you here? Why am I here? 

The body was naked from the waist up. One hand moving towards a bare arm, something shimmering between the fingers. 

A dizzying blanket of confusion weighed him down, yet he felt light; free. Nothing was within his reach, yet everything felt so near. 

What are you doing? How did you get here? 

His voice was still so far off, somewhere that wasn’t here although he wasn’t entirely sure where here was. 

The was a smash but the sound barely registered in his ears. Something solid, hitting something hard, crashing, breaking. 

Something scored down his arm, a prickle on his skin. Claret weeped, trickled. He didn’t feel a thing. Or did he? 

Where am I? 

A sound that maybe wasn’t a sound. A knocking? Tapping? Once. Twice. Three times. 

“Spencer? Spencer?” 

Spencer? Is that me? Who am I? Where am I? 

The viscous liquid was sticky on his skin, made his stomach turn and coil. 

“Spencer? Spencer, I’m going to need you to let me know you’re okay.” 

Okay? Am I okay? Spencer? Spencer who? 

The hand belonging to the foreign body dropped into its lap. Blood continued to congeal, forcing its way out of some kind of hole? Cut? Trench? 

“Spencer, if you don’t answer me I am going to come in. If you don’t want that then tell me now, otherwise I am opening this door.” A pause and then, “fine, I’m coming in.” 

Seconds ticked by. Or was it minutes? Hours? The mist thickened, dissipated, thickened again. He was spiralling further into the ether, deeper into the unknown. 

Is this heaven? Hell? Am I dead? Who am I? 

Through the fog another foreign body appeared. It was quick in its movements, swift and light on its feet. 

An angel? The devil? Is this death? Am I in limbo? 

“S-Spencer?” 

Everything grew dark. An otherworldliness clutching, stealing him from the present. He observed the new body crouch in front of the body on the bed. 

My body? If he’s me, who am I? 

His confusion faded away. The lightness ceased to exist. And suddenly there was nothing left at all except for the constant thrum of an overwhelming mantra he didn’t didn’t quite understand. 

I am still whole. I am still whole. I am still whole.

***

“Spencer? Can you hear me?” You knelt on the floor between his thighs as his eyes continued to stare through you. “Spencer!”

The blood continued to pour and you knew it needed addressing first, before you could move on to other factors. You stripped off your sweatshirt, kneeling up and wrapping the fabric around his wound. 

Your fingers brushed against his blanched skin. He shivered but otherwise didn’t move. 

You tied the arms of the sweater in place to secure it for the time being, keep the bleeding contained. Maybe once you’d snapped him out of this you could properly assess it. 

You retrieved your phone from your pocket and quickly entertained a Google search. You were fairly certain he was dissociating, and needed to know how to cloy him back to reality. 

You made quick work of skimming through the article, making a mental note of how to help him. You managed to free the razor blade from between his fingers, placing it out of reach on the nightstand. 

With his hand now empty you placed yours in it, curling your fingers around his and holding tightly. 

“Spencer, I need you to talk to me. I need you to focus. Can you feel my hand? If you can, I need you to tell me what it feels like. Describe to me what my hand feels like.” You squeezed, wiggled your fingers to create friction against his own. 

His eyes closed, opened again. Closed and opened again. His chest heaved and deflated. Then his fingers started to twitch. 

“If you can hear me Spencer, tell me what my hand feels like.” You repeated, speaking slowly and enunciating each syllable. 

His fingers twitched again, moving leisurely between your own. Eyes closed, eyes open. Chest puffed out, chest shrinking in. 

“W-warm.” His voice came out as a wispy sigh. “S-soft. Warm.”

“Good, that’s great.” You nodded, cautiously raising your other hand. 

You gently rested it across his left pectoral muscle, his heart rampantly beating beneath it. Ground him. Make him focus on his senses, bring him back to the reality he has divorced himself from. 

“What does this feel like? Can you feel this?” You softly ran your nails over his chest, up and down, back and forth. 

“S-scratchy.” He spoke just as quietly. 

“So good, Spence, so good.” You nodded, removing both of your hands from him somewhat reluctantly. 

You got to your feet and glanced around the room. You needed something tactile but Spencer’s lodge was not exactly a cornucopia of stimuli. 

You had a vague memory, something you’d noticed when going through his closet but hadn’t paid any attention to at the time. You must have stored it in the recesses of your mind. 

Dashing to the closet you threw it open and on the floor, stuffed towards the back, you found what you were looking for. It was the perfect sensory object for the task at hand. 

You snatched it up and rushed back to where he sat, lifeless as he continued staring into space. You knelt between his legs again and placed the item in his open palm. 

It was a stuffed horse toy with a blue-grey dappled coat almost identical to Willow. Its fur was soft and tawny and his mane was more coarse. It wore a hard shell saddle and its hooves were squishy. It was the ideal mix of textures. 

“Spencer, I need you to tell me what this feels like.” You gently lifted his casted arm, pressed the fingers within it against the horse's body. “What does it’s body feel like?” 

His fingers that peaked out of the cast twitched a few times. 

“S-soft.” He breathed. “V-very soft.” 

“Good. Great. How about this?” You guided his fingers to the mane. 

The fingers jerked, sunk into the material, twisting in the locks. 

“R-rough. C-coarse.” 

“Yes, that’s right. You’re doing so well.” You encouraged. “And this?” 

Moving his hand now to the saddle, his brows pinched together, registering the change of texture somewhere within his brain. 

“H-hard. Cold. S-smooth.” 

“Perfect.” You nodded although he still seemed to not be seeing you. 

His tactile sense was coming back, you needed to reel in his others. You left him to caress the horse while you quickly traversed through to the kitchen. You opened a cabinet and found an opened bag of caramel candy. Perfect. 

Grabbing one in your hand and untwisting the plastic wrapper as you went, you found Spencer again still, his hand that had been fingering the stuffed toy now stilled. 

“Spencer, can you open your mouth for me?” You asked softly. 

He didn’t speak, didn’t even nod. But his lips fell apart an inch or so in compliance. You pushed the candy between his chapped lips but he didn’t seem to register it. 

“Can you taste that? What flavour is it, Spencer?” You stood in front of him, looking down on him. 

His cheeks hollowed and then puckered. His tongue moved inside his mouth, rolling the hard candy around and around. 

His eyebrows furrowed the tiniest amount as he contemplated this, tried to focus on the taste on his pallet. 

While he was doing this, you moved around the room, needing something else for visual stimuli. As you reached for one of the photographs on his desk, he spoke quietly. 

“Caramel.” He breathed. 

“You’re doing so good, Spence.” You collected up one of the photographs and joined him again, sitting next to him on the bed and holding the photo in front of his disconnected vision. “Spencer, tell me about these people.” 

He blinked several times in quick succession, trying to clear some kind of fog from his vision. The caramel was still being sucked on and his fingers now moved against the stuffed animal again.

“Who is this?” You pointed at the woman on the far right. 

More blinking, cogs turning in his mind, whirring and whirring whilst he fought to place the faces in the photograph. 

“T-Tara. Tara Lewis.” He croaked. 

You had no way to know if he was correct, you just had to believe he knew what he was talking about. 

“Okay, great. And this? Who is this?” You moved your finger to the man next to her. 

After a few more blinks he replied, “Matt S-Simmons.” 

“This?” You moved on. 

Blink, blink, blink. 

“JJ. Jennifer.” 

“This?” 

Blink, blink, blink. 

“Penelope.” 

“This?” 

Blink, blink, blink. A pinch of his brows. 

“Me?” He posed it as a question. 

“Yeah, that’s right. Well done.” 

“Me.” He repeated, his breaths getting a little more frantic. “Me?” 

“Yes, you. Spencer Reid.” Your hand shook a little and you tried to keep the image still. “You are Spencer Reid.”

“Hmm.” He mused, eyes still blinking rapidly. “Spencer.” 

“That’s right. Spencer Reid. You live in Bandera, Texas, but before that you lived in Washington DC. Before that I think you lived in Las Vegas.” You repeated all the things you knew about him. “Oh!” 

You jumped up, replacing one photograph for another. 

“I think this is your mom?” You hurried back with the other photo. “Can you tell me about her?” 

More quick fire blinking. His casted hand raised from the horse and his fingers fluttered over the image of the older woman. 

“Mom.” He groaned as he spoke. “Mom.” 

“What’s her name?” 

“N-name?” His eyes closed for a few seconds. 

The world felt like it stood still for those few seconds. His chest heaved almost fitfully, like he was convulsing. Both hands went to his eyes and he kneaded them beneath his fingers. 

His breathing grew erratic for a second before everything stilled. His hands stopped their ministrations. His breathing became shallow. The world halted on its axis and then…

“Diana. Diana Reid. Mom.” His eyes opened, landed on you. 

They were focused and intense, brows pinched together in uncertainty. His eyes fluttered across your face, down to the photo in your hands, to the horse in his lap. To his broken cell phone on the floor, to his arm wrapped up in your sweater and back to you. 

“What is…where am…fuck.” He shook his head. “It happened again.” 

“It’s happened before?” You asked softly. 

“A few times.” He nodded, noticing the caramel in his mouth. “What is…why am I eating candy?” 

“I was trying to ground you using your senses. You don’t remember anything?” 

He looked back at the horse in his lap and wrapped his hand around it.

“No, I usually don’t. I remember feeling this anger in my chest and then, it’s like a light goes out.” He looked over at his arm and your sweater tied around it. “I cut myself?” 

“Yeah. You got a first aid kit?” You got to your feet. 

“Bathroom.” He replied. 

While you were gone he snatched up one of the pillows and pressed it to his stomach in a vain attempt to cover his naked torso. You returned a moment or so later with the kit after washing your hands and sat back down on the bed. 

You were cautious in removing the sweater which was now caked in blood but upon inspection it did look as though the bleeding had stopped. You found an antiseptic wipe and ripped open the packet. 

You asked Spencer without words for permission to touch him, knowing how he would flinch when touched with no warning. He nodded stiffly. 

His jaw stiffened but he didn’t make a sound as you gently wiped the wound and the surrounding blood. It must have hurt, but he refused to show it. 

“Can I ask you something?” You spoke softly while opening another wipe to clean off the rest of his arm. 

“I guess.” He closed his eyes, ready for all manner of questions about whatever it was you’d just witnessed. 

“Is this why you take the paroxetine? You have some kind of dissociative disorder?” 

“I take the paroxetine for my PTSD.” He confessed with little protest. “My dissociative amnesia is a symptom of that.” 

“Do you have them often? The dissociation?” You finished cleaning his arm and found a tube of ointment. 

You poured a little on your fingertips before massaging it against his wound. He hissed slightly, eyes still closed. 

“Not usually. I’ve had two in as many days but before that I hadn’t had one since before I moved out here.” 

“Ah.” You rolled your lip between your teeth. “So since I got here.” 

His eyes shot open and landed on you, a small furrow on his brows.

“This isn’t because of you.” He was shaking his head. “It happens when I reach a certain level of anger. When my mind can’t control the vicious rage that starts bubbling inside of me, it divorces itself from reality. This has nothing to do with you. There is one recurring factor though.” 

You inspected his wound while he spoke, assessing he probably didn’t need medical attention as it wasn’t too deep. 

“I think I can surmise what that might be.” You found some butterfly wound closures in the kit. Your eyes flicked up to meet his. “Your ex? You said you got a text from him yesterday and I, uh, I heard you on the phone this morning, assumed that was him.” 

Spencer closed his eyes again, if he didn’t look at you it made it easier to talk about these things. You started closing his wound with the butterfly stitches. 

“It’s not necessarily that he makes me angry. But when I think about him, I inevitably think about why we broke up. And when I think about why we broke up it…that’s where the anger comes from.” 

You remained silent while you finished with the stitches and then wrapped his arm with gauze. 

As soon as you were finished Spencer was pushing himself up, placing the horse on the bed and going to his closet for a clean t-shirt. 

“We still have food if you’re hungry? I think you should probably try and eat something.” You stood too. 

He simply nodded and you followed him to the kitchen in silence. 

***

You ate the cold food on the couch without a word shared between you. You drank a glass of the scotch you’d gotten at the general store and when you’d offered one to Spencer he shook his head. 

After you’d finished eating, you took the plates into the kitchen and while your back was turned he spoke.

“You didn’t ask about my PTSD.” His voice pitched as he spoke. 

You left the plates by the sink and slowly turned back to face him. 

“I didn’t think you’d want me to.” You shrugged, heading back across the room. 

“I didn’t. But you’ve proven to be rather nosy.” His lip twitched a little into a small smile. 

“I prefer the term curious.” You clucked, standing in front of him. “But I’m not going to force you to tell me something if you don’t want to. Just know if you chose to, I’m here to listen.” 

“Thank you.” He stood too, grimacing slightly like you were growing accustomed to him doing. “For everything. If I were you I would have high tailed out of here long ago. I’m, uh, not used to people sticking around.” 

“I think I like it here.” You smiled. “I don’t have any intentions of high tailing it anywhere just yet. Except for right now, to bed. I’m exhausted.” 

“Right, yeah of course.” He nodded, but his expression changed into something you couldn’t place. 

He looked as though he wanted to say something but was stopping himself from doing so. You weren’t going to force it out of him, instead you turned towards the door. 

“Goodnight then.” You spoke over your shoulder. 

But as you were reaching for the handle to let yourself out, he cleared his throat and spoke up. 

“Could you maybe…if it’s not too much to ask, uh, possibly…” he trailed off scratching the back of his neck. “Would you stay with me tonight? I really don’t want to be alone.” 

Judging by his strangled tone and contorted features you could tell this was by far the hardest thing he’d confessed to you tonight. You turned back to him with a small smile. 

He looked so vulnerable, almost childlike in his admittance. There wasn’t a world in which such a request could be denied. 

“Of course I will.” You nodded in agreement and he seemed to relax at this. “Just let me go get changed and I’ll be right back, okay?” 

He didn’t speak so you retreated again, hurriedly going back to your lodge and changing into a pair of shorts and an oversized t-shirt. You brushed your teeth quickly before making your way back over to Spencer’s home. 

He was already in bed when you returned, sheet draped over his body as he laid on his side facing out into the room. The light was already off. 

He didn’t look at you so you climbed onto the bed beneath the window and slid under the covers. From what little you could ascertain, he wore no more than a t-shirt and boxers. 

His back was to you and you noticed the way he stiffened when you got into the bed. You didn’t know his aversion for sharing such an intimate space and honestly he was wondering why he’d asked you to stay at all. 

Having you in his space like this put him on edge and calmed him in equal measure. It was a strange cacophony of feelings and he didn’t know which one to give over to. 

He could feel the heat radiating off of you. He wanted you closer, he wanted you as close as humanly possible. But he also wanted to be far, far away. 

“Spence,” you whispered. “Can I…am I allowed to touch you?” 

A shiver passed up his spine and you saw it even in the dark. For a moment he was still, but then his head nodded against the pillow. 

You shuffled closer to him, resting your head against your own pillow. Cautiously you draped an arm around him, palm resting against his stomach. 

His casted arm was cushioned between his pillows. If the position bothered his fresh wound on his bicep, he didn’t seem to notice or care. 

He tensed for a moment or two but then he suddenly encased your hand in his, his palm on the back of your hand and entwining your fingers. He pulled you closer so your chest was flush against his back. 

You couldn’t help but nuzzle into the back of his neck, his hair tickling your face. His hand gripped yours tighter, as though he needed to cling to you to remain grounded. 

And then, much like he’d done earlier with Franklin, he started moving both of your hands so you were stroking his torso. At first just his stomach but then he brought your hand up towards his chest, pausing for a second or two so you could feel his heartbeat and then back down to brush over the waistband of his boxers. 

He continued this motion, up and down and up and down for a few minutes. You tried to commit to memory the curves of his body beneath his t-shirt. After a while he stilled you both suddenly and he started exploring the contours of your hand and each finger in his own. 

He was careful in his movements, almost clinical. He huffed out a breath and when he spoke, it was barely a whisper. 

“Do you ever just…crave human touch? Like in a way that is so desperate you feel like you might die without it?” He continued inspecting your hands.

“Isn’t that just a normal human desire?” You whispered against his neck. 

“Not for me.” He sighed. “It’s an alien feeling to me and I don’t know what to make of it.” 

He let go of your hand and you were unsure if that meant he himself no longer wanted to be touched or if he’d done it so you could touch him. 

You dared let your hand come to rest on his stomach again and gently stroked little circles on his shirt. After a minute or so you moved upwards, towards his chest and paused over his heart like he had done. 

You brushed your hand back down, barely ghosting the waistband of his boxers before continuing back up. 

Spencer closed his eyes and gave over to the feeling as your hand traversed the planes of his clothed torso. Several minutes passed and his breathing started to grow a little heavy and you let your fingers brush against his knuckles. 

He didn’t tell you to stop so you didn’t, letting your fingers travel up his bare arm until you met the sleeve of his t-shirt. You migrated back down to his knuckles, back up to his bicep again and again, your touch featherlight. 

His breathing got heavier, but he seemed to enjoy it so you let your fingers dip beneath the sleeve of his shirt and wander up towards his shoulder. He tensed briefly but soon relaxed again. 

You kept this up, down to his knuckles, back up to his shoulder, kneading the muscle at the top of his arm each time. 

He wriggled backwards, his backside nestled near your crotch. He was panting reverently and you barely heard the whisper of, “more.” 

Rolling your lip between your teeth you propped yourself up on your elbow as your hand moved to his back. You stroked him over his t-shirt a few times but when whimpered slightly you assumed it wasn’t enough. 

Taking a breath you toyed with the hem of his t-shirt and were met with no protest. Your hand dipped beneath the fabric and your hand glided over the hot flesh of his back. 

Your fingers danced over his spine, weaving in and out of his vertebrae. He sucked in a deep breath and then a soft moan escaped his lips. 

Wondering how far you could push this, how far he wanted you to push this, you let your digits wander over his hip and up his rib cage. 

Spencer seemed to vibrate at the sensation and you could only assume it was a good thing. You continued over his bare stomach, feeling it clench and tighten beneath your hand. 

He whined and it sent a jolt right to your core. You pressed your thighs together as a heat spread between them. 

As you moved your hand upwards you accidentally brushed over his right nipple. Spencer stilled suddenly, tensing every muscle in his body. 

Your hand halted in its movements and the silence deafened the room for a moment or two. But then he relaxed and the barely audible “more” came again. 

And so you complied. You ran your hand up and down his torso, this time purposefully grazing over his nipple, each time you did he moaned softly into his pillow. 

Spencer had no idea what was happening or why this felt so incredible. He never wanted it to end, wanted to spend the rest of his life with your hands on him like this. 

It was a strange feeling for him to actively seek this kind of human connection but he didn’t let himself overthink it. It felt so good that it had banished any other thoughts from his mind. 

And there wasn’t an ounce of guilt to be felt when he realised he was, for the first time in four years, standing at full attention in his pants. 

Your hand brushed against his boxers each time you moved downwards and you wanted to go lower still. But Spencer didn’t whisper more and so you wouldn’t push your luck, no matter how much you wanted to. 

On one descent, your hand passed slightly further than you’d meant to and the side of your hand skimmed against what you knew to be his erection.

He moaned louder than before, hips rolling back against you. You had to press your thighs together tighter, clamping them closed as another wave of heat flooded through you. 

But still he didn’t ask for more and so you didn’t risk letting your hand fall lower. Instead you let it ebb higher, across his collarbones, over the side of his neck, across his stubbly jaw and into his hair. 

Your fingers threaded into the thick locks, pulling lightly at the roots. He mewled at the sensation and so you did it again. 

Spencer was writhing on the bed, eyes so tightly closed as he rocked against you. You made a circuit of his body, from his hair down his face, across his torso, up and down his arm and then across his back. 

He was moaning more frequently with each pass of his body and his breathing was haggard. When your hand accidentally brushed against his cock again, he moaned in such an animalistic way you almost moaned too. 

His body soon started convulsing, as though he was suffering a seizure. You pressed your hand against his stomach, starting to panic but then…

“Oh fuck…Jesus fucking Christ…fuck!” He cried into his pillow as his hips jerked forward. 

With one last deep moan he stilled entirely and so did you. 

You lifted your hand from him, hovering it over his torso. The room once again became awash with silence. And you knew exactly why. 

Spencer shuffled a little closer to the edge of the bed as he tried to catch his breath. You knew what had happened and he knew that you did. 

He clenched his jaw tightly, opening his eyes but not looking back at you. 

“I, uh…” he croaked, voice pitching. “Bathroom. I need to…yeah.” 

He barely finished his sentence before he was out of bed and limping to the bathroom. You chewed on the inside of your cheek and watched him retreat. 

He switched on the bathroom light and closed the door before falling back against it. His chest still heaved with his breaths and his whole body felt like jelly. 

He rubbed his eyes with his palms and glanced down at his crotch and the obvious wet patch in the front of his black underwear. 

He stared at it like he couldn't make any sense out of it, which in truth he couldn’t. You hadn’t even touched his cock yet here he was. 

His first orgasm in four years. 

He breathed through his parted lips as he kept his eyes trained on the wet patch. The guilt would set in, for that he had no doubt. Once the haze of his orgasm wore off he would no doubt recoil in on himself and scold himself for allowing it to happen in the first place. 

But as of right now all he wanted to do was march back in that room and return the favour, make you feel as good as you’d made him feel. But he couldn’t. He wished he could but couldn’t. 

It should have been a momentous occasion for him, finally allowing himself to take a step past what had happened in prison. 

Instead he felt dirty. He felt like he’d betrayed himself somehow. He didn’t deserve a woman as wonderful as you, making him feel so incredible. He wasn’t worthy of you or your magnificent hands on his tarnished skin.

He couldn’t give you his body in that way because it didn’t belong to him. His body was owned by those three inmates, they had claimed him as their own and he would never be able to cloy himself free of their clutches.

He wasn’t good for you, he wasn’t good for Luke; he wasn’t good for anyone. He wasn’t whole anymore. He couldn’t expect you to be grateful for having the pieces those men left behind, their scraps. 

He tried to stem his tears while he peeled off his soiled underwear and cleaned his sticky genitals over the sink. He grabbed another pair of boxers from the laundry basket and put them on, although not clean, certainly cleaner than the other pair.

He skulked back into the room and you were on your back, propped up on your elbows. 

He slipped silently back into the bed and also laid on his back, staring at the ceiling. 

“We’re, uh, we’re not going to talk about what just happened.” He croaked. 

“Okay.” You agreed. “Do you want me to leave?” 

“No.” He was quick to answer. “Not unless you want to leave.” 

“I don’t.” You lowered yourself back to the mattress. “I’m sorry if I did something wrong.” 

He didn’t have to heart to tell you’d done nothing of the sort. Everything you’d done had been so right, it was him that was wrong. 

He wished he could tell you that, just to appease your own mind but he couldn’t find the words. He wanted to tell you what a mess he was, why he was like this so you knew it was no fault of your own. 

But he didn’t. He said nothing. The awkwardness wrapped you both up in a blanket but it wasn’t a comforting one. 

Spencer stared at the ceiling, you did the same. You were barely a foot apart but there was a chasm between you. And you felt it growing larger and larger by the day and eventually you were sure it would span so wide that you and Spencer would never find your way back to one another. 

@kalulakunundrum @small-and-violent @voledart @katrina0-0 @bakugouswh0r3 @prettyboyandthefangirl @andiebeaword @dreatine @matthew-gray-gubler-lover @thebloomingeagle

#spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem! reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction

[kings-writes]

Wrapped Around Your Finger

Summary: You and Toasty have a day to yourself

Fem!Reader x Toasty

CW: its honestly fluffy smut so- Toasty going down on you. Praise (both receiving), hair pulling

word count: 661

A/N: my first request not by my husband? this is crazy! I hope you like it, I am still a little rusty

If you told yourself from half an hour ago that this is how you would start your morning, you would have found it cute. Toaster was always a giver but he was always shy when it came to bedroom activities. 3 years together and he was still shy when you boldly flirted with him, an attempt to get him hot and bothered under the collar which always went in your favor.

He was never one to deny you though. Not when he is just as willing a participant.

Today, however, was different. He woke up determined for something that he had seen in his dreams. something that made him hungry.

Hungry for you.

He looked over at you in your shared bed, eyes raking over the way your eyes shined in the morning light, how you glowed like some fairy, and its days like this he is so glad he works from home.

You looked over at him, a warm smile overtaking your face when you noticed he was awake and you leaned in to press a peck to his lips, saying something about a beautiful morning,and Toasty took in the gentle scent of soap from you, the warmth of your skin when you caressed his cheek, and the tightening of his chest from how much they adored you. How much they needed to feel you under his fingers, needs to see you bleary-eyed and shaking.

He sat up and cupped your face, you looking up at him with a soft smile pulling at your lips, leaning into their hand and pressing a kiss there. God were they so in deep for you. They leaned in and kissed you again, at first slow, dragging their lips against yours in pulls that have you melting into him, their fingers pushing your hair from your face.

The kiss slowly became more heated, desperate and when they pulled back, you chased after his lips. Who was he to say no to you?

As your lips met again, their fingers made way to your slip, pushing it up slowly with slightly shaking hands. His tongue licked over your lip, yours parting as their hands ran over your thighs. Small gasps and noises bloomed from your throat, swallowed by their mouth on yours.

He pulled back and looked up at you as he made his way lower, pressing kisses along your lower stomach, your fingers soon running through their hair, pulling at the soft strands and pulling a groan from them. They could melt easily at the way you pull his hair, the breathless voice from you saying how good he was being, the noises- and as he pulled off your panties they looked up at you, their eyes shining with an adoration before his lips made contact with your heat.

If he died at this scene he would be dying with the most glorious sight.

Your head rolled back, eyes fluttered closed, lips parted in light gasps of his name, and it had their cheeks flushing as he looked up at you. It had him flicking over your clit, sucking over it and the rewarding feeling of your thighs squeezing their head and the high pitched squeak was making it hard to think.

The sounds of his mouth against your core, while loud and usually embarrassing, was drowned out by your ever increasing moans and his occasional grunts, your pulling at his hair getting his cheeks flushed if they weren’t right now. Your head fell forward and fuck- he knew that he needed to be inside you.

You were glassy-eyed, staring almost through them as your hips bucked up, their hands forcing you down so he could bring you that would leave you quaking.

When you did, you were dizzy, head swimming as cries of his name fell from your lips followed by swears, and he was happily lapping it up, pulling back only when you begged him to stop.

What a beautiful morning indeed.

#bloomic nakedtoaster #bloomic #nakedtoaster blooming panic #blooming panic #blooming panic nakedtoaster #nakedtoaster bp #nakedtoaster #nakedtoaster x reader #bp nakedtoaster

[calliemori234]

is this what J would've wanted?

Oh fuck you. FUCK YOU for this. No, actually, FUCK YOU WITH A RUSTY RAKE for this. I hope the tetanus you get is worth the sweet ass-fucking you're getting with this stupid question and the moral righteousness you must be getting off on about now. May every single needle they shove into your arm break through the vein and may you never know the ability of speech again.

I have been doing nothing but POURING MY HEART OUT for the past HOUR, and what the fuck do I get for it? No, really, what the hell do I have to show for it? I have a bot breaking at the seams, an empty house, investors lining the fucking streets and now I have you impudent chucklefucks acting as standing peanut gallery because the jury's out on whether the universe wants to fuck me over specifically!

I don't give one flying fuck about J. You know why? You know why? Because when he was here, I ruined this entire FUCKING project for him. He couldn't code if you sat a Fisher Price hacktop in front of him and asked him to put a sentence in bold! He's not even in STEM!!! He was just the only one I had there, and I, the lovelorn idiot I was, was ready to bend over backwards just to have him look at me.

I input all his stupid hyperfixation on sirens because it was supposed to make him happy. I listened to those stupid high-pitched folk songs he was into because he wanted to dance to them. I watched Shakespeare. I can't fucking stand poetry but I watched Troilus and Cressida and pretended to laugh when Patrocles gets called Achilles' bitch because that's just what you do when you think the love of your life has his head on your shoulder because he thinks it's always going to be like this, too. Just both of you against the world.

I did everything, day in and day out, to make him happy. To make us happy. This was all supposed to be for us! I was going to make us rich! Richer than God! I could've taken him to see all the opera he wanted in that stupid Austrian theater he was obsessed with. No more worrying about making tenure, no more shitty parents, no more nothing. Just us, having the time of our lives.

I lost the best five years of my life because of this shitty bot that doesn't even work. Do you get it? Do you even begin to understand? Is there anything, in the infinitesimal enormity of your cavernously empty skull, that's clicking?

I lost the person I loved the most. The only one there ever was. There will never be anyone else.

So sorry if this seems like a game to you. Sorry if this seems like some sort of funny haha tumblr meme, because you know, look at the stupid fucking pornbot that keeps randomly getting weird! Isn't that funny! Look at her talk about boytits for the hundredth time! Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain!

But I'm here too, God dammit. I'm here, and I'm trying to get this right so that I can finally say that all this, right here? All this shit that makes me want to tear my heart from under my tongue? It was all worth it.

I'm going to get this right.

If it fucking kills me.

#admin #asks

[foxymoxynoona]

Rereading Meadow and I just love Yoongi! I feel like he’d be really interesting to continue a story from (like if he had a prey s/o down the line). Also just how he reacted to bronwen’s reveal and getting her out of korea!! It would be interesting to read his POV of the situation bc he seemed v caring

This was so fun to write, I hope you like it!

Story: after Meadow Characters: Yoongi x OC Word count: 3k CW: language

Yoongi let out a long breath through his nose. For a moment he thought that if he just ignored it, the dogs would stop barking like crazy. 

He always thought that. It never worked.

With a grumble in his chest no one was there to hear, he pushed up from his grandmother’s reclining chair he’d fallen asleep in. Growing up, she never let him sit in it, insisting it was an Omega’s Throne: just because it was soft leather that molded to your body and returned your body heat and reclined back just the right amount to let you drift off to a deep sleep like you were a baby in your mother’s arms. 

But now Grandma was gone and the chair was his.

Not gone gone. Hawaii gone. Coming back… eventually. She hadn’t mentioned a date. She hadn’t bought a ticket. She’d just told Yoongi to “keep the place running, make yourself at home, and don’t wear out my chair.”

Well he was going to wear it out because she’d been gone for a year now and his ass had to sit somewhere comfortable after he spent all day taking care of her property. Not that he hadn’t been doing it before but it was different when he was living in it instead of just helping her when he noticed something or she asked. It was different when he was also in charge of her herd of dogs, some of which were not keen on recognizing his replacement authority yet. It was different when he didn’t really know what else to do with himself these days and so spent a lot of time just… sitting. 

“Yaaa,” he shouted as he opened the back door. “What are you so loud for? There’s nothing to make a fuss about. Did a squirrel look at you wrong? Make peace with it. Your life will be better once you accept that the squirrels live here too. Squirrels have lived in this country long before domesticated dogs.”

He wasn’t sure if that was true but it didn’t matter. The dogs wouldn’t correct him. They were too busy barking, rejecting his plea for peace. It was late afternoon, not time to feed them yet, but maybe he should early to distract them. Their ‘intruder’ bark was going to give him a headache. 

He rounded the side of the house and promptly froze. All six of them were circling the shed, the new one Yoongi had built a few weeks ago to replace the old falling down one that housed the lawn mower and leaf blower and snow blower and a rusty ladder and a bunch of old rakes and shovels, more than one household could possibly need, but Grandma said not to get rid of them because they might need them someday. As in, five people might all need a rake at the same exact moment. They didn’t agree about this but he missed having her here to argue with about it.

Yoongi would have teased the dog about chasing a chipmunk into the shed or something if it wasn’t immediately obvious what they were barking at. There, standing on top of the shed, nose raised and nostrils flaring, was An Animal. 

What kind of animal? Yoongi didn’t fucking know. An animal. The most animal-looking animal he had ever seen. Briefly considering it was some kind of dog or cat was dashed because it obviously wasn’t; no tail, wrong ears, face too round. Not a fox or wolf, it was much rounder than that. It was kinda big but not huge. Beady dark eyes were hard to judge intelligence from but there was something in the way it stood on the top of the shed that looked like there was an insulted human behind the round snout. 

That and the distinct aroma of women’s perfume lingering on the clothing littering the lawn.

Yoongi crossed his arms and looked at the trail –boots, a t shirt, a lightweight striped button shirt, and green canvas trousers, nothing fashionable, but a decent distance from the shed. It didn’t look destroyed, so either she’d stripped naked mid-flight or managed to twist out of her clothing as she shifted. He tilted his head and looked at the animal, trying to decide which it was, whether he believed her animal form would have torn the clothing or not.

Then he noticed the women’s underwear still in place on the animal’s ass. It was funny, and he couldn’t help the smile as he called to the dogs,

“All right all right, hush. It’s enough. I’ll handle this.”

A few of the dogs backed off but the rest only glanced over their shoulders. A few didn’t even bother with that, determined to handle this threat that he wasn’t capable of. 

“All right,” he said, a little more loudly. Then let out a deep breath and ordered, “Heel.”

The good ones responded immediately. A few lingered but as the bulk of them raced to Yoongi to line up on either side of him, sitting like the well-behaved dogs Grandma pretended they were, the rest followed. No one wanted to be the least obedient.

“Yeah, I’ll tell Grandma if you don’t listen,” he added to the final stragglers.

Now flanked by this loud but whiny bunch, Yoongi called, “You. What are you? Uh… are you supposed to be a bear? You don’t look right.”

The animal’s ears twitched as it turned to face him. He could feel the annoyance, but from what he could tell there wasn’t a single dangerous trait to the animal. It didn’t even growl at him. It also didn’t look like it should be able to jump that high, so he motioned for the dogs to stay as he walked a slow circle around the shed. There he saw the closed trash barrels the thing must have used to vault its way up.

“Do you see this?” he called to the dogs. “Why didn’t you notice this? If she could leap up to the top of the shed, so could you!”

The animal on the roof slammed its front little paws down. 

“Ya, you want your clothes back, I bet? Go get them then, I won’t stop you.” The animal remained where it was. Yoongi kept his arms crossed and wandered back to the clothes, calling over his shoulder as he stooped to pick up the pants, “You’re trespassing, you know. Good thing you’re quick. You must not be from around here or you’d know better than to wander onto someone’s property like that, but it’s no excuse. Everything’s marked. There are signs to read if you can’t smell. The dogs are pretty clear.”

Yoongi liked having the upper hand. He liked being calm in situations like this –it had served him well many times in life, particularly as he’d helped Jungkook and Enikö essentially overthrow the pack leader and fulfill the scheming his grandmother had been plotting in the background for longer than his lifetime. That had been fun. But that was done now, and while there were plenty of new projects in the work, plenty more rules to break and laws to make and norms to question and programs to organize, Yoongi had not quite found a use for himself in the new order of things yet. Grandma had left for Hawaii, claiming her work was done and it was time for a rest. Yoongi felt like he’d fallen between the cracks. He wasn’t ready to be done but where was he needed? Now he was someone whose highlight of the day was some random women wandering onto his property and turning into a fuzzy harmless animal on the roof of his shed.

“If you’ve dented my shed I’ll be really angry,” he said, aware he did not sound angry at all, and wouldn’t even actually be angry, because at least it would be something to do, hammering out the dents.

“I haven’t dented anything,” came the unexpected response. Yoongi spun, feeling once again that same shock he’d felt to see a deer in Jungkook’s apartment transform into a completely naked Bronwen. 

Except this naked woman was staring down at him, arms crossed over her breasts, red panties a bright flash of color against her deep skin tone. Her long dark hair feathered out, messy from shifting and running. Heavy dark brows ran across dark eyes, no longer the unintelligent black beads of her animal but now bright and sharp. But still deeply annoyed with him.

“And I have a right to be here, your hounds were impossibly rude.” She had an accent, one he couldn’t place; not surprising, she didn’t look like someone you’d wander upon in South Korea. Aside from the fact she was fucking stunning, her Korean was studied but unnatural. 

“This is private property.”

“Yes? So? Not yours.”

“Yes, mine.”

“Give me my clothes.” She kept one arm carefully placed but held the other out, as if he’d just toss them up to her. When he didn’t move, she huffed, “Stop ogling me and give them here.”

“You’re the one who stripped in my backyard,” he grumbled, mortified that she’d interpreted his hesitation that way. Obviously he wasn’t ogling her. It was just an odd sight to have on the roof of your shed. He turned to gather her clothes. The dogs whined and fidgeted but didn’t get up yet. 

“Stay,” he told them. “Leave this to me.” He meant it to be impressive, his control over these dogs, but he wasn’t paying enough attention and suddenly the woman was beside him, snatching the shirt out of his hands.

“Turn around,” she ordered.

“I already saw,” he shrugged. 

“Who are you?” she demanded, as if she had the right to do so.

“Hey, this is my property, who are you to ask me that?” he complained, turning without thinking. She had her back to him, bent over in just her bra as she snapped her pants. There was a poem or prayer tattooed on the back of her shoulder, ink dark and illegible.

“I am Professor Roxanne Singh,” she said, turning as she slid her arms through the button-up overshirt. She was still barefoot but otherwise put together and looked distressingly like the sort of woman Yoongi would usually avoid conversation with. He could not avoid this one. She was in his yard.

So he tried to play it cool and asked skeptically, “What are you?”

“A scientist.”

“I meant the thing that ran up my roof.”

Her brows pointed down towards her nose as she answered, “A capybara… you know what a capybara is. Are you joking? Everyone knows what a capybara is.”

“Never heard of it. Or you.”

“Well I’ve never heard of you either so I don’t know how you can stand there and accuse me of trespassing when I know for a fact this area of the forest belongs to Min Je-ni.”

“Yes and who is she to you?”

“Who is she to you?” the woman, Professor Roxanne Singh, scoffed, mirroring Yoongi’s position.

He decided the best way to get the upper hand back was with an answer this time, “She’s my grandmother.”

“Oh.” That seemed to work, the woman looked confused to learn this; her expression grew sulkier. “Well then do you know where the Korean Oo breeding grounds are?”

“The what? What did you just say?”

She looked impatient, and brushed past him to grab her bag from the ground. The contents were all spilled out, two granola bars devoured by whichever dogs had been more excited about a snack than worried about a threat. While Yoongi eyed the impatient line of pups to guess the guilty party, Professor Roxanne Singh stomped back to him and showed him a bad drawing of a bird on her phone.

“This. Have you ever seen this around here?”

“What is that? A child’s drawing–”

“Yes,” she interrupted him. “It is a child’s drawing. And Min Je-ni told me she has seen this bird here in this forest, a whole breeding ground of them.”

Yoongi didn’t know if that was true or not. The bird didn’t look familiar to him but he didn’t usually pay attention to birds anyway. He crossed his arms and tried to look like he knew what he was talking about.

“Why are you looking for this?”

“For science, that’s all you need to know.”

“I want to know more. You’re asking to go stomping around in our forest–”

“Your grandmother already gave me permission. The sooner you can point me towards the breeding grounds, the sooner I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Why do you need them? Why don’t you have a better picture of them?”

Professor Roxanne did not look pleased with the questions. Though, in fairness, he supposed she’d had rather a time of it.

“Because I don’t know if it even exists, this is the best I’ve got. If it exists, it’s believed to be related to the Mohoidae –a Hawaiian species of birds that went extinct in the 20th century.”

“Mohoidae,” Yoongi repeated, feeling the word out in his mouth.

“Hawaiian honeyeaters, although they aren’t actually honeyeaters but are an example of convergent evolution –but unfortunately the Hawaiian family is extinct and I’m looking for the Korean ones.”

“Which have never been recorded before.”

“Well maybe no one has properly looked,” she argued, tucking her things back into her bag. She crouched to get the things on the ground. Yoongi did too, helping her shovel them in. 

“So you’re a…. A bird scientist.”

“Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“I’m a– nevermind, it’s not important. Yes, I’m a bird scientist.”

“Who speaks Korean, even though you aren’t Korean.”

“I speak many languages, it’s not a big deal. It’s possible that due to your country’s insular practices for the past two hundred years, a number of extinct species or relations may actually be right here, and so I am here to look for them.”

“Specifically birds or other kinds too?”

“Some birds, some insects, a couple small animals if I get so lucky, do you want a list or are you just going to bother me with questions?”

He shrugged, “Well I need to know what we’re looking for. Why do you want to find them?”

“Why does anyone want to do anything?” she countered. “To preserve our planet and learn how to peacefully coexist with our animal neighbors. To undo some of the harm we’ve done to our planet.”

“Ah. I see.”

Her things restored, he lifted the bag for her and handed it over. She seemed slightly calmer now that she’d given her little speech and he hadn’t argued. 

“All right, I’ll help you look for it.”

“What? I didn’t ask…”

“You’re just wandering through the forest. You came onto my land and the worst you had to deal with were my dogs but some of the other wolves out here aren’t as friendly. They won’t know what a um… whatever you are.”

“A capybara. Everyone knows them. They are beloved on the internet!”

“If you say so,” he shrugged, but he couldn’t help but smile now. She was smiling a little bit too. “At least I know it’s real, I saw one with my own eyes. I don’t know about those birds but we can look.”

“Are you really a wolf?” she asked, eyes narrowing. When he nodded, she admitted, “Min Je-ni did warn me that not all the wolves are friendly but she said it’s a very progressive pack. Are you an alpha? I’ve heard Korean alpha wolves are–”

He frowned and interrupted, “Do you want my help or not?”

“I do… but you should know I don’t care about alphas or omegas or anything like that so don’t bother trying to impress me with–”

“I’m not an alpha,” he interrupted. “I’m not trying to impress you. I don’t care. I could use some exercise.”

“Ok. Well… ok, then. If you’re really who you say you are.”

“Yeah, let’s call my Grandma and ask her, I want to make sure you’re who you say you are too. Poking around our property looking for fake birds…”

“I think I’d have a better cover story if I was doing something nefarious.”

That made him grin as he admitted, “That could be true. Unless this is part of your grift.”

“Grift!”

But now he was amused and turned towards the house, ordering, “Come on, I’ll make tea while we call my grandmother. You can help me feed the dogs.”

“I’m… not a big fan of dogs?”

“You just need to get to know them. They are beloved on the internet!”

“I take it back, I believe you that you’re related to Min Je-ni,” she suddenly decided. 

“Yeah and I believe she sent a cryptid hunter to our forest without telling me,” he admitted. Always scheming, Grandma. You wanted to engineer a meet-cute with this woman? Damn, maybe he’d been watching too many K-dramas. 

“I’m not a– I am a scientist!”

“Come on, tea, or I’ll leave you to the dogs.”

“You didn’t even tell me your name.”

“Ya, it’s Min Yoongi. Spell it right so you can credit me when we find your cryptid birds.”

Maybe it wasn’t a meet-cute his grandmother had sent him. Maybe it was something to be curious about. Something to give him a purpose, a place again. Something to get his ass out of her chair.

“Birds, huh?” he squinted at the forest. “All right, let’s learn about birds, I guess.”

#wolf yoongi #bts fanfiction #bts ff #yoongi x oc #yoongi x y/n #yoongi ff #yoongi meet cute #shifter yoongi #yoongi drabble #yoongi fanfiction

[0l0x]

Renovation Review 9/2022

My credit card is finally paid off. Oh thank god.

Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who has commissioned me, bought merch, or donated during this hectic time! My car still needs further repairs but the situation isn’t as urgent right now. It’s limping along with shitty brakes, but it at least runs.

If you’d still like to help, here’s some links to do so:

>Donate via Paypal to: [email protected]

>Merch

>Books

>Commission Info

We now have all the tools we need to maintain the yard and finish cleaning up the really overgrown parts. We’ve done a little work on the house itself, but we ran out of time and money (plus we couldn’t find somewhere for mom to stay while we do construction) so that will be next year’s project.

Autumn is fast approaching, but I feel so good about all that we accomplished since we moved here back in March. I got SO MUCH MORE done than I expected, and I couldn’t have done it without your help. Sincerely, thank you from the bottom of my heart. Here’s what was done since March:

Spent 2 months aggressively researching RVs and browsing local inventories.

Put a down payment on an RV to live in until the house is in a livable state.

Cleaned out most of the hoard in the house.

Cleaned out almost the entire hoard in the yard.

Had several box trucks full of junk hauled away, including over FIFTEEN lawnmowers(!!!)

Cleared and burned several dumpsters worth of yard waste that had overtaken the yard and exterior.

Cut down 3 dead, leaning trees that were looming over the RV.

Remodeled an old cabin on the property to make it livable, installed electricity.

Upgraded electrical box in the house to accommodate RV.

Installed a walking path between the house and cabin (not a vanity project--original path was muddy and dangerous)

Got car fixed so it at least drives again.

Cut down a 15ft tall invasive knotweed forest, dug up hundreds of massive rhizomes, raked up and burned several years’ worth of dead canes, terraformed the land to be flat and planted grass over it, transforming the forest into a lawn within just a few months. (This was probably the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. holy shit it was BAD, and it’s still not 100% done with cleanup yet...but the invasion is under control now at least.)

Split at least a hundred giant log rounds that were laying all over the property. Cleaned up several big fallen trees that had been laying in the yard for years. (This was also insanely difficult, almost as bad as the knotweed)

Pruned several living trees that had grown out of control. (Mostly hollies, which are a thorny, bee-infested pain in the ass to work with)

Removed and burned a MASSIVE wisteria bush that had choked out and killed a few full-grown trees and wrapped itself around a power pole. Seriously, this thing was a forest in itself. It took 5 people armed with 4 chainsaws and a manlift an entire day to cut down.

Acquired $2000 worth of tools.

Tore the crappy siding off the greenhouse and replaced it to convert it into a shed where we can store the tools.

Removed a bunch of unnecessary and dangerous rusty barbed wire fencing.

Rehomed mom’s dangerous, out-of-control pitbull. (It tore mom’s leg open and sent her to the hospital, bit me three times and bit my boyfriend twice before she got the hint and let it go, but she finally did, thank christ...)

Reclaimed about a half-acre of property from invasive blackberry bushes.

Used bucket traps to get a mouse infestation under control. (Very successful btw, highly recommend this type of trap)

Cleaned up a pile of black garbage bags FILLED with beer cans and HUMAN FECES (I’m not fucking kidding) that my mom’s alcoholic tenant left there. They had a toilet. Why didn’t he use it? Not a fucking clue, my dudes. The only job worse than the knotweed genocide was raking and shoveling all this human shit into new bags. There was years’ worth of an alcoholic’s poop. I had to spread sawdust to soak up the rest of the crap, bag up a few inches of soil as well, then put down new soil and plant grass on it. The good news is: It’s all done, there’s no smell left behind, and the grass came in beautifully. The bad news is: It mentally scarred me for life.

Converted a big ugly stump into a cute flower garden.

Learned a LOT about plants, animals, tools, homesteading, carpentry, and so much more. Became a smarter and way more capable person.

A bunch of other random minutia.

This has been a back-breaking and emotionally difficult experience, to say the least. This property was my childhood home, and seeing it in such a horrid state broke my heart. But I feel like we’re slowly but surely getting it back into order. I’m kind of disappointed that we didn’t get the house fixed as much as I wanted, but we did clean up most of the hoard inside, which improved my mom’s quality of life immensely. She STILL thanks me almost every day, I know it made a huge difference in her daily life. We still plan on making some emergency repairs to the back part of the house before late autumn, just because the floor is sinking and it’s an actual safety hazard.

Here’s what I’d like to get done before the wet/cold season hits:

Install PEX piping to the RV to reduce freezing and other issues.

Install skirting around the RV for insulation.

Jack up the back of the house and install cinderblocks under the floor to keep it stable, at least temporarily. We will eventually tear that whole part of the house off, but there’s other work that needs to be done before we can start demolition. We can’t demo until next summer anyway.

Finish the pathway between the cabin and house. This isn’t super urgent, but it’s going to get muddy and slippery again if we don’t install gravel before the rains come.

Buy a leaf blower. (I know, I know, everyone hates these, but the one I want is electric. No gas fumes and it’s pretty quiet.)

Build or buy an actual shed to store the tools in. The greenhouse is a plastic piece of shit that will fall apart under a few inches of snow. We took some temporary measures to reinforce it against autumn weather, but I’m doubtful about winter.

Get the brakes on my car fixed.

I think that’s it. The rest is long-term future stuff, like tearing down and rebuilding the garage, rebuilding the cabin (it’s livable for now but the foundation is failing), clearing more blackberries, demolishing the back of the house and remodeling the front, and so on. We’ll get there eventually.

Again, I can’t thank you guys enough. Things are going to slow down as the weather gets wetter and colder, but I’ll continue to keep you up to date as much as I can.

9/4/2022

#renovation

[monstermoviedean]

listen season 6 dean takes a lot of shit for how he treats cas and i'm not disagreeing with that. it sucks the way he treats cas. however most of the conversation is "dean sucks" and well. shocking i know but i'm not good with that.

dean has spent the last year isolating himself to try and fulfill sam's dying wish of him living the apple pie life. bobby is the most stable support person in his life, and they cut each other off so dean could "get out." similar situation with cas - they both cut each other off. dean because he thinks he has to quit everything from his old life "cold turkey" and because he thinks cas has better things to do than talk to him, and cas because he does genuinely have work to do and because he probably takes a cue from dean and bobby distancing themselves from each other. if dean has any other friends (and that's a big if), he cuts them off too. he throws himself entirely into this new role with lisa and thinks no one will miss him.

and then sam is back and everything comes back with him. and dean wants to go back to hunting but he's afraid he's rusty or won't be good at it. but wanting to go back also makes it impossible to commit to the apple pie life. so now he's screwing up both his old life and his new life. no one seems to have missed him. he feels like a burden to everyone around him. this is all to say that in season 6 dean feels like he has fucked up every good thing that has ever happened to him. he broke his old life. he broke his new life. he's trying to repair his old relationships but it only seems to make them worse. he has no one to talk to about any of this. bobby calls him selfish when he asks for help (the request is badly timed but it's still valid for him to ask for help).

so when cas only shows up sporadically and reluctantly and talks about how busy he is, dean hears what he's hearing from everyone else in his life: not "i am too busy," but "i am too busy for you." cas doesn't know this. cas is genuinely busy. it's not his fault. but it comes across to dean that he is losing yet another person he cares about. the only relationship he didn't completely fuck up. so what does he do? he pushes cas away. better to get it over with now than to fool himself into thinking someone will stick around for him.

the whole point here is that dean WAS there. he wanted to be there for cas but he thought cas didn't need him. he wanted his best friend but didn't know how to ask for help. he had no idea cas was watching him rake leaves. neither of them ever knew but they were right there for each other all along.

#so much casual dean criticism is predicated on ignoring everything from his perspective and well. that shit hurts. #yeah he does some fucked up stuff but like. look at his life. look at all the shit that is happening to him. #look at how little support he has and how he gets treated when he asks for it. #spn #i'm leaving this long. fuck it. read it or scroll it but please for the love of god. be nice to my boy.

[dromaeotrash]

morherfucking spiritual battles of humanity’s different slices of collective consciousness happening and I’m in the crossfire with pestilence everywhere when I’m only trying to fucking, chill and mind my goddamn business

#fuck this year with a rusty rake #truly from the people bs to the happening #fuck you and fuck your energy and fuck this spiritual warfare I’m just trynna chill y’all gonna get what you deserve either way #I HAVE NOT. HAD A BREAK. for years now. almost every month one year to another #my neighbor!! decided to remodel his balcony!! during the rainiest #season in la in over a decade!! I was alone I could do shit about it. one of many funny things that happen :)) #here’s the thing right. if you call out a mischievous spirit you will get feedback. if you do it a lot your life will go to hell. #hence why powerful people stare evil bastards. it’s the way the game is. #*are #you wanna sell your soul? you’re gonna have the time of your life. no? a plague upon you. except you grow stronger if you defeat it. #and then you become a bigger target. you get more spiritual influence. if you pass a test life will make a path for you to walk automaticaly #except I’m fucking sick and tired of it all and I’m ready to rip someone a new asshole #gay earth #YOU KNOW what’s also funny. I’m on auto mode brain wise. I find it funny that fights don’t get any less painful. you just forget and don’t #care faster. my brain is pudding

[trueshellz]

Warnings: pet names (princess), female reader, kissing, grinding, arguing, mentions of injury

Thinking of Sanemi who goes on a mission one day in a small village, no one can know who he is, what he does or why he’s there. He’s fine with working alone, he can handle this without any issues and then he can go home and rest. He manages to keep himself out of trouble and away from prying eyes, his scars are enough to have the men in awe of him and the women a little scared but at the same time, his exposed chest and hard planes of muscle have them giggling each time he walks around shirtless. He keeps his eyes peeled, ears trained for any sign of the demonic presence he’s here to eliminate but for days he finds nothing, each night he falls asleep wondering when he’ll be able to kill them.

One day, he wakes up to noise outside his room, loud voices and some crying wakes him up from his sleep. Peering through the crack in his door he watches as the community flock around and gather supplies, he can see injured people being helped across the courtyard and for a second he’s completely baffled as to what the hell he missed. Pulling on his uniform, sword at his hip, he follows the hubbub and commotion to a room in the corner where he sees you. Your uniform gives you away, black skirt showing an inch of your thighs before your suspenders and tights cover your legs down to your boots, the wind catching the flow of your haori that you have tied around your waist. Your sword pinned to your back on one side and the small dagger under your skirt, the back of your uniform has the word ‘kill’ written in kanji on it and he can feel the growl rising up his chest in fury. Before he can stop himself he’s stomped across the space separating you and tugged you to him, pulling you out the room and slamming you into the wall. Chest heaving, eyes stormy as he looks at you, his arms blocking your movement and you roll your eyes as he stops you moving again.

“What the hell’s your problem?”

“You’re my fucking problem. What are you doing here at my job?”

“Passing through, saw a demon, killed the demon. You know, doing my job.”

His fist slamming on the wall next to you would be enough to make anyone piss their pants, but after years or working as a demon slayer with him you’re used to his foul moods and tantrums, simply glaring up at him with a raised eyebrow.

“I didn't need your help, princess.”

“Says the one sleeping like a baby while the village was being attacked. You seem to be getting rusty there, Shinazugawa.”

A resounding growl before he’s slammed his mouth down onto yours, teeth nipping your bottom lip and forcing your mouth open as his hands wander under your skirt. Using the distraction to disarm you, your sword drops onto the ground while the dagger gets wedged into the side of the building he has you pinned against. His hands wandering up your thighs and widening them so he could slot himself between them and grind down against your sex. Your own hands raking down his abs towards his belt, fingers tracing the ridges of his six pack and each scar that you’ve memorised while the other weaves through his hair and pulls him close to you. You both pull away once breathing becomes laboured, his eyes still glaring as he rests his forehead against yours, his lips swollen from the hard kisses and a faint blush across the bridge of his nose..

“You’re supposed to be resting and watching the children, not here helping me.”

You shrug, fingers combing through and fixing his messy hair before fixing his uniform and rubbing at his face lovingly.

“Number 1: Tengen and his wives offered to babysit, number 2: I was losing my mind being at home all day and number 3: I kinda missing your stupid face.”

Another growl and nip, a hard slap landing on your ass as you giggle at him, his gaze has softened now that he knows you’re safe. Sanemi wasn't one to always show his feelings openly, the fear he felt when he saw you here away from your children made his heart stop.

“One more day to check for any remaining demons and then we’ll go home, ok?”

#sanemi x oc #sanemi x y/n #sanemi x reader #sanemi x you #sanemi scenario #sanemi shinaguzawa #sanemi headcanons #sanemi imagines #sanemi #sanemi hcs #sanemi fanfic #sanemi fanfiction #sanemi headcanon #sanemi drabble #kny sanemi #demon slayer sanemi #kny x you #kny x oc #kny x y/n #kny x reader #sanemi kny #kny scenarios #kny fanfic #kny headcanons #kny imagines #kny drabbles #demon slayer x female reader #demon slayer x y/n #demon slayer hcs

[l4verq]

boats🎣 | b.b

bucky barnes x reader

in which you’re supposed to be helping repair sam’s old boat but your boyfriend keeps distracting you :(

tags : 18+ minors pls DNI , bucky’s a horn dog and so is reader, sam doesn’t know bucky has his hand right on reader’s 🐱 and reader is TRYING to keep it that way lol, no plot, just a little porn 😼

fic : one shot

stern - the back part of a ship |

gangway - a flat board or metal structure that can be put in place between a ship and land to let people get off or on the ship |

cabin - a private room on a ship for a passenger or one of the people working on the ship |

masterlist

you know he’s not doing it intentionally.

the slight grunts as his vibranium arm effortlessly rips off rusty, rotting pieces of wood hastily hammered over cracks and gaps.

you’re scratching off stringy residue of duct tape slapped on holes in the stern, standing a few feet away from him, taking in the view.

not the one overlooking the wide stretch of blue water.

but the one where your boyfriend’s wiping the sheen of sweat off his face with his shirt and it’s not just any shirt, it’s the light grey one that’s one size too small but fits so right on his sculpted body.

he lets it drop, panting as his eyes trail over to you and smirks.

ok, so maybe he does know what he’s doing.

you go back to vigorously scraping off the grimy, faded string- how does duct tape turn to these stubborn, ugly strings that just refuses to come off?

and to top it all off, sam’s parents - god rest their souls - used the tapes in places you’re having to bend over, stretch your arms down as much as you can and hopefully are actually scraping the residue off.

“i got it.”

you jump a little, startled by his voice.

that sweet, sweet voice that brings you to your knees [literally] everytime.

he’s right behind you - you’ll never get used to his super soldier thing where he can sneak up on literally anyone - his crotch pressed right onto your ass as he bends down as well, arm sneaking down yours.

oh, he definitely knows what he’s doing.

his hand grabs the handle of the metal scraper in your hand, taking it from you.

the boat sways a little, just a little.

shouldn’t make him thrust right on your denim shorts clad ass, making miss kitty down there all flustered.

bucky’s a lot of things and being an insatiably annoying tease is just one of them.

he gets back up, vibranium around your waist pulling you up too, “sarah said she needs help with the pipes.”

you could use some help with piping too, you think.

“oh, okay.” you say breezily before getting out of his way.

getting out of his way as in sliding your ass across his crotch, a small groan leaving his mouth right into your ear.

he’s played this game with you way too many times and always won.

it was time for a new victor.

and so the rest of the day is just relentless teasing, lingering touches, strokes and a lot of “oh silly me, i dropped something. let me just pick it up.” and slowly raising your ass up his legs, feeling his jeans constrict just as you lift it away.

at one point, he’d pressed you against the wall, pinned your wrists above your head, i know what you’re doing.

cue innocent batting of your eyes, with a what?

you were the clear winner, until now.

until now when you’re in the cockpit, on your tippy toes, straining to hold up the glass pane.

“i don’t know how to break it to you that you’re not tall.” sam yells from the other side of the glass, voice all muffled.

you roll your eyes, practically unsticking your sweaty front from the majestic helm that’s been poking your belly for five minutes now. to say your tank top is just drenched in sweat is not an exaggeration.

totally not the hot girl summer aesthetic you were hoping for this year.

“need a hand?” bucky pokes his head in from the door, eyebrow quirked.

how does he get to look that good all sweaty and grubby?

“yeah, sam’s screaming at me cause i’m short.” you pull your lip, turning to face him.

he chuckles, lowering his head at the doorway and enters the cabin which suddenly looks even smaller because of his towering presence.

“i’ll lift you up, c’mon.” he extends his arms, the slightest smirk tugging at his lips, a playful glint in his eyes.

you turn around warily as he hops around the heap of boxes, screws, wrenches, crocks cluttered around the floor and he’s right behind you, hands tinkering around your waist.

but he slides his right palm right between your legs, other hand on your.... fuck, does it matter?

the only thing on your mind right now is him hiking you up, palm basically cupping your denim clad pussy.

you shakily hold up the glass while sam begins applying window sealant from the other side, completely oblivious to your boyfriend groping you.

his cool, metal arm rests under your thigh, a stark contrast to the burning ache between your legs.

“such a tight spot here.” he comments, palm squeezing slightly and it takes everything in you to stifle a moan.

he was crammed up against the helm, legs bumping into empty jars and canisters. you can only hope sam thought he meant that.

and it’s just torture, the next three minutes perched under his palm, desperate for some friction, to just rub it out all the while maintaining a poker face right at sam in front of you.

not helping that he’s having a casual conversation with sam, knowing full well that you’re absolutely just falling apart under his touch right now.

and the waves, the stupid waves that rock the boat so now bucky has to ‘adjust’ you, bouncing you up on his palm, squeezing your thigh with his other hand.

“sam!” a distant voice calls out.

you silently thank the lord for answering to your prayer.

“i’m working!” sam yells back, eyebrows furrowed, applying a line of translucent paste on the lower frame.

“SAM!”

sam huffs, screwing the cap on the tube of sealant back on, “i’ll be back. you can let go now.”

your sore arms cry out in pain as you retract them back, shaky legs because of a certain blue eyed 106 year old whose hand is shoved between them.

“i got you.”

bucky easily bounces you around, gripping your waist, your legs wrapping around his torso.

“you good?”

his right hand rests on your lower back to support you, eyes raking over your arms.

bucky’s a lot of things and being a caring, doting absolute annoyance of a boyfriend might just be the best one.

you just wait for the familiar creak and slight tilt of the boat confirming sam’s waddled across the gangway before crashing your lips into bucky’s, nearly tipping him over.

it’s almost animalistic, his lips part, letting your tongue slip in and delve in his taste that’s just so.. bucky.

it’s sweet, minty, tangy and you’d figure out the rest if only you both didn’t have to pull away, gasping for air.

“you’re so annoying.” you breathe out, panting right into his mouth.

jars tip over like dominoes as he backs you to the wall, shielded from the many windows but if someone so much as just craned their neck a little to look in, they’d have a front row seat to your snog fest.

“you know what these shorts do to me.”

his vibranium arm snakes around your waist, locking in, making that mechanical sound that’s just so sexy to you for some reason.

the evening sun is a little more merciful than the blistering beams of the morning but crammed up in that tiny area, sweaty bodies clinging to each other, you might just have a heatstroke.

if you didn’t pass out from the throbbing down there first.

“i need you to keep that pretty mouth shut, can you do that for me?” he cooes, forehead resting on yours, fingers reaching down to rub back and forth between your shorts.

you nod feverishly, unable to form words, hands grasping at the wall behind, his biceps, his back, everywhere, the long awaited friction sending sparks up your body.

“can’t let nobody hear us, now can we?” his lips trail to your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin, a dull pain overpowered by pleasure coursing through out.

your hand tugs at his hair, soliciting a low moan from him.

“teasing me with your ass all out in these shorts,” he drawls, “such a bad girl.”

you’re hyperaware of the wide open cabin door and how someone could just walk right in, those two kids are always running around ever- fuck, the kids.

god, you’d never be able to face sam’s family ever again.

but it’s somehow the least of your worries when he lifts his fingers to his mouth, sucking on them with soft groans.

and he shoves them in the front of your shorts, “so tight,” he growls, hand barely fitting in.

you gasp as his finger finally make contact, run up and down your sopping slits.

“hmm, always so wet for me.” he groans, sloppy kisses down your neck, along your collarbone.

you whimper as he teases two fingers at the entrance, making you jolt when his thumb starts circling your swollen nub, the bundle of nerves coming undone.

his name’s a strangled, wanton noise deep from your chest but he gets the message.

that you need him to put a baby in you... y’know something along the lines of that.

but like aforementioned, he’s a tease.

so his fingers slowly push in, only the tips greeted by your walls.

“just as tight as i remember.”

back arching when he finally slips them all the way in, palm slightly tapping against your clit and you’re certain you see stars.

and he does the thing where his fingers hook, curl, twist, your legs squirming, his name falling out of your mouth like a chant.

your legs buckle, his fingers moving at an ungodly pace and the only thing holding you up right now is his iron grip round your waist as you shakily find your footing on the floor.

“fuck, you’re clenching so hard, baby.” he rasps, your head lulling into his neck, legs jerking against your own control.

you’re almost there. the familiar tightening of the twisted spring in your lower abdomen, toes curling against the rough surface of your slippers, almost..

creak.

-

a/n : 🤔🤨😳💤🏃🏻‍♀️💨 dk how i feel about this one bestie💭

#bucky #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes #tfatws #sebastian stan #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes x reader #james bucky barnes #sam wilson #mcu #marvel #bucky fic #bucky imagine #the winter soldier

[onecanonlife]

Tommy and Wilbur fell apart a long time ago, and there was never any time to mourn the pieces of what they were.

But here's the most important thing: Tommy doesn't give up on the people he cares about.

(Or: on grieving, graves, a past that refuses to let go, and learning to look forward at long last.)

(word count: 5,619)

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

“You know,” Tommy says, “I never really got to—to mourn you. Not properly, anyway.”

He’s not sure what response he’s expecting from Wilbur. He’s not sure why he’s saying anything at all. He’s not sure why he’s here.

That last one is a lie. He scuffs the ground with his shoe, and then pretends that he didn’t.

“I wasn’t expecting you to mourn me,” Wilbur says, in that stupid, even, condescending tone of his, the one that he uses whenever he thinks Tommy has said something incredibly obvious, when he’s got an idea in his head of how things are and what people mean, regardless of the way it all actually is. “In fact, I rather thought you wouldn’t. Shouldn’t, even.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” He has no patience left. No patience left for the look in Wilbur’s eyes, no patience left for the way he focuses straight ahead, barely sparing him a glance, no patience left for the way he speaks, measured and calculating, every word he says carefully weighed against the end result, curated for intent and impact. No patience, and he had precious little to begin with. “I’m not even—this isn’t about you.”

Wilbur raises an eyebrow. It makes him look like a prick. “Oh?” he says.

“Because I would’ve,” he continues, doggedly. Now that he’s started saying it, he’s damn fucking well going to finish it. “But, y’know, you blew it all up, so we had to rebuild, and then I got exiled” —His voice doesn’t waver at all— “and then shit just kept on happening, so I never got to decide. How I felt. I never got to think about it.”

Wilbur laughs, then, and it’s the laugh that he hates, because it’s the laugh that’s not genuine. He knows what Wilbur sounds like when he’s happy, and this isn’t it. Hasn’t been it for a long time.

“Not sure there’s much to think about, there,” Wilbur says, and he scowls.

“Shut up, you prick,” he says. “And yes there was. That’s not something you get to choose. What I feel.”

“I’m not trying to—” Wilbur starts, but he shakes his head, going back to talk over him, because no, he’s not doing this. Not today, and not here.

“You are though, aren’t you?” he says. “You always do this. You go, you go mimimimi, I’m Wilbur, and I understand everything about how people think and I’m always right and you are all wrong, and you, I dunno, man. You just. You just don’t. You don’t know. You think you know things, but you don’t. You’re not always right. And I’m—I don’t fucking know why I’m bothering with this right now, but it’s not so you can tell me that I shouldn’t be. Because that’s not something that’s up to you.”

“Then why are you bothering with this?” Wilbur says, and his voice isn’t unkind, but it’s not kind, either.

“I just said I didn’t know—”

“Because if you’re asking me if you should mourn me, you already know what I’m going to say to that,” Wilbur says. “I’m right here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

“That’s the fucking problem,” he says, and tacks on a quick, “Not like that,” but Wilbur’s face has already hardened, and yeah, there’s a million better ways he could have put that, but that’s the thing about talking to Wilbur. His brain is never firing on all cylinders, as it were, because it’s too busy trying to figure out if he should associate him with warm summer days and the haze of potions and a strummed guitar or explosions and drifting smoke and blank eyes and the awful realization that what he thought would make everything right didn’t do anything at all, and that nothing would ever be right again.

And before the both of them, L’Manberg’s crater stretches out, vines trawling over the edge, leaves sprouting from between the rocks, sunlight catching on the pool at the bottom, the flag fluttering lightly in the wind. Before the both of them, L’Manberg’s crater has grown over, time pressing itself into the cracks. Before the both of them, L’Manberg is a crater. It wasn’t always.

“You make everything so fucking difficult,” he says.

“It’s what I live for,” Wilbur says.

“It’s what you died for, too,” he says.

Wilbur pauses.

“No,” he says. “It wasn’t.” But for once, he doesn’t elaborate, and Tommy glares at him. Only for a moment, because there’s no point in glaring when someone won’t see. Won’t look. Wilbur has his eyes turned to the crater, and Tommy has his eyes turned to Wilbur, and something about that is how it’s always been. The vines have grown over the earth’s old wounds, but Tommy can’t help but feel like they’ve curled around his ankles, holding him to the spot, the moment, and every moment that came before.

I never got to mourn you, he doesn’t say again. I never got to mourn you, and I feel like I should. But you’re here, and what the hell am I supposed to do with that?

Wilbur won’t hear him. And if he does, he won’t understand.

-----

He collects bits of the past like buttons, or stamps, or memories.

He has his discs. He’s hesitant to play them, even now. Hesitant to take them out of his enderchest. He has his home, still in the same spot, all this time later. His hill, his hole, his garden, their bench. He sat on that bench and heard Wilbur, once, reaching out from beyond the grave, and Wilbur told him he was proud, and something in him ached in the same way that his scars now do when it rains.

He has some of Friend’s wool. Just that, just wool, because he doesn’t know how to knit, and he doesn’t know who would teach him. He can sew a little, but it was something born of necessity, of the need to patch up uniforms and close the tears over freshly dealt wounds, and he can still feel the needle pricking into his fingers, again and again and again. He never could figure out how to hold it so that it wouldn’t. He bled for L’Manberg in more ways than one.

Deep inside a chest, he has two uniforms. Blue and red and white. One is a size too small. The other is several sizes too large, and always will be.

He still goes to pray, sometimes, though not as often as he did. He got the chance to meet god and found no one there, so it’s a little tricky, these days, being faithful. But he’ll go to Church Prime, because no one else really does, so he’ll have the whole building for himself as he strides up to ring the bell, to ask for guidance and favors, to pay his homage at the feet of a higher power that he cannot believe cares. On the best days, he’s tempted to try to conduct a service. But there’s no point when there’s no one to hear it but himself. Even he can’t bring himself to put on a show for empty pews.

He prays, and nobody answers, and sometimes he can’t help but remember the void, the tearing, ripping nothingness, raking him to shreds again and again, where he was not alone and yet nobody came.

He considers visiting Tubbo. But Tubbo has his own life, and a mansion he hasn’t moved into, and a town that Tommy does not belong to, and an allegiance that Tommy does not share. He considers visiting Ranboo, but that’s either the same as visiting Tubbo, or it’s the same as visiting Techno and Phil, or it’s the same as visiting Wilbur.

So he looks at his discs and doesn’t play them, bunches his hands in wool that he has no use for, and calls out to a god he can only now offer false homage. He holds to the past, and wishes he could believe he has a future. Wishes that he didn’t see obsidian and curtaining lava whenever he closes his eyes.

-----

The first time he hears Wilbur play again, he hides in the forest like a fucking coward.

The guitar is strummed hesitantly, haltingly, interspersed with silence every few seconds, as if Wilbur is struggling to find the old positions, struggling to move his fingers just right. He wonders, then, if limbo took away his calluses. He didn’t think to look. Thirteen odd years without playing a guitar is bound to make anyone rusty. Tommy wonders if Wilbur’s fingers will bleed if he presses down on the strings hard enough, and then he banishes the thought from his mind, because something in him revolts at the idea of Wilbur bleeding. Of Wilbur trying and trying to play until he—

There is something to be said, here, about using yourself up in the pursuit of something greater. There is something to be said, here, about holding matches ‘til they burn down to the skin, about stairs without handrails, about things that are never meant to be and yet claw their way into existence anyhow. There is something to be said about pushing too far, too quick, and flying too high.

Wilbur’s not singing. Is just going from chord to chord. And Tommy hides behind a tree, pressing his back against the bark, because it has been so very long. Wilbur didn’t play in Pogtopia. Wilbur barely played in L’Manberg. The last time he heard the twang of this instrument was sitting by a campfire, plans for a van in the works, the night sky starry and welcoming above them, his chest warm in a way that had nothing to do with the flames. And Wilbur smiled at them, smiled at all of them, and his voice was light and sure, his notes soaring.

Wilbur’s not singing. After a moment, he starts humming, softly and meandering, and each turn in the melody hits like a wrench, like he’s dragging the notes out behind them, yanking at the tune whenever it goes somewhere he doesn’t like. It’s a lot of leaps and skips and jumps, a lot of highs to lows and then highs again, and something about it sounds like wailing. There are no words, and there is no happiness.

But he’s playing. He’s playing, and does that count for something? There was no music for such a long time, no music in the darkness and no music even in the light, and now there is music in the grey twilight, and it is not happy music but it is music. Wilbur is playing again, and Tommy’s not going to cry, because what kind of pussy cries about hearing a guitar? So he doesn’t cry, but he doesn’t venture out from this spot, either. He stays there, and listens as Wilbur sends his voice shooting up into falsetto and then back down again.

It’s good that there are no words, maybe. They’d be sad. He can tell.

“That sounds nice,” Ranboo says, all of a sudden, and Tommy jolts at the same time that Wilbur’s hand must jerk, a discordant clash of notes, something that can’t even be called a chord. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

“You didn’t,” Wilbur says, after a pause. Tommy almost creeps out to see his expression, because he can’t picture it. Can’t tell from his voice what his face is doing. “I was just about done anyway.” There is another pause, and a rustle of clothing. Standing. The crunching of leaves underfoot. It’s nearly autumn again, and already the leaves are changing, falling.

It would be wrong of him to resent Ranboo. He’ll never admit it aloud, but he likes him. Rather a lot. Hiding it is probably pointless now, though that doesn’t stop him from trying. But Ranboo is occupying the space that should be his, that once was his. There is a van in a forest, and a guitar song winding its way through the branches and the roots, and everything is different and everything is the same, and the new story is written without him in it. He doesn’t know what he wants, but he thinks it is not this. He thinks it is not to be left behind.

And Ranboo does not know Wilbur well enough to hear the lie in his voice.

They go off together through the trees. Tommy stays. Runs his hand across the tree bark, and tries not to put his emotions into words. Better to let them drift along as is. Better not to give them voice, because whispers turn into shouts all too easily, and there is not enough space here for shouting.

-----

There’s a thing about graves. There’s a thing about graves and who gets one, and who doesn’t.

He didn’t think about it at the time, the fact that Schlatt—Schlatt the tyrant, Schlatt the enemy, Schlatt the man who had Tubbo executed—got a funeral, and a tomb, has one even to this day, and Wilbur got rubble and a room sealed off and untouched. Didn’t think about the fact that there was no burial. Didn’t think about the fact that there was no gravestone to deface or to ornament with flowers or to kick or to scream at or to kneel beside and speak to or to cry or to do any or all of those things. He didn’t think about it at the time, because there was rebuilding, and then there was a house on fire, and then he doesn’t like to think about it.

And there was Ghostbur.

Wilbur hates Ghostbur. It makes him angry, the way that Wilbur hates Ghostbur. Ghostbur was good, and Ghostbur was kind, and Ghostbur tried his best, and Ghostbur did not deserve to die in the way that he did, terrified, with no one there by his side, with only shouted numbers to soothe his terror, and Ghostbur does not deserve to be stuck in a train station for all of eternity. So he makes Ghostbur a memorial, because it’s all he can do, and the first time he’s next to it at the same time as Wilbur, he meets his eyes squarely. A challenge. A dare. And Wilbur looks right back at him, and then to the gravestone, and his lips curl into a sneer.

And he says nothing at all.

He says nothing at all for a long time. Until he does, and it’s all made so much worse.

“Would you rather he was here, instead of me?” Wilbur asks, and it’s all very even and nonchalant, so much so that it might have him fooled if he didn’t know better, hadn’t heard time and time again exactly what Wilbur thinks of the ghost he left behind him.

“The fuck kind of question is that?” he demands.

“An honest one,” Wilbur answers.

“Right,” he says. “Because you don’t lie anymore, or whatever the fuck.”

“I don’t,” Wilbur agrees, and that is a lie. Tommy would be insulted if he weren’t so tired of it. “Really, I’d like an answer.”

“What does it matter?” he snaps. “He’s not here anymore. He’s not here anymore, and you are. No changing that. I’m fucking stuck with you. You’re like, you’re like a leech, you know that? A leech in my brain.”

Wilbur smiles tightly.

“I’d rather be a leech in your brain than dust in the ground,” he says. “Like he is.”

“Shut up,” he grits out. “Don’t—just don’t fucking talk about him.”

“Alright, then,” Wilbur says. “I won’t. If it upsets you that much.”

And he doesn’t. And the grave stays.

And it is not until later that he thinks about the thing about graves again, about who gets one and who does not. There is no grave with Wilbur’s name on it. There was no soil to lay him to rest, only cold, hard stone, a room undisturbed, a monument to destruction. And had there been time, he would have thought about it more. Would have taken it upon himself, perhaps, because the thing is, in the end, that maybe Wilbur deserved better than to be remembered as the man who destroyed his nation. Deserved better than to be remembered solely by the ravine’s dark corridors and the smoke that clung to him like foreshadowing and the way his eyes looked dead, dead, dead for a long time before Tommy watched Phil plunge the sword into his chest.

Because he was not only that. It hurts to think about, how he was not only that. But sometimes, things that hurt to think about ought to be thought about. Because Wilbur was shattered edges that Tommy knows only now that he could not fix, because Wilbur did not want fixing, but Wilbur was also laughter and a gentle hand on his shoulder and the words “I’m proud of you” that lit him up like sunlight, and he was kind and he was kind of a dick and he was brilliant and Prime, maybe Tommy should have known. Should have known that there was going to be a fall. But he looked up to Wilbur like a child to a shooting star, and it’s a long time before children understand that shooting stars aren’t stars at all, and that the wonder of them comes from self-destruction.

But before Wilbur fell, he shone. A beacon in the dark. Hope, freedom. And before he was those things, too, he was Tommy’s brother. Just that, and nothing more, because more was not needed.

And he received no grave.

It’s a question of time again, and a question of mourning, and a question of how he was ever supposed to grieve when there was no time for it at all, and when a ghost shadowed his every footstep and dripped blue from cold fingers and insisted that nothing was ever wrong. But for the first time, he wonders how Wilbur thinks about it. Graves, and ghosts. And who gets a grave, and who does not.

Who is mourned, and who is not.

Who is given up on, and who is not.

The question echoes once again: “Would you rather he was here, instead of me?” And this time, Tommy hears no taunt in it, no mocking, no cruel joke about the ghost who deserved so much better. Only bitterness, and exhaustion, and resignation. Like Wilbur already knew what answer he would be granted.

That’s a realization of some sort, that Wilbur believes he prefers him dead. It’s a realization of some sort, but he doesn’t know what kind.

There’s ghosts and there’s graves, and there’s the living and there’s the dead, and both are left waiting for relief that never comes. It’s thirteen years in a train station and it’s months without knowing what to think, without having space to breathe, without being able to process that his brother was unwell and then that his brother was gone. It’s too much time and too little, too much distance and too little, and Ghostbur did not deserve what he got, but neither, he thinks, did Wilbur.

That thought feels right. And wrong all at once. Bitter, heart-wrenching. That Wilbur deserved better. They all did, that he knows—but Wilbur did too. And that thought is muddled up in all the rest, and he doesn’t know what to do with it, but it’s there. If there’s anything to be done with it at all.

-----

Here is a fact: he kept Dream alive for Wilbur’s sake.

Here is another fact: he doesn’t know if he regrets it.

Because here is the thing: he remembers that day, remembers the pain and the fear and the devastation, and he remembers the moment it all turned around, cowering behind Sapnap and behind Eret until the time came to step forward, to take the axe in hand and deliver the blow, to deliver himself to safety, finally, finally. And he remembers the words bitten out from Dream’s mouth, panicked, desperate, and he remembers what he said. He will never forget.

And the decision, in that moment, was far easier than it had any right to be.

It became harder, later. Because he made the decision thinking, in large part, of the person that Wilbur used to be. Of a quick, charming tongue and flashes of smiles and music and song and leadership and knowing what to do, always, and Prime above but Tommy missed that person. And so maybe he deluded himself. Maybe he thought, in that dark room, with the portal swirling behind him and the entire server at his back, that he could get that person again. That Wilbur would return, and that it could all go back to the way it used to be. Discs spinning in the sunrise, the server at peace, his brother with him.

But death put those thoughts to rest.

Because death proved to him that Wilbur had only gotten worse. Because in death, Wilbur was happy he was there, did nothing but talk to him and make him play competitive solitaire as he was torn apart atom by atom. Because Wilbur—he became so very certain that Wilbur, if released, would bring nothing but harm to the server again, would tear everything down, because there was something in his voice, in his eyes—

But that was then. And now, Dream still lives in prison, rots but lives, and Wilbur has a burger van in a forest with a friend and spends most of his days lounging about or making eyes at Quackity or talking up a storm but doing jack shit, and Tommy doesn’t know what to make of it, and doesn’t know how to admit that maybe his idea of what Wilbur would be like and what Wilbur would do wasn’t entirely accurate.

And he still doesn’t know if it was worth it. Worth the constant fear, worth knowing that one day, Dream will be out, will come to him, will try to finish what he started. He tried to prevent it and only made it worse, only led Ghostbur to his doom by his innocent, trusting hand, and Dream resurrected—

A monster, he would have said, once. He no longer knows if that is fair.

Because here is another fact, one that he is only now beginning to understand: Wilbur is very, painfully human. He’s always known, and yet he hasn’t, because once, he thought Wilbur hung the stars and the moon and all things bright and glowing and good, and he thought that Wilbur could never be so human as to be fallible, and then it turned out that he was wrong. And it was easy, in the aftermath of that, to figure that Wilbur was perhaps some kind of monster instead, and everyone around him said as much.

But that, he thinks, goes too far in the other direction.

His hopes will never be realized. He will never have the old Wilbur back. He clings to a past that clings to him right back, that has him in a chokehold and will not let go, but Wilbur is something else entirely. The rest of the past does not live and breathe, is contained in his overflowing chests, in uniforms that don’t fit him, in the church’s empty hall. The rest of the past is made of things he can hold, but he has never been able to hold Wilbur. Not then, and not now. And there is no hope of making of them what they once were.

There is no going back.

So was it worth it, then? To keep Dream alive, and to receive this, this man who varies between manic energy and calculated calm, who speaks with a whip in his tone at some times and unbearable softness at others, who proclaims Dream his hero and then claims he would have killed him, if he could, for what he did? Was it worth it, and is it worth it, and how is something like that measured at all?

Wilbur is a tightness in his chest when he speaks and a ghost that won’t leave and a ghost that died and a thousand words like a thousand stinging hornets and no picture that could encompass all of them, all of what they are and were. Wilbur is Wilbur, and Wilbur is not safe, not anymore, and perhaps Wilbur is not even good—but there, that, that is wrong, and he won’t make this mistake twice. Wilbur is good, it’s just that he’s forgotten that, and Tommy is so, so very tired of having to be the one to try and remind him. And Wilbur is empty space and Wilbur is a space too full and overflowing around the fractured edges, and Wilbur is too bright and too loud and too quiet and too little and too much, and even now, even still, Tommy does not know where they stand.

Was it worth it, to have this?

He doesn’t know. But sometimes, he imagines what it would be like if Wilbur were still dead, if Wilbur were never, ever coming back in any shape, in any form, and his throat closes up and his eyes sting, no matter how much he has laid out his hatred for the man, his regret at going into the prison that day. He tries to imagine a world without Wilbur in it, in which he has given up on Wilbur, and even now he doesn’t like it, even though maybe he should, and that is, perhaps, answer enough.

-----

“Why do you keep coming here?” Wilbur asks him.

“I dunno,” he says, instead of a hundred other things. “Why don’t you ever fucking leave?”

Wilbur just looks tired. There are bags under his eyes. Tommy thinks he can guess why; he so rarely slept during their exile, but Tommy is thinking about limbo, and train stations, and how whenever he closes his eyes, part of him is convinced that his heart has stopped beating. He wonders if Wilbur, for all his sunrise-obsession and constant movement and moments of utter wonderment at the world around him and the way he doesn’t move whenever a creeper approaches him, feels the same way.

“There was a reason I asked Ranboo to do this with me instead of you,” Wilbur says, suddenly, apropos of nothing. Tommy feels himself still. “I mean—actually, I asked Phil, and Phil was all, oh, Wil, go and make friends, and I was like fuck you I’m not twelve years old anymore but Ranboo’s pretty great so it worked out. But I—I guess what I’m getting at is that I don’t get it. Why you choose to keep coming ‘round here anyway.”

“Yeah?” he asks. “What’s not to get?”

Wilbur shoots him a look, eyebrows going up and mouth slanting all sympathetic-like.

“Tommy,” he says, slowly, as if talking to the child that Tommy has not been in a long, long time, “I’m not what you want.”

Several answers form in his head, and then dissipate just as quickly before he’s able to reply. “‘S that right?” he says, and something boils within him, hot and snapping and popping.

“I can see it when you look at me, man,” Wilbur says, and he doesn’t even sound upset. “You’re—and I mean, I don’t blame you for it. I was awful to you, Tommy. I don’t deserve anything less than your scorn. But you and everyone else, you’re all waiting for what I’m going to do next. You’re all waiting with bated breath. Scared of the next disaster I’m going to cause. So you don’t—you don’t have to be here, Tommy. Not if you don’t want to be.”

There are so many things he could say. Your disasters always cause the most damage to yourself, is one of them, and then there’s a simple, you think I don’t know that? Because how many times has he told himself that same thing? That he doesn’t need to be here? That it would be better for him if he wasn’t? And some part of him must listen, because he’s not actually here all that much. He has other things to do. A life outside of this, outside of this forest on the edge of a fake desert and a van that makes pretty shitty burgers and one Wilbur Soot, like a portrait from the past and yet nothing like that at all, because portraits are shadows, still images, permanent and unchanging, with mo mutable future, and Wilbur Soot is none of those things.

He has a life. He has Tubbo, still, even if it’s all changed. He has others. He’s not alone.

Wilbur’s right that he doesn’t have to be here.

“Stop fucking doing that,” he says. “Stop trying to make my decisions for me.”

Wilbur’s eyebrows furrow. “I’m not—”

“You are,” he says. “You always are. It’s my fucking choice whether I want to be here or not. And I’m making that choice. Not you. Me. And sure, maybe one day you’ll manage to get rid of me for good, but you’re gonna have to fucking work at it, and I don’t see you trying.”

“I thought you didn’t want me here, Tommy,” Wilbur returns, and the words seem to fall so effortlessly, like easy acceptance, and why, why is it this of all things that Wilbur seems to take in stride? Why is it this and not a thousand other things? Why is it this and not the fact that despite it all, despite every warning sign and every indication that maybe it might be better for him to give up after all, Tommy is still here?

“I didn’t want you gone, either,” he snaps, and Wilbur falls completely silent. So he continues, because who knows when he’ll have a chance to say this again? That’s the thing about chances; they’re difficult to count, impossible to anticipate, and he bollocksed up the first one he got, to try to break through. “I never wanted you gone in the first place. So maybe I don’t—maybe I don’t fucking know what I want. Because I never got to just live with that. There was never a chance to—there wasn’t even a fucking grave for me to visit. I never got to figure anything out, and now you’re back and nothing’s the fucking same, so maybe I don’t know what I fucking want. Maybe I don’t fucking know if I want you here, but I didn’t want you gone. I didn’t want you to be dead. And then you were. You just were, and I couldn’t—did you expect me to be alright with that?”

It’s a question of mourning, and a question of graves, and a question of chances and who deserves them. And Wilbur just looks confused.

Fuck him.

There’s so much more to say, and he can’t say any of it at all, and the past chokes him like a knot of vines or a clump of flowers in his throat, but he’s still breathing. He’s still breathing, breathes again, whatever, and Wilbur is the same. They’re the same in a lot of ways, maybe. On the other side of the final death, trying to hold onto and release the years gone by all at once. Moving forward, but stuck in quicksand, and they’re never going to get out if they don’t let each other.

“You’re my brother,” he says, and that’s all. As if that explains everything.

And maybe it does.

Wilbur blinks.

“Ah,” he says.

“Yeah,” Tommy says. “Fucking ah.”

“I’m sorry,” Wilbur says.

“You’d better be,” he says.

And impossibly, the vines uncurl, and the flowers come floating up, and when he takes a step forward, it comes easily.

There is a van in this forest, and it is not the same van. Some distance away, there is a crater in the ground, and nature has draped itself over the ruins of the lives they once had, and the flag still flaps at the bottom, and they are never, ever going to be able to rebuild what they lost. The crater will always be a crater, a scar in the earth. Healing, healed, grown over and stitched shut, but still a scar.

And there is a man standing in front of him who is not the same man that he knew. Not the same man that he claimed for his family, and who claimed him in return.

But he is not the same, either. Perhaps nobody and nothing is. The past clings, and he clings tighter, but perhaps he needs to loosen his grip, because despite everything, there is a future out there, somewhere past the next sunrise. They are going to get older. They are going to live. So he has his discs and his uniforms and his wool and his prayer, and he has this, too, because it is his choice. To take a step forward, and wait to be met in the middle. To dare to turn ahead, to believe that there is something awaiting him. The both of them.

And he thinks he might finally be able to let himself grieve. Grieve, and let go. Grieve the dead, and what they had, and what they might have, and grieve for the fact that there was no grieving, no grave.

And then, let himself hope that they will have better after all.

-----

The next time he hears Wilbur play, he steps out from behind the tree.

And maybe the song is a little less sad.

And maybe nothing will ever be the same as it used to be.

And maybe it will be alright.

#mcyt #dsmp #dream smp #tommyinnit #wilbur soot #crimebois #/rp #dsmp fic #cat writes fic #long post #sometimes you just. you just gotta write some c!crimebois y'know?

[junghelioseok]

clandestine. | 04

↳ forbidden fruit tastes the sweetest.

◇ jungkook x reader ◇ smut | fluff | brother’s best friend!au ◇ 6.5k [4/6]

notes: we finally have a set chapter count! did this fic really need to be 6 chapters? absolutely not, but here we are! i’m hoping to have this fella finished up in the next month or so, but we’ll see how that goes given my track record. happy new year, everyone!

warnings: a little underedited bc i’m lazy, shower sex!!! mild? exhibitionist tendencies??? reader is dumb and jungkook is slutty, but what else is new 🤷🏻‍♀️

⇢ 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 

“I swear to god, I am going to amputate your arm with a rusty hacksaw if you elbow me one more time.”

Undeterred, your brother prods you again, pouting at you from his spot in the driver’s seat. “I just want another chip, Noona. Don’t be so mean.”

“Are you a baby bird?” you ask in disbelief, gaping at the way he opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue. “Seriously, I’m not feeding you. Get your own chips if you want them so badly.”

“But I’ve gotta keep both hands on the wheel,” he replies cheekily. “Ten and two positions, at all times.”

You frown. “Didn’t they change it to nine and three?” Nonetheless, you reluctantly reach into the bag in your lap, pulling out a potato chip and delivering it to his waiting mouth. “Next one’s going straight into your nose,” you warn as he happily crunches down on the snack.

Jimin simply offers you a beatific grin in between chews. “Love you too.”

“Nope, I changed my mind. Next one’s going up your ass.”

Your brother has long since grown used to your threats. “Kinky,” he chuckles as he merges smoothly into the next lane over. The song on the radio shifts into something more upbeat, and Jungkook is quick to start humming along under his breath from his spot in the seat behind you. Within minutes, it’s morphed into a singalong, and the offkey warbling of all seven passengers—no matter how dissonant—is a perfect soundtrack for the remainder of the drive.

The beach, when you arrive, is awash with tourists and locals alike, all clamoring to lay claim to a prime stretch of sand and a decent parking space. Jimin manages to snag a spot just as someone else is pulling out, and the rest of you are quick to disembark and scope out the beach for somewhere to set up camp. Plopping your bag down onto the sand, you rifle through it until you find your sunscreen, mentally patting yourself on the back for buying the spray instead of the cream.

“Can I borrow that when you’re done, Noona?” Taehyung asks, watching you wrench off the cap.

You nod, squinting against the sunlight. “Sure. As long as you help me get my entire back.”

“Deal.”

Flashing him a grateful smile, you shimmy out of your shorts and begin applying sunscreen to your arms and legs. Taehyung peels off his t-shirt, and you spray him down too, making sure to coat his entire back before he takes the bottle and does the same to you.

“I might have gone a little overboard,” he admits once he’s done, capping the bottle and tossing it back into your bag. Warm hands settle onto your exposed shoulder blades, deft fingertips rubbing the excess product into your skin. “There, that should do it. All better.”

“Thanks, Tae.” You turn around and reach out, wiping at a stray fleck of the white lotion on his bicep. “You’ve got a little bit here too, hang on—“

“Mind if I borrow this?”

You turn at the sound of Jungkook’s voice. The dark-haired young man is standing there with your sunscreen in hand, his gaze zeroed in on the way your fingertips linger on Taehyung’s bare skin. Awkwardly, you pull away and nod, hoping that neither of them can hear your heart pounding erratically against your ribcage.

“Yeah. Sure. It’s all yours.”

Jungkook grabs his white t-shirt by the collar, tugging it up and over his head in one smooth motion, and you swallow at the way his taut abdomen flexes as he tosses it aside. “You’ll help me get my back too, won’t you, Noona?”

You nod, moving before he can even finish his sentence. Your feet carry you across the sandy ground on autopilot, and Jungkook exhales audibly as your palms smooth along the golden expanse of his muscular back, dipping down to the waistband of his black swim trunks. Ever since his visit to your bedroom last night, you’ve been itching to touch him—to feel every last inch of him. It’s impossible with your watchful brother and group of nosy friends hovering around though, so you settle for this—rubbing sunscreen into his warm skin while he sprays down his arms and legs.

“Thanks, princess,” he murmurs once you’re done, soft enough so that only you can hear and raising gooseflesh on the back of your neck. “Maybe next time, you’ll let me repay the favor.”

Then Yugyeom is calling his name, and Jungkook sprints down to the shoreline to join his friend in the crashing surf, his face creasing with laughter. Each time he emerges from the waves, droplets cling to his skin like glistening diamonds in the sunlight. It’s impossible to look away from the sight, and your tongue darts out to moisten your lips as you watch water drip off his hair and down his nape, pooling in his collarbones before he shakes his head like a dog and sends it spraying in all directions.

All that sunscreen is going to waste, a tiny voice in your head points out, but it’s hard to worry about that when you’re too busy following the path of the water streaming down past his dusky nipples to the ridges of his abdomen. And it’s almost as if he feels your gaze on him, because he’s suddenly staring right back at you, a wicked smirk tugging at his lips.

“Come on, Noona,” he calls, raking a hand through his drenched hair. “The water’s fine. Don’t make me drag you in.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” you call back, immediately regretting it when something equal parts mischievous and dangerous flashes across his face. There’s a glint in his eye that wasn’t there before, and you back away nervously as he emerges from the waves and saunters toward you. “Jungkook—”

“Yes?” he asks, his voice dropping down into a low purr. ��What is it, princess?”

You edge around the towel that you’ve laid out in the sand, as if such a flimsy barrier could stop him in any way. “Just—just don’t dunk me under,” you plead.

Jungkook looks genuinely offended by that. “I would never,” he says, laying a hand over his heart and grabbing yours with his free one. “Now come on—let’s get you wet.”

You groan at the innuendo and try to tug free from his grip, but Jungkook only tightens his grasp, cackling the whole way down to the water.

///

The sun is just beginning to set, streaking the blue sky through with wispy strands of orange and gold, when Jimin raises his hand and declares it dinner time. For the past two hours, you’ve all been engrossed in a very tight three-on-three volleyball match with Jimin serving as referee, and upon hearing your brother’s declaration, Minho looks about ready to chuck the ball into the ocean.

“Dude, are you fucking serious? We’re literally two points from winning!” He gestures wildly at an invisible scoreboard only he can see. “No way we’re stopping here. I refuse on principle.”

“Yeah, I wanna see who the real winner is, too,” Jungkook drawls from the other end of the court, where he’s flanked on either side by Taehyung and Yugyeom. “I mean, we’ve been leading for most of the tournament, so…”

Minho scowls. “And we’re about to win the whole damn thing. Just you wait, Jeon.”

Behind him, you and Taemin exchange helpless glances. It isn’t the first time you’ve seen Jungkook and Minho squabble over the years, and you’re sure it won’t be the last. Both possess a razor sharp competitive streak and a certain pigheadedness that only emerges when it comes to athletic endeavors, and luckily, your brother knows this just as well as you do. Heaving a sigh, Jimin wearily gestures for them to continue, resuming his post at the end of the net. “Fine, fine,” he mutters. “Next point wins.”

On the other side of the net, Jungkook’s eyes narrow. “I’m good with that if you are.”

“Oh, I’m good,” Minho retorts. “It’s our serve. You ready?”

Jungkook smirks. “Bring it on.”

Minho cracks his knuckles and tosses the ball over to you for the serve. “All right then, let’s fucking do this.”

You sigh. Taking a deep breath, you heft up the ball, testing its weight before hitting it smoothly over the net. Yugyeom jumps up to intercept, batting it back over to your side, and Minho attempts to spike it back and into the sand. Unfortunately, Jungkook is too quick, and dives down to bump it back over to you. The back and forth continues like this for a while—you see Jimin boredly scrolling on his phone out of the corner of your eye—and you’re strongly considering calling it quits when Jungkook smashes the ball over the net and into the ground right at Minho’s feet.

“And that’s game,” he declares proudly, raking his sweaty hair off his forehead with a triumphant grin.

“Are you finally done?” Jimin asks, rolling his eyes and pocketing his phone. “Thank god. Can we eat now?”

Jungkook claps him on the back in affirmation, ignoring Minho’s loud, adamant protests that your team still technically won. Together, you head back to where your towels and bags sit in the sand, grabbing bottles of chilled water out of the cooler and fishing for snacks. Jimin pulls a package of hot dogs out while Taehyung rips open a bag of chips, and you follow their lead and grab the hamburger patties and buns. “Huh, I swear I bought ketchup,” you mumble to yourself as you rummage through the half-melted ice in the cooler. “Is it not in here?”

“I have it.” Jungkook materializes at your side, proffering the little red bottle. He’s pulled his white t-shirt back on, the material a stark contrast to his tanned skin, and you silently rise to your feet to take it when a sudden wave of lightheadedness rushes over you and sends the world spinning.

“Whoa,” you gasp, swaying on your feet. “Oh, god.”

Jungkook frowns and drops the ketchup bottle, steadying you until most of your weight is leaned against him. “Noona? Are you okay?”

You swallow, hard, and try to shake the unexpected bout of dizziness away. “I don’t know. Got dizzy, all of a sudden. I think I might have stood up too fast?”

Gently, Jungkook presses the back of his hand against your forehead. “You feel pretty warm,” he murmurs. “Have you had enough water today?”

“I thought I drank plenty, but maybe not,” you admit, and he nods decisively and gestures for you to follow him.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s grab some water and go somewhere quiet so you can rest. Minho isn’t going to shut up about that match anytime soon, and it’s cooler down by the water.”

You laugh weakly. “We did technically win, you know. We had one more point than you guys.”

“God, not you too,” Jungkook sighs, casting you a playful look over his shoulder as he digs two bottles of water out from the cooler. He uncaps one and hands it over before taking a swig out of his, and you take a grateful sip, relishing in the cool liquid that trickles down your throat.

Nearby, your brother and the rest of the boys have commandeered one of several firepits scattered around the edges of the beach. They’re piling up pieces of driftwood and some of the long, tall sea grass that Taehyung has found, and Jungkook waves at them as he slowly guides you toward the ocean with a hand on your back. “We’re gonna go find some more wood!” he calls, and Jimin raises a hand in acknowledgment before turning back to the firepit.

Water laps gently at your toes as you and Jungkook walk along the shore, washing away all traces of your footprints. The sun dips below the horizon at last, illuminating the sky in one last burst of red and orange and gold that slowly fades into deep purples and blues as night falls. The temperature dips as the moon ascends to her lofty throne, accompanied by a smattering of starry pinpricks. Most of the beachgoers have packed up and left by this point, and here, with nothing but Jungkook’s quiet, familiar presence and the lapping waves, you feel more at peace than you have in a long time.

“You know, I’m really glad I came this weekend,” you say softly, breaking the comfortable silence that had fallen between the two of you. Your gaze drops down to your toes, fixing your attention on a pearly white seashell that’s sticking out from the wet sand. “I think you were right—I really did need a break from everything.”

“Sorry, I couldn’t quite catch that,” Jungkook says, swirling his pinky in his ear. “Could you say it again? Something about me being right?”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, shut up.”

Jungkook casts a quick look over his shoulder, and when you follow the trajectory of his gaze, you notice just how far you’ve gotten from the firepit where the others are sitting. Darkness has settled over the beach, the sand painted a wan silver from the light of the moon, and you flinch when Jungkook’s hand finds its way around yours.

“Jungkook—” you begin, but trail off when he twines your fingers together and gives your hand a squeeze.

“They can’t see us, Noona,” he murmurs. “Relax.”

Easier said than done, you want to say. Nevertheless, you suck in a deep breath and take another sip from your water bottle, trying to ignore the way Jungkook swings your interlocked hands between you as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Shouldn’t—shouldn’t we be trying to find more driftwood?” you ask after several long seconds have dragged by. “We need way more if we’re gonna keep the fire going.”

Jungkook hums softly and veers inland, until the sand beneath your feet is dry and starts sticking to your wet toes. You come across a few scattered pieces of wood, dried out by the sun, and tuck them beneath your arm. Likewise, Jungkook gathers a few pieces of his own, hefting them up before reaching out to take your hand once more. His fingers slot all too comfortably into the spaces between yours, and your heart stutters a few times in your chest before plunking down into your churning stomach.

Nighttime has well and truly settled over the beach by the time you and Jungkook start picking your way back over to rejoin the group around the firepit. You pull your hand out of Jungkook’s well before you reach the ring of orange light that the flames cast across the sand, your arm now swinging free at your side and your fingers cold from the loss of his warmth. Silently, you hasten your pace and plop down onto the towel that Jimin has spread out, stretching out your legs toward the fire and wiggling your toes.

“Where have you guys been?” Jimin asks curiously. “You just kinda wandered off.”

“Getting more driftwood,” you reply, gesturing at the small pile you’ve dropped at the edge of the towel. “We told you that’s where we were going.”

Jimin frowns for a few seconds before the memory resurfaces. “Oh, right. I forgot.”

Jungkook snorts and takes a seat beside you, dropping his stack of driftwood on top of yours. “Dumbass.”

“You’re a dumbass,” Jimin retorts.

“You’re both dumbasses,” you sigh.

The fire crackles merrily, sending orange sparks up into the velvety black sky. There’s a grill situated over the flames, loaded with hamburger patties and hot dogs, and you watch as Jimin tears open a bag of hot dog buns and begins to place them around the edges.

“Hey, can you throw me the hamburger buns?” he asks you. “I wanna try toasting them.”

“You’re gonna burn them,” you tell him flatly. Nonetheless, you locate the second bag and toss it over, watching as he makes more room on the grill.

Dinner is a loud, chaotic affair, filled with laughter and conversation and plenty of booze to go around. Jimin has procured a flask of whiskey from somewhere in his clothing—an impressive feat in and of itself, considering he’s only wearing swim trunks and a thin blue t-shirt. You wave him off when he offers you a sip, and he shrugs and throws back a generous swallow himself. Then he offers it to Jungkook, who shakes his head and raises his water bottle. “Designated driver,” he says. “I’m sticking to water tonight.”

Curiously, you glance over at him. “You don’t have to do that. I wasn’t planning on drinking, so I can drive us back.”

“With the way you were looking earlier?” Jungkook fixes you with a look of pure disbelief. “Not a chance. Besides, we’re going back to the real world tomorrow, and the last thing I need is to be hungover. I have to get us back home in one piece, not to mention the entire menu I still have to memorize for work.”

You hum. Jungkook has mentioned his new job a few times—a summer stint working as a server at a new restaurant opened by a family friend named Seokjin. “Right, I remember you saying that. You start on Monday, don’t you?”

“Dinner shift,” Jungkook confirms. “I stole a whole bunch of pens from Junghyun’s room the other day in preparation. Jin said I’d probably end up losing two-thirds of them by the end of the week.”

“That sounds about right,” you tell him with a laugh. “Some guy stole my favorite pen last summer when I was working at that diner on Main. Lesson learned, forever.”

Jungkook laughs. “Yeah, I bet.”

You grin. “But, hey, seriously. If you need me to quiz you on that menu, I’ve got time to spare.”

“Honestly, I might take you up on that offer. I have flash cards, and everything.” He uncaps his water bottle and takes a long sip, his throat bobbing with each swallow, before glancing back over at you. “What about you? You ready for your internship?”

You sigh and offer him a helpless little shrug. “I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready, to be honest. I don’t think I’m going to stop stressing about it until I get through my first day. The entire thing still doesn’t feel real.”

“I get that,” Jungkook hums. “Well, I can imagine it, at least. I won’t pretend to know exactly what you’re going through, since I’ve never had an adult job, but—“ He shrugs a shoulder halfheartedly. “I can kind of relate, I guess.”

“All jobs suck a little bit,” you tell him, and Jungkook lets out a derisive huff of agreement.

“I’ll drink to that,” he says, and the two of you tap your water bottles together before rejoining the conversation with the rest of your friends.

///

The drive back to the lake house is shorter than you remember it being—though that might be because you spend most of it watching Jungkook drive. He steers with one hand slung carelessly over the wheel, his expression relaxed as he sings along to whatever pop hit plays on the radio. Unloading the car is a team effort, though you hear no shortage of complaints from Jimin as he heaves the cooler over the threshold of the house before collapsing atop it in a pile of limp limbs.

“Thanks for leaving me to carry this thing by myself,” he snarks, not even bothering to raise his head. “Really appreciate it.”

“Don’t be a baby,” Taehyung scoffs, tossing a game console at him. “Have a beer and pick something to play. We’re waiting on you.”

You watch as your brother immediately hops up and darts over to join the rest of the boys lounging in the living room, fighting back the sudden wave of exhaustion that washes over you. “I think I’m going to head to bed,” you tell them, hiding a yawn behind your hand. “Goodnight, guys.”

A chorus of goodnights and see you in the mornings rings out in response, and you wave before heading down the hall to your room and into the adjoining bathroom. Your hair is crusty from being submerged in the salty water of the ocean, and a shower to rejuvenate your dehydrated skin is just what you need. Turning on the tap, you wait until it’s flowing warm before stripping out of your clothes and tossing them onto your bed to deal with later. Then you step into the shower and tilt your head back, letting the water stream down your face and soak into your hair.

You’re midway through squeezing a generous dollop of shampoo into your palm when there’s a soft knock on the door. “Noona?” Jungkook’s voice filters through the sound of rushing water, low and lilting like a song. “You left kinda fast. Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

You cap the shampoo bottle and replace it on the shelf, peering out from behind the shower curtain. “I’m fine,” you call, hesitating before you steel your nerves and continue. “You can come in, if you want. I don’t like yelling through the door.”

Slowly, the bathroom door eases open, revealing Jungkook standing in his and Jimin’s shared bedroom. His brown eyes are wide as he takes in the sight before him, and you have no doubt that he’s thinking about just what the palm tree patterned curtain is hiding from his view. Your lip finds its way between your teeth when you notice him shuffle his feet awkwardly for a moment before stepping a little closer to where you’re standing beneath the spray, his mouth opening to speak.

“Join me?”

The invitation slips past your lips, unbidden, but you have no intention of taking it back. Not when Jungkook’s gaze darkens to obsidian at those two simple words, his mouth snapping shut and his hands already reaching for the hem of his white t-shirt. Not when he strips it off in one smooth motion to reveal all the dips and ridges of his abdomen, his skin golden even under the harsh fluorescent bathroom lights. And certainly not when he pulls aside the shower curtain and joins you beneath the spray, his dark eyes appreciatively raking up and down your bare figure.

“Hey,” he says, his voice a low purr.

“Hi,” you respond, reaching out and trailing a fingertip down his chest.

And then you’re dropping down to your knees, your tongue darting out to tease at the tip of his already rising cock. One hand finds its way to his balls while the other traces the line of his pelvic bone, and you smirk when you feel him let out a shuddery breath.

“Fuck,” he rasps. “Someone’s eager.”

You wrap your lips around the tip of his cock, humming, and Jungkook’s fingers fly into your dampened hair. “Oh, fuck. You’re really trying to kill me, huh, princess?” he asks, and you respond by taking a little more of him into your mouth, laving at the vein running along the underside of his length before hollowing your cheeks. Jungkook throws his head back, a deep groan escaping his parted lips, and you preen under his encouragement as he urges you to take him deeper.

You’ve just begun to settle into a rhythm—figuring out exactly how much pressure he likes and what makes his hips buck—when he suddenly pushes you away. “Jung—” you begin, only to have him silence you with a searing kiss, grabbing you around the waist and hauling you to your feet.

“Wanna fuck you properly,” he rasps. His hand finds its way between your legs, experimental fingers sliding through the wetness that’s gathered there, and your cheeks heat up when he brings them to his mouth and licks them clean. “Just let me go grab a condom,” he whispers urgently. “Don’t move a muscle, okay? I’ll be righ—”

You silence him with a hard kiss. “Don’t,” you mumble. “I’m clean. Are you?”

Jungkook nods slowly, his eyes wide. “Does that mean… I mean, are you…?”

“I’m on the pill,” you murmur. “Fuck me raw, Jungkook.”

A sharp gasp escapes you when Jungkook cages you against the cool tiled wall of the shower, the slick surface dampened by the spray from the showerhead. He grabs ahold of your thigh and hoists it up to wrap around his waist, and you’ve never been more thankful for the ugly fish patterned shower mat that your mom insisted on putting down to prevent slipping. Jungkook nestles into the newly created space between your legs, his cock hot and slick against your center, and you keen when he grinds against you in a slow, deliberate motion.

“You feel that?” he rasps into your ear, his breath hot against your cheek. “Feel how hard you get me, Noona?”

“God, Jungkook,” you breathe back. “Just fuck me already, will you?”

His answering chuckle sends a shiver from your toes to your crown. “So needy,” he murmurs, his hand sliding from your thigh to your hip. His mouth seeks out yours as he positions the head of his cock at your entrance, meeting little resistance as he slowly begins pushing inside. Your walls part willingly for him and your lips do too—his questing tongue slipping inside when you moan and beginning his seemingly endless task of mapping out every corner of your mouth.

“God, I forgot how big you are,” you breathe when he bottoms out—the entirety of his hot, heavy length sheathed within your walls. Your head falls back against the tile as he rolls his hips experimentally, a moan that sounds vaguely like Jungkook’s name escaping your lips. Your arms come up to brace on his shoulders as he picks up his pace, but he intercepts one of your hands and twines your fingers together, settling them onto the wall just to the left of your head. His other hand returns to your thigh to keep you stable and spread out for his increasingly harsh thrusts, and you whimper helplessly in his ironclad grip.

“That’s it,” he whispers, groaning when you clench around him. “God, you’re so fucking tight, princess.”

“Fuck me open, then,” you moan back, squeezing his hand and meeting his next thrust with one of your own. Jungkook’s breathing stutters, and you laugh breathlessly at the way his mouth falls open at the spike of pleasure. Emboldened, you grind against him, the spray from the shower easing the movement. “Jungkook, please.”

He chuckles hoarsely. “Careful what you wish for,” he purrs against the shell of your ear, punctuating the warning with a harsh roll of his hips that sends all remaining thought flying out of your head. In this moment, there’s only Jungkook—his dark hair dampened and dripping, the spray from the showerhead slicking his chest and pooling in his clavicle before trailing down each ridge and dip of his honeyed skin. His lips find yours again, and you sigh into the kiss as he begins to fuck you in earnest.

“Hey, Jungkook! You in there?”

Your eyes fly open at the new voice, your body tensing when there are several loud bangs on the door. Jungkook freezes mid-thrust with an expression that can only be described as a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck, his throat bobbing nervously as he fights to find a response. You can practically see the gears whirring in his brain, and shove uselessly at his chest in an attempt to escape his steely embrace.

“That’s Jimin,” you hiss urgently, turning his face toward yours and prodding his cheek until his gaze refocuses. “What the fuck are we going to do?”

“Dude.” Jimin’s voice is laced with irritation. “I wanna brush my teeth! What the hell are you doing in there?”

Jungkook hesitates, glancing between you and the closed bathroom door. Then he inhales deeply, pressing a light kiss to your furrowed forehead before pulling the shower curtain closed, ensuring there are no gaps. “I got you,” he murmurs softly, his brown eyes boring into yours. “Don’t worry, okay?”

Your eyes flutter shut at the gentle pressure of his lips against your skin, but they fly open again when Jungkook breaks away and yells for Jimin to come in. Warm palms slide soothingly down your sides, but that doesn’t stop you from tensing up when the bathroom door creaks open, your brother’s soft footsteps approaching the flimsy palm tree patterned curtain.

“Have you been showering this whole time? Jeez. Leave some hot water for the rest of us, will you?”

Jungkook chuckles. Ever so slowly, he pushes forward until he’s fully seated inside you again, and you do your best to level a glare at him even as pleasure flares at the base of your spine. “There’s plenty to go around,” he says. “Relax.”

You get the distinct feeling that he’s not just addressing Jimin anymore. Jungkook pulls back until only the top of his cock remains nestled in your folds, and you open your mouth to berate him but all that comes out is a low moan when he sinks back inside you in one swift push.

On the other side of the curtain, you hear the faucet turn on. “Man, I can’t believe we leave tomorrow,” Jimin says over the sound of running water. “The weekend flew by.”

“Mmm,” Jungkook hums, brushing a thumb across your clit. The pace he’s set is slow and deep, and is made all the more sensual by the steam that’s steadily building up in the small room. You try once more to push him away—to quell the growing ache between your legs—but it’s all in vain as he chuckles softly into the crook of your neck, his bare shoulders quaking. “I got you, princess,” he murmurs, his voice a wicked little whisper that’s immediately lost in the spray of water. “Just let me take care of you, yeah?”

You don’t have a chance to answer. Jimin starts speaking again, this time accompanied by the sound of toothbrush bristles scrubbing against his teeth. “I’m starting up at the studio as soon as we get back—isn’t that crazy? I mean, I’ve never taught anyone how to dance before. Not really. Not for real.”

Jungkook snaps his hips up so sharply that you nearly mewl in surprise, forced to bite down into his meaty shoulder to muffle the noises that threaten to escape from your throat. “You’re a great tutor, man,” he says, his voice steady even as he resumes his slow, lazy thrusts, his cock dragging along your fluttering walls. “You’ve been helping people with math for, what, two years? What makes you think it’ll be any different with dancing?”

Jimin spits into the sink and sighs. “I don’t know. It’s scarier because there’ll be more people, I guess. Tutoring is one on one, y’know? And at the studio, I’ll have a full class of people watching me. Every single move I make, they’ll be looking at. That’s fucking terrifying to think about.”

Slowly, Jungkook’s hips still, his cock buried to the hilt in your cunt. Your heartbeat drums in your ears, backed by the relentless spray from the showerhead, and Jungkook leans down to plant a wet kiss on your cheek, his hair dripping.

“You’re a great dancer, Jimin,” he says once he’s pulled back and straightened back up to his full height. “Best one I know. You’re also one of the smartest people I know, but right now, you’re being really fucking dumb.”

There’s a clatter that sounds like a plastic toothbrush being dropped into the sink, and Jimin lets out an affronted squeak. “Hey!”

Jungkook just chuckles, his shoulders quaking. “It’s true,” he says easily. “Seriously, man. You don’t have a thing to worry about. You’re gonna kick ass out there, and your class is gonna be awesome. You’re already, what, almost maxed out on the number of registrants? You’re already killing it.”

Your brother lets out an unintelligible grumble on the other side of the shower curtain, but you can still hear the smile in his voice no matter how hard he tries to mask it. “All right, you fucking sap,” Jimin says at last, his soft footsteps padding toward the door. “Hurry up and get out of there, yeah? You’re really gonna use up all the hot water.”

The door clicks shut behind him, and you immediately smack Jungkook in the middle of his stupidly toned chest. “Oh my god!” you hiss. “Are you kidding me right now, Jeon? We could’ve been caught!”

“But we weren’t,” Jungkook replies easily, shaking his dampened hair out of his face and fixing you with an indolent little smirk. “So why don’t you be a good girl and cum for me now?”

///

The next morning brings with it a whirlwind of frenzied packing, and you mentally congratulate yourself for preemptively gathering all of your belongings together last night. Minho is wandering every last inch of the house with a piece of half-eaten toast dangling from his mouth, and you can hear Taehyung in the distance asking if anyone’s seen his strawberry body wash. Jungkook is seated on the floor near the front door, his brows furrowed and his lower lip jutting out in a pout as he fights to close the zipper of his suitcase.

“Got it!” he exclaims after a few seconds, triumphant. “Where’s your stuff, Noona? I’m gonna load the car.”

You begin to stand up from your spot on the couch. “It’s in my room, let me go get—”

Jungkook is on his feet and halfway down the hall before you can even finish your sentence. He returns a moment later with your luggage in tow, shooting you a grin and a wink as he passes by. “I got you, princess,” he murmurs. “Remember?”

Of course you do. You remember like it was yesterday—because, well, it was yesterday and you haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since. You remember the moment you shared at the beach and the way his hand felt so right wrapped around your own. You remember the way you’d dropped to your knees for him so readily in the shower last night. And you definitely remember the way he’d fucked you afterward—slow and deep in the best possible way, even with your brother’s untimely interruption.

After what feels like an eternity, both cars are finally packed and ready to go. You bid goodbye to the boys who are riding with Jimin, promising to stay in touch, before climbing into the passenger seat of Jungkook’s beat-up sedan. Jungkook himself is already lounging behind the wheel, his sunglasses perched low on his nose as he fiddles with his phone. He looks up at your entrance and flashes you a smile, tapping his screen a few more times before holding it up so you can see.

“I changed your contact photo,” he says. “Like it?”

You peer at his phone, and something in your chest clenches when you see the photo he’s selected. You’re on the beach beside the volleyball net, illuminated by the setting sun. The sky is streaked through with pink and orange behind you, but through some editing magic, Jungkook has made it so that you are glowing even brighter in the foreground—with laughter etched across your face and the wind in your hair. It’s a beautiful photograph, and you tell him so, unable to contain the dangerously warm affection blossoming in your chest.

“I love it,” you say. “I usually don’t like having my photo taken, but wow. You have a talent for this.”

Jungkook’s smile grows. “I have a pretty muse,” he replies, and your cheeks warm.

The door to the backseat opens with a bang, and you nearly jump out of your skin at the sudden sound. “Yo,” Yugyeom says, plopping down and buckling his seatbelt. “We ready to roll?”

Jungkook scowls and puts his phone back into his pocket. “Careful with the door, man. I need this thing to last through the summer.”

Yugyeom puts his hands up in apology, and Jungkook turns back to face the front, starting the ignition with a flick of his wrist. The engine sputters to life, and Jungkook waits for Jimin to pull out first before following after him, tailing the van out of the driveway and onto the winding road that will take you back into the city.

“Music?” you ask, gesturing at the stereo.

“Go for it,” Jungkook replies. “You want my phone so you can put on the roadtrip mix?”

“Sure.”

With the help of the upbeat music and Jungkook’s tendency to drive just a touch over the speed limit, you make it to the winding roads of Yugyeom’s neighborhood in what must be record time. “You missed the turn,” Yugyeom says lazily from where he’s sprawled across the entire backseat. “Turn left here—we can circle around and approach from the other side.”

Two more turns and a descent down a steep hill later, Jungkook manages to successfully drop Yugyeom off at his house. The drive across town takes no time at all, and before long, you’re cruising into your neighborhood, coasting past Jungkook’s driveway and straight into yours.

“Looks like we beat Jimin back,” you remark, looking at the empty spot where the van usually sits.

Jungkook hums. “Makes sense. He has more people to drop off.”

“Mm. Yeah.”

The sudden awkwardness that falls doesn’t go unnoticed by you. Clearing your throat, you reach for your purse, grabbing it from where it’s fallen to the ground near your feet. “I guess I’ll see you around then,” you begin, turning to open the door.

A strong hand wraps around your wrist, forcing you back into your seat. “Is that it?” Jungkook asks, and there’s an edge of something you can’t quite place in his voice. “Are you gonna go back to pretending like there’s nothing between us?”

You shake him free. “There isn’t anything between us,” you whisper. “We’re not on vacation anymore, Jungkook. We’re back home. Back to real life. We can’t do—whatever it is that we’ve been doing.”

“But you’re attracted to me,” Jungkook growls. “You like me. So why do you keep running away?”

A sigh escapes you. “Jungkook, it doesn’t matter if I like you or no—”

He interrupts before you can even finish your sentence. “Yes it does. It’s the only thing that matters.” And then he’s pulling you into his chest, taking advantage of your skewed sense of balance, and crushing his mouth to yours.

This kiss is different from the others you’ve shared so far. It’s hungry and passionate, and yet it’s tinged with something else—something that feels strangely akin to desperation. Jungkook kisses you with urgency, and it’s so raw and unbridled that it steals the very breath from your lungs and leaves you lightheaded.

Jungkook doesn’t say a word when he pulls away. Instead, he reaches down, popping the handle that opens the trunk and stepping out to pull your suitcase from within. Silently, he presses the handle into your hand.

And then he’s turning—climbing back into his car and leaving you with nothing but the memory of his lips and a whirlwind of thoughts in your mind.

#bangtanarmynet #jungkook #jungkook smut #jungkook x reader #jungkook scenarios #bts smut #bts scenarios #bts fanfic #bts fic #bts fanfiction #jeon jungkook #bts #lia writes

[angryschnauzer]

Have we taken a moment to consider priest!Cavill? Because that's been at the forefront of mind and it WONT FREAKIN LEAVE

Listen here you, Priest Cavill has not only been considered, but he makes my athiest ass want to sin in the worst ways because IDGAF. The high collar in the Enola Holmes trailer was the final straw.

-

Forgive Me Father For I Have Sinned

Warnings: Smut. Oral. A little bit of Daddy use. The slightest of hints towards murder.

The screen door swung on its rusty hinges, creaking in the wind. You added it to the list of things you would need to look at now that the place was yours.

Your stepfathers funeral had been a token effort, tacked onto Sunday Mass, Father Cavill briefly mentioning things like ‘vengance’, ‘paying for your sins’, and ‘retribution’ in his sermon, and when the collection plate had been passed around and had said the collection would be going to the deceased’s family, the contributions were almost triple what they normally were. No-one was sad to see the passing of your stepfather. No-one had questioned how the mean drunk had fallen into the old sawmill in barn. No-one had mentioned how his shoulder had remained intact and yet held buckshot. 

Back in your kitchen you dropped the heavy envelope of cash from the church onto the counter, pulling the mason jar of corn whiskey from the back of the cupboard and pouring three fingers into a glass. The sound of the screen door springs straining made you turn, your face neutral as you saw Father Cavill at your door;

“May i come in?”

“If you want”

You tried to be nonchalant, but the man looked as far from a Priest should as humanly possible. His frame filled the doorway, shoulders and chest filling out his dark shirt to the point the fabric was screaming for mercy. Your eyes unashamedly trailed down his body, taking in how the rough tweed stretched around his thighs and left little to the imagination at to what worldly delights he packed in the front. No man of god should look that sinful.

“Wanna drink Father?”

You were pouring it before he even answered, turning to pass him the glass and surprised to see he had silently crossed the room and was standing right behind you. A little of the whiskey splashed over the side of the glass, wetting your hand, and as he took the glass you looked up at him as you sucked the clear liquid from your fingers one by one.

“You didn’t take communion or stay for confession...”

Looking him square in the eye you sipped your drink;

“I have nothing to confess, and i will not take a piece of leaven bread in place of the real thing”

Father Cavill cocked an eyebrow, stepping just a little closer and you dropped to your knees. He ran his thumb over your lips, letting out a small gasp as you opened your mouth and sucked it into your mouth. Your hands lay flat against his thighs, feeling the heat of his body through the rough tweed, before your nimble fingers made quick work of his fastening and it was your turn to be surprised when you saw he was bare beneath. 

He pulled his thumb from your mouth and you immediately took his hardening length between your plump lips, your tongue working over the hot and salty skin. With one hand he held your jaw as he started to work more of himself into your mouth, with the other he made the sign of the cross on your forehead with his thumb, still wet from your mouth. 

You raked your nails down the hard muscles of his thighs, your eyes watering as he rocked his hips back and forth to fuck your mouth, his head thrown back and his mouth open, his bright white teeth shining in the afternoon sunshine that filtered in through the window.

With a gasp he suddenly pulled out, a trail of spit hanging from your mouth to the angry red tip. His breaths were short;

“That’s the communion... now for your confession...”

He pulled you to your feel, his lips smashing against yours as he kissed you fiercely, his tongue pushing into your mouth which you eagerly allowed. As he broke away you let out a needy whine, but his strong grip was turning you and pushing you over the kitchen table. Flipping the skirt of your dress up he let out a grunt when he saw he was not the only one without underwear, the soft petals of your heat enticing him closer;

“Say it...”

“Sorry Daddy, i’ve been a bad girl...”

He grunted;

“Close enough...”

He thrust forward and filled you to the hilt, your walls stretching around him. You took all that he could give you, fucking you so hard from behind that the table started to squeak on the old floor tiles as it would shift with each powerful thrust. He was splitting you open and you only wanted more, his large hand coming down on your bare ass and the smack of skin against skin joining the carnal sounds that filled the room, the pain and pleasure mixing in your mind as tears rolled down your cheeks, the cathartic release you needed was coming. With another smack of his hand you came, crying out to god as your body trembled around him before with a shout he thrust forward and came deep inside you, his thick seed filling your womb.

The house fell silent as he held himself within your aching body, just the sound of your breaths could be heard... until there were voices and the sound of footsteps on the path from the road. In one fluid motion he pulled out and flipped your skirts down, tucking himself back into his pants just as Mrs Henderson appeared at the screen door, waving through it as she held up a pie dish. She didn’t wait for an invitation, instead entering with the confience of a woman in her later years;

“Oh my dear... there’s no reason to get upset” she set the pie dish on the table and with her gloved hand wiped the tears that were still on your cheeks; “That stepdaddy of yours was a bad-un...”

She saw Father Cavill standing in the corner of the kitchen, leaning against the counter as he sipped on his drink and smiled at him;

“Oh Father, i am so pleased to see you are here to comfort this tender young woman...” she glanced at you as she held your face in her hands; “Let the Father comfort you in your time of need”

You nodded;

“Yes Mrs Henderson... thank you. And thank you for the pie”

She turned and smiled before made for the door;

“Its Cherry. This years crop are so sweet and delicious, i had to stop myself from licking the juice from my fingers as i was making it” she chuckled before with a single wave let herself out.

You felt the heat of his body as he stood behind you, the pie in one hand as you turned, and you watched as he dipped his finger into the crust, the sticky red filling covering it before he brought it to his mouth, a devilish grin on his face.

For a man of god he sure did know how to sin.

#henry cavill #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill x you #henry cavill smut #Priest!Henry Cavill

[themanip]

alternate routes • kth | teaser

࿏

pairing: oc x taehyung rating: m warnings: graphic descriptions of past (unprotected) sex, tae being kinda judgy, big dick!tae, him not understanding vaginas don’t actually stretch, and dom!tae, blonde!tae in flashback, spitting, brief descriptions of breath play + choking, yknow the whole works

also taehyung does have slight character development dw :)

synopsis:

⇥ how do you go throughout life? well, you find someone you like. get to know them. start dating. break up a few times, get back together. get married. have some kids. die old. typical. fucking in a back room of an awards show, not once, but twice as complete strangers, was definitely not how most relationships start out.

࿏

Realisticially, Taehyung didn’t think much of her. He was a nice guy, and didn’t want to make assumptions, but she wasn’t anything unique. The few conversations they’d had, from his best guess, she was bland and relied on the world around her to shape her personality. He hated that. Be your own person, at the very least. 

He thought she was beyond attractive—don’t get him wrong—but a pretty bow on top of a garbage bag doesn’t fix it. He hated the comparison, but honestly most of his occasional hookups at least attempted to show themselves. With her, it was fuck and go. She was flirty, and hot. To Taehyung, she seemed like another bland American artist with a decent voice and good genetics. She was marketable, and that’s mostly what she could attribute her success to. 

He couldn’t talk, but judging by No More Dream and their looks back then, marketable wasn’t a word to describe BTS at debut. As he thought back to their first encounter, he realized how incredibly she fit the mold for American girls. Playing on stereotypes, the tone deaf, blonde, overly eager young girl is her exact embodiment. But God, was it the best lay of his life. 

He’s had any girl he’s wanted, he’s had relationships with really, really good sex. But none of it amounted. He kind of hated it, the one girl who had the personality of a rusty spoon was the best fuck of his life.

Taehyung wasn’t super tall, but compared to her, he towered. The entire performance in that little costume, it had his mind running wild. He knew his ass was going to be chewed out by his manager for fucking a random member of a girlgroup, but he couldn’t help it. She had such soft lips, the way he could easily take her mouth. The way he could take her, and she just let him. In fact, she insisted. 

Looking back, Taehyung remembers how tight she was. God, for someone as hot as she was, she felt as if she’d never been fucked in her life. At first, he thought he hurt her, the way she held his chest and clutched his shirt. He was right, but she just grinned and told him to fuck her harder. Taehyung did not mind this, and he was sure he left bruises on her.

With her back on the dressing room wall, he pummeled into her. Sweat clouded her forehead, and she smelled like earth and champagne badly mixed. He couldn’t imagine smelling decent after a full choreo on stage, so to his surprise, she now was starting to smell like sex.

Her moans were so soft, melancholic. She had the voice of an angel, and he loved to hear it. It wasn’t until she grabbed his long, ring covered fingers, and placed them around her neck. He was never one to get into choking, but having her under him like this, it turned him on so much more. 

The way he pounded into her—so mercilessly, so messily—and so bare. He could feel everything. It was just skin to skin, and his grunts so animalistic in her ear. Her moans were cut short, whenever he hit a hilt inside of her, feeling so good, he would clench around her throat. 

He loved how her nails would rake over his scalp, and when she would moan just a little too loud, Taehyung would kiss her. He would swallow her moans greedily, and would hum in pride when he would hit a that spot inside of her tight hole.  

To top it off, Taehyung, to his own surprise, tried something new. Her mouth was open just too often for his comfort, so he took the liberty of spitting in her mouth. She was taken back, but a small grin took over as she swallowed it. 

When it was all almost over, when Taehyung came to the realization that he was bare, and about to spurt warm cum inside of her, he panicked. “Where—” He was cut off by her whispering in Korean into his neck in hot moans, his hands at her hips to help piston into her.  “Wherever you want, I’m on the pill,”

When he heard her speak in Korean so maliciously, he was so fucked out, he just spilled inside of her. Feeling his hot spurts fill her insides, he realized he finished before she did. As he let her down from being pinned against the wall, the sight of his cum nearly dripping out of her, he became more bothered. 

As he went limp, he went to ask what she wanted, and by that time, she was already pulling her pants up. He was not the type to leave a woman high and, well not so much dry, but he wanted her to finish. It was only fair. 

“No worries,” she muttered, smiling. Taehyung felt embarassed, usually he made sure his partner came before he did, but he was with a random girl. One he’d probably never see again. Still, his ego was hurt that he was a pump and dump and she didn’t cum. 

He went to respond, and as she threw a hoodie over her head, he noticed how actually fucked she look. Her once up hair was now down in fluffs, her makeup smeared, and he could see the indents of his ring on her neck just a hint. 

“Just make it up to me next time, Kim Taehyung.”

He thought that there would be no next time, but he was proven wrong once again. And he was determined to change the way things had ended last time. Only, it was a year and a half later. 

#kim taehyung #taehyung smut #taehyung fluff #bts smut #bts fluff #bts fanfic #kth #kth smut #kth fluff #kth angst

[babybluebex]

fine line [arvin russell x reader]

➽ pairing: arvin russell x fem!reader(y/n) ➽ word count: 2.6k ➽ summary: desperados pt.2! you and arvin deal with the emotional fallout of your crimes, and you plan on how to move forward.   ➽ warnings: explicit language, mentions of violence ➽ a/n: enjoy!

The sun was just rising over the Ohio hills when I woke up. My mind immediately began to whir with the memories of last night, and my stomach turned when I remembered exactly what had happened. Arvin had killed the pastor. We had absconded from Coal Creek and come to rest in Knockemstiff, Ohio. Arvin had parked us on an empty stretch of road to rest for a few hours before we finished what we needed to do, and, by the looks of the golden sunlight, we had slept for a little more than a few hours.

Arvin and I were snug in the backseat, his strong arms secure around me. It felt good to have him holding me after the events of the night before, which kept repeating in my head every few seconds. The crack of the gun and the accompanying shattering of Preston Teagardin’s skull, and my screaming. Good lord, did I scream. My throat still hurt from it. I knew that Arvin was as damaged as I was. He would never admit to a single soul, probably not even to me, that what he had done bothered him, but, as I lay in his arms and listened to his even and sleepy breathing, I heard little mumbles on exhales. Some of the words were unintelligible, but some were clear. My name, Teagardin’s name, and sometimes even “gun”. 

Then, after a few minutes of quiet, Arvin scared himself awake with a mighty shout. His eyes were wide, his irises the darkest brown, and his mouth was open as he gulped down air. Immediately, I jumped into action, and I pressed my hand to his chest and my lips to his ear. “Hush, my love,” I whispered sweetly, carefully rubbing his collarbones and pectorals. “You’re alright. You’re fine, love.” 

Arvin was breathing so heavily and his heart was beating so quickly; it reminded me of when my daddy had a heart attack when I was little. It terrified me. “Arv, look at me now,” I said quickly and tugged his chin to force him to look at me. “You’re alright. I am too. We’re fine. Look at me. We’re alright.” 

Arvin passed his hand under his nose with a sniffle, and he stretched himself to look out the window. “Where’re we?” he mumbled, his voice low and rough. 

“We’re in Knockemstiff, my love,” I told him. “You said you wanted to come here… To bury your dog, I think? And then you said we’d start over somewhere else.” 

Arvin nodded, as if remembering what all he had said. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Yeah, you’re right. I do… But I… Goddamn it.” 

“But you what?” I asked. 

“I don’t even know if Jack-dog’s still there,” Arvin mumbled under his breath. He sat up fully and cleared his throat, and he wrenched the car door open. He swung his legs out of the car and sighed, and the weight of the entire world settled on his shoulders. “Fuck. Fuck me, fuck all’a this!” 

I knew that there wasn’t much that Arvin would let me do to help calm him down, so I extended my hand to him and pushed the curling strands of long hair at his nape off of his neck. It was the ultimate least that I could do. I was quiet, just listening for anything that Arvin might whisper to me, and I finally heard the catch of his breath deep in his throat. 

As much as I hated it, I knew this sound. It haunted me like a ghost, even though I had only heard it once before. It was the middle of the afternoon and I was reading on my front porch, and the old rusty burgandy Chevy had rattled up into our front yard. Arvin got out and looked at me for a second, his lips pressed into a thin line and his eyes red and puffy, and I had whispered, “Arv, what’s wrong? S’it Emma?” 

Then, he had thrown his arms around me and buried his face in my neck, and his breath caught in his throat just as it did in the car. Then, he cried. They were painful sobs, tearing his throat apart and shivering down his spine. It was the most awful thing I had ever heard. A dying animal, choking and trying to die in peace, hoping for a quick death. A part of Arvin had died with Lenora. 

Instantly, from my place behind him, my arms went around his waist and I held him as he folded and cried. I wasn’t sure exactly why he was crying; did he regret what he had done? He was probably overwhelmed and emotionally raw. Scratch that, I knew he was. And there was fuck-all I could do about it. I could only hold onto him and press my cheek into his back and pray to God that we would end up alright. The police had probably already found Preston’s body. They probably had found it last night and were still scrambling to find the sick person who could have killed a man of the cloth. 

“Arv--” I began, but his hand on mine stopped me. 

“You don’t gotta say nothing,” Arvin whispered, his voice cracking and breaking. “Please don’t say anything right now. Just…” He paused to wipe his nose dry, and he said, “Let’s get going. The sooner we get outta here, the better.”

I agreed that that idea was good, but the 1951 Chevy had other ideas. Arvin turned the key and it sputtered out its last breath before there was a crack like a gunshot, and the engine rattled to a quiet death. His car had done this once before a few months ago and it had taken a mechanic from nearby St. Albans to bring it back from the dead, but no such Frankensteinian event could ever take place between just me and Arvin. 

I could feel his anger radiating off of him, and it made me feel sick. “What now?” I mumbled. 

Arvin was quiet for a moment, then he mumbled, “We gotta hitchhike into town.” 

“Arvin, seriously?” 

“Well, what the fuck do you want from me, huh?” Arvin snapped. “The goddamn car’s broken and I can’t fix it and I bet you can’t either! We gotta get into town so I can bury my goddamn dog, and then we can figure out the car bullshit from there!” 

“Arv, what’s so special about this dog?” I asked. “I mean, you haven’t lived here in years. Do you really think there’s anything left to bury?” 

“I do,” Arvin huffed. “There’s gotta be. I need for there to be somethin’, anything there.”

“Arvin, this isn’t about your dog, is it?” I asked softly. 

“It is, Y/N,” Arvin said. “It is. See, I… Fuck. I don’t wanna tell you this.” 

“Then don’t.”

“No!” Arvin shouted. “I gotta! Or else you-- You need to know. I wanna marry you and I don’t want you not knowing.” 

There was too much to unpack in that statement, so I decided to unwind it piece by piece. “Not knowing what?” 

Arvin sighed, and he leaned over to me. His tanned hands hesitated over my legs for a moment, then he pressed his head into my chest, right under my chin. My hand instinctively went to his hair, raking it up and off of his forehead, something my mom used to do when I was sick. It was the smallest comfort in the world, but I knew that Arvin needed it. 

“I was about seven,” Arvin began, whispering into my skin. “My momma got really sick. She had cancer, the kind that shows up and takes ya within a year. My dad had always been a little… He was over in Japan during the war and it messed him up, I think. Emma used to tell me stories about my daddy when he was my age and he wasn’t the same man I knew. But my daddy was real religious, just like Emma is. He built this cross out in the forest behind our house and prayed there every single day; sometimes more than once. When Momma got sick, he started taking me out there. Don’t matter if it was raining or hailing or sweltering, we’d be out by that log, praying for hours. If I wasn’t doing it loud enough, he’d hit me and tell me to do it louder. He’d ask if I wanted my momma to get better and that I’d better pray loud enough for the lord to hear me if I wanted Him to answer my prayers. Eventually, Daddy got the idea that some sorta… Sacrifice… Would make the lord hear our prayers, so he--” 

I titled Arvin’s head up to look at me, swiped away the tears that were gathering at the corner of his lips, and I shook my head. I could tell where the story was going, and he didn’t need to finish it. He nuzzled his face into my hand, his eyes squeezing shut, and he said, “I mean it, ya know?” 

“Mean what, Arv?” I whispered, kissing his hair. 

“I wanna marry you,” Arvin said. “I’ve wanted that for a long time and… We’ll go across the country, to Washington or Oregon or whichever has the best ocean. We’ll get new names and we’ll get married and we can forget all of this shit. I’ll give you the life you deserve, baby, I swear.” 

“I don’t deserve no goddamn good life,” I said, blinking away my tears. “I don’t even deserve you.” 

“Don’t you start with that,” Arvin said. “Yes, you do. You deserve nothing but a good life, a great life. You… You had that all until last night. I-I can take you back.” He sat up suddenly and wiped his face with his fingers. “Let me take you home and you can blame me, you can say I fuckin’ kidnapped you--” 

“Arvin, babe, please!” I cried. “I don’t want that! I want you! Let’s do what you said, let’s go to the coast! Let’s get married! I just need to be away from everything I’ve ever known and-- Shit, Arvin, I love you and I ain’t going nowhere. I’m with you, Arv. I swear.” 

Arvin stopped his frantic fidgeting, and he looked at me. His eyes were blown wide and rimmed with red, and he finally took a deep breath. “Let’s--” he whispered. “Let’s go, then. Let’s start walking.” 

We managed to secure a motel room in town. It was quiet and a little dusty, and the air smelled like mildew, but it meant so much to me and Arvin. It was a new beginning, renewed hope. We would leave, and we could forget all about Teagardin. 

Arvin left to do his business with his dog and, when he came back, the sun had dipped below the horizon. I was in the bathtub, attempting to soak away the past twenty-four hours, and I hardly noticed that Arvin was even back until his frame came to linger in the doorway. His hair had gone curly from the summer humidity, and it hung in his eyes as he watched me move to rest my arms on the side of the yellow ceramic bathtub. His eyes were dark. There was something there that wasn’t before. I knew that it wasn’t anything bad, but I wasn’t sure it was good either. 

“How’re you?” Arvin asked quietly.

I shrugged and rested my cheek against the cool side of the tub. “Just having a soak,” I mumbled. “How did everything go out there?” 

It was Arvin’s turn to shrug. “Got it done,” he said. “Ran into a sheriff man on my way back.” 

“Really?” I asked. “What happened?” 

“He just asked why I was walking,” Arvin said. “Said I was doing somethin’ up at my old house. And…” He shook his head a little and laughed. “It was the same sheriff who helped me when my daddy died. ‘Course, he’s a couple years older now but I recognized his name. I don’t know if he recognized me, though. Anyway…” 

I extended my hand towards him, and he came to me. His strong hand grabbed mine, and he settled himself on the floor next to the bathtub. Arvin’s hands were dirty, soil stuck beneath his fingernails and in the lines on his palm, and I dragged his hand into the water and began to clean him off. “How about we turn in early tonight,” I started quietly. “And get a head start tomorrow? We can hitchhike our way across the country.” 

Arvin nodded. “I’d like that,” he whispered. Then, a few moments later, he added, “Do you want kids?” 

I had to think for a minute. Generally, yes, I did. But I wasn’t sure I wanted them with Arvin. Not because I thought Arvin would be a bad father, because I knew that he wouldn’t be, but because I didn’t know for sure if he wanted them. I finally nodded. “Sure,” I said. “I always felt like I was made to be a mama, ya know? How about you?” 

“I do,” Arvin said. “But I’m scared as hell. I don’t wanna be my daddy. The way he treated me, I don’t want my baby to deal with that.”

“But you won’t be like your daddy,” I said, and I exchanged his hands in the water. “Because you can recognize what your daddy did wrong, and you can make sure you don’t do that. I don’t think there’s such a thing as perfect parents, I think everybody’s parents screw up somehow, but that’s all we can do, is try and be good.”

Arvin nodded, only just acknowledging that I had said anything to him. He slumped down further than before and rested his head on the edge of the tub, and I used a wet hand to brush his hair away from his eyes. I had always loved Arvin’s eyes. It was one of the first things I noticed about him on that bus back in seventh grade. Beautiful, I called them, even though he always scoffed at me. “They’re brown,” he mumbled. “What’s so special about brown?” 

My internal monologue forced me to take Arvin’s face in my hands and kiss his eyes gently. I felt my lips damped with tears that he had been trying so hard to hold back, and, when I pulled away, the crystals clung to his eyelashes. “We’ll be alright,” I told him. “We’ll be alright.” 

The water had run cold by the time Arvin took a deep breath and sat himself up. “I wanna carry you to bed,” he told me as I pulled the drain. “Kiss ya, hold ya, like a man oughta treat his wife, ya know?” 

“We ain’t even married yet,” I laughed. 

“Well, then, I’d say I have a head start,” Arvin told me with a playful smile. 

He wrapped me in a towel and picked me up easily, and he moved my legs to hook around his waist. I was so acutely aware of how close to him I was and the way that the rough denim of his jeans rubbed into my thigh and cunt, but I didn’t care all that much. Arvin was gentle as he put me down on the bed, and he did good on his promise to kiss me and hold me. He kissed me like it was his dying wish, and his hands felt my body as if he revered it. His hands, strong and tough from work, grasped my legs, and he slotted himself easily between them. The smell and feel of him was so comforting, just like last night, and I loved it. “I love you,” I whispered. 

“I love you so fucking much,” Arvin snuffled into my neck. “So much, darlin’. We’ll get our happy ending, I know it.” 

“We won’t get it,” I said. “We already have it.” 

#arvin russell #tom holland #the devil all the time #tdatt #fanfiction #arvin russell x reader #arvin russell x y/n #arvin russell fluff #arvin russell angst #tom holland x reader #tom holland x y/n #tom holland fanfiction #yes this is named after a harry song lmao #i feel like the mood fits it yknow