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bonvoyagenoona · 2 years

Text

blackout | jjk

Pairings: Jungkook x female reader

Rating: 18+ | Mature | Explicit

Word Count: 16k | read on ao3

Synopsis: You’ve just been laid off, and all you want to do is eat some dinner, curl into bed, and forget. Unfortunately, the neighborhood block party is tonight, and the festivities turn downright chaotic when the entire city loses power. Don’t fret, though. Jungkook will help take your mind off things for a while.

Genres | Content Warnings | Themes: Strangers to lovers, FLUFF with a capital FLUFF, Yugyeom makes an appearance, humor, comfort, smut (starts out with sweet, vanilla sex and masturbation, turns into biting, hickeys, fingering, oral sex [female receiving, male receiving], edging, protected vaginal sex, playful spanking, overstimulation, spitting), drinking / drinking games, drug use (weed edibles).

Preview:

Eyes wet with steaming, streaming tears, you let the bodies push you back.

Back to the elevator.

Back down to the lobby.

And back to the curb outside.

Where he looks up and finds your twisted, nauseated expression.

“Hey,” he says softly.

You didn’t see him when you stepped back onto the sidewalk. Even now, you only see him in parts.

Bent fingers clutch his hoodie’s drawstring, pulling left, then right. The denim of the jacket over it shifts slightly as he does. Full lips rest against each other lightly, an interrupted, absent-minded whistle reforming into more words.

“You dropped something.”

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Thanks and hope you enjoy!

What makes a good manager? Empathy? Organization? Know-how? Whatever mix of qualities, are they innate, or does it come from steadily and patiently rising through the ranks with your allies? Are good leaders born or made?

You don’t think you’ll ever be sure of what makes a good manager. But what you are definitely sure about is what makes a bad manager.

Bad managers are the type of people who, when given a choice, elect to have you come in for your office job all week for your usual 8 to 5, and wait until Friday afternoon to inform you that you have been let go, even though they got the call from leadership on Monday morning.

You grumble as you shift your cardboard box of belongings to your other arm in order to make the last leg of your journey, every single one of your pores emptying twenty-fold their volume into the fibers of your polyester blend. Couldn’t you have been sacked in the fall? On top of having an additional couple of months to figure your shit out, you wouldn’t be drenched.

It’s 7 by the time you’re stomping around the corner to your block. There’s a family-sized bag of pita chips, a pail of hummus, and an edible patiently waiting for you.

If only there weren’t so many people blocking the way to your door.

Crumpled ghosts of flyers float past you. Their sans-serif font and centered alignment. The drawing of an old-school boombox with music spilling out of it. The date. The goddamned time.

“Fuck,” you sigh, unable to hear even yourself under millennial R&B samples carrying Gen Z slang.

Shoulders slumping, you try to trudge through the crowd that doesn’t part, draining energy quickly by the time you make your sixth and seventh attempt, even using the sharp corners of your box to try to snowplow your way through the increasingly drunken bodies that won’t feel any pain until the morning.

Eyes wet with steaming, streaming tears, you let the bodies push you back.

Back to the elevator.

Back down to the lobby.

And back to the curb outside.

Where he looks up and finds your twisted, nauseated expression.

“Hey,” he says softly.

You didn’t see him when you stepped back onto the sidewalk. Even now, you only see him in parts.

“You dropped something.”

The Hulk bobblehead, given to you in celebration of getting this job in the first place, proves to be more lasting than your presence in the office.

When you see it in a puddle by your feet, your heart sinks a little.

And, ever-so-slightly, so does the box in your grip, as you jostle around to allow yourself to reach down and pick it up.

Before you can, though, bent fingers have let go of the drawstring and curl around The Hulk’s head instead. Green abs and purple shorts wiggle from its spring, despite what seems to be The Hulk’s unrelenting protest.

You look up at the owner of those bent fingers, form crouched in front of you, still only able to perceive him in parts. Four wrinkles at the bridge of his nose. An amused smirk.

“Ha ha!”

He studies The Hulk’s face, and his right brow falls into a slanted line in perfect mimicry.

“Raaawwrrr!”

The Hulk’s body wiggles violently as bent fingers shake him back and forth.

“HULK SMAAAASH!”

You don’t mean to smile.

His smile is about to meet you too, but his eyes start to take up more space, widening at the sight of slightly shiny lines on your cheeks, carving your skin out like flowing rivers cutting through sienna rock.

“Hey! It’s OK!”

A sleeve rises into view. It moves in quick, small motions, back and forth.

“Just gotta c-clean him up a little here and—”

The Hulk suddenly grows ten times in size, now dangling on its spring, right in front of your face.

“See?? N-no harm done!!”

You sniffle.

Bent fingers gently set The Hulk back into the box, in a gap between your empty, gray mesh pen cup and your prized, powder blue stapler.

You sniffle again.

You love stapling.

So final, so sure, that satisfying, crisp metal crunch!

You think you hear that crunch as this stranger’s bright eyes are putting it all together.

As are you, bits and pieces of this stranger now stitching together into a concerned but welcoming face, much too kind, and dangerously easy to open up to. Especially for someone in your state.

Your fingers dig into your cardboard box.

“Thanks,” you say, relieved that your voice sounds so steady.

He lifts his eyes from the powder blue stapler and watches as you lift your upper arm to your right cheek.

You dab your tears.

You frown at the sight of black streaks on your blouse.

And then you startle at the feel of denim against your left cheek.

You watch as this stranger takes a step back.

The fact that he doesn’t seem to notice or care about the black streaks on his sleeve makes you care less about the black streaks on yours.

You feel a little lighter. From what it looks like, about three wisps of Pat McGrath FetishEyes lighter.

“Sorry,” he says, “I just—”

“No, that was… that was nice of you,” you say, starting to become impressed at just how steady your voice is. “Thank you.”

He nods. “Can I help you with anything else?” He holds his hands out a little, wrists coming out of his sleeves. “Take that box for you?”

“I’m good,” you say.

He’s kind for softening his doubtful look, but his head tilt gives his thoughts away.

“Really,” you insist.

And you insist to yourself that you really don’t mean to smile. You’re surprised that you do.

He mirrors it, his eyes following his lips, which follow yours, copying perfectly the slightly sad pout that you’re too aware that you’re making, and that tells him that his head tilt is absolutely warranted.

“If you say so.”

Your smile fades a little as you look back down to the box, still in your grip, resting against your stomach.

You look back up and watch as he curiously peruses the box’s content.

“What is all this stuff?” he asks.

You look back over at the crowd now spilling out of your apartment building.

“Um…”

Your brain is moving too fast, keeping you from being able to expand on the complexity of the matter. The words settling in the back of your throat are reduced to grade school-level syntax that matches the grade school-level emotions that you’re trying to hold at bay.

This is all Desk Stuff.

Desk Stuff belongs on a Desk.

But you no longer have a Desk.

You no longer even have an Office.

Or a Job.

And all you seem to be able to do about it, at least, for right now, is cry.

“Just… stuff.”

How is your voice still so steady when your stomach and chest are churning and burning, flip-flopping positions in your body in an attempt to escape this disaster?

To escape you?

He seems to realize now. There’s even a hint of — ugh — pity in his eyes.

You want to explain that you’re stronger than this. It’s just that your Job, and your Office, and your Desk were so rare. Beautifully, wonderfully, hilariously rare. Just like your powder blue stapler is rare, and it’s even rarer to see it not at the ready under a mix of sunlight and fluorescent lighting but settled against hastily packed bits and bobs in a box open to the night air.

“You need to keep any of it?” he asks.

The realization feels weirdly cold in your chest. “No,” you say.

“You want to keep any of it?”

You shrug.

His head straightens suddenly.

“Not even The Hulk??”

He looks so excited.

You really, really don’t mean to smile. You’re surprised that you do. That you still can.

You even chuckle, softly, three tiny stops and starts of that steady, warm voice.

“Why? You want him?”

“Well, y-yeah — he’s The Hulk!!”

You hold the box out and up to him.

“Take him, then. Give him a nice home.”

Bent fingers wrap around The Hulk’s head. He lifts The Hulk out of the box and places it into the left chest pocket of his denim jacket, patting it caringly, for safekeeping.

The Hulk’s eyes peek out at you over the lip.

“Now you pick something,” he tells you.

You look up from The Hulk’s eyes and stare questioningly into the eyes of this alarmingly kind stranger.

“You wanna keep at least one thing, right?” he asks. He peeks back down into the box. “Anything important? Or, just, y’know.” He looks back at you. “Special?”

You think again of the satisfying crunch of metal.

And then you smile down at your powder blue stapler.

You hug the box against your chest with one arm and pull the stapler out with your free hand.

He smiles again, and claps his hands with glee.

The Hulk nods.

And, as you nod back, you catch a glimpse of the alleyway.

Your gaze settles on the too-bright blue paint sadly used for something as putrid as a dumpster.

Your feet take you there, and they, along with your calves, and thighs, and arms, and shoulders, and back, thank you immensely as you toss all the rest inside.

That box looks so small now, amongst everything else. The longer you stare at it, you can’t even really see it anymore, as it gets lost in so many things that also don’t matter.

With your arms free, you get the impulse to pull your phone from your back pocket. But you don’t want to see the flurry of messages that are probably waiting for you.

Instead, you turn and walk back to the curb, where he is still standing and watching you.

Your feet take you back to him, arm at your side, the stapler fold hanging off your finger, its handle and base taking turns swinging as you walk, powder blue grazing the side of your polyester-covered thigh.

You stand in front of him, feeling so much lighter.

“Uh, thanks,” you say. “Again.”

He smiles.

Now that the weight is off of your shoulders, you can take in more. The sound of street traffic buzzing around you. Honks, and music, and chatter.

The crowd around your apartment building has doubled if not tripled in size.

“Live here?” he asks.

You nod, and your shoulders sink. “But the block party completely slipped my mind.” You sigh and wonder how long it will take for the crowd to dissipate. “All I wanna do is eat some dinner, curl into bed, and forget today ever happened.”

“What’s stopping you?” he asks.

You furrow your brow and gesture to the drunken, obnoxious mass blocking your way in.

“Just gotta fight your way through a little, is all,” he says. “C’mon!”

Instead of complaining about having to do anything other than what you want to, you figure that following this guy, with his broad frame, tall stature, and friendly face, will help you work smart and not hard.

So you follow him.

He moves through the crowd with ease, swimming with the current, instead of fighting his way upstream.

He offers you protection from the worst hits. Errant slaps and elbows here and there as people reach for each other. A near-collision with a keg stand.

But people still cut in front of you. By the fourth or fifth instance, you wonder why this always happens when you’re in a crowd, or whether you can consider it a “cut” when you don't even seem to register on people’s radar.

You watch as his head bobs along, nearly out of sight. And then, when he’s too far away, you start to feel the tide turning again, pulling you back out into the vast ocean.

You’re nearly all the way back by the lobby doors when his face pops out of the crowd.

“Hey!” he exclaims.

He throws his arm out, hand open, palm upturned. A life saver on a rope thick, straight, and strong.

You grab it.

You watch as his hand turns over and determinedly pulls you into him.

And you lock eyes briefly before he swirls you around and puts you in front of the crowd, daring you to meet it face-to-face.

He stands behind you but places his hands firmly on your shoulders.

You grip the stapler tight in your hand.

And then, with his guidance, you start to move through the crowd.

Part the crowd.

It’s much easier than you thought. But you knew that. You used to do this all the time, without even thinking. Shoulders back. Hair tossed just so. Beaming with all the wise, unthreatened confidence that years of a magical mix of expertise and bullshit have bestowed upon you.

They, and he, bring you right next to the elevators, and, thinking this is it, you go to punch the button.

But he steers you toward the stairs instead.

He leans down into you, pressing against your back, his lips brushing against your right ear.

“Let’s go this way.”

The music and chatter is so loud that even though you feel his chest straining, it sounds like a whisper.

You think about what’s waiting for you at home.

The chips. The hummus. The last three squares of your weed-infused chocolates. All designed to help you settle your mind and forget about this whole, wretched day.

Then again, maybe there are other ways to forget.

You shove your powder stapler into your pocket and nod, but it doesn’t matter. He’s already angling you toward the stairs, and chases your steps as you both climb.

You feel his hands slide down your shoulders, then arms, then into the crooks of your slightly folded elbows, your right hand still touting your stapler, your left hand not fully grasping but angled to feel along the railing so that you have something to hold onto if you trip over one of these people sitting on the steps.

He’s right by your side. Grabs hold of you to help keep you steady when someone suddenly moves to get up. When he lets you go at the top of the stairs, you're almost sad the building has elevators at all.

“You know the Chans?” he asks.

You register the smell of egg rolls and dumplings and fries and cheese and sugar before you notice that the people who happen to be on this floor are too busy stuffing their faces to really talk. It’s quieter here. Thankfully.

“No,” you mumble, as he walks next to you, moving in lockstep down the hall and slightly to the right. “I don’t really know anybody else in the building.”

“Just moved in?”

“Been here three… wait… four?” You grimace. “Years?”

His eyebrows rise at the speed with which his own mother would race a cake over to every new neighbor on their street.

“I’ll introduce you!” he says, swinging around you and standing perpendicular to your path to let you know that this next, slightly ajar door will lead you to The Chans.

He knocks on the door.

It opens, suddenly, and fully, and a woman grins happily at the both of you before settling into his warm, eager gaze.

“Jungkook-ah,” she chides playfully, “I told you to come as soon as the party started! We’re already almost out of—”

He — or, well, Jungkook, apparently — rushes inside the apartment toward the kitchen, leaving you standing there in the hallway.

The woman turns to you, still carrying fondness in her eyes. “Hi!”

“Hi,” you say, as pleasantly as you can.

The woman takes in the sight of you, though she frowns when she looks down by your hip.

“Is… that… a stapler in your pocket?”

Your brain starts to move too fast again.

Desk. Office. Job.

But then she giggles.

“Or are you just happy to see me?”

Jungkook mumbles something resembling an introduction after you follow “Miff-iff Cham” through the busy, glowing living room and into the kitchen.

“Did you even think to get your friend a drink??” Mrs. Chan asks, reaching not for the plenty of plastic flatware but into the cupboards for a porcelain bowl.

Jungkook mumbles something else, a chomped egg roll raised to his lips, cheeks bulging out, and a bit of fried wrapper sticking out of the corner of his mouth.

“This boy,” Mrs. Chan laughs, shaking her head. “He devours everything in sight!” As she talks, she walks down the line of her counter, scooping up a bit of everything from her various pots and pans and plopping it into your bowl. “If we didn’t feed him real food, he’d eat garbage off the street! Like one of those fat pigeons!”

Jungkook protests, still unintelligible, but wounded, and passionate, given that flakes of egg roll wrapper fly out of his mouth.

“Please, Jungkook, you’re so sensitive! Have you seen you?” Mrs. Chan says with a roll of her eyes. “Although, if you keep inhaling these egg rolls…”

She softens at Jungkook’s worried expression.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to call you fat. I just meant— Ugh, what else eats tra— Like a raccoon, then. How’s that, huh? Jungkook-ah? My little fluffy, sneaky, grabby-hands raccoon?”

Mrs. Chan shoves the now-full bowl into your open hands and makes grabby-hands with her own, pinching his full cheeks, cooing more… weird?... but sweet, raccoon-based compliments at him, which makes him smile happily, and close his eyes at her caring touch.

You bring the bowl up to your face and breathe in the mouth-watering scent of all of this delicious, home-cooked, made-with-love morsels of amazing food.

For once today, someone has served you a pile of nothing but goodness.

You smile gratefully and take the chopsticks that Mrs. Chan gives to you. And then you take your place next to Jungkook, backs to the sink, both of you leaning back slightly as you eat.

“Now, I didn’t catch your name,” Mrs. Chan tells you, stirring a spoon into one of the pots.

As you finally say it, you can’t help but feel Jungkook paying you close attention — such close attention, mind you, that you swear he’s nearly pressing his smile onto your cheek.

“I’m sorry I haven’t introduced myself,” you go on, flashing a look at Jungkook before adding, “I’ve just been so busy…”

Desk. Office. Job.

The rest of the sentence that you were going to say travels down your throat like the unchewed walnut that slipped by.

You cough. Clear your throat the best you can. And pick up what you can recover.

“…at work.”

“Ah, well, whatever! I’m happy we get to meet now,” Mrs. Chan says lightly.

The air with which she says it. So ethereal. It makes you feel a little better.

“I’m Chan Jia,” she goes on, “and my husband Feng and I have lived here pretty much all our lives, and, uh, we really like to cook! Even when half the city isn’t on our doorstep.”

Your eyes hang wide. “You’re amazing at it,” you say, through cheeks fuller than Jungkook’s. “The walnut chicken in particular is, mmm, god, so good.”

Mrs. Chan beams with pride. “Glad you like it! And that you came so hungry.”

More people spill into the Chans’ living room, and Mrs. Chan reaches for some of the paper plates and plastic flatware.

“Get her something to drink, Jungkook-ah!”

He nods obediently and yells out an earnest, “Thank you!”

You scarf down the last bite in your bowl and start to calculate what seconds you want — definitely the walnut chicken, and maybe the lo mein — when Jungkook sticks a fresh egg roll in your face.

“C’mon!”

He stuffs the egg roll into your mouth and takes your empty bowl from your hands, setting it in the filling kitchen sink.

He takes your right wrist and tugs on it, leading you back out to the hall.

You bite down on the egg roll and catch the other half in your left hand, grumbling, “I wasn’t done!” as you desperately try to chew and get the delicious pork filling and perfect golden crackles down your gullet.

“Oh, sorry,” Jungkook says. “Seemed like you were.”

“Well!” You raise your left hand and bite into the second half. “I wasn’t!”

“Well, your bowl was empty, and you emptied it kinda fast, like, shockingly fast, so I thought it was time for dessert—”

You polish off the egg roll as your feet plant themselves in place. “What is this? Who even are you anyway??”

He smiles. “I’m Jungkook!”

“Yeah, caught that,” you say, narrowing your eyes. “Seriously, though! I don’t really know who you—”

Someone splits the two of you, excited to bring one of two waffle ice cream cones to someone downstairs.

“—w-who you are, or if you even live here,” you continue, watching as they round the corner, jogging down the steps with what looks like pistachio ice cream in one hand and some kind of chocolate in the other.

You turn back to Jungkook.

“And all these people? I don’t know who they are, and I just really—”

“But now you know Mrs. Chan,” Jungkook says, “and I guess by extension you kinda know Mr. Chan. There was a photo of him on the left wall by the—”

A group of young girls giggle as they exit one of the other apartments on this floor, each of them carrying baskets of freshly baked cookies.

Jungkook playfully yoink! s a couple from the last girl’s basket, and she teasingly slaps Jungkook’s arm as he feigns pain.

They laugh at each other, and then, he wiggles his eyebrows and nods upward.

“Oppa!” she whines.

He brings his shoulders up to his earlobes and wiggles his eyebrows even harder.

She rolls her eyes and hands him two more cookies, and she scurries to rejoin her group.

You glare at him.

He blinks at you. Pushes out his lips.

“So…”

He holds out his arm.

“Is it time for dessert?”

You frown.

He wiggles the cookie around.

“Huuuuuh?”

Begrudgingly, you snatch the cookie that he’s offering.

Chocolate chip with toffee chunks and gooey caramel in the center.

It’s goddamn incredible.

“Is everyone on this floor a chef?!” you exclaim in surprise, crumbs flinging from your lips.

Jungkook looks up at the ceiling again as he counts. His unfolding pinky denotes The Chans in 2A, duh. His ring finger counts the Jeups and their three lovely daughters in 2D. His middle finger stands for the Gal brothers and their new ice cream machine, or, well, old ice cream machine, since their shop got the new one—

“Kinda, actually,” Jungkook answers, looking back at you, still counting the others in his head while holding the three other cookies between his thumb and index finger. “Although I guess the Jeups and the Gals are more… bakers? But I don’t think you say that for ice cream.”

He plumps his bottom lip, chin wrinkling.

“What do you call someone who makes ice cream for a living?”

You roll your eyes as you polish off your cookie.

“Hey, I thought we were doing it?” he asks. “Shoot. Maybe I’m doing it wrong?”

“Doing what?”

“What you wanted to do.”

Toffee and chocolate are swirling together heavenly in your mouth, but you keep glaring at him. You layer more fire into it. Frown harder. Scowl meaner. If you look angry enough, maybe he’ll give you a second cookie out of fear, and you don’t have to admit how boggled you are.

“You said that all you wanted to do was eat some dinner, curl into bed, and forget,” Jungkook recalls. “So we’re taking care of the eating part.”

You pull back a little on the glare.

“I would’ve appreciated getting to eat more of that walnut chicken.”

Jungkook’s eyes and grin thin out.

“We can go back. Or…?”

He holds out another cookie to you.

Which you slowly take.

And in return, you let go of the glower.

You turn the cookie over in your hands. Raise it to your lips.

Jungkook nods encouragingly.

You take a bite.

Peanut butter. With little chocolate candies. That are also filled with peanut butter.

Your pesky smile makes another reappearance.

“Now,” Jungkook says triumphantly, biting into two cookies at once and recalling, “Mrs. Chan said,” as he gets those cookies down to half-size with his huge bites, “ god this is fucking good,” smacking as he talks, “to get you a drink. So c’mon!”

He holds out his hand again. Devoid of any cookies.

You take it anyway.

And he leads you to the elevator.

“Can I get a copy of the itinerary?” you ask, puzzled by all your traipsing.

Jungkook drums on the elevator doors with his knuckles before giving the right one a slap and pushing the call button. “It’s just block party physics,” he explains. “You saw all those kegs and coolers when you came in, right?”

You nod.

“Gotta keep beer on the ground floor. Nice way to say hi to people. And nobody wants to lug all that shit up all these floors. But people are doing stuff in their apartments, too. More drinks, and food, and games.”

You take a second to take Jungkook in from toe to head. White, worn sneakers, with blue details. Baggy pants. Thin, white hoodie. Denim jacket. Fluffed hair, crinkled and thin eyes, wrinkled nose, and an easy, big smile. Like he’s just hanging out at home.

“Party physics,” you repeat.

The elevator doors open, and you both step in, Jungkook leaning against the railing in the back, and you facing him with a smirk.

“Of which you just happen to be a scholar?”

Jungkook grins. “That, and, uh…”

He gestures to one of the flyers on the elevator bulletin board behind you. It’s not as crumpled as the ones that blew by you earlier. But it is drooping, the tape holding up its top two corners having lost its stickiness over the past few weeks.

You smooth the paper out.

And then you reach into your pocket.

For your powder blue stapler.

You staple each corner into the cork, and you see what Jungkook is talking about. Below the boombox drawing and general details is a whole spreadsheet of details. A murder mystery party on floor twelve. A dance party on floor seven. Karaoke on floor six. Movies on floor eight.

Nothing on floor nine. You’re one of just a few people who live there. That floor doesn’t get great light, or a great view, facing the north, ignored side of the block. But that doesn’t matter to you. You like it quiet. That’s why you’re all there.

For some reason, you feel a little sick at the thought of riding up to floor nine.

So you’re grateful that you stop, for now, on floor five.

It boasts a crowd just a tad smaller than the one on the first floor, but the energy seems easier. Lively, but less brash.

When Jungkook sees your relieved smile, he takes it as a sign that he’s doing something right.

“Where should we start?” he asks, looking around at all the open doors. As you re-holster your stapler, his head darts left and right, checking your reaction with each option he presents.

“Board games! Ooh, OK, ‘ya seem to like that. We’ll put that on the list. We could also check out that poker game, which we passed back there. And there’s—”

You pull Jungkook’s arm toward you with such force that his nose bumps into your cheek. You laugh together, your eyes shining a bit brighter.

“That.”

You point.

“I wanna do that.”

Given your professional, cool-toned business separates; your seemingly strategic nature; your, quite frankly, super uptight vibe; and the way your eyes initially widened at the proposal to join the board game room, Jungkook wouldn’t have pegged you as someone who had even a passing interest in drinking games. Especially flip cup.

Yet, here you are, standing on top of Kim Yugyeom’s mother’s old kitchen table, the front of your blouse stained with sangria, and both of your hands victoriously pumping two empty, crushed plastic cups into the air.

Funny how the thing that always kept you from playing flip cup was the beer.

And you were extraordinary. How you downed each drink. How, like your voice has been so far this evening, you were able to stay so composed. How that gave you such an advantage with each flip. How everyone in the room cheered you on, shocked by how you hadn’t stuttered on a single cup. How Jungkook almost caught up, but you were able to rally and down two more full cups of sangria than you probably should have.

“Howwwww have I not plaaaaayed this gaaaaame before?!” you ask, delirious from your winner’s rush. And maybe the sangria.

“You haven’t?!” a laughing Yugyeom adds, as he helps you down from his table. “Would’ve thought you were a pro!”

A little unsteady on your feet, and happily so, you lean into him, melting at his strong form and touch before pouring into one of the chairs nearby.

“Alright there, champ?” Yugyeom chuckles.

He watches you wiggle happily in your seat, one strong wiggle forcing you to lean a bit too much to the right.

“Haha, fuck, let me get you some damn water!”

Jungkook lands in the chair next to you, propping you up and giggling at your blissful humming.

Your eyes meet his. “Oh, what’s this?” You raise your left hand up. “Hmm?” Your palm grazes the tip of his nose, and your eyes widen with excitement, as his widen to try to find out what’s wrong with your hand.

“Oh!” you smile.

Equally thrilled and perplexed, Jungkook moves to give you a high five?

But you dodge him with a grin.

“Uh-oh!”

Your wrist goes slack. Delighted, you do an arm wave, letting it flow through up to your shoulders, through to your trunk, and onwards to your other arm, which flows up and around from your side and around, down your opposite shoulder and through your forearm, fingers gathering to a point and tipping back Jungkook’s open forehead.

Jungkook lets out a spirited laugh that perks up your spine.

As you watch with interest, he furrows his brow and opens his mouth in fake offense. His head bobs forward, and he lets the wave travel throughout his entire body, each muscle isolation smoothing into the next.

He gets up and starts to dance, suddenly going rigid as he starts to pop and lock, hips moving with more precision than you would have anticipated, his baggy clothes suddenly looking sharp, his body halving, and The Hulk slipping out a little, bobbling along with him.

Yugyeom rejoins you, and him, cheering and catching the wave in his chest from Jungkook’s lightning rod of a hand and letting it travel through his black hoodie-covered torso, down to his legs, the frayed rips of his light blue jeans swaying as his muscles take turns relaxing and constricting, traveling back up to his other arm, and down to the hand that is holding two water bottles: one for Jungkook, and one for you.

You giggle and shiver as Yugyeom places the cold plastic against your neck, fingers grazing his as you take over the grip of the bottle.

This is… nice.

“What else can we play??” you ask brightly, letting the bottle linger for a moment before lifting it, and unscrewing the cap. “What other games are there?”

“Should probably slow down on the drinking ones,” Jungkook rightfully decides, as you start to slump again.

He takes a step back to you, and your left cheek rests on his right hip.

Feeling so comfortable, you close your eyes for a moment, missing Yugyeom’s intrigued smirk, and Jungkook’s helpless nose scrunch.

“Leaving so soon?” Yugyeom asks, tossing him the other bottle.

Jungkook looks down and notes your hazy, unfocused eyes, as well as your clumsy fingers still working at the water bottle cap.

“After this water break.”

“Well, swing by again later,” Yugyeom tells you, as your eyes flutter open. “I need to avenge my humiliated friend here. Or get the chance to, at least.”

Jungkook pouts. “Humiliated?”

“Only Jungkook can save himself,” you say, much too haughty for someone who has taken about thirty whole seconds to open a water bottle, “but depending on how tonight goes, I might take you on as another trophy. I mean victim. I mean opponent.”

Yugyeom shakes his head at your self-assuredness, looking over at Jungkook to see if he’s clocking this, and finding he’s only chuckling as you close your eyes and eagerly drink.

“Where’d you find her?” Yugyeom asks, as Jungkook looks back at him.

“Obviously by the dumpsters, given all the trash talk,” Jungkook jokes.

You choke on your water and laugh, the back of your hand rising to your lips as you open your eyes again and catch your breath.

“No, really,” Yugyeom goes on, smiling at you and shoving his hands into his back pockets, chest puffing out with a relaxing breath. “You live on the block?”

You point up at the ceiling. “Ninth floor.”

“The hermit floor?” Yugyeom asks, surprised.

You left your left shoulder from Jungkook’s hip and tilt your head toward it. “I crawled out of my cave today. And saw Jungkook on the curb.”

Yugyeom looks over at Jungkook again, who just smiles.

He meets Jungkook’s smile with a pleased chuckle.

“I mean it. Come back later. I still wanna hang.” He narrows his eyes at you and wiggles his eyebrows. “I want a go with the resident flip cup champ.”

You wink at him as you bring the water bottle back to your lips.

Before Yugyeom takes his leave, he reaches out his hand, slightly dampened from the condensation on those ice-cold water bottles, to Jungkook. Their right hands clasp together, and they bring their right shoulders forward to one another, chests bumping together tightly.

Yugyeom slaps Jungkook’s back.

He mumbles something.

Jungkook scoffs with a grin.

And then they part, Yugyeom flashing you another smile before he heads back toward his kitchen table.

Jungkook crouches down and wipes his hand on his thigh. You watch his fingers spreading across. His palm rubbing down toward his knee, and then back up again.

“Oh my god,” he says.

You straighten and snap your eyes to his, feeling caught. “What??”

“I think you’re…”

Jungkook shoots you an open-mouthed, told-you-so smile.

“…having fun??”

“Absolutely not,” you say, trying your best to sneer.

“You’re smiling!” Jungkook taps his finger on your cheek.

You swat his hand away, giggling and thinking fondly of him teasing those three girls with the cookies. You haven’t really stopped smiling since.

“You’re laaaugh-iiiiing!”

You roll your eyes. “So what if I am?”

Jungkook watches as you screw the water bottle’s cap back on and set it down, next to the right leg of your chair.

“Are you?” he asks gently. “H-having fun?”

He wants you.

To have fun, that is.

He wants you to have fun because you so clearly hadn’t earlier that day. He’s good at fun. At least, he’s always thought he is. In much the same way that Mrs. Chan is good at walnut chicken, and the Jeups are good at cookies, and the Gal brothers are good at ice cream.

He’s always thought that he’s been good at fun. Things have gotten a little busier, as life does. He hasn’t talked to as many people in a while. He definitely hasn’t gotten to swing by Yugyeom’s nearly as often, and he’s missed his check-ins with Yugyeom’s wonderful neighbors. While standing out there on the curb, peering up at your building, he wondered if he’d changed.

But, if you’re having fun, given the day that you’ve had, then that means he hasn’t.

He’s still good at fun.

Maybe if you knew this was kind of about him, it wouldn’t feel so strange for someone to want you to have fun when just a couple of hours ago, the bubble of your perfectly pleasant life burst at the discovery that people who celebrated your birthday, who clinked drinks with you at happy hour, who left you funny sticky notes on your desk, who shared the load when work got overwhelming — people who were supposedly invested in you — didn’t actually care all that much.

Do you even deserve it? Fun? When you are so easily discarded?

Jungkook clearly deserves it. He’s only just met you, by some dumpsters no less, and he’s still, inexplicably, trying so hard.

You feel your heavy heart pulling you under.

But then, you catch sight of The Hulk tucked into Jungkook’s pocket.

“I am.” You grin. “I am having a lot of fun.”

He brightens. Sits a little taller.

“Good!” His eyes close nearly all the way, and his two front teeth bunch up his lips. “I knew you were.”

He jumps to his feet. “Feeling up to more games? Maybe those board games?”

The sangria is starting to catch you, mixing with the swirl of emotions bogging down your heavy, heavy heart. You need to do something to let it out.

“Which floor had the karaoke?” you ask. “Six?”

“Quit hogging the mic!”

You spin around and scream the next lyrics at this surly, thin-lipped man, mashing whatever he can into a lour look of extreme disapproval.

The next part of this song is iconic, and masterful. You know each of the vocal parts in the lush swell of the breakdown, but this occasion calls for the throughline, the main melody, to drive the point home.

“NEVER GONNA GET IT NEVER GONNA GET IT!” you belt, pointing at Thin Lips, shimmying as you dance around him in a circle.

“NEH! VER GONNA GET IT NEVER GONNA GET IT!”

You put a resonant sting on the syncopated quarter notes that carry into the next measure, tapping your toes on each eighth-note of this manifesto.

“NEH!!! VER GONNA GET IT NEVER GONNA GET IT!”

Exaggerating even more, you pull your lips into a mocking pout, and you descend down the harmonic scale.

“NEHHHH-VER GONNA GET IT—”

Brazen, and drawing a bit of power from the room clapping and laughing around you, you grab the handle of your stapler, aim it at Thin Lips’ cleft chin, and clap the hammer against the anvil on each note.

“WOO-WOO-WOO-WOOOOOOO!!!!”

“THE FUCK—”

“Shik.”

You aren’t sure when Jungkook got up from his seat on the Hans-in-6F’s couch, but now, he’s next to you, arms folded, chest slightly bouncing from holding in his laughter.

Thin-lipped Shik glares at him, and you start circling around Jungkook instead, singing the second half of the breakdown a little softer, but swaying your stapler in the air.

Jungkook’s eyes, which have been following you this whole time, spread out to the rest of the room, everyone chanting and clapping along. “We’re all having a good time.”

“She’s sung like a hundred songs!” Shik protests. “I want a turn!”

At the whiff of vodka that follows, Jungkook negotiates, “One more song, alright?”

He speaks kindly, with the kind of smile that people born with goodness and light at their core can share. But he puffs himself up when he says it. He unfolds his arms, and his chest inflates. He flexes his right hand. Just in case.

Shik sighs. “Fine. But make it something pleasant. She’s been screaming for the past hour.”

He takes Jungkook’s seat on the couch, seemingly discontent unless he’s taking things from other people.

But it’s fine. The energy is dissipating anyway, En Vogue starting to decrescendo and queue up your next show-stopping performance.

“Hey.” Jungkook’s unflexed right hand lands softly on your shoulder. “Diva.”

You turn and smile at him.

“Wanna do one last song?”

Panting, and jamming your stapler back into your pocket, you slow your dancing feet to a mere sway, pouring your weight to the left, then to the right.

“OK,” you say, mind starting to wander, “but let me pick something different.” Your eyes widen a bit. “Would you wanna sing something with me?”

Jungkook beams. “Yeah!”

As you scroll through your private YouTube playlist of karaoke faves, he stands a little closer. Looks over your shoulder with curiosity. Giggles softly when your thumb tugs at ones that he likes, too.

He smells good.

“Ooh!”

You startle back at his sudden exclamation and bump into his chest.

And he just lets you.

“You, uh, know this one ?” you ask, thumb hovering over a picture of two silhouettes.

“I love that one.”

“Me too.”

A shared glance between you tells you how much.

Jungkook hums. “Then start us off.”

Growing up, you’d wished that the karaoke industry would work faster. Churn out more microchips that held more than just the 70s and 80s ballads that your family sang in the same rotation at every holiday, birthday, christening, graduation, wedding, hell, every Saturday morning, while you each took charge of scrubbing a different part of the house…

Nowadays, karaoke versions of songs aren’t hard to find. Literally every song is essentially at your fingertips. But with every song at your fingertips, it’s becoming harder and harder to find people who know what you know. Like what you like.

As Jungkook reaches for the other mic, still charging on its base, you play the instrumental.

And you raise your mic to your mouth.

“I keep so much of me hidden. Can’t lie. No, I’ve got this pain inside. Most times I never admit it. But with you, no, I don’t want to hide.”

Jungkook bites his lip as you sing. You aren’t the most gymnastic singer, but you have such a pleasant voice. And he’s not the only one who thinks so. A hush has fallen over the entire room, and even Shik is captivated by the way you’ve softened the air around you.

“What’s there all the time. And weighs on my mind. My friends say they listen. But honestly, I don’t think that they get me like you do. You don’t have to try. I come unfolded with the things I hold inside. I have never told no one but you.”

How long have you been singing? Has it been an hour? Two?

Maybe people don’t tire of you as easily as you thought.

Your heart feels a little lighter.

And you let Jungkook fill the space that remains.

“When I’m with you, I feel different.”

In just one line, you discover that if Jungkook’s voice were a drink, it would be a toasted marshmallow mocha. If Jungkook’s voice were a feeling, it would be your bare legs meeting the backseat of the car on a tempered summer day. If Jungkook’s voice were a hand, it would cup your cheek and hold your face up to make sure you didn’t miss the sight of a falling star.

“Like I can’t just be your warmness, oh baby…”

His vocal runs are hurdles and sprints and marathons in equal turns, voice strong and whole as he dips in and out of notes and syllables, playing with time, and tickling your lighter, and lighter, and even lighter, heart.

“I’ve been through some tough things in my life. And it’s so easy to tell you.”

You believe him.

You believe him so strongly that you almost miss your cue to join him again at the chorus, singing an octave apart, matching him note for note, voice bending and gliding a little easier. Freer.

But then everything just stops.

The music. Your voices. The energy.

It all comes to a halt.

Other voices start to overlap. Curses, and concern.

A small circle of bright, invasive light appears. And then another. And another.

They catch people in slices.

Frowns. Fists.

Eyes. No two sets meeting.

Except, somehow, yours and Jungkook’s.

“Everyone OK?” someone asks, as more and more tiny spotlights rove around the room.

“Apparently it’s the whole building!”

“The whole block?”

“Look out the window!”

“Yeah, it’s the whole city!”

Whines start to fill the room. Then groans. Then yells.

“Fuck,” you hear Jungkook whisper, “people are gonna lose it pretty quickly.”

You feel a hand grab yours and yank you toward them.

“It’s me.”

But you knew that.

And now you know that the center of his body, the notch where his pecs and the top of his abs meet and surrender to one another, seems to be a perfect spot for your hand to rest. And your hand resting there makes up for all the blows that your feet and shins and hips take as you fight your way through the distressed crowd.

“Door.”

You don’t see or feel it. Jungkook’s already holding it open for you, leading you through by jutting out his chest and letting you know where he is, which is right there, still curved around your hand.

His hand leaves yours and slides down your side, circling around your back, incidentally following the line of the band of your bra. His forearm pins you to him, and you feel your body bending with his as he shuffles you through to the hall. His chin rests on the top of your head, and your temple cushions against his collarbone.

Baby powder.

Bodes beat against your back, and you take in a sharp breath, your fingers balling into fists. One hand is still safely settled into that notch below Jungkook’s chest. Your other arm is pressed to your side, hugged by Jungkook’s armpit, your hand swinging down and closing around—

“Wait, shit, I’m still holding the mic?”

“It’s OK,” he tells you. “Everything’s OK.”

But something catches his attention.

“Deji?!”

You feel Jungkook’s chest tighten around your fist.

“Deji!!”

“Mr. Jeup?” Jungkook calls out, hoping his voice can meet hers despite the building wails.

“Jungkook-ah?”

“Yes, it’s Jungkook!”

The collective spotlights help Jungkook and Mr. Jeup find each other across the hall, and Jungkook leads him, and you, to a spot close to the staircase railing.

Mr. Jeup has soaked through the collar of his shirt.

“I can’t find Deji,” he says breathlessly. “I’d already been looking for her for a couple of hours, but she got separated from her unnies—” He clicks his teeth. “Always trailing behind.”

You think of the sweet girl slapping Jungkook’s hand away from her basket of cookies.

“We’ll find her.”

From what you can tell, Jungkook’s voice is enough to reassure Mr. Jeup, as the slices of him that you get look more and more relieved.

“Go home and check in with Mrs. Jeup and the girls,” Jungkook tells him. “My friend and I will go up floor by floor. I’ll text you the moment I see her.”

Mr. Jeup shakes his head. “We should’ve just gotten her a phone. Like she wanted.”

“She won’t be far. She knows your rules.” A slice of light catches Jungkook’s smile, as fond as when he had exchanged those cute giggles with her earlier. “And, though it might not seem like it, she always follows them.”

Mr. Jeup nods. “Thanks, Jungkook. Let me know.”

Shades of Mr. Jeup make their way along the railing, following it carefully as he makes his way back downstairs.

“I’ll formally introduce you another time,” he says apologetically.

Jungkook can’t be so hospitable, or demented, to be thinking about a formal introduction in this fraught situation.

But then you think of how he and Deji teased each other. Their familiar, funny way. How she gave him four cookies as a treat.

Or a payment.

A placid smile spreads across your face. “You know where she is, don’t you?”

Jungkook chuckles.

“C’mon.”

“When will it come back on??”

“We wanna watch!”

“It was just about to get to the good part!”

“Give it a few more minutes,” a voice, more mature than the others, calls out. “Give the backup generators a little bit of time to kick in.”

“They’re not going to,” another older voice says in response. “It’s been too long. I’m betting they’re down as well.”

“Stop it!” the first hisses. “You’ll scare them!”

As predicted, the younger voices start to clamor.

“What??”

“So when will the power come back on?”

“I’m getting hot!”

“Me too! I’m starting to sweat!”

“Eeeewww!”

“Helloooooo!”

Jungkook calls brightly from the hallway through the opening door, slowly revealing a group of kids in the living room, and a couple on the couch, outlined against a soft half-sphere of candlelight.

“Yon! Yeo!”

“Jungkookie!”

The woman on the left jumps up from the couch, and the woman on the right just nods.

You sigh softly when, in the center back of the group of kids, all of them lying on top of each other, having kicked off their blankets and facing a blank, white bed sheet hanging on a cleared clothing rack, you see Deji, sitting with her legs criss-crossed.

And next to a boy.

Jungkook lets go of your hand, but not without glancing at you to make sure it’s OK to.

You smile and nod, lingering in the doorway and watching him tiptoe in the gaps between squishy, teeny arms and legs to crouch down next to Deji, and this boy.

Deji gives Jungkook a high five, and you smirk to yourself as he pulls his phone out from his back pocket, sighing with relief as he starts to type.

The woman who waved gets up and walks over to you, leaning on a bookshelf by the door and folding her arms.

“I’m Yon,” she replies. “And that’s Yeo.”

She jerks her thumb behind her.

Staring straight ahead, Yeo takes another sip of wine.

You introduce yourself and say, “Did you set this up for the kids?”

Yon nods. “Toy Story 3. We were almost at the incinerator scene.”

Your eyes pop open, and you look over to the kid who cheered about the scene earlier.

“That was the good part??”

Yon cackles and says, “Seojun over there has a dark sense of humor.”

The other kids have successfully been distracted, settling into other lively conversations, giggling and playing games with each other, and with Jungkook.

But Seojun quietly breaks free from the group and makes her way to the couch. She plops down next to Yeo, the two of them chatting quietly.

Yon watches them affectionately. “So does Yeo. Kindred spirits, those two.”

They look so serious. But there are moments. Eyebrow flickers. Chuckles. And, throughout, a warm smile of recognition of something deeper. A somewhat somber but understanding of the world around them.

Seojun pauses. Stumbles. Gets whatever she wants to say out. Yeo seems to ponder it, and then says something back. Then, Seojun and Yeo look away from each other, and Yeo strokes her hair once as Seojun hides a smile.

You didn’t realize how many kids lived in the building. But you’re usually out before they’re up, and back in long after they’re asleep.

“Kind of you to host something kid-friendly.”

“To be honest, these have kind of been little test runs.”

Yon’s voice is cautious and small, but happy.

“We want to adopt,” she admits.

Her eyes are pillowy soft as they scan over those tiny, laughing faces.

“The kids around here are so sweet. Good families. Good parents. They don’t judge. And they’ve given us so many smiles. It’d be nice to share our lives like this all the time. Especially with a little one who really needs it.”

You can feel how momentous Yon’s heart must be. Her words surround you. Inflate you. Lift you up.

“Well,” you sigh, impressed, and a little sheepish, at her outpouring of love, “the little ones who get to join your family are quite lucky.”

Yon lets out a deep, encouraged sigh. “Thanks for that. Nice to hear something positive, y’know? It’s been… hard.”

You regretfully agree.

“Anyway,” Yon replies, “how do you know Jungkook? Are you friends with Yugyeom, too? That’s how we met him.”

“I, um—”

Desk.

Office.

Job.

“Well, I just met him today.” You blink. You can’t believe you just met him today.

Yon smiles, recognizing your dazed look.

“He makes quite an impression, doesn’t he?”

Your eyes land on him as he grins and throws up a peace sign while taking a picture with Deji, and laughing with the boy, who is starting to take interest in The Hulk bobblehead in Jungkook’s pocket.

“I’ve known him since he was a skinny teen,” Yon reflects. “His parents used to own this building, but they sold the property when they retired. He’s still here all the time, though.”

She smiles.

“It’s been a little while since we’ve gotten to see him. But it’s always so nice when we do. He just makes things… better.”

Jungkook notes the boy’s gaze, and his bent fingers reach into that pocket to pull The Hulk’s head out, flashing The Hulk’s cute little grimace, to Deji and the boy’s delight.

But when the boy reaches out for it, Jungkook frowns and leans back, not letting the boy take The Hulk out of his pocket completely, choosing instead to close the flap of his pocket over The Hulk’s black eyes, tapping the pocket in thanks for safekeeping.

You giggle.

Maybe that’s the secret to Jungkook.

To all of this.

Being a kid at heart.

Yes, things have been hard.

Things are hard.

But they haven’t been hard just today. And not just for you. Or Yon and Yeo. Or Shik. Or Mr. Jeup. Or any of the people in your building, on your block, in this city.

Everyone is shuffling around, lost in the dark.

But it isn’t your fault.

It isn’t anyone’s fault.

Maybe that’s just how it is sometimes.

Maybe that’s how it is all the time.

There’s always more that you could do to fight against the darkness. To make things better.

But maybe there’s also more time for selcas, and singing, and sangria.

Fun, kind things that you could do with others. And for yourself.

Maybe that’s the way to start.

Yon’s face suddenly pulls together tightly. And you follow her gaze to your hip.

“Why do you have a stapler in your pocket?”

“Hey!” Jungkook exclaims, popping up beside you and patting Yon’s back.

“Hey,” Yon says warmly, leaning in for a hug. “We were just getting to know each other.” She smirks. “Just as it seems the two of you are.”

Jungkook grins at you. “The two of us have been having fun.”

You smile.

“Oooh, funnnn,” Yon says, her voice waving up and down as the word trails from her lips.

She smirks at Jungkook.

“Then don’t worry about Deji. She’s just fine.”

And she is. Deji and the boy are in their own little bubble, voices hushed, bodies crouched and facing each other, smiles mirroring.

“Tell Mr. Jeup that I can walk her down if he wants,” Yon says.

“Nah, he’s good,” Jungkook replies. “I sent him a selca. Told him that you were all just hanging out.”

He slides his hands into his back pockets.

“In fact, I told him that it’s better for her to stay. That it’s much calmer than downstairs. So he said thanks, and that he’d come up and pick her up when the chaos dies down. Even if it’s late into the night.”

Yon clicks her teeth and shakes her head. “Cheeky fucker.”

He beams a cheesy, accomplished grin.

“Alright, Cupid.” Yon beams a cheesy grin of her own. “Then why don’t you two continue your night of fun?”

Jungkook flicks his eyes over to you.

You realize that you’re starting to sweat, too.

Yon is already shoving Jungkook back into the hallway when he asks, “Y-you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” She smiles at you. “Nice meeting you. Maybe you can explain the stapler when I see you again?”

You laugh, and Jungkook stands next to you in the hallway.

Before you leave, he turns back to the living room.

“Dehhhh-jiiiiiii!” he sings.

Deji looks up at him and smiles. “Yesssss??” she sings back mockingly.

Jungkook sends her a wink.

Deji’s cheeks balloon with air, and they deflate quickly as she whines out, “oh-PAAAA!!!”

He cackles as Yon hurriedly calls back, “OK, Jungkook-oppa is leaving now! Everybody say goodbye!”

The kids yell out goodbyes to Jungkook-oppa, and Jung-krook-oppa, and Yungkook-oppa, and Jungle-oppa, and Crunkook-oppa, and Chunky-oppa— and Yon, cackling, uses her foot to nudge Jungkook farther into the hall before pushing the door closed.

The kids’ goodbyes are replaced with the sound of people in other eighth-floor apartments trying to come up with — and, in some cases, even arguing about — activities to occupy their fellow film fans. But unlike on the other floors, the sound doesn’t seem so overwhelming, tempered above by the typical silence of the ninth.

You look up. Being up on the hermit, ninth floor affords you a certain privilege. You haven’t worried one bit since the power went out. You know that your apartment looks exactly the same as you left it. Kitchen, clean. Living room, sparkling. Bed, made. Pillows fluffed, and sheets pressed. Nothing out of the ordinary, save for maybe the fire escape that you like to keep cracked, fighting off the sometimes stale air.

You see your desk pushed up against it. Pages of your open book swaying in the breeze.

“Tired?” Jungkook asks, tilting his head.

How quickly you grow tired of stale air.

“Maybe a little, but,” you rush, “uh… not quite…”

Your gaze settles on each other. Jungkook’s eyebrows are slightly tented.

“Not quite ready to go home just yet,” you say, voice low, and ambling.

Jungkook smiles.

“Then let’s go do the second thing you wanted to do tonight.”

It’s been a while since you’ve seen stars.

And you still kind of see stars when you turn to Jungkook.

The breeze runs through his hair, making some of his shorter, soft curls dance.

You miss them a little when he pulls up his hood, so that his hair stays clean as he lies down on the roof, next to you.

He’s just so mesmerized by how bright the world is in the middle of a blackout.

“Can you believe this happens every night?” Jungkook asks in awe. “This happens every night, and we just don’t see it.”

You look back up at the sky like an old friend.

The suburbs that raised you gave you unencumbered sight. You’ve memorized a few of them. Though your favorites are the ones that shine during the winter, you can spot some of summer’s best. The dippers. Leo.

You introduce him to them.

It’s fun to watch Jungkook meet them for the first time.

“They make everything feel so much smaller,” he observes in wonder.

“That can be a good thing,” you realize as you say.

You feel his curious eyes on you as you give your body a good, deep stretch, toes wiggling, hips pulling down, chest rising a little, and shoulders popping as your neck tilts left and right, your head still resting on the inside back lining of Jungkook’s denim jacket, which he laid flat on the roof for you.

“Takes some of the pressure off.”

He watches as you lick your lips, take another deep breath, and close your eyes as you exhale.

“Feeling a lot of it?” he asks.

“Was.”

The warmth of Jungkook’s proud glow tickles your side, and you open your eyes to the sight of him beaming at the sky and biting his lip at a job well done.

You follow his gaze, and take another deep breath.

“Things will work out,” he says comfortingly.

You chuckle. “They probably always do, for someone like you.”

“What if they do?”

It would sound cocky if he didn’t punctuate it with a question mark that has a light giggle for a point.

The corner of your mouth ticks up. “Then I’m happy for you.”

Jungkook hums.

You lie there in silence for a while, the sounds of the city floating up from the street. It’s calming, hearing the city chugging along, even if just a little slower and quieter, as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening. Because it isn’t.

Jungkook pulls his legs in, bending his knees and letting his feet plant themselves onto the roof, one leg crossing over the other, foot just above and to the right of you.

You watch it sway a little.

“I’d play some music or something, but I think my phone is going to die soon,” Jungkook mumbles.

“Oh. Hang on.”

As you slant your hips toward him, Jungkook’s eyes run down your body and follow their curves. Your hand slides out from your back pocket with your phone, still full of charge.

When you look at its screen, you don’t even see all the notifications in the top bar. You go right to your playlists, and you see the perfect track.

It doesn’t occur to you to ask Jungkook if he likes it. He’s already moved his swaying foot in time to the slightly faster beat.

It’s a song about a new crush, its sweet and giddy lyrics, harmonies, and melodies floating into the air, lofted by city sounds, and Jungkook humming along beside you.

You smile to yourself.

You narrow your eyes.

And then you turn onto your side, folding and tucking both of your hands under your right cheek.

“Tell me more about this crush,” you say.

Jungkook mirrors you, forehead wrinkling, and lips tantalizing as he smirks and turns inward to you, too.

You’re almost touching.

You catch another whiff of baby powder.

“Hmm… which crush?”

You giggle together, noses almost bumping.

“Tell me more about Deji and this boy.”

“Ahhhh!”

He smiles. Fond. Almost proud.

“She’s so cute,” you say, your heart swelling a little.

“She’s precious,” Jungkook agrees. “The Jeups are always busy at their shop, and when they’re working really late, people from the building will drop by their place and check on them, or invite them over. I haven’t been able to visit as often, but when I visit Yugy, I usually try to swing by. Entertain them for a few hours if I can.”

“So friendly,” you comment.

Jungkook tilts his head toward you. “It’s nice to make friends.”

You smile. “It is.” And then. you sigh. “Now, tell me about the boy.”

Laughing, he says, “His name is Hyun-Woo, and he lives on the fourth floor.”

Your smile stretches, and your eyebrows rise.

Jungkook giggles. And then he shares a bit more.

“His parents are quiet. They’re all still kinda new to the city. A little shy. He is, too. He has a pet gerbil named Moony because he seems to like to play at night. He plays video games. He used to collect these little space battalion figurines, but he kind of lost track of some of them during the move, but it’s alright, because he was kinda starting to lose interest in them anyway. And he plays tennis. He’s OK at it.”

“Is he a nice kid?” you ask.

“What do you think?”

“You’re the one who knows him.”

“Huh? I just met him tonight.”

Your eyes open in surprise. Jungkook knows everybody in the world.

“What?”

He raises his hand in caution. “Hey, all of this info is second-hand from Deji.”

“She’s really fallen for him, huh?”

Jungkook’s brows, cheeks, nose, and lips all draw together, meeting, squinched, in the middle of his face.

“She told me that she’s butt-crazy in love.”

When you laugh, he laughs, all his features bouncing back to their rightful, gorgeous places.

You lie there, just watching him, trying to take more of it in.

More of Jungkook just laughing.

His eyes are perfectly almond-shaped, but they grow so big and round when he laughs. He seems to have a habit of pushing his upper lip into a triangular pout, symmetrical with the way his cheeks form sideways Vs as he pulls his lips up and back. There’s a tiny freckle on his chin, by his bottom lip, and you like that depending on how full his laugh is, and how open his mouth grows to let it out, you can sometimes see it, and sometimes, you can’t, because when it pops up, it’s like a tiny, adorable prize. And now, he’s scratching the tip of his ear, grabbing onto it, before sliding his hands under his cheeks, just like yours.

Your knees are almost touching.

“Is she?”

“She is.”

Maybe it’s the topic, and maybe it’s just tonight, but everything about him shines so brightly. Even his voice bathes you in starlight.

“When it comes to this sort of thing, you just know.”

He rubs his knee, gently, against yours.

It angles downward as he rests his weight on it.

His arm comes around you, and your body turns with it, your back meeting the roof.

His hand flattens, resting on his jacket, holding him up.

As he leans over you, face in full view, the only thing you see, other than the swirls of stars sparkling behind him, you think you might crane your neck up and plant a kiss on his slightly parted lips.

As you raise your chin to meet him, he thinks you might, too.

He opens his mouth to say something else. Maybe even do something else. Whatever it is, you want him to do it.

But then, there’s the loud buzzing of generators, and a rush of light.

Windows.

Signs.

Billboards.

Fluorescent.

Neon.

Spotlights evolving into floodlights.

The entire city rumbles with an earthquake of cheers.

Your lips pull back from the pout you were making, rushing inward as you seal them together with your teeth.

Jungkook freezes.

You look at each other for a moment.

And then he leans back. Instead of lying back down, he sits up, folding his legs under him. He uses them to get himself back onto his feet and walk over to the edge, looking back at you and raising his eyebrows in question.

You rock onto your side, kneel, and then hoist yourself up, joining him to look over the ledge.

The streets are more crowded than you thought. And they’re growing louder, no longer restrained under that black cloud.

“Guess it’s over,” he says.

You blink a few times, getting used to this new, luminous world. You peer down at the building across the street, the one that blocks the city from your apartment’s view, and you see a horde of people through one of the main windows.

You can already hear the din of people in your own building, chaos moving from the hallways to the stairwell. Sweaty bodies pushing against each other to get back to their apartments, filled with stale air.

Jungkook raises his eyebrows as he reads your mind. “Wait it out?”

“Nah.”

You follow the siding, along the ledge, to where the roof’s fire escape sits.

You grab the rising railing and steady yourself before climbing up, over the ledge, and turning around to take the ladder down..

You look at Jungkook with a daredevil’s grin.

“C’mon.”

Hoisting the fire escape window open proves to be much more difficult than you thought. Maybe the metal tracks have rusted over. Maybe the paint has turned to glue. Or maybe there’s something stuck at the top, a bit of wood, or a random pebble, wedging it in place.

Jungkook sends it flying upwards with seemingly no effort.

Even though the fire escape’s metal work is still up to code and more than enough to keep you from tumbling down into, incidentally, the dumpsters below, he holds his arms open and around you. Just in case.

You climb in, careful not to stomp on your still-open book, balancing on your desk carefully, but not for too long, given that it was bought on a budget and contains a drawer of screws that you didn’t use when putting it together.

Jungkook sees you calculating, and before you can give any kind of warning, he dives for the rug, somersaulting into the living room, stopping just short of the coffee table holding your one real plant.

Smiling back as you cackle, he jumps up, dusts himself off, and takes a bit of a bow.

Unlike every other apartment in the city at that moment, your lights are still off. But you tend to keep them off anyway, much preferring the way the city light gives you just enough to maneuver around comfortably.

He seems to understand. Another shared preference.

You watch as he takes slivers of your living room in. At the far end, your door, double-locked. Shoes lined up, except for a boot that has fallen on its side. A table, which is probably where you put your keys and mail. A skinny bookshelf on the first wall. A TV, and that coffee table, in the center. That plant, which, unfortunately, isn’t doing too well. This couch, with the quilt that looks like your mother, or any mother, made it, but is actually another bargain buy.

“Cozy,” he says with a genuine smile.

“Appears that way,” you admit.

Jungkook nods as he takes more in. Everything seems to be in place. In order. And he’s starting to feel awkward there, unsure of where he needs to be.

“Well,” he says, smiling. “I guess there’s nothing left to do but the last thing on your list.”

There’s an uncomfortable pressure in your chest. You let it storm and rumble for a moment, and you realize that it’s not anxiety, or stress. Those would mean that having Jungkook in your apartment would feel wrong. That you would want him to go.

But you desperately, desperately don’t.

It’s regret.

The regret of not craning your neck up and kissing him under the stars.

“I don’t want to do the last thing anymore,” you say, looking at him with want. “I wanna do something else.”

You don’t break your gaze as you walk right up to him, toes touching his.

You tilt your head.

You kiss him.

And he lets you.

When you pull away, you grin and ask, “What are you thinking?”

He could have been staring for five seconds or five hours. It somehow feels like both. And all of that explodes when he tells you, “I was thinking how much I like the taste of your mouth.”

His lips land on yours with a soft grunt, diving in with more want the more that he gets of you. His fingers hold your head gently, but after each taste that he gets of you, his fingers continue to dig in, squeezing your cheeks slightly, and forcing your lips forward.

He runs his tongue over them and kisses you once more.

Hearts pounding, you pull away, wearing matching, wet smirks.

As you pull away, you stare at each other, puzzled, and even more curious.

You rush together again, bodies colliding this time, and violently so.

“Ow!”

You rub at the sore spot just above your right breast, and The Hulk scowls back at you.

“Haha, aww.”

He whines along with you, pulling you in closer on the other side, and placing his hand on your sore spot, too.

He massages his fingers in tender circles.

And then he pulls you in for a kiss that unfolds slowly, not robbed of heat and passion but building back up to it layer by layer, like the measured steps of the fire escape, rather than tumbling off of the roof’s ledge.

His hand travels down, taking your breast in his hand and massaging it with his entire palm, working in tandem with his tongue in your mouth.

You feel both his tongue and his hand at your pussy, clenching tighter, and nearly getting as wet as your smirks.

He groans softly, shoulders bending back.

He momentarily removes his hand from you as he peels his jacket off of his frame, first his left sleeve, then his right, folding the jacket in half and gently tossing it over to your couch.

And then, his hand returns, and the other joins it, groping your chest and pushing your breasts into you. You lay your hands on top of his and follow his round motions, intertwining and closing your fingers around his fingers as they feel you.

His thumbs flick over both of your nipples. You can only feel part of the sensation, with your blouse still on, and given the light padding in your bra. But it’s more than enough to send twitches to your pussy as it drips with more arousal.

Your thighs tighten and clasp together, hips swirling.

Your head dips back as you take in a long, deep breath, followed by shallower ones.

It feels like you’ve been drowning.

Jungkook watches you, hands slowing to a stop.

“Everything OK?”

“I haven’t been kissed like that in a long, long time,” you say, dazed. “And I barely know you.”

Jungkook smiles. “I’m Jungkook.”

You laugh, “Yes, but—”

“Why don’t I tell you what I know,” he says quietly, and thoughtfully.

He runs his fingers down the collar of your blouse. You barely feel him, but your chest feels so tense.

“I know that you’re sweet.”

He runs his index finger down your chest. As he unbuttons the first button with just his right hand, your eyes unfocus, lids falling slightly closed, and your tilting head sending them back.

“I know that you’re kind.”

The second button is a little harder to undo. You had to replace it after the thread came loose, and you overdid the fix just to be sure. He’s still able to unbutton it with just one hand.

“I know that you’re funny.”

The third button opens, and he rolls it in his fingers as he tickles your belly button, making you giggle and squirm.

“I know that you’re feisty. And really competitive. Which I’m gonna have tons of fun with.”

You laugh as he hooks his finger around the fourth button, which falls open. He barely even had to touch it. You feel your shirt spreading apart at your shoulders, and you feel the slight breeze from the window on your chest.

“I know that you’ve had a shitty day.”

You soften as he undoes the last button at the end of your blouse.

“And I wanna make you feel better.”

His hands move up your hips, and waist, and he moans softly at the feel of your skin.

He bends down and kisses just above your right breast, as his hands run up your chest and to your shoulders, slipping under that polyester blend and running down your arms, your blouse traveling with them.

You hear the crumple of sangria-stained fabric fall on the ground.

Jungkook’s lips find a spot on your neck, and you lean back to give him room.

Your hands sneak under his hoodie, and you take the time to grope every single muscle on his back, each of them covered in a slight sheen of sweat.

“Mmm,” he whispers, as you hook your arms under his and pull him closer.

“Why have you been wearing two layers?” you finally ask, feeling the weight of his sweat in the fabric. “It’s so hot.”

“I haven’t done my laundry yet. These are the last clean clothes that I have. And this is thin.”

He tugs on the front and looks down.

“You can see my nipples through it.

Your frown is weighted with empty promises when you look down.

“In the light, I mean,” Jungkook chuckles.

“That’s a feature, not a bug, Jungkook.”

He has no idea what you’re talking about, but he’ll take it, with the way you’re softly moaning as you run your hands across his chest.

“You wanna see them?”

“Uh-huh. Let me turn on the light.”

“Or you could just take this off.”

“Right.”

You almost would prefer to turn on the light, because, now that you know his back is made of nothing but rippling muscle, you don’t know if you’ll be able to handle the full sight of his chest.

But you bite your lip, and tug.

He pulls his arms down, and then he shakes his hair free, as you pull the hoodie from his head.

You wish you could take a picture of the resulting floof, so soft and cute.

And then you let your eyes drift down to his chest.

He watches with interest as you trace each of his pecs with your fingers.

“Live up to your expectations?”

You realize your mouth has been hanging open.

You look into his eyes.

“Shattered them.”

He laughs, and then you go back to admiring his body. You wonder what he does. Weights, obviously, as supported by his strong, defined arms. Maybe he swims, given his waist. He probably likes to run, too. He can probably run for hours. In fact, with all the gallivanting around tonight, his heart’s gotta be like that of a stallion.

This bodes well for you.

The only way he can pry you away from that body is by tilting your chin up and stealing your gaze with his eyes.

His lips flutter against your jaw line until they meet yours again.

With your chests mashing together, and your kisses stretching on for longer, busier spans of time, you’re starting to work up a sweat.

“Bedroom?” you ask, panting.

He nods quickly and looks around to figure out which door it is.

You smile and take his hand, leading him to the far right, past your kitchen, and to your room, to your perfect, comfy bed.

You slide out of your shoes, undo your pants, and let them fall to the floor before climbing onto the bed and sitting in the middle.

And you run your hand across your chest as you watch him take his time, kicking off his shoes, taking off his pants, standing there in his black boxer-briefs and just grinning at you.

“Are you gonna join me or what?”

When your head tilts to the side, weighted with impatience, he scrunches his face again, and laughs.

He crawls as he follows you, watching you to make sure you’re comfortable as you lie down, and then settling on top of you, like you both wish he had done on the roof.

“You playing with me?” you mumble through a smile, as you bring your arms around him.

He kisses the inside of your upper arm and rubs it with his hand. “No,” he says simply. “Just like looking at you.”

You sigh as he kisses you.

It’s a little faster. Hungrier. Like before.

He leads you back with his lips, and when he looks down at your chest, you arch back, fingers finding the band and undoing the clasps in the back.

He lets out a sigh when he sees your bare chest.

He locks eyes with you, and his look says it all. Equal parts tender and fascinated. You wouldn’t believe the look on anyone else, but after tonight, you know that there is no disingenuous bone in Jungkook’s body.

You are beautiful.

He smiles as he snatches your bra from your hand and tosses it behind him, rushing forward to you and pinning you down to your pillow with his kiss, both of you laughing and grunting happily.

You place your hands on his hips, and then stroke his thighs.

You run the backs of your fingernails to his crotch, and he lets out a low moan.

“OK?” you ask.

“Yeah. Yeah, please.”

You fondle his cock, hard, and getting harder, while you grasp it with firm pressure. He whines so sweetly as your hand runs up and down its column, his underwear keeping it pinned against him, nearly choking it off.

His left hand claims your left breast, starting to massage it, and his right hand strokes your panties, twisting as your body starts to writhe against your mattress, the fabric riding higher and getting caught in your swelling, dripping flesh.

Your kisses are becoming more and more impassioned with each need being met.

He starts to dip his fingers between your pussy lips, letting your clit part his index and middle fingers as his wrist rocks back and forth.

As you moan on each stroke, he lifts his lips from yours and rests his temple against your collarbone.

“Can I taste you?” he asks hopefully.

You look at him and nod in desperation.

He smirks and kisses down your body, taking your panties and pulling them down to your calves. He’s so impatient that he starts to eat you out before they’re even fully off, and you take turns between giggling while trying to kick them off completely, and groaning at each dizzy lick of his tongue tip, spiraling around your clit, and sending you spiraling into your own abyss.

Your hips start to match his motion, but then his hands grasp your hips and pin you down.

You feel yourself fighting against him, and that tight, added resistance has you seeing stars. The sensation travels in waves over your body, never quite settling in one place. Your shoulders carry you from left to right. Your ass digs down, then pumps up. Your back locks, then arches. All of your movements fail miserably at quelling the disquieted sections of your body, only shifting the tension from muscle to muscle.

He pins your thighs down with his forearms, and then holds you open with his thumbs, his tongue laying flat and changing from spirals to broad, heated, pressured brushstrokes up and down, at an even, unhurried tempo.

You whimper as you start to feel little shivers of pleasure tickle your body. You wet your lips and press them together, choked-off grunts getting louder and louder.

“Fingers?” Jungkook asks.

“Mm -hmm.”

He grunts as he shifts his weight, letting your left thigh go, and softly pushing it to the side to widen your spread a little.

His hand is warm and covered in your sweat.

He lays the pad of his thumb against the entrance of your pussy, pressing slightly, and then he sucks the juice that collects around it.

“Tight little thing,” he mumbles. “Not ready for me yet.”

You groan at all the things that means.

He slides the tip of his index finger in. At first, you feel yourself fighting him, but when he starts to suck your clit, you feel yourself start to shift that tension up to your extremities. Your hands ball into fists. Your toes curl. Your throat closes off as you try to wail.

His entire finger slides inside, and you feel your walls conforming to his knuckles.

He starts to pump, and you hiss.

The sound of wet muscle doubles, and you feel his groans against your clit as his hips start to snap into his own fist.

He keeps his mouth open as you rock against his mouth, tongue stretching into your folds as you slide around his finger, moving faster, his other fist matching your pace stroke for stroke.

As the edges of a soft, warm release start to take you, he slips another finger inside of you, and you let out a loud moan.

Jungkook hums, pleased with how pleased you are.

“Shit, it feels so good,” you whine, before resting the back of your forearm over your lips and biting down.

He quickens his speed. Curves his fingers up.

“Uh-huh!”

You tighten around him, and he lets out a sigh, his temple resting against your thigh, eyes dazed over as he watches his fingers disappear inside of you over and over again, while his other fingers tighten their grip around his leaking cock.

He grunts again, and then, he places his lips over your clit, sealing it in his mouth, and sucking again.

When you come, you sigh, laughing a little at how unexpectedly delirious you feel.

Your body is still shivering when he stands over you, his pace slowing, but his cock still has a ways to grow.

It’s already so big.

You can’t wait.

“Come here,” you motion, directing Jungkook to come around the side of the bed.

“You sure?” he asks, obviously excited.

“After that?” you say, delighted.

You roll onto your side, hugging the edge of the mattress, and open wide for him, eyes gleaming as you look up at him.

His hand cradles the back of your head as you try to take him in one gulp. It takes you a minute to get the angle right, jaw driving you left and right, tongue flat, then narrow and pointed, until you surround him with your lips, and you start to bob your head back and forth, halfway down his shaft.

He takes a shaky breath in, and you smile when you hear him let out a little, “whoo.”

He comes out of your mouth with a pop as you lick your precum-glossed lips and ask, “You like it?”

You see only his hair floof shake up and down. His head has fallen back, the strong pillar of his throat bulging forward, collarbones out, chin directed up at the air.

You watch as you suck harder, his crown regally announcing itself through the curtains of your tonsils, muscle meeting your throat.

Jungkook hisses, bringing his hands up to the sides of his head, and raking his fingers through his hair.

You move back and forth again, your pillow collecting your sweat as you go.

The longer you go, the more you feel him resisting.

You place your hands on his hips to find that they’re shaking.

When you pinch them, he moans, and he finally lets himself thrust.

You groan as he pushes into you, taking shallow breaths in through your nostrils as he sinks further and further into madness. How you take him so easily, and yet, how beautifully tight and slippery your throat is. How patient you are, and how careful he has to be. It’s driving him sinfully insane.

Before it gets too far, he pulls out, slow at first, and then quick, as you catch your breath, and he tenses.

“Again?” you prompt weakly, opening your mouth.

“I have to fuck you,” Jungkook demands. “Now.”

You laugh at how serious he looks, his eyes darting around your bedroom.

“What are you looking for?”

“Condoms?”

You get out of bed and scurry to the bathroom, Jungkook smiling and pinching your ass as you go.

You lead him to the bathroom, the door opposite your kitchen, and you quickly locate them under your sink.

“These OK?” you ask, holding up the box.

“Perfect.”

He rips one from the rest.

And then he sets it on the sink, taking the box with him and marching back to your bedroom.

You laugh, running up to him and jumping onto his back, wrapping your legs around his waist and peppering his neck and traps with kisses.

He kisses your forearm and giggles.

And then something catches his eye.

He stops.

“Ooh. What’s that?”

You look over to your kitchen counter and spot the simple snacks you’d left out for yourself, thinking you’d be treating yourself for the weekend.

“Is that candy?” he asks.

“Chocolate, infused with weed.”

“Yeah?”

He looks back at you and smirks.

“You wanna?” you ask, raising your eyebrows. “We haven’t eaten in a while. And they’re kinda strong.”

Jungkook beams. “Even better.” But then he pushes out his lips. “Unless you were saving—”

“I’m down if you’re down,” you say happily. “Go get ‘em.”

He hoists you up higher onto his back, and you tighten your grip around his shoulders, as he walks over to the counter.

He unwraps the gold foil and breaks off a square. He raises it up and behind him to your lips. You take his fingers into your mouth and suck. He leaves his hand there so that you can suck the rest of the chocolate off of them, too. He beams at you, and you lean forward to kiss him, before he takes another square for himself.

He licks his fingers as he brings you back to bed, the two of you laughing as you go.

And then, he stumbles, tripping, turning just in time to throw you onto the bed, while he falls to the floor.

“Oh my god!” you cackle, as Jungkook pops back up, your pants, and your powder blue stapler, tangled up and around his foot.

“I’m sorry!” he calls out, pulling them off and throwing them back down.

“Are you OK?” you ask, still giggling.

Jungkook furrows his brow and looks at the ground. He disappears, and then pops back up again, holding up a sleeve of condoms.

“Yes. Yes I am.”

He rips one off the end and puts it on, crawling over you as you lay back.

“Mmm,” you sigh, as he pushes into you.

His neck lolls forward, and you grab his hair floof in your fingers.

“You OK?” Jungkook asks gently.

You wonder how many times he’s had to ask someone that.

He’s so long, but his girth. So wide. So full. And so heavy, with want, and passion, and excitement.

“You said that you had to fuck me,” you say, hands grabbing onto his ass. “So fuck me.”

He starts to move, pulling back, and then rocking forward, your bodies bobbing up and down as your movements build off of each other, more pleas floating out of your mouths.

More.

Harder.

Like this.

His eyes find that spot above your right breast.

“What?” you ask, slightly distracted by the look on his face.

“I think there’s a small bruise.” He presses a kiss to your cheek. “I’m sorry about that.”

“That’s OK,” you say, scoffing. “If I need to, I can cover it up with something.”

“So can I.”

His mouth latches there, and he starts to bite, and suck. You feel your skin giving way to him, like it’s breaking open and spilling all over you, instead of Jungkook’s pool of spit.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, your hips starting to roll at the combined sensation. “Don’t stop.”

As his thrusts get harder and deeper, he shifts all of his weight to his left side, and his right hand slides down to your clit, starting to rub in those circular motions again. You roll against him, knees in the air, swaying open, then back closed around his waist.

Everything’s a blur.

He stiffens as he pumps, deeper and deeper, the bed rocking under your weight, his own tiny sighs getting louder as you start to wail.

All the while, his teeth pinch and nibble that spot on your chest, and you feel your legs starting to shake.

You’re on the brink of another orgasm.

When he stops.

“No, no, no, no,” you whimper, fluttering.

Jungkook giggles.

“Don’t stop!”

“I’m not. Not completely.”

“Ugh.”

His voice deepens, and softens, as it rumbles through your hair to your ear.

“Think about how crazy it’ll feel when you come.”

He runs his wet index finger around your right nipple, and he kisses the hickey he’s just given you just above it.

“Please.”

Jungkook grins. “Ah, you asked so nicely.”

He starts to thrust into you again, and you fall right back where you were, covered in tingles and sweat, body starting to spasm, shaking even harder than you were starting to before.

He’s right.

Jungkook, this beautiful stranger, who is dipping in and out of your frenzied pussy, cock slamming, and disappearing, whose hand is furiously pawing at your clit and making you overflow with arousal, making every muscle inside of you tremble, and then freeze and release, exploding and sending you reeling, is absolutely right.

“Fuck!”

When you come, you do feel crazy.

And so does he, getting off on how you moaned for him, babbled nonsense because of him.

A few tears are pooling in the corners of your eyes.

You feel so raw.

A good kind of raw.

Not like before, when Jungkook first saw you crying.

The kind of raw that tells you that you’ve washed the day off of your tired skin and are reborn.

You look at him in contemplation.

“You’re lucky I like overstimulation.”

“Taking note,” Jungkook observes, slowing his thrusts. “What else do you like?”

“What do you like?”

“I like spanks.”

“Me too,” you say. “Giving and receiving.”

He stops his thrust altogether, intrigued.

“Then spank me,” he orders. “Right now.”

You do, as you bite your lip and smile.

“No, really, spank me,” Jungkook says, reaching for your arm.

You fight off his wiggling fingers, lean forward, and pack a wallop into your slap on his ass, watching it shake.

“Ow! Not that hard!” he whines, rubbing the spot.

“I’m sorry!”

He collapses into giggles, curling up in your sheets.

“I’m kidding. You’re kind of weak.”

You scrunch up your face and spank him all over his body, but then he picks you up, tickling you and sending you into a cackling frenzy.

“Jesus fucking— Stop! Stop! You win!” you cry.

“Say I’m the flip cup champ!” Jungkook demands.

“What??”

“Say it!”

“B-but you aren’t!”

“Say it or I won’t stop!”

You can’t breathe, you’re laughing so hard. “I’m the flip cup champ!”

Jungkook pinches your side, and you squeal.

“You’re the flip cup champ!” you holler. “Jungkook is the flip cup champ!”

Jungkook laughs with haughty satisfaction as he lies down on his side, kissing you as you start to float back down next to him.

As your cackles slow, you turn to him and run your fingers over his pretty, kiss-swollen mouth.

“What do you wanna do now?”

“I dunno. What do you wanna do?”

“I dunno.”

“What were we doing, anyway?”

You stare at each other, dumbfounded.

He laughs and turns to you, wide-eyed. “I think we were having sex?”

You cackle. “Oh shit, right!” You kiss him. “Let’s do that. Let’s do more sex.”

“Shit,” he giggles. “This is not a reflection of the quality of sex we were having, by the way. I’m having an amazing time.”

“I know. Me too.” You smile. “I’m having fun.”

You’ve been in the clouds since meeting Jungkook. But everything feels even hazier. The boundaries of your mattress, nightstands, walls, ceilings, and floors are melding. Softening.

And so is Jungkook’s happy, smiling face.

You grin and scrunch your nose.

“Hmm. I guess the edible hit.”

“Guess so,” Jungkook celebrates, eyes shining.

“Let me ride you,” you say warmly, but excitedly, kissing him as you get on top. “You’ve been doing all the work.”

“You’ve been putting work in, too. And you can’t ride me better than I’ve been fucking you,” Jungkook teases.

“Are you shitting me?” you ask, aghast. “Is that a dare?”

“Try it and find out.”

You slap his chest, and he laughs.

And while you sink down onto him, he sighs lightly, licking his lips and curling them into a smile.

First, you tantalize him by weaving slow circles, clenching him so tightly, that he hisses the same way he did when he was in your throat.

His hands slap onto your thighs and grab on.

You start to bounce up and down, and he watches your breasts jiggle as you do, his left hand reaching up and squeezing the right one as his right hand squeezes your thigh.

And then, you lean forward, and rock against him. You move so sweetly, whether you’re gently stroking him with your flesh, or riding him so tight and hard that he can’t see straight. It seems that you’re headed that way, with how hard your fists are gripping his shoulders.

He moans compliments as you ride.

“You’re goddamn gorgeous.”

“You feel so good.”

“So, so tight. If you clench even harder, I’ll—”

And you do.

He won’t be able to last.

But then you stop.

His mouth falls open.

You lean forward and scoop him up into a kiss.

“Think about how crazy it’ll feel when you cum,” you joke.

“You are driving me crazy.”

You giggle through another moan. “Butt-crazy?”

Jungkook whines. “Don’t be cute. And don’t talk about butts. I might ask you to do something, and I feel like that’s a question for when we know each other a little better.”

“Keep going the way you are, and if you ask it tonight, I might say yes.”

“Oh god.”

But you still don’t budge.

He places his hands on your waist and frantically tries to get you to bounce. Tries tickling you. Pinching you.

“Agh, c’mon.”

“Nope. This is payback for—”

Jungkook finally just grabs you by the hips. Holds you in place. Starts to pump up and into you.

He’s relentless.

You give complete control to him, barely able to hold yourself up.

But he’s got you.

The strokes feel like flames, deep, hot, and fast, making your pussy pulse, arousal leaking, even threatening to spurt out of you because of how full you are.

When your elbows start to tremble, threatening to give way, he wraps his arms around you hugging your chest to his. His strokes have started a wildfire in your core, and you’re sweating so much that when your head falls to him, there’s a splash of it onto your temple.

Everything in your body is clamping down. Shutting down. You can’t stand it anymore. All this tension.

The release is almost unbearable.

You both howl, your orgasm coming first, and his coming soon after, your bodies tied up in knots as you strain to stay together, transferring each flicker and spasm to one another, until you both collapse back down to the mattress.

“Let me cool you down,” he mumbles, fighting the oncoming drowsiness.

“What?” you ask.

But he’s already sliding down your body.

He licks at your pussy, lapping up all of your arousal.

“Jungkook?”

You start to feel waves rolling up your calves.

“Jungkook.”

“Mm.”

He spits it all back onto you, making you gasp.

He keeps licking, sucking on your clit, sucking on your lips, and gently running his fingers across your stomach, like little comforting tickles.

You come, softly, and quietly, gentle shivers helping your body stretch back out and relax, resolving the rest of the tension that hadn’t quite unfurled from before.

“There.”

You watch him army crawl back up the mattress and laugh softly when his completely drenched hair floof hits the pillow next to you.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he says.

“Nothing,” you answer. “My mind is completely blank.”

“Good.” Jungkook grins. “That was the third thing you wanted, wasn’t it?”

All you can do is stare at his proud, accomplished, wondrous grin.

And before he pulls you into a soft, tender kiss, he tells you.

“You were right. I find that things usually work out. And that’s because I always make sure that they do.”

The sun stings your eyes. It feels chemical. Even with them closed.

Slowly, you pry them open. First the left. Then the right. You blink slowly, then rapidly, the world coming into focus as you do.

Where are you?

Oh. That’s right. Home.

Why did you forget that you were home? You’re always home.

Though it feels like you haven’t been home in ages.

Why is it so bright?

Yes, it’s day time. But it’s so—

Right. The city blackout.

But how did you know the whole city was affected? Whenever anything in your apartment goes wrong, you pretty much ignore it and continue puttering around your apartment until you get some kind of text from a co-worker—

Mm.

Anyway, you guess you’ll putter around until you somehow find out from someone that whatever you were experiencing was actually part of some kind of mass event—

Riiiiiiiight. The block party.

Hold on.

Why are you smiling about the block party?

Why are you giggling about the block party?

Why do you feel so sore?

And what time is it?

You lift your head, too quickly at first, feeling immediately unsteady. You shut your eyes and let your body find equilibrium before trying to step back outside of yourself. When you’re ready — there’s no rush, you, for some reason, kindly tell yourself — you prop yourself up on your elbows and look to your nightstand to find out.

And you see four things.

Your clock, reading 8:43 AM.

Your powder blue stapler.

The Hulk.

And, under his feet, a small note, scribbled on a piece of paper. Torn, like his shorts.

It’s 8:20. I think you’re almost up, but you look pretty comfy, so I don’t want to wake you. Going to the Chans for breakfast.

C’mon!

As everything comes swirling back to you — the dumpsters; and Mrs. Chan’s walnut chicken; Yugyeom and his sangria; Shik and your stapler; Mr. Jeup, Deji, her cookies, her crush, and Crunkook-oppa ; Yon and Yeo in the candlelight; and, not least of all, Jungkook’s beaming face framed by that unspeakably wondrous, starry, starry sky — you’re glad, thrilled, that some memories from last night were absolutely worth keeping.

So you leap out of bed to make more.

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intexda · 4 months

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It seems like pecharunt operated things from the shadows and reaped the rewards while the lousy three were the face of the operations. Always there in the little details but hidden enough to fall into obscurity through the iterations as the story changed little by little possibly becoming a human trainer in some of them.

After the lousy three were beaten to death by Ogerpon, it probably got away and fell dormant only for someone to find it and pass it down through the family inheritance as a beloved toy that eventually wound up as the mascot for peachy's. The villagers being none the wiser only knew of the lousy 3 because they had reminders of them all over the place. The grave, the festival, possibly even a tv show going by the mask designs.

Meanwhile there was nothing really noting pecharunt's existence aside from a strange unmentioned human trainer on the story signs and a toy that was a store mascot. The only one left to remember it being Ogerpon who finally got her chance to beat it into the pavement in revenge after it awoke thanks to a mythical pechaberry that it presumably stole and ate from you.

#pecharunt #mochi mayhem #pokemon spoilers #pokemon sv spoilers #loyal three #ogerpon

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myfavoriteficss · 1 year

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Wednesday Masterlist

This Masterlist includes all of the Wednesday fan fiction I have reblogged. Enjoy.

Updated: 12/30/2023

Masterpost

1. Wednesday Addams

Written by: @anonymousewrites

A Good Day for Death: (1) A Good Day for Roommates - (2) A Good Day for Plans - (3) A Good Day for Festivals - (4) A Good Day for Death - (5) A Good Day for Strategy - (6) A Good Day for Competition - (7) A Good Day for Fudge - (8) A Good Day for Ruins - (9) A Good Day for Statues - (10) A Good Day for Shopping - (11) A Good Day for Dances - (12) A Good Day for Family - (13) A Good Day for Birthdays - (14) A Good Day for Arguments - (15) A Good Day for Diaries - (16) A Good Day for Apologies - (17) A Good Day for Death - (18) A Good Day for Resurrection - (19) A Good Day for Until Next Times

Valentines Day Special 2023

A Good Day for Death Pride Special 2023

A Good Day for Death Halloween Special 2023

Written by: @basichextechml

(1) Details - (2) Revelations

Wet Braids and Ribbon Ties

The Leaded Question

The Beat of your Heart (The Cry of my Own)

Did You Want Flowers?

Written by: @breaddwoo

(1) Bloody Kisses - (2) Smitten - (3) Vanilla

Written by: @brotherblaze

Double Black: Part 1 - Part 2

Written by: @celiastjamesoscar

To Be Alone

Like Real People Do

Written by: @chaeyoungies

Slipping Through My Fingers

Written by: @crazyoffher

paranoid.

Written by: @danzaloreley

Indée Fixe

Written by: @dysphoros

(1) Who are you now, You fool? - (2) Beauty Is in the eyes of the beholder

Interview with a vampire: (1) Interview with a Vampire - (2) Hunger - (3) Resfeber - (4) Dissimulate

What are my lips for if to not meet yours?

Written by: @extinctspino

Teamwork

Written by: @fleetingvow

‘ Bitter Solitude.

Written by: @ghostlynachopanda

(1) Nevermore’s Guardian - (2) Warmth - (3) The Weathervane - (4) The Walk - (5) The Talk - (6) Solution

Marks: Part 1 - Part 2

Till Next Time: Part 1 - Part 2

Patch Up

Like a Charm

Kiss

Study Date

For You

Envy

Hurtful Words

Third Wheel

Rest

jacket

Music

Written by: @house-of-lovin

grouch

be mine?

cuddle bug

Written by: @i984

(1) I Want to be Yours - (2) Finally Hers

(1) Sweet Words Make a Lovely Shade - (2) A Scarlet Touch - (3) Not So Peachy of a Trick - (4) My Thoughts Echoing Your Name

Ran Out of Paper

Festival Trouble

Grump Black Cat

Your Love, My Religion

Dreams of Lavender Confessions

I Love You- Wait, What?

Snowy Escape

Blazing Promises

Sweet, Foolish

A Letter to the Yearning Moon

Wounds, Not Dreams

In Sickness and In Health

Tonight, the Moon is Yours

Mattress Laid, No Questions Asked

Written by: @jazzyoranges

Recognizable

Written by: @liminal-space-lesbian

Summer Concussions

Written by: @lowkeyerror

Falling Fast: Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Epilogue

Written by: @lucianslover

10 Things I Hate About You

Written by: @luthorgarbage

Wednesday’s Web: One

Written by: @makncheese12

Alkaline: Part 1 - Part 2

Written by: @may-fanfic

Safe With You

Written by: @midnightmoonkiss

Sweet Dreams.

Written by: @mikavlcs

(1) Reverie - (2) Elysium

Loveless

Paralysis

Heaven in Hiding

Had Enough

Ricochet

Absence Persistent

Breathe

Flowers

Heaven in Hiding

Sweater Weather

Static Patterns

Spotlight

Heaven Sent

White Flag

Astraphobia

Dinosaur Talks

Whispers in the Dark

Rebels and Renegades

Dog Days

Not On My Mind

Written by: @missmonsters2

Wednesday’s Dictionary of Emotions: (1) Adronitis - (2) Monachopsis - (3) Jouska - (4) Opia - (5) Agnothesia - (6) Liberosis - (7) Flashover - (8) Nighthawk - (9) Ambedo - (10) Kairosclerosis - (O.S) First/Second Date Jitters - (O.S) Want Your Slow Dance

Just Last Lifetime: One - Two

Oblivion

Just Like Silk

Lips Over Your Nightmares

Written by: @mrtwizz

Snow On The Beach: Part One - Part Two - Part Three

Written by: @msgorillagripcoochie

(1) Nonsense - (2) Butterflies in my stomach

Written by: @rainbow-hedgehog

Exchange Student

Written by: @sleepinthrumyalarms

(1) To Tame a Demon - (2) The Perfect Girl

Protective Instincts

Your Teeth Don’t Scare Me

Weird But Lovely Trophies

Daddy Issues

After Dark

Good Little Girl

Hard to Keep my Cool

Kiss It Better

Loving the beast, loving it whole

Their Affair, Bloody

Written by: @softgreengrass

Sun to Me: Part 1 - Part 2

Covert Narcissism

Written by: @spaghettiposts

Video Games

Written by: @specialagentlokitty

Restore the Balance: Part One - Part Two - Part Three

Soft For You

Never Again

Just a Tiny Hint

Written by: @stirthewaters

Too Sharp to Touch: Part 1

Written by: @talesofesther

Scorch Marks: Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3

Sweet Calamity: Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - (O.S) Pretty Secrets - Chapter 10 - (O.S) Birthday Girl

Don't Know How to be Something You Miss: Chapter 1 - Chapter 2

(1) I told the moon about you - (2) Darling darkness

Yours Only

Deep Devotion

Crimson and White

Cinnamon and Spice

The Hearts that Matches Mine

Dark Trees are Better

Find the Beauty

Golden Ballads

Love the Way You Love Me

Tender as the Rain

I guess that's love

Written by: @theunreliablewriter

Clumsy Defender

Written by: @toddxhavez

My Eyes

Written by: @toournextadventure

Everyone But Her: Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12 - Part 13 - Part 14 - Part 15 - Part 16 - Part 17 - Part 18 - Part 19 - Part 20 - Part 21 - Part 22 - Part 23 - Part 24 - Part 25 - Part 26 - Part 27 - Part 28 - Part 29 - Part 30 - Part 31 - Part 32 - Part 33 - Part 34 - (O.S) The Cave (18+) - Part 32 - (O.S) They Didn't Know - (O.S) A Fair Trade - (O.S) Revenge - Part 33 - Part 34 - Part 35 - Part 36 - Part 37 - Part 38

Would You Love Me?

you simp

l’appel du vide

we match

im no poet

Trouble Maker

Written by: @vorsdany

When I Dream (Of Dying): (1) (Not So) Colorful Buzz - (2) Watch Out! - (3) Freeze! You’re on Fire - (4) Good, Bad Impressions - (5) Harmonious Danger - (6) When I Dream (Of Dying)

Golden Eyes and Melted Hearts

Violescent

Meant To Be (Alone)

Shots For They Heart

Names On Your Tongue

Ink Over Your Soul

Take Me Home

Sea of Stars

Nights Like These

A Luminous Jewel

Bloody Woes

A Vexatious Creature

Warm My Frozen Heart

Just This Once

Of Dying Days

Written by: @vulpe-fox

Where Shadows Meet

Shadow’s Keeper

Written by: @wandaromanova

enigma.

never did.

obvious

Written by: @ykiwrite

Kiss of Death

Written by: @70svampyr

Wednesday Addams Relationship! Headcanons

2. Enid Sinclair

Written by: @specialagentlokitty

Peace With You

Protect You

Not Getting Hurt That Easy

Written by: @toournextadventure

Thunder and Lightning

3. Yoko Tanaka

Written by: @euoniaroses

Jealous? Please,

Written by: @mrsfrenchie

Touch

#masterlist #wednesday #wednesday addams #wednesday addams x reader #wednesday x reader #wednesday addams imagine #dom’s recommendations #enid sinclair #enid sinclair x reader

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daphnesims · 2 years

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Saint Greer Islands

Azalea Island Foxglove Bay: 25 x 30 1 Banyan’s End: 25 x 40 2 Banyan’s End: 30 x 40 Lupin Beach: 40 x 40

Snapdragon Run: 25 x 25 Oak Point: 25 x 25

Buttercup Orchard: 40 x 30

Elm Place: 33 x 30

1 Hazel Road: 15 x 25 2 Hazel Road: 20 x 25

1 Iris Avenue: 15x20 2 Iris Avenue: 20x20 3 Iris Avenue: 30x20 4 Iris Avenue: 35x20

1 Jasmine Court: 20x30 2 Jasmine Court: 30x30 3 Jasmine Court: 20 x 25 4 Jasmine Court: 30 x 25

1 Azalea Park: 50 x 43 2 Azalea Park: 30 x 43

1 Lilac Avenue: 30x20 2 Lilac Avenue: 30x30 3 Lilac Avenue: 30x30 4 Lilac Avenue: 30x20

1 Cedar Terrace: 30x30 2 Cedar Terrace: 25x30

1 Honeysuckle Row: 20x25 2 Honeysuckle Row: 25x25 3 Honeysuckle Row: 20x25

1 Plum Drive: 2 Plum Drive: 25x20 3 Plum Drive: 25x30

1 Snowdrop Passage: Oliphant Cafe and Studio By @littlemisstery (Pic Here) Bluedrop House ? By @asexualsims 2 Snowdrop Passage: Green Drop House By @asexualsims 3 Snowdrop Passage: Blue Redrop House By @asexualsims

1 Peony Street: The Oak House By @littlemisstery (Pic Here) Water Home? By @asexualsims 2 Peony Street: Misthaven Home By @thewinterflakesim 3 Peony Street: Slerras House By @my-special-sim 4 Peony Street: Little Flower Shop By @littlemisstery 6 Peony Street: Jaspers House By @my-special-sim

1 Magnolia Parade: Minty HouseBy @littlemisstery (Pic Here) California Rustic By @asexualsims 2 Magnolia Parade: Peachy Delight By @littlemisstery (Pic Here) Shingle Style By @asexualsims 3 Magnolia Parade: Sunkissed Hideout By @littlemisstery (Pic Here) Beach House By @asexualsims

IIex Lighthouse: Sun Sea Lighthouse By @my-special-sim IIex Bay: Sun Sea Bay By @my-special-sim

IIex Lighthouse: Saint Greer Nautical Museum By @littlemisstery (Pic Here) IIex Bay: Forgotten Shore By @littlemisstery (Pic Here)

Chestnut Bay: The Old Fishing Boat ?By @littlemisstery (Pic Here) —

Holiday Colonial - 2 Lilac Avenue By @asexualsims

Saint Greer Central Park (Festival Grounds)? by @asexualsims

——-

Violet Island 2 The Wharf: The Waterfront By @amphoraesims Art Studio By @asexualsims 1 Rose Garden: Community College/University By @gruesim

1 Sunflower Garden: Lirael’s Trailer By @simplyimaginarypeople (Image Here) 2 Sunflower Garden: Misty’s Trailer By @laurenisasimmer 3 Sunflower Garden: Blue Dutch By @littlemisstery (Image Here) Purple Caravan By @rubyred-sims & @simplyimaginarypeople (NO Image) 4 Sunflower Garden: Starter Dutch By @littlemisstery (Image Here) 5 Sunflower Garden: 6 Sunflower Garden: Community Garden By @littlemisstery (Image Here)

1 Willow Stroll: Grey Willow Maisons by @littlefrenchsims 2 Willow Stroll: Willow Apartments By @littlemisstery (Pic Here) 3 Willow Stroll: Three Townhouses By @littlemisstery (Pic Here)

Bluebell Park ( To be used has a lot for different things): Little Hill Pumpkin Patch By @pixelatedmuffis Harrison Christmas Tree Farm By @pottery-sims Falling Leaves Wedding Venue By @thesimperiuscurse Bluebell Park By @littlemisstery (Image Here & deco ferris wheel)

Willow Park: Paravel Park By @amphoraesims Willows Church By @asexualsims Willow Park (Big Park) By @littlemisstery (Pic Here)

1 Clover Creek: Luka & Zoe’s House By @simplyimaginarypeople (Image Here) 2 Clover Creek: Mortinez Beach House By @jenba ? 3 Clover Creek: Oak Nook By @my-special-sim 4 Clover Creek: Rustic Beach House By @asexualsims

1 Sweetgum Mews: Oleander Cottage By @oleander-sims 2 Sweetgum Mews: The Plum By @littlemisstery 3 Sweetgum Mews: Saida and Karsen’s House By @simplyimaginarypeople 4 Sweetgum Mews: Reese Cottage By @simplyimaginarypeople

1 Lavender Promenade: Bridal Boutique (Salon) By @thesimperiuscurse 2 Lavender Promenade: Big Tree Park By @littlemisstery (Image Here) 3 Lavender Promenade: Grey Stone Home By @littlemisstery (Image Here) 4 Lavender Promenade: Yellow Promenade By @simplyimaginarypeople (NO Image)

1 Violet Square: Supermarket (Grocery RH) By @littlemisstery (Image Here) 2 Violet Square: Galleria Square By @littlemisstery (NO Image) 3 Violet Square: Caffè Murano (use this mod to run as cafe) By @littlemisstery 4 Violet Square: Blanche’s Cafe & Bakery By @asexualsims 5 Violet Square: Moonlight Cine By @littlemisstery 6 Violet Square: Midori Asian Cuisine By @littlemisstery (Image Here) 7 Violet Square: Sweetlove Cafe and Bakery By @littlemisstery

1 Tulip Place: Affordable Family HouseBy @littlemisstery (Pic Here) Ascension Park By @amphoraesims Minty House by @rubyred-sims 2 Tulip Place: Holiday Garden & Gift Shop By @jenba 3 Tulip Place: Saint Tulip By @s3mpcdesings

Poppy Field: Victorian CharmBy @littlemisstery (Pic Here) Lavender Fields By @amphoraesims Sunnyside By @my-special-sim

1 Juniper Cove: Modern House By @littlemisstery 2 Juniper Cove: Water Lily By @littlemisstery (Image Here) 3 Juniper Cove:

—-

Violet Square: Row Shops - ? by @asexualsims

Violet Square: Dante’s Music Store? - by @asexualsims

Violet Square: Rabbit Holes Lots? - by @asexualsims

Community Gardens - ? by @asexualsims

White Lake Meadows - ? by @asexualsims

—–

Lily Island 1 Phlox Bay: Bay Shack By @littlemisstery 2 Phlox Bay: Old Factory (Science rabbithole) By @littlemisstery (Image Here)

Dandelion’s end: The Refuge By @littlemisstery (Image Here) Lion’s End By @amphoraesims

1 Foxtrail Trail: Hidden Cottage By @my-special-sim 2 Foxtrail Trail: A-Frame Cotage? By @littlemisstery (Image Here) 3 Foxtrail Trail: Lover’s Nest By @littlemisstery (Image Here)

1 Lily Grove: 2 Lily Grove: Wooden Le Chalet By @littlefrenchsims Family Manor? By @littlemisstery 3 Lily Grove: The Lake House By @simplyimaginarypeople 4 Lily Grove: Leisure Logs By @asexualsims Fallen Leaves Memorial By @amphoraesims

#map

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simslegacy5083 · 4 months

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NSB (Straud Legacy) Gen 8 Ep. 161: Joyous Days

With “The Nancy problem” officially solved, the stress of Jack’s birthday no longer looming over them, and Peachy’s final promotion to Chief behind them the men felt as if a weight they hadn’t even known they were carrying had been lifted off their shoulders. They were free at last.

That shared joy spilled over into a long, unbroken series of beautiful days together as a family.

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

Jack loved having another funny man in the house, encouraging his young son’s fledgling sense of humor whenever he could.

Realizing that he might even appreciate seeing Dada perform, Peachy worked out a kid appropriate comedy set, and the boys took Luigi and his little cousin Olive with them to see him do his new family friendly thing during their local Fall Festival.

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

Of course, their tiny growing boy also needed lots of care and attention, which his Dada and Papa were happy to provide.

His love of bath time and bubbles carried over from his infant days, but “Mr. independent” really didn’t like being carried anymore. It took a lot longer to let him walk on his own but neither man liked to see him unhappy and resigned themselves to waiting patiently for him to get there “by myself!”

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

The boys quickly learned that Luigi was quite a heavy sleeper. Once he was happily settled in bed for the night after one of Papa Jack’s special bedtime stories there wasn’t much that was going to wake him accidently.

On the flip side he tended to rise quite early, but with so many ghostly moms and dads in residence that really wasn’t too big of a deal. Peachy and Jack could happily sleep in while Peachy’s ancestors entertained their tiny man with playtime and stories until they awoke to get ready for the day.

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

Of course, their time spent together wasn’t all about their son. Jack’s bad dreams had lately turned into good ones, some steamier than others.

Great-Grandma Willow’s giant outdoor observatory didn’t see much use anymore, but who in their right minds would turn down the opportunity to make such a wonderful dream come true?

While great-aunt Misty entertained Luigi inside the boys headed outdoors to have a little fun, thanking their lucky stars for the wonderful life, and love, they were blessed to share.

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

Want To See More? View The Full Story of My Not So Berry Challenge Here

#sims 4 #sims 4 challenge #sims 4 legacy #sims 4 nsb #sims4 #sims 4 not so berry #sims4nsbstraud #sims 4 let's play #sims 4 gameplay #sims 4 lets play

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longlistshort · 2 years

Photo

Rise Above by Alex Yanes was created for the 2020 iteration of SHINE Mural Festival in St. Pete, Florida.

Information on this mural from the St. Pete Arts Alliance website-

Set between two large windows, the mural is 19 feet wide and 15 feet high. Sort of. Because the mural isn’t the usual rectangle – it’s shaped like an abstracted fish that’s swimming to the left, with angular fins jutting out, curling waves that break around it and a curling tail that’s fanned up like a whale.

Rise Above is a vibrant splash of shades of blues, pinks and orange, made up of 18 connected panels. The fish’s orange head points to the left, with sharply angled fins and a wide open mouth, both in shades of light and darker pink. The fish has aqua lips, an aqua throat, and a big dark eye outlined in aqua, painted as if light is glinting off it.

In the upper left, above the fish’s mouth, a blue and white wave rolls to the left.

The fish’s body stretches toward the right, starting with a square that bears a striking cartoon face and wide blue eyes staring straight out, masked by blue waves. Above the eyes is a black triangle with the word “RISE” in blue curved capital letters, shadowed in pink. The R, I and E are rising up and to the right, and the S falls below, to take up the rest of the triangle.

Balanced on the rising edge of that triangle are two dorsal fins along the fish’s back, shaped like pyramids in shades of red and orange and angled up and to the right.

Beside the word “RISE” and the orange pyramids, a big blue wave rolls to the right. Just below is more of the fish’s body – a long panel with the word “ABOVE” in wavy orange letters, like it’s underwater. Partly covering the “A” in “ABOVE,” a peachy cartoon hand faces out, gesturing “stop.” The hand stands out, in the center, as if the fish is balanced on it. The bottom of the hand’s palm is scalloped, like waves.

Below and to the right of the hand, triangular fins in shades of blue angle point and to the right. They echo the shapes of the pink fins below the fish’s mouth and the orange fins along its back.

The wave continues to the right, swooping up with an overlay of black and white patterns like scales, up to the jaunty two-pronged tail, in shades of orange. An active and hungry fish, rolling waves, a human, and the words “rise above” all appear together like a fragmented mirror, in roughly the shape of a fish.

The artist explains: “Intended to highlight how climate change is accelerating sea level rise, I was inspired to create a multi-level installation consisting of 18, precisely hand cut, panel pieces which create the image of a displaced fish when combined.

“The hand-painted panels are meant to mimic an intricate jigsaw puzzle, representing the complicated interconnection of factors which comprise the cause and effects of sea level rise.

“By collectively doing our part to cut out fossil fuels and limit carbon emissions, we can ‘Rise Above’ and reduce the impact of this inevitable threat.”

For more work by Alex Yanes- also check out his Instagram.

#alex yanes #shine mural festival #st pete murals #shine mural festival 2020 #shine st pete #murals #shine st. petersburg mural festival #florida murals #st pete #st pete florida

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alibashirtllc · 7 months

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Official chicago Bears Go Bears Diamond Heart 2023 Art shirt

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newcurrent · 10 months

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Favourite bakery story counter displays

Best cakes

Loretta’s oven: classic heart cake (2)

Garden grove stove: spring cake (5)

Wisteria stove: bougainvillea cake (2)

Ye old oven: fairy cake (7)

Pampered oven: honey lavender perfection (5)

Best drinks

Pastel dispenser: charming cocoa (10)

Tea shop brewer: green tea (7), London fog (2)

Garden fountain: limeade (1)

Spring kettle: spring tea (4)

Floral cider machine: violet cider (7)

Best misc

Autumn oven: blueberry lavender pie (1)

Ivy grown stove: impressionist macaron (2)

Honeycomb oven: buzz pops (9)

Tea shop oven: earl grey tart (5)

Love letter oven: cupcake bouquet (5)

Rose oven: cherub cookies (8)

The rest (top favourites) (oven/recipe locked)

Basic oven: daisy cake (6), pie cake (4), yule log (6)

Basic drink mixer: chocolate milkshake (8), egg nog (8), heart coffee (4), lemonade (6), red juice (5), strawberry smoothie (2), sweet tea (0.5)

Loretta’s oven: unicorn cake (2), pastel gingerbread house (2), cassata Siciliana (2), classic heart cake (2), blossoming flower cake (2), galaxy mirror cake (2), cow cake (2), teapot cake (2), pastel tier cake (2)

Autumn drink machine: switchel (7)

Autumn oven: blueberry lavender pie (1)

Amethyst oven: amethyst forever (8), amethyst petals (4), amethyst promise (2)

Bakesgiving oven: cranberry walnut brie (3)

Blue bun oven: plum bungeoppang (1)

Blues oven: king cocoa (10)

Breakfast oven: sheet pan breakfast (5)

Bubble tea maker: milk bubble tea (1)

Candy cane maker: snowball cookies (1)

Coffee machine: chocolate art coffee (4), spice art coffee (6)

Confetti oven: birthday surprise (2)

Cottage stove: framboisier cake (7)

Cute camp oven: campe waffle cake (3)

Deep sea oven: grape berrier reef (3)

Dim sum station: baozi (3), bo lay tea (7), guk fa tea (5)

Fall fountain: apple fizz (4), cranberry fizz (2)

Floral fountain: hibiscus iced tea (4), lavender lemonade (6), rose petal soda (3)

Flower bloom oven: blooming cake (5)

Frappe fountain: strawberry frappe (2)

French coffee press: cat latte (10)

French cookie oven: lemon madeleines (5)

Frosty freezer: frozen lemonade (6)

Frozen drink machine: strawberry splash (3), lemon berry smoothie (1), pineapple berry smoothie (3), strawberry matcha smoothie (8), galaxy grape shake (8)

Fruit juicer: orange juice (2), coconut drink (3), dragonfruit drink (1), pineapple drink (8)

Garden fountain: blackberry lemonade (4), limeade (1), pink lemonade (2), elderflower rosewater (3), marigold lemonade (1), pansy refresher (8)

Garden grove stove: petal cake (6), spring branches cake (8), spring cake (5)

Gourmet soda machine: blueberry soda (2), honey lime soda (4), watermelon soda (8)

Grapefruit cooker: grapefruit pie (2), raspberry hive tart (1), coconut key lime pie (3)

Griddle: pancake smile (2)

Hay bale fountain: autumn americano (5), harvest hot cocoa (6), thankful tea (4)

Honeycomb oven: buzz pops (9), hive cakes (3)

Ice cream maker: banana split sundae (8), strawberry scoop (16), vanilla scoop (44), pumpkin ice cream (1)

Import ice creamery: dondurma (4), egg waffle ice cream (6)

Iron oven: huckleberry pie (5)

Ivy grown stove: impressionist macaron (2), spring tart (7)

Jam maker: apple butter and bread (7)

Kettle oven: tea sandwiches (3)

Love letter oven: cupcake bouquet (5), love letter cupcakes (1)

Loven: time for love cake (5)

Mardi gras oven: flamingo cake pops (3)

Moon festival fountain: jade tea (5), Yunnan coffee (4)

Motherly oven: candied flowers (1)

New dawn dispenser: sunrise smoothie (2)

New dawn oven: apritart (2)

Northeastern dispencer: turning leaf tea (7)

Nursery rhyme oven: well water (2)

Orchid swirler: jungle tea (10)

Pampered oven: honey lavender perfection (5)

Pansy oven: pansy shortbread (2)

Pastel dispenser: charming cocoa (10), pastelicious drink (7)

Pastel oven: unicake (5)

Peachy mixers: chai peach latte (10), nectarade (7), peachie smoothie (2)

Petal oven: flower cake (4), rosy angel food (8)

Petal pastry oven: lemonlove cream cake (3), petalcup cake (2)

Prismatic oven: frozen prism (2), refractive jelly (4)

Puebla drink maker: agua fresca (16), chocolate Mexicano (4)

Pumpkin patch dispenser: iced patch cooler (7)

Pumpkin patch oven: pumpkin crisp (5)

Pumpkin producer: pumpkin sorbet (8), pumpkin hot chocolate (8)

Reds oven: aces cake (2)

Resolute drinks: carrot shake (6), morning shake (5), sinless sweet (7)

Roller malt shaker: chocolate malt (1), strawberry malt (3)

Rollercoaster soda fountain: the climb (5), the drop (7), zero G (10)

Roman hearth: honeycomb cake (4)

Rose gold stove: rose gold cupcakes (4), rose gold slush (8)

Rose oven: cherub cookies (8), decorated heart cookies (3), heart tart cookies (1)

Rosey reservoir: bloomcakes (10), spring cocoa (2)

Sicilian oven: panna cotta tart (5)

Space stove: space cupcakes (2)

Special petal stove: special sugar flower (7)

Spring kettle: butterfly pea tea (8), passion fruit tea (3)

Succulent fountain: pitaya punch (8)

Sugar heart stove: ras-heart tart (2)

Summer icebox: berry mousse pie (1)

Sunrise potting platform: fresh candy apples (2)

Sunset seeding station: cherry blossoms (7), tulip poppers (10)

Sweet dream stove: night sky cake (2)

Sweet drink mixer: heart punch (4), love magic bubble tea (6)

Swiss oven: Swiss cake roll (6) NOT BUILT

Tea infuser: hojicha (6)

Tea shop brewer: cool mint tea (10), green tea (7), London fog (2)

Tea shop oven: earl grey tart (5)

Teddy oven: teddy cake (3)

Tropic oven: festive guava cake (5)

Tropical oven: guava chiffon (7), Hawaiian sunset cake (10)

Valentine drink machine: strawberry lemonade (7)

Vintage mixer: chai latte (2), macchiato (3)

Water infuser: citrus water (10), cucumber lime water (7), strawberry water (5)

Wisteria stove: bougainvillea cake (2), butterfly daisy cake (10), wisteria cake (7)

Woodland oven: woodland cake (4)

Ye olde oven: castle cake (10), fairy cake (7)

Ye olde stove: scotch eggs (2)

Favourite festive bakery story counter displays

Cursed oven: hallowedding cake (5)

Dublin dessert oven: Irish mince pie (8)

Experiment oven: Frankenstein cookie (2)

Haunted drink machine: midnight milkshake (8), slime slushie (2)

Headstone oven: ghost cupcakes (9), nightmare cake (1)

Holiday drink mixer: reindeer cranberry fizz (1)

Holiday night oven: Danish butter cookies (2)

Honey maker: honey sun tea (10)

Marzipan oven: marzipan (2)

Monster oven: gothic cake (10), silhouette cake (2)

Moon festival oven: moon cake (4)

My cupcake oven: loves me (1), loves me not (2)

North polar oven: polar bear pops (7), Santa strawberries (5)

Ominous oven: wicked cupcake (2)

Packaged stove: swirlcane cookie (2)

Parfait potion stand: haunted parfait (9)

Pastel holiday fountain: gingerbread man cocoa (5), snowflake cocoa (2), snowman cocoa (3)

Powdered stove: jam cookies (4), powdered snow balls (3), snowy gingersnaps (4)

Pumpkin stove: cauldron cakes (4)

Pumpkistove: pie o lantern (7)

Red gift stove: candy cane cupcake (4), gingerbread house (1)

Red shop oven: peppermint stick cake (5)

Santa’s oven: reindeer cake (6), Christmas tree cookie stack (8)

Santa’s shop fountain: gingerbread eggnog (4)

Santa’s shop oven: Christmas cake (6), North Pole cupcakes (4), Santa hat brownies (2)

Shamrock oven: pot o gold cake (6)

Silver studded stove: evergreen cakes (7)

Snowman fountain: holly hot cocoa (6)

Snowman stove: snowman sandies (3)

Spectral oven: jack o cupcake (6), spectral cupcake (12)

Spooky oven: fright bites (2)

Spooky stove: candy corn cooler (10)

Stainless steel oven: snowman cupcakes (1), bowtie cake (8), holly bites (3) NOT BUILT

Too pink oven: broken heart cake (1), cascade heart cake (3), ombre heart cake (8)

Topsy oven: twisty pop (3)

Tricky butler: candy corn (3), chocolate cache (2)

Turvey stove: delightfully dark cake (2)

Vocal range: caroling cake pops (6), mistletoe muffins (4)

Wicked oven: candy cackle (2)

Winter frost fountain: red velvet cocoa (6)

Winter frost oven: winter branch cake (8), winter frost cake (6), winter holly cake (4)

Winter oven: winter cupcake (4)

Winter wedding oven: winter macaroons (6), winter wedding cake (10)

Winter wonder oven: layered eggnog cake (1), layered penguin cake (8), layered winter cake (3)

Winterful drink maker: peppermint hot chocolate (2), winter cacao (10)

Witches cauldron: cauldron cupcakes (16), witch hat cookies (21), familiar float (8), witchy pudding (3), bat velvet cake (1), eyeball cookies (1)

Witchy oven: candy corn ghosts (2), witch cookie (5) NOT COMPLETE

#bakery story #my post #my bakery #games

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thelifeoflorna · 1 year

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~5/11/2022~ I was really sluggish in the morning, and in general really - probably a good thing though as it’s forcing me to rest. Had a quiet rainy day to ourselves as my Pom had gone to work, and the mothership had gone to grandma-sit as they’d been in A&E yesterday evening as my grandma had a ‘fall’ and bruised her leg (nothing broken thankfully) - I use the ‘ ‘ because we believe my grandma most likely has #munchausensyndrome - she tripped over a wire in her room, which multiple people had offered to fix as it was a clear trip hazard but she repeatedly refused, she fell just when my aunt was about to go out for her first physio appointment for a knee injury - and this does tend to be when ‘accidents’ involving my grandma tend to happen - in response to other family members having to seek medical attention. Anyway, left to our own devices, we did some repetitive pattern artwork in a notebook in the morning. Then headed out on the bus early afternoon to get some lunch. Then walked to sainsburys where we picked up a few sweet treat essentials to keep at parentals including some festive hot chocolate powers which were on offer. We then went in Pets At Home and saw some cute little guineas. We walked in the rain to Rustington Village - tried to dry off a bit by going in some of the shops. Then went in Costa to have my first Terry’s Chocolate Orange Hot Chocolate, which was of course more expensive than last year, but at least tasted just as good. Read on the kindle app on my phone as realised I’d left my book at home. When I got back to the parentals I played a lot of Sims then did some late night doodle art work. 🦄 #instadaily #instablog #update #mentalhealth #dissociativeidentitydisorder #cptsd #actuallyautistic #traumarecovery #edrecovery #anxiety #chronicillness #disability #pots #potsie #dysautonomia #positivevibes #recovery #nationaltrust #nymans #autumn #walking #wintergarden #orange #flowerstyles_gf #naturesperfection #natureseeker #naturelove #peachy (at Nymans National Trust, Handcross, Haywards Heath Rh17 6bt) https://www.instagram.com/p/CknclIVKusKInqoEXXBBfxFvfxr3Ydk0YsiBts0/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

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jjacob · 2 years

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pillow talk

❝ oh my god, you two, jacob said not on the couch! ❞

PAIRING ▸ lee juyeon x fem!reader

GENRES ▸ angst (with a happy ending), fluff, roommate au, friends to lovers, college au

WARNINGS ▸ profanity, mildly suggestive content, “share a bed” trope !!

SUMMARY ▸ being roommates with lee juyeon was trouble, and that was essentially because you didn’t want to be just roommates.

PLAYLIST ▸ icarus by jo1

WORD COUNT ▸ 2309 words

AUTHOR’S NOTE ▸ sorry all my fics on this acc are gifts for addy but happy birthday @honeyju !! ♡ there’s no one else i would stay up until 2 am writing a fic for before a festival i’ve been waiting months to go to

THERE WAS SOMETHING SATISFYING ABOUT MAKING BREAKFAST FOR SOMEONE, YOU REALIZED.

You started doing it a little while after you found a place to stay, probably as the only way you could say ‘thank you’ to Kevin Moon and Jacob Bae for putting up with you. Brew some coffee, fry up some bacon, toast some bread, scramble a couple eggs—instant satisfaction.

You attended your college classes from ten in the morning until seven at night; your roommate, Lee Juyeon, worked the night shift at a gas station from midnight until seven in the morning. It was the only job he could snag to pay for tuition, and the graveyard shift was the only shift his boss could give him for whatever ungodly reason.

Sleep was sacred to Juyeon. He hardly got any when he was dealing with college coupled with work. You knew you couldn’t talk him out of being so hard on himself, so you got used to his schedule.

When you got home from school, Juyeon was just waking up.

That was how you started eating breakfast for dinner.

“Doesn’t that keep you up?” Juyeon asked over his plate of pancakes and eggs, watching as you downed the rest of your coffee.

“Nope.” You shook your head, managing a tight-lipped smile. “Perks me up maybe, but I pride myself on my ability to fall asleep in any situation.”

“Good to know.” Juyeon nodded, sipping coffee from his own mug.

Juyeon laughed that sleepy, soft laugh that you adored. His hair still stuck up every which way from sleep, but he was every bit as gorgeous as he was during the first breakfast they’d had together. It had been a long time since they started doing whatever it was that they were doing, and shit, it stuck.

It could be because Juyeon was flat broke on his own and had nowhere to stay but with Kevin and Jacob, that you could indulge in these sweet moments you got to spend with him.

Juyeon nudged your leg under the table with his foot and gave you that smile that lit up his eyes, bringing you out of your head and back into the kitchen. “Are you alright?” he asked, and you nodded in response.

Just peachy, you thought.

Juyeon gave you a calculating look, but ultimately deemed it an acceptable answer. You both finished the rest of your meal in relative silence, Juyeon then breaking off to shower and you settling into the couch. You wondered if you should have been embarrassed by how domestic this felt.

You were in your early twenties, for God’s sake. People your age were getting hammered and blacking out on curbs, partying their youth away, and here you were, watching Masterchef on a Saturday night with every intention of falling asleep right where you sat.

When Juyeon emerged, he was half-dressed for work, a white t-shirt tucked into his black slacks, clean-shaven, and wide awake. He sat beside you on the couch, close enough that your shoulders brushed against each other, and he kicked his feet up on the coffee table.

“What are we watching?”

You didn’t respond.

“Y/N.”

Juyeon leaned over and pressed his lips to the soft spot underneath your jaw. Your resolve faltered just a little, and you leaned into it. Juyeon carefully removed the remote from your hand, set it on the coffee table, and pushed you down. Neither of you spoke as Juyeon’s fingers moved to the zipper of your pants.

This was the confusing part about your relationship with Lee Juyeon. It wasn’t like there was a rule against roommates screwing each other, but it was rather strange that you two couldn’t keep your hands off each other. It was strange that you felt this tightness in your chest whenever you were around him. It was strange that you grew sad when you wondered how long this would last.

For now, though, this was pretty great.

At least, it was, until the front door flung open and you heard Kevin’s very adamant, “Oh my god, you two, Jacob said not on the couch!”

You and Juyeon pushed away from each other, and, to top it all off, Kevin was not alone. With him stood a pretty girl in a denim jacket, looking about as horrified as a person could get.

“I should go”—Juyeon cleared his throat—“get ready for work.”

Juyeon retreated faster than you had ever seen, which was fine, but you had to hold back your laugh when you watched him maneuver around the girl so she wouldn’t see his boner.

The girl turned to Kevin. “Where’s your bathroom?”

You waited until she was out of sight to adjust your clothing, sitting up and running a hand through your unkempt hair.

“Y/N,” Kevin complained.

“I don’t wanna say it’s your fault for not assuming, but…” You didn’t finish the accusation because you really didn’t have to. Also, because Kevin grabbed a roll of newspaper off the coffee table and smacked you with it. “Hey!”

“Do not mess this up for me, Y/N,” he warned.

You cocked an eyebrow at him. “Mess what up?”

Kevin’s eyes flicked from you, toward the bathroom, and then back again.

Oh.

You grinned. “Kevin Moon, you sly dog.”

“Shut up.” Kevin hit you again. “Don’t say a word, you hear me?”

“To who?”

“Anyone,” he clipped. “It’s not your place to say. It’s mine.”

“But if I let it slip…”

You probably should’ve seen it coming because you had it coming, but you still let out a groan when Kevin elbowed you in the gut. Your stomach seized—eggs, bacon, and coffee. It almost felt like a tilt-o-whirl in your gut. There was a point where Kevin’s limits were seriously being pushed, and though you had enough air in your lungs to say one more thing, and you knew it should’ve been an apology, that wasn’t what came out.

“You won’t say a word,” Kevin threatened.

“I could.”

Before you could take another blow that you were so poised for, Juyeon and the girl came back out just in time to pull you two away from each other.

Kevin worked a crick out of his neck. “What? You two never had siblings?”

Was Kevin your sibling? Well, not biologically, but they had a similar relationship.

“I’m very sorry you came home when you did,” you heard Juyeon apologize, “and I’m very sorry that we didn’t abide by Jacob’s rule.”

You stiffened as Juyeon’s hand came up to your shoulder, pressing a healing warmth into your tense muscles. However, the silence between the four became way too much for you, and you quickly pulled away.

You had to lie down for a few minutes.

Your room was dark—yours and Juyeon’s room now, you supposed—perfect for hiding. The distinct smell of lavender and ocean breeze was faint. Faint traces of the candle Juyeon lit last night. You both actually knew how to keep a tidy room and liked to keep it like that.

You didn’t know how long you laid there, but you knew it wasn’t long enough to let you feel any better before Juyeon walked in.

“What?”

“I wanted to make sure you’re alright,” Juyeon said softly, and he sat on the edge of your bed. “Should I have Kevin drive me to work?”

You groaned and pushed yourself up onto your forearms. “Nope. You’re driving yourself, come on.” You slid out of bed and pulled on your boots, Juyeon staring at you the entire time. “What?”

“You’re acting strangely,” Juyeon observed.

“I’m not acting strangely,” you spat around the words. Juyeon didn’t relent, though; it wasn’t his style. He just kept staring, and you rubbed your hands over your face. “I’m fine, Juyeon.” You groaned when you realized that Juyeon was still staring.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” he replied, “but I have a feeling that’s why you’re acting like this.”

“Talk about what?”

“About us.”

“Juyeon,” you came back, flames licking at the underside of your stomach, your blood running hot through your veins. You knew this was all you needed, but the conversation scared the wits out of you. “Have Kevin drive you to work.”

“Y/N,” Juyeon called after you, but you were already gone.

It was six-thirty in the morning when Juyeon got home, and you were still wide awake.

You hated yourself for it, but you were awake. You couldn’t get your mind to quiet down after everything that happened last night. Every time you thought you hit the final lull, it all started back up again. All you could hear was the disappointment in Juyeon’s voice, his face, the defeat wilting his muscles.

Perhaps it was seeing Kevin with another girl that made you feel this way. Seeing someone try to commit when Juyeon was doing everything in his power to skirt around the topic. You had to admit that you felt like a side piece, even more so when he would carelessly touch you in front of others without caring about what they’d think.

And, now, he just stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, watching you with a weary gaze.

“Hey,” you called.

“Hi,” Juyeon murmured. “Can I come in?”

You let out a weak laugh. “Well, this is your room, isn’t it?”

Juyeon cherished his sleep, considering he hardly got any. For him to not crash as soon as he stepped foot in the room was a lot coming from him.

In short, you really had him worried.

Juyeon let out a sigh and flopped back onto his bed. “I’m exhausted, but if you wanna talk, I’m here.”

“We never talk about this stuff,” you replied, gaze fixed on the ceiling. “I’ll leave you alone if that’s what you want.”

But that wasn’t what you wanted. You just wanted to slip into Juyeon’s bed and curl up next to him. You wanted to sleep with him from dusk till dawn, ignoring your terrible, clashing schedules.

Juyeon seemed to have the same idea.

His weight dipped the mattress. He didn’t say anything, but you could hear him slip his jacket off his shoulders and peel off his shirt. Even as he cuddled up beside you, you found the fire under your skin go cold. You rolled over to see Juyeon’s back facing you, probably trying to give you your privacy.

You wanted to be furious. You wanted to leap out of bed and get your day started, but your muscles ached and your head pounded. You only had yourself to blame for that; Kevin decided he wanted to take a few shots of soju with you before he went off to someone’s party—probably Sunwoo’s place. Your heart hammered in your chest, and your gut churned, and fuck, you probably pissed Juyeon off.

That was what was racking your brain the most. The both of you knew that all you had to do was talk, but it was always you who brought it up, and Juyeon would indulge in your conversation before pulling away. You were sick of everything that was happening between you, but neither of you put a label on it.

Juyeon rolled over again, this time into your body heat, tentatively wrapping his arm around your side and nuzzling his face into your neck.

Wordlessly, you turned around so that you could cozy up to Juyeon’s chest and wrap your leg around his hip. Juyeon pressed his lips to the side of your head, then your neck, and then peppered kisses along your throat.

“Sorry,” was all he could come up with.

“I know,” you hummed, letting out a short sigh, and Juyeon held onto you tighter.

You had no idea why or how he dealt with you. If Juyeon wanted someone, he could have them in a heartbeat, but him staying with you and trying for you had to mean something, right? He stroked your hair and minutes stretched on. His presence was comforting, but not enough to lull you back into drifting off.

“I’m scared when we do stuff and never talk about what we are,” you said then. “It makes me feel like I’ll lose you one day, and you won’t care, and I won’t be able to figure out what we were.”

Juyeon was silent for a moment. “I’ve never thought about it that way, but I apologize for not being more aware of your feelings.”

You were afraid to look because you knew Juyeon was staring at you with those big, shining eyes, waiting for you to say something more. You couldn’t, though. You were done with this. Done with feeling stripped bare, guts spilling out and thumping heart exposed, beating for the world to see.

“Y/N,” Juyeon said softly. He tested the waters with one touch, just a brush of his hand against your jaw.

You leaned into it, so Juyeon cupped your face in both hands and brought his lips to your forehead.

“I like you,” he hummed. “A lot.” He pecked your lips softly before he continued, “I just never knew how to approach it. Never thought you’d want to go farther than this.”

“I do,” you reminded him. “I wanna be with you in every way possible.”

Juyeon smiled, and then he stifled another yawn.

“C’mere,” he murmured, drawing your body closer to his. He was pressed flush against your body, holding you close like he was about to lose you. As you two settled in that position, Juyeon pressed a kiss to the top of your head and whispered, “I might love you.”

Though he couldn’t see it, you smiled. “I think I might love you too, Lee Juyeon.”

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onlymingyus · 6 months

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The Selfie (Peachy Fall Festival Drabble)

cw; smut - dokyeom x f!reader

written for B one of my Peaches as part of my Peachy Fall Festival for my Peaches on Patreon

“You didn’t like the selfie?”

Dokyeom’s voice echoed off the walls of the bathroom as you lay across the bed, pouting at your phone at his question. Of course, you liked the selfie. That was a silly question. You had just liked it too much.

When you don’t answer right away, Dokyeom pushes the water from his face and glances around the door frame to look at you on the bed. He had just wanted to let you know what he had done with his friends and you had sent back some cute mad emoji. Now he was starting to wonder if he was actually in trouble, though he couldn’t understand why.

“What did I do? I think I looked pretty cute and Minghao wanted to say hi.”

Scoffing, you roll your eyes playfully at your boyfriend before turning your eyes away from him. The sound of the water turning off keeps your attention even as Dokyeom grabs a towel, drying off his face and works his way into the room. His eyes moved over the length of your body as you lay on your stomach, your ankles crossed near the headboard.

“Talk to me, Princess. You want me to not send selfies when I’m out with the guys anymore?”

Whining out a sound that showed it wasn’t what you wanted at all, you kick your legs in your tantrum, causing Dokyeom to laugh and move closer to the bed until he can sit beside you on it. His fingers trail along your bare leg up to his loose shirt that you had chosen to wear to bed, which rests just under the swell of your ass. He loved when you wore his clothes and then your delicate lacy things under them, like you were tonight.

“Of course I want the selfies, Dokyeom. Don’t be silly. You just took so hot in the photo and you don’t even get it. I was flustered all evening and now it’s like one in the morning. I couldn’t exactly beg you to come home and..”

Your words trail off, Dokyeom’s brows lifting, wanting you to continue. He loved that he had made you flustered. He hadn’t even meant to. He had just gotten out of the pool, changed back into his clothes and sat down next to Minghao. It wasn’t like he even put on a sexy face for you and yet here you were, all hot and bothered.

“And what? What did you want me to do? Is it too late to do that thing now?”

Pouting you wiggle from his fingers like he is being fresh with you, despite having touched you many times before. Dokyeom watches a smirk play at your lips as he scoffs at your actions. His fingers fall to the bed instead of walking towards the end of the lace that frames your ass.

“It might be too late. We can get noise complaints after midnight again.”

Shrugging, Dokyeom turns his hand over to run his fingers along your leg once again. He watches how you bite your bottom lip when he dips his middle finger between your legs, pressing it to the lace covering your already wet pussy. You couldn’t hide how much you wanted him.

“I can handle a few noise complaints. You liked the picture that much?”

A soft, squealing moan slips from your lips as Dokyeom hooks his finger under your panties pulling them from your folds so he can touch your skin with his own as he waits for your answer. His eyes were moving between what was happening between your legs and your face as you nodded.

"Yeah, but I didn’t want to ask you to leave your friends just to come home for me.”

Shaking his head, Dokyeom’s tongue trails his lips before he lets out a breathy groan at his words.

“I’d cancel plans with them for you. I’d tell them exactly why, too. Sorry guys, I can’t go out today. I have to stay home and fuck my girlfriend instead.”

You laugh but Dokyeom just smirks, his hand sliding back along your inner thigh as you arch your hips off the bed, wanting more of his touch.

“I’m serious… and none of them would question me. They’d just be jealous they couldn’t have you.”

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#dokyeom smut #seventeen smut #svthub #peachy fall festival #seokmin smut #dk smut #svt smut #dokyeom x reader #seventeen x reader #svt x reader #seokmin x reader #dk x reader #peachy requests

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jangofctts · 3 years

Text

Thing for Trouble (boba fett x fem!reader x din djarin) (part one) (part two) (part three) (part four)

Rated: explicit 18+

word count: 7.6k

warnings: threesome, smut, thigh riding, oral female receiving, handjobs, unprotected sex (dont be a deadbeat, wrap that shCMEAT), light choking, throne fucking, vaginal fingering, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, creampies, pet names, sub? din? more likely than you think (also lmk if I missed any tags!)

a/n: yall im sorry this is such garbage but kjkwejh here we be. I hOPE YOU ENJOY THE CIRCUS. thank you to everyone who’s encouraged this so COME GET YALLS MANDO MEAT

There isn’t much when he it comes to Tatooine and fun things to do. There’s pod acing, drinking, Sabaac tourneys, more podracing, gambling and scavenging. Unless there’s a festival or some wild event, you’re stuck with boredom and whatever you can scrounge up for fun in the palace.

Now, don’t get it wrong—if you had it your way, you’d spend every waking hour trialing behind Boba, but you don’t want to smother. Fennec too—while you enjoy her company, you know that half of the reason she sticks around is Boba’s order for your protection. Kinda ruins the fun when you know she probably only tolerates you because she’s being paid to. Eh whatever—doesn’t stop you from tagging along on as she runs errands in town—besides, today you actually have a reason to be here instead of loitering like a lost puppy.

Fennec tells you to be safe and com her the second trouble rears its ugly head and disappears into the weapons shop—muttering about her prized rifle being jammed or something. You don’t know, all you hear is that you have the entire afternoon to yourself to hunt down your oh so elusive prize. Star cherries.

The markets are always vibrant. Jam packed with people from each and every corner of the galaxy, hundreds of booths and stalls selling their wares that varies from foods to jewelry to even bounty services. Tempting as is it is to peruse the sparkly rows of dainty necklaces and rings or inspect the vast array of beige ponchos and manilla undershirts—you have a purpose. A once a year chance you refuse to let go to waste.

The shabby booth is tucked near the end of the street, the mountain of the little red fruits looking comical compared to the withered old lady who sits beside them. She flashes you a gap-toothed smile, the crowfeet wrinkles surrounding her eyes scrunch with the movement. “Ah! I was wondering when you’d show, dear.”

“Hello, Mrs. Feraan,” you greet, bending at the was it to kiss her wrinkly cheek. The old vender was one of the first kind souls you met here when you arrived on Tatooine. In return for a couple compliments or an offer to be the lab rat to test her new recipes for pie or tarts, she hooks you up with the best of the cherries—handpicked with love. “How’s business today?”

She waves her hand in dismissal, her silver rings glinting in the sun. “Same as always, child.”

Eventually you work your way through the pleasantries and a couple, long winded tangents. The sort that only old people can flawlessly spin and keep you engaged. Trials and tribulations to earn your prize—you don’t mind sacrificing a couple hours.

Finally you’re allowed to walk away—cherries in hand and exceedingly eager for your sweet snack. Unfortunately, suffering through Mrs. Feraan’s old childhood laments is not the only bump in the road you have to face.

Granted, it is your fault—not looking where your feet are taking you—

Your temple crashes into something agonizingly hard. You swear you hear a quiet bonk when your skull collides with the mystery material and fucking hell—you probably have a concussion from the force of it.

Unbothered by your probable brain injury, you’re far more concerned with the cherries spilling onto the ground and so, as you flail and dramatically topple over—the brunt of your fall is cushioned by your shoulder. Something pops and yeah, ok, maybe you just tore a ligament but—kriffing worth it for the cherries you miraculously saved from their dusty graves.

Your temper flares as you spot the dirty brown boots pointed in your direction. Maneuvering yourself up so you don’t also get trampled by the crowd, you bare your teeth and put on your best impression of a terrifying force of nature despite the fact you’ve been knocked flat on your ass. “What the fuck—“

The words shrivel up and die upon your tongue as your eyes slide up the stranger’s legs, broad shoulders sporting the shiny armor that twinkles in the midday suns. They then settle on an all too familiar helmet. Well, sorta—you’re familiar with a certain red and green one, not the equivalent of a wearable disco ball.

You squint as the stranger’s head dips to look at you crumpled at his feet. You dust yourself off and point an accusing finger. “Fuck is your problem standing in the middle of the road?”

The stranger quirks their head. “You ran into me—maybe you should watch where you’re stepping.”

The raspy voice is a striking sound. Mellow and silky even as it passes through the vocoder and dresses it in static charm. Some of your anger melts away—maybe this is the friend Boba was talking about—it’d make sense. They’re wearing the same type of armor…

You shake your head and shove down your pride. You don’t think Boba would appreciate you chewing his ear off. “Sorry—you’re right.”

As you readjust your clothes and precious cherries you introduce yourself with a tiny smile. Yet just as you're about to ask him his name he interjects with a step forward. You flinch away but all he does is sweep back a strand of hair from your forehead, revealing a little nick in the skin. You hiss as his fingertips scrape against it--great, an actual head wound. “Are you alright?”

Maker—here you are, after yelling at him and he finds it in him to be compassionate. You wave away his concerns. “Y-yeah--peachy.”

He apologizes with a dip of his head and words soaked in regret and fuck--now you feel bad. You wrack through your brain and search for last ditch attempts to fix this little mishap and settle with a half baked idea. It’s dumb--but hey, if it works, it works.

“Seriously, it’s fine. But I mean, if you’re so worried, how about you walk me home and we call it even?” You propose, sticking out your hand to seal the deal. If your assumptions are right, he’d just be tailing you the whole way home anyway. “I’m headed towards the palace, so if it’s not too much out of your way then—“

He hesitates and interrupts by taking your hand. “Alright. Deal.”

You smile. “Lovely.”

On the return trip, Din is quiet—tells you his name and responds to your conversation fillers with interested hums—but other than that he remains on the silent end. Intriguing with a rounded softness unlike the armor he wears--a man of mystery much like a certain someone who awaits you back home. Well--Din is less grumpy--by a long shot...but still. It’s easy to spot some of their shared similarities.

-=-=-=-

Upon arriving at the castle you part ways with Din before he reaches the throne room--you’re not too excited about showing off your new battle scar yet and while it was an accident, making an entrance with Din will make it far too easy to link the injury with him. Besides, you don’t wanna risk scaring off your new friend if Boba decides to showcase that tightly sealed lid of anger and brutality.

Instead you take the long way around the palace. Soon, muffled voices carry through the long corridors, growing louder as you work your way back from the kitchens. You round the corner, catching glimpses of Boba and your new friend through the pillars that prop up the low ceiling. You don’t meant to spy, but you do so anyway, hesitant on interrupting.

That is...until Boba cocks his head to the side and settles his eyes onto the pillar you hide behind. “It seems we have a little shadow with us today.”

You suck in a breath as your heart skips in a thrumming pace. Boba addresses you by name and crooks his fingers in a lazy motion for you to step out into the light—revealing yourself to the small party of two. “Come here, little one.”

The low light catches off of Din’s helmet with a glittering sparkle when he swivels his head. The tiny, warped figure of yourself reflects in mirror-like pieces of smelted beskar as his shoulders pull tight with recognition. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep the smile that threatens to crack across your face at bay. Boba is no fool—he excels in the subtleties of shifting eyes and clenched fists to hide anxiety or closely guarded information—sickeningly familiar with your own quirks and tells, but—

There’s no reason to reveal Din’s little secret—not yet. Boba called him a friend but you truly have no clue what the depths of that word entailed. Friend could mean anything from a casual acquaintance, to an old childhood bond, and or anything in between. You sigh and brush past him, mentally congratulating yourself for keeping a cool mask of indifference etched into your features. If Din wants to open that can of worms then so be it—you weren’t the one offering to walk random people home.

You step onto the dais and slide your free hand into Boba’s outstretched palm. The worn leather tickles up your forearm and locks over your elbow, silently demanding you to sit on his lap. There’s plenty of room to both sit on the throne but no—Boba prefers you tucked against the cool metal of his cuirass. You grunt as the bowl of star cherries you cradle dangerously dips when Boba adjusts your weight over his thighs.

His fingers pull back a strand of your hair, tucking it behind your ear and then spider along your jawline. The ends of his mouth quirk as Boba pinches your chin between his forefinger and thumb, capturing your undivided attention. “I don’t like it when you lurk in the shadows, little one. You’re allowed to listen.

You huff. “I know—but lurking is fun.”

Boba releases your chin with a scoff. “Foolish, girl.” You dip your chin with a sheepish grin as heat rushes to your cheeks. You briefly forget about the tiny nick adorning your right temple, the only thing you were trying to keep hidden—but Boba is all too quick to notice. “What is this?”

He pushes your hair out of the way of the cut, inspects it, then curls his fingers around your jaw to demand an answer. You refuse to let your eyes wander over to Din—what a dead giveaway that would be—and instead muster up enough courage to hold the weight of his stare.

“I tripped at the markets,” you say—not a complete lie. “It’s just a little scratch—no biggie.”

Boba squints in suspicion and grumbles a soft hm. You feel his chest rise and fall with a deep sigh—he won’t argue about it right now. Not a battle worth his while when you’re keen on keeping the full truth behind a wall of teeth and anxieties. Boba’s hand falls away, gestures to Din who still stands stiffer than a stature, then lays it over the golden armrest. “I’m sure you’ve noticed our guest—“

Din tips his head in acknowledgement.

“The rightful ruler of Mandalore,” Boba continues. “Din Djarin.”

Din Djarin…despite already knowing his name (or half of it, at least) you like the way it rolls off the tongue—like how it’s seemingly made to be repeated and carved into the walls of some ancient script. Your knowledge on all things Mandalorian is…limited to say the least but you know enough about the rumors.

“Isn’t Mandalore supposed to be haunted?” You don’t mean for your words to be a pointy jab to the ribs but regardless, it strikes a tender chord within the Mandalorian. You wince as Din shifts his weight and clenches his palm—a long story. “Sorry—I—I’m sure your home is lovely, all I know about it are dumb ghost stories about evil wizards and laser swords.”

The blood under your cheeks burn red hot. Great. Not only are you a complete bantha brain, you’ve also managed to sound like an impudent child. Boba soothes a thumb over your thigh as you curl into yourself—bastard. He thinks this is funny.

“It’s not my home,” Din responds, albeit tentatively. “Never been.”

Your brows furrow. Alrighty then.

Boba snorts and shakes his head. He mutters something in Mando’a and lazily waves his hand, dismissing the line of conversation entirely. It was turning into a dumpster fire anyway—

With a slow exhale, you remove yourself from the discussion and instead tuck your head under Boba’s chin. The beskar is cold against your cheek but it feels nice against the sweltering midday heat.

Their conversation fades in and out as you rest your head over Boba’s cuirass, listlessly picking through the bowl of fruit for the ripest ones. You sigh—the next cherry you bring up to your lips is intercepted as Boba’s hand clamps around your wrist and redirects it into his own mouth. You don’t find it in you to be grumpy about the stolen treat when Boba’s tongue slides over your sticky fingers. Still holding your wrist captive, he sucks the tip of your thumb into the warm heat of his mouth and curls his tongue around the digit. Your index finger is given the same treatment before your hand is returned. The beginnings of arousal spark to life below your belly, and fuck—that shouldn’t have been so…so…hot.

Din’s smoky baritone fades into background noise as the entirety of your attention zero’s in on Boba’s mouth. You purse your lips and suck in a shaky breath, then return your hand to the bowl to fish out another fruit. You don’t need any guidance this time around as you bring the cherry to his mouth—the crimson juice spilling down your palm and part of your arm as his teeth pierce the fragile skin. You breath hitches as Boba dips his head, catching the bead of liquid running down your arm with the tip of his tongue, then swiping s a slow trail up, and over the lines of your palm. He plants a careful kiss there, then breaks away.

Before you have the chance to reach for another one, Boba plucks a cherry from the bowl and rests it against the seam of your lisp, inviting you to partake in this little game he’s created. A wicked smirk curls over his mouth as you accept—the tart flavor of the fruit spilling over your tastebuds as you chew and swallow. A little wine escapes you as his leather-clad thumb rolls over your bottom lip, bushes past the barrier of your teeth and seats the digit into your mouth—all the way down to the third knuckle.

You hardly notice the moment Din’s voice tapers off into silence—much too enraptured with the taste of leather and the smooth feel of it over your tongue. You gag slightly when Boba’s thumb reaches the back of your throat, then retreats just as slow. The string of saliva that still connects the digit to your wet mouth, drips over your chin and part of your lip, eliciting a jagged, echoey breath that crackles through Din’s vocoder.

Boba grins—something that better belongs on a sneering jackal just about to pounce on unsuspecting prey with needle sharp talons, rather than his face. His eyes drift up to address his guest. “Do you see something you like, Mand’alor?”

Din’s head jerks, averting his gaze to anywhere but the throne. He murmurs a weak apology and shifts his weight to his other leg—acting as if he were to look at you a second time, it’d burn him to a crisp or force him to confront Boba Fett’s wrath. Obviously, neither thing would happen, but Din still remains unsure with his foothold in this situation.

“I see how you look at her,” Boba drawls—not an accusation, just a statement brought to light. Boba’s hand drops to your thigh, the warm weight of it resting just past your knee as Din swallows his nerves and returns his gaze. “It’s alright—a pretty little thing like her is bound to turn heads.”

A blush hotter than wildfire licks up your cheeks as Din nods in agreement. “She’s beautiful…you’re a lucky man.”

Boba’s grip on your thigh hoards you closer to his chest. He is and he’s fully aware of that fact, but there’s no need to admit such a thing when it’s so blatantly obvious. A lull in the conversation creates a palpable tension—nervous energy and a choice to let this is fade into nonexistence or…or breathe life into that flickering ember of unsaid desires.

Your heart leaps into your throat when Boba shatters the silence and addresses you. “You’re awfully quiet, princess…what do you think?”

He’s placing whatever this is into your hand and leaving you to call the shots. You’ve always been a troublemaker and there’s no will or way as to why you’d stop now. You look between your lover and Din as a smile curls over your face. “I think…if he’s so interested—why not give him a show? After all, he did bring me home—he deserves some reimbursement for the trouble.”

Boba’s shoulders jolt with a chuckle. “How chivalrous.” You shiver as he strokes the back of his finger down your cheek. “Fine, as you wish, little one—go play.”

Giddy excitement bubbles through your chest as Boba offers Din to take a seat on the edge of the dais. Din still has an option to escape, to slip through the cracks and pretend this never happened—but stars, you hope he stays. Din takes a step forward, then another—and another until he’s standing before the throne. He studies the raised edge and gingerly takes a seat.

You abandon your bowl of cherries onto the forearm of the throne and slip off Boba’s lap. You drift over to Din, his gloved fingers clenching and unclenching as they rest over his thigh plating. He’s purposefully avoiding your eye as you kneel beside him—still locked onto that niggling fear that this could be some sort of trick or test in resolve.

Smiling sweetly, you skate your hand over his knuckles—guiding his large palm to your waist and then under and up your loose shirt and bra. Din mutters a curse as you place his palm over your breast. “I’m glad you stayed.”

Pleased with his reaction, you peel off your shirt and bra, breath hitching as Din pinches your nipple between his forefinger and thumb. “Same—I think…”

With a bit more bravery backing his movements, Din pulls away briefly, shucks off his gloves and encompasses both your breasts. They’re warm and calloused, riddled with silvery scars that stand out against his brown skin, a storybook of past battles—won and lost—all equally important to the fibers of his being that stitch him together into a whole. His hand whispers down the length of your ribcage, no doubt feeling the thrum of your heart beating wildly against the cartilage and bone. It tickles over the swell of your hips then—

“You said you wanted to give him a show,” Boba drawls behind you, a sharp twinge of hostility lacing his words. “So enjoy the show, Mand’alor, ’nd keep your hands to yourself."

Din recoils at the verbal reprimand and drops his hands speedier than a flash of lightning. You frown and throw a glare over your shoulder. Bastard. Boba quirks a brow and runs his thumb over his lip, the edged sparkle in his dark eyes taunting you into challenging him. You huff and turn a cold shoulder.

“Sorry, Din,” you purr, scrounging up any and all back up plans to keep you both entertained. “Seems my king isn’t as generous I thought.”

Din withers a bit at the catty remark, keeping his lips sealed tight as Boba growls your name in warning. You don’t pay him any mind.

You puff up your cheeks and release the air in a steady stream, as your eyes scrape over Din’s armored thigh. Ok—you can work with that. It wouldn’t be breaking any rules…not technically. You step away, paw at your waistband and let the breezy fabric pool over around your ankles, your underwear quickly joining the pile.

Now bare, you return to Din’s side, his careful inhale distorted into choppy static as you straddle his thigh. He lifts both hands, intending to grab at your waist, but pauses midair. No touching. You lips tilt with a smirk as he clenches his fists and pins his hands to the cool stone instead, an attempt to curb that urge to reach for you. His shoulders knit together when you mold your hand in the gap between his shoulder pauldron and cuirass to give yourself some sort of balance—obviously not used to a soft touch.

You lower yourself and hiss through clenched teeth. It’s fucking freezing. Goosebumps rush up each limb as the wet warmth of your cunt meets the frigid beskar—the chill much colder than you initially expected. It’s one thing to touch the beskar with an open palm and another thing entirely to feel against such an intimate part of yourself. Din’s visor drops to look between your legs as you give your hips an experimental roll.

It’s different. You’re used to hardened muscle and fabric, or your own fingers while pleasuring yourself. Your breath hitches as Din’s thigh twitches, the smelted seam of the cuisse bumping against your throbbing clit.

“Sorry,” Din mumbles, “Didn’t mean—“

“It’s ok,” you smile, rocking your hips to ease into the sensation. “Just surprised me.”

The pace you set is slow, careful not to overwork your nerves as your arousal blooms and metastasizes like simmering coals low in your groin. With each lecherous pull of your cunt against his thigh, the beskar begins to warm to the temperature of your skin—the wetness between your thighs abating the friction and making the surface slippery. A low gasp escapes you once you find the right ridge and angle that just grinds perfectly against your aching clit. Your fingers dig into the cowl of Din’s cloak.

“Shit—feels good.” Like your voice and little moans jumpstart Din’s ability to move, his large hand drifts to the front of his trousers—an already sizable bulge tenting the dark brown fabric. You squeak as Din's leg jolts for a second time, a burst of dizzying ecstasy wracking up your spine with the choppy movement.

You suck in another raspy breath as your attention drops to his hand that cups his cock and palms himself through his trousers. You chew your bottom lip and clench your fist gripping his cowl, still gyrating your hips over the beska as Din hooks his thumb into his waistband and pulls them down, slow as molasses.

Fucking hell—he’s bigger than you initially imagined. Flushed a rosy brown, and half hard already, twitching as Din wraps his fingers around the thick length. Din lifts his head, gauging your interest or disapproval—but kriff—who the fuck would ever be unhappy with that sorta heat he’s packing? You bite your bottom lip, scouring your brain for ideas to convince Boba into letting you taste Din—but your plotting is abruptly cut short.

Boba sits up and off the throne, his presence looming over your shoulder as he lowers to one knee. You shiver and arch your neck, exposing more of your vulnerable throat as Boba runs the fingertip of his pointer finger down the side of your cheek. “Are you enjoying yourself, princess?”

You nod, eyes fluttering shut as Boba opens his palm and cradles your jaw. You groan and roll your head back onto your shoulders as Boba snakes one hand around your hip and jolts you forward and down—disrupting the slow rock with a catastrophic interference. Unrefined bolts of plasma shoot up your spine as desire licks up thighs—you need more.

Boba dips his head and nuzzles into the crook of your neck. You grunt when his teeth sink into your flesh, worrying a bruise into your skin. Boba laves his tongue over the throbbing area, then licks a wet trail up to the shell of your ear, all the while you continue to grind on Din’s thigh. Boba nibbles your earlobe and whispers your name—the sound sweeter than any symphony could ever hope to make. Like smoke over deep water or the surging crackle of energy just before a thunderstorm high up in the mountains.

“You’re allowed to touch…” he says with a rough chuckle. “Go on.”

Your noise of agreement is quickly muffled as Boba interrupts you with a feverish kiss—all open mouthed and breathless as his tongue curls around yours. Your chest heaves for precious air as Boba retreats just as abruptly as it began. With a satisfied smirk ghosting over his lips, he taps you below the chin and returns to his throne to continue observing.

Dropping your eyes between Din’s legs, his cock, hardened to its full glory and held casually in his calloused hand, is truly a sight. Your pulse thrums in your ears as Din rolls his wrist and pumps his length, the velvety skin shifting over what looks like fucking beskar underneath. It strains towards his navel as you watch with wide eyes, mesmerized with the way he touches himself.

Rolling your bottom lip between your teeth, you touch your hand to his wrist. Din shudders like your skin is made of sizzling embers that’s broken off the tail end of shooting star—like you’re something too luminous and dangerous to be handled by someone like him. You lift your gaze, smiling into that darkened void of the visor and gracing him with a toothy smile. “Will you let me touch you, Din?”

He nods and utters a breathy yes.

Fuck yeah.

Din sucks in a stuttered breath when your hand circles around his thick length. His hips jolt into your palm as you slide your fist to the base then all the way back up. Precum beads over the tip, dribbling down and coating your knuckles with sticky wetness. It eases some of that friction as you fall into an easy rhythm, matching your rocking hips with each pump of his cock.

Din’s stuttered moans fill the small space between you, dragging you closer to your release that’s suddenly so close. He whines as you abandon his length to chase after your high, your arousal leaking from your center and dripping down the sides of the beskar. Din takes his cock into his hands, fisting himself to your little show of breathy wines and rough jerking of your hips over his thigh.

Din says your name attached with a broken moan and it’s over—

Everything seizes up tighter than a jaw clamp as your tumble off that jagged peak of searing, white hot pleasure. It’s raw, sparking off like a blade to metal, burning you from the inside out as you cum. Your cunt clenches around nothing, your thighs shaking as you curl inward as if he punched you in the fucking gut. It feels like he did. Maker—the cool beskar against your throbbing clit is like you’ve been thrown to the mercies of an electrical surge.

It doesn’t help either that Din is still pumping his length, hips stuttering as he brings himself to his own euphoric high. The air in your lungs seizes when a fragile groan, light and airy passes through the vocoder. Din rocks his hips into his fist, once—twice and then he’s throbbing and cumming into his hand. Hot ropes of his release splatter up his chest plate and parts of your thighs, his helmet nearly knocking into you as he hunches foreword from the intensity of it.

Too exhausted to keep yourself upright, you smash your cheek against his cuirass, involuntarily twitching as the last little waves of pleasure prickle through the rest of your nerves. You whine as you watch Din move his hand to collect some of your wetness coating his thigh. He brings two fingers stained with your slick to the lip of his helmet, pushes it up with his thumb just far enough to sink the two digits into his mouth. He groans out a quiet fuck, and repeats the action, swiping his fingers through the mess you’ve made and feeding it to himself. Your cunt clenches as you catch a sliver of his pink tongue that twists between his thick fingers.

He groans and rolls his head back onto his shoulders. “Please—can I taste you? Fuck—I-I need my mouth on you.”

Stars—the mere idea of it stokes the dwindling flames into a blaze of want. You look up at Boba and puff out your bottom lip. Pouting and begging hardly ever gets you what you want under normal circumstances—Boba Fett is more stubborn than a rancor—but you hope just this once he’ll be lenient.

Boba holds out his gloved hand—summoning you to his lap without a lick of protest on your end. Din however makes a sound akin to a whimper when you leave him. Boba gathers you in his arms for the second time, the leather a strange sensation as it spiders down your ribcage and around your hips. You can feel his hardness poking into your backside once you settle against him—his chest plate a cold shock to your naked flesh. You shiver and bury your nose into the crook of his neck, poking your tongue out to taste him. Boba’s cock twitches under you as your teeth sink into him with a cheeky nip.

“Is that what you want, little one?” Boba rumbles in question. His right hand glides lower, grabbing a handful of your thigh and squeezing. You groan and keen out a whine of affirmation.

Boba cocks his head towards Din. “Well? You’ve got your wish—don’t keep her waiting.”

Din shakily stands—hesitating with removing his helmet for enough time that you notice the silence that follows. The vocoder crackles as Din sighs. “Do you trust her?”

“With my life.” Boba states it without a second thought. Your heart twists, golden light spilling from your lungs and staining your insides with devotion and fuzzy affection. You press a soft kiss over Boba’s jaw.

“Is she…” Din speaks a word in Mando’a you have no hope to decipher—either no direct translation or he’s purposefully left you in the dark.

Based on the way Boba almost imperceptibly tenses, you guess the latter. Boba responds with a grunt and an unsure dip of the chin. The answer is complicated—that much you can gather…you push it to the back of you brain for now.

Din nods, inhales, and steels his nerves. Plastering his hands around the shiny helmet, he tugs it off with a slow reveal of dark, patchy facial, plush lips and wavy brown hair that falls around his olive skin. And oh, his eyes—soft chestnut brown eyes that hold such ache within them—lost things, broken bones, wearing his wounds like decoration upon his chest. Forged in the flames of war, risen from the ashes with murder and mercy rolled into one.

You wish him a kinder future. One that doesn’t end with pain and a blaze of an unchecked wildfire—the same way how all heroes end up as martyrs.

Though—right now—you can be the beginning of softer things for Din. You smile and invite him closer, a vortex of anxiety peppered with arousal as his eyes flit over your naked body. He sets his helmet to the side with care and drifts to the foot of the throne—fuck, he’s broad. Why hadn’t you noticed that before?

Your mental berating is severed when cool air meets the wet heat of your cunt as Boba hooks your thighs over his knees, spreading you wide as far as your hips allow. Din’s unfiltered moan at the sigh of you, sends a volt of electricity through every vein. Din lowers himself to one knee, and then the other, shuffling between yours and Boba’s legs.

“Can I touch?” He asks, soft brows raising in question.

Boba lazily raises two fingers in a motion of permission. Your chest tightens at the sight of Din’s boyish grin—warm palms settling over the sharp bend of your knees. His thumbs trace soothing circles over the skin and right as Din decides to swoop down, Boba catches him by the hair atop his head and yanks. Din grunts—the long, arched line of his neck a tempting sight as he swallows. “No marks.” Din’s jaw clenches, but nonetheless, he agrees to Boba’s command.

Boba hums in satisfaction and untangles his fingers from the mess of Din’s soft curls. Din’s brows pinch together for half a tick but smooth out in the next breath. No use being irritated—especially right now.

As directed, Din leaves not a scratch. Instead he scrapes the blunt edges of his teeth along the insides of your thighs, threatening to catch soft flesh between them—but he knows better than to act on the urge. He laves his warm tongue over each freckle or blemish he finds, leaving no patch of skin undiscovered as licks a steady trail to his prize. Din mouths a warm kiss over the crease of your thigh, and smooths his calloused hands over your hips, settling for a moment to trace little circles with his thumbs onto the soft protrusion of bone there. Seemingly satisfied, he then shifts them closer to your aching cunt. His hot breath fans over your cunt as he uses his thumbs to glide through your folds, almost curious with his exploration. He makes a little hum of appreciation low in his throat when the pads of his thumbs part your soaking folds.

You whimper and bury your face into the crook of Boba’s neck, his warm palms a much needed comfort as they tickle down your ribcage, then sweep back up to cup your tits. You cry and arch— Din’s tongue is scalding—like liquid velvet as he dips the tip of his tongue from the base of your cunt all the way up to your clit. Din sucks on the little bundle of nerves, rolling his tongue until you’re crying out, molten pleasure zipping through your abdomen. He grunts as your fingers tangle into his hair—kriff.

Fuck, you need more.

Arching into his mouth, all thoughts are transfigured and molded into a vicious loop—beginning with those adoring brown eyes, the color of freshly tilled earth and the warmth of sunlight over dappled aspen leaves in the balmy summer afternoons. It ends with soft lips—rose petal pink with devotion crystallizing in his mouth like sugar—madness and uncertainty and lovesick desire is all that he is and you’re not sure if you’ll come out of this unscathed.

He sinks two deliciously thick fingers into your clenching hole and curls them, only to retract them a moment later to shovel more of your wetness onto his tongue—as if simply using his mouth wasn’t enough for him. Like he needs to savor every drop of your arousal like the golden ambrosia the gods feast upon in their palaces of cloud and endless twilight.

That frenzied desperation lingers on the edges of his movements like he’s afraid you’ll fade away like a hand through fog—but you’re going nowhere. You’d stay here, suspended in time forever if the choice were up to you.

You whine and arch off Boba’s chest plate as Din strokes and curls his fingertips, plucking little gasps and moans from you easier than breathing. He zeros in on that little spot that makes your leg go all jittery and forces out high pitched mewls that echo through the throne room. You’re careening towards another high, the sensitivity of your last orgasm amping up the influx of pleasure.

“Stars—Din. Close—I’m so close,” you gasp, pulling his hair tight enough that you know it must sting—at least a little bit. He makes no sign that it does, just groans and buries his tongue into your dripping hole, licking alongside his fingers that shovel more of your wetness into his mouth.

Your release zips through your body like a flash flood—quick and fatal that leaves you gasping for air and struggling not to let your head dip below the waves. Your high seeps into each limb until they feel heavier than lead. Fuck—it’s so hard to work through the muddled thought and remember where exactly you are. You groan and toss your head back as Din keeps going.

“Another one—let me—“ He moans, opening his mouth as wide as it’ll go so he can devour more of you. You can feel the mixture of saliva and your own arousal dripping down your cunt and over your thighs, some of it pooling on the throne or onto the floor. Your thighs shake as Din pushes you towards another high.

You squeak as Boba’s palm sweeps up your sternum, locking his fingers around your throat in a loose hold. The tip of his nose nuzzles into your cheek—silently demanding a well earned kiss as his hips rock into your ass, grinding his cock for the barest scrap of friction. You moan into his mouth as Din doubles his efforts, raw and bordering that serrated edge of overstimulation and ecstasy.

Goosebumps rush over your arm as Boba places his lips right beside the shell of your ear. You feel the sticky heat of his breath fan over your throat and shoulder, and the way his lips skim your ear when they move to form the syllables of his words. “Such a filthy princess…”

You clench around Din’s fingers and moan a half garbled, “Boba—“

His weathered palm encompasses the entirety of your breast, rolling your pebbled nipple between his forefinger and thumb. “If only you could see yourself…dripping all over my throne and another man’s tongue.” Boba clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “Depraved creature—cum for your rightful king.”

Wildfire chars your insides as it begins in your core and sweeps through your body. Tears prick the corner of your eyes as you buck and squirm in their arms—no mercy as the prickly waves of your orgasm make you hypersensitive to each touch. Even the hold on your hip, while innocent in nature, is blistering as if you suffered from a fever. You shudder as a salty tear rolls down your cheek. Boba catches it with his tongue as your ears pick up Din’s raspy praise—thanking you while spattering reverent kisses up your thighs.

Struggling to keep your eyes open, you do spot the apparent wetness soaking through the front of Din’s trousers. Fuck—he—he came again while eating you out. You whimper and rest the back of your head over Boba’s shoulder.

Your belly flinches under his scratchy facial hair as Din travels up, seizing and worshiping every inch he’s freely given before intercepted. He catches your nipple between your teeth, tugs a bit then moves to the other, lavishing equal attention with adoring lips and sweet whispers. When he reaches your collarbone, you’re boxed in against his chest plate and Boba’s. A blush blooms under your cheeks hotter than stare fire as Din gingerly sucks your earlobe into his mouth and breathes out a muted moan of your name—committing the very essence of you to his memory for the rest of his days.

Your heart squeezes tight like a clenched fist when he mumbles another thank you. Plucking up a smidge of courage, he risks planting a kiss right on the corner of your mouth. You blink—despite the sweetness of the gesture you wince as Boba snarls a curt phrase in Mando’a. Din peels himself away with a minuscule frown and slinks away.

Yet before you have the chance to remedy the situation of wounded pride and territorial jealousy—Boba tightens his hold on your hips and flips you both, so that now your back is smashed against the seat of the throne, a bit crumpled and sorta folded in half. Your hips hang off the edge as Boba holds the majority of your weight, grinding his clothed cock between the apex of your thighs.

“Don’t forget, princess—” Boba barks, slithering a hand up the column of your throat. You breath hitches as he lightly presses his palm down. “—what belongs to me.”

Reaching between you, he slides his gloved fingers through your slick folds and sinks two of them inside of your clenching center. You jolt as his thumb scrubs over your clit, still sensitive and edging towards too much.

“You want me to fuck you here?” He asks, shifting his hold to grip your jaw instead—the rounds of his fingertips digging firmly into the flesh and bone. “Say it.”

You gasp and scrabble weakly at Boba’s shoulders as he grinds the heel of his palm into your clit. “Please, Boba! Please fuck me—I need it.”

Boba folds over you, his breath fanning hot and hungry against your cheek. He devours your mouth with a discordant edge, like he’s trying to prove to the entire galaxy you are unmistakably his despite the fact you’re already wound so tightly around his fingers. Boba wrenches himself free and tears at his robe and trousers to free his thick length, leaking and flushed a rosy brown at the tip. He doesn’t keep either of you waiting as he removes his fingers and replaces them with something bigger.

You both groan as he lines himself up with your entrance and sinks into you, a delicious stretch that leaves you shivering beneath him. “Fuck—so wet for me.”

The first roll of his hips makes an obscene noise that showers shame down your throat, but it’s quickly kicked to the back of your brain as he slams back into your cunt—obliterating all thoughts save for him. Boba’s lip curls over his teeth as he claws at your thighs and yanks them over his shoulder, crushing you even further between the throne and the weight of his body. Each stroke is a liquid fire, tearing you apart at the seems while at the same time stitching you back together and leaving your body begging for more. Like this, it’s as if he’s reaching the deepest part of you, pounding into your cunt and hitting every nerve with deadly precision. Your legs prickle with the stretch as you squirm beneath him, stuck with the brunt of rough thrusts and violent stamina with nowhere to go.

“Bein’ such a good girl for me." He hums into the juncture of where your neck meets your shoulders. He sucks a mark there and tangles a hand in the hair at the nape of you neck, forcing you into a steeper arch. “Maker, you look so fuckin’ pretty stretched around my cock.”

Your walls clench tight around him as you dig your nails into the fabric of his cowl. You voice cracks with airy moans—attempting to work through the haze of lust and respond. All that tumbles from your lips is a pathetic whine of his name—so close to that precipice again.

The friction of each thrust scraping against your clit, the way he fills you and the possessive hand curled over your throat. You wiggle an arm between your bodies and rub the little bundle of nerves in a frenzied half-circle. You wheeze as Boba increases the pressure over your throat.

“Tell me who you belong to,” he demands as devastating ripples begin to spark through your core, a live wire an inch away from a puddle of water. “Tell me—“

“You! It’s you—“ You sob, desperate for another release only he can give. “I’m yours—“

Boba snickers and gives your throat another squeeze. “Cum on my cock.”

There we go.

You seize and cry out, violent shivers forcing your back to arch high off the throne and into his chest plate. It tears through your being, quick and deadly through your core, spreading to every nerve and shredding through it with molten pleasure. Boba’s voice is a gravelly scrape that vibrates next to your ear, sprinting towards his own deserved euphoria. Your climax still boiling through your blood, is dragged out as Boba continues thrusting—an endless echo that leaves you incredibly oversensitive sore. For the next few moments, his thrusts are too sharp, the grip he has on you too abrasive—but then he’s cumming too. A couple more rough jabs and then he’s seating himself deep inside your cunt, his warm release coating your insides with thick ropes.

You’re panting breaths fill the air between you, settling like fresh snow over a silent wood. By the time Boba pulls out, leaving behind a sticky trail of his cum and your arousal over the throne, you’re toeing the line of hazy unconsciousness.

“Such a good girl,” Boba praises, threading fingers through hair and tracing the lines of your face. The the soft drone of his voice mixed with Din’s gentle baritone, murmuring something you don’t catch, casts a dreamy haze over your reality. You’re not afraid that this could back fire and blow up in your face—to move inches from two serrated blades, each seeking for a taste of blood and flesh, is always a risk. But yet, the calloused hands and the sweetness of brown eyes reach through chaos and silence to offer you salvation. You take it with a smile.

You should invite Din over more often…you think, as you slip into content sleep.

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#well yall im #bucket fucker supreme right here I guess #enJOY #boba fett x reader #boba fett x you #boba fett #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian #boba fett x reader x din djarin #din djarin x reader x boba fett #star wars fanfiction #my writing

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writefightandflightclub · 3 years

Text

Trial by Fire (Part 1/3) Santiago “Pope” Garcia x GN reader

Summary: You’re finally introducing your new boyfriend to The Boys. It must be intimidating for your guy because, hello? Not only are they literally lethal, as well as infeasibly handsome, but they’re hella protective of you to boot. They want the best for you so, naturally, they make your guy run the gauntlet the whole evening. Santiago, though? Well. Given that he is secretly in love with you? Let’s just say he doesn’t handle the situation very well at all.

Genre / tropes: angst, friends to lovers, love confession.

Author’s note: I wasn’t planning on writing this (in fact I’m writing the opposite, where “Santi has a new girlfriend and you don’t take it well” as a series, loosely based around the 7 deadly sins); but, in the meatime, I wrote this to get back into the swing of things after a lil break. It’s just a quick one, but there will be a second and final part, if you want it! Let me know!

Word count: somehow, 4.4k.

Warnings: language, angst, best friends arguing, Santi being an asshole.

Rating: T

The boys aren’t being as awful as you had anticipated, at least. For the most part, they’re actually being pretty friendly, and although they’ve transitioned into grilling Dean about every aspect of his life, they are at least listening intently and smiling at his answers. All except for one fucker, of course; and, naturally, surprising no-one, the fucker misbehaving is one (1) Santiago “Pope” Garcia.

The group - the boys, yourself, and Dean- are huddled comfortably around the blazing warmth of the fire pit in Frankie’s yard. The dancing, oranged flames cut through the dark and cold of the crisp night, as you sit upwind of the smoke on scattered, mis-matched camp chairs.

Whilst the others are evidently enjoying the evening -faces painted with smiles, body language open and leaning-in to chat to Dean- that fucker Santi is leaning back in his chair, his jaw twitching in seeming aggravation, his arms folded, and his intense eyes needling your beau. In this dim light, with the firelight licking over the sharp planes of his face, he looks every bit like a trained killer about to leap out of the shadows and garotte someone. Well… a very petulant trained killer. His call sign should have been Mr. Grumpy Pants, you think idly.

What’s up with him this time?! you wonder.

He gets these moods sometimes. And, when it strikes him, he can be a little bit hostile - despite the fact he’s a puppy underneath it all. You had hoped that for once, maybe he would suck it up, and yet, your hopes had been in vain, it seems.

Every time Dean speaks, or touches you, or even laughs at another of the guys’ stories, Santi’s expression sinks further and further through layers of distaste; and, by this point, he’s eyeing Dean as though he’s a war criminal the squad have been sent to take-out. You half expect him to leap up and take down Frankie any second for fraternizing with “the enemy”, if you’re honest.

Truth be told, you’ve had just about enough of this. Your friend had better buck his ideas up, sharpish, or he’d be reminded very swiftly that you were Delta Force too.

For now, trying to ignore the bastard, you look back at Dean, and the sight of him in animated conversation with your buddies causes at least some of your aggravation to fall away. Things have been going well between you and Dean, even if you do say so yourself. Originally from Michigan, he now worked as a lecturer at a nearby music school. He was also a banjo musician in a bluegrass / synth power-pop mash-up of a band, which (sort of) explained his retro-inspired mop of brown hair and his thick dark moustache - majestic enough to rival Frankie’s. True, he wasn’t your usual type, but he was honest, and sweet and kind... Plus, he’d never killed anyone with his bare hands, which was rather refreshing too, if you were honest.

Safe to say, so far, things were working out. So well, in fact, that you’d recently met his parents for the first time while they were in town. So well, in fact, that -after keeping him purposefully away from the boys for as long as you feasibly could- you’d now brought him to meet your family. That’s what this squad was to you, after all. Your family.

Remembering sporadic moments from the past few months together, you smile gently as you listen to Dean talk. You watch him seamlessly integrate some tailored conversation starters you’d fed him ahead of time, and you gently squeeze his thigh in an act of reassurance and appreciation. He is feeling the pressure, you can tell, although he is handling it well. To be fair, you think, who wouldn’t feel the pressure? You’d been nervous enough to meet his parents, but this? A bunch of Delta Force guys and an MMA champion? This squad was lethal; literally -you’ve lost track of your combined kill count, though Will probably hasn’t, you are sure.

Aside from that though, most of all, they are your family. You need them to like Dean and vice versa, and you know that isn’t necessarily a given. You are a tight-knit group, with little hope of outsiders grasping the full extent of your decade’s old in-jokes, or the intense camaraderie instilled by facing a hail of bullets together. Plus, as the baby of the group, they were protective as all hell of you.

It came from a good place, you knew: they wanted what was best for you. But, there was a reason you’d delayed this meeting... It’s not as though they were threatening or anything. They didn’t do the whole “if you hurt our buddy, I’ll kill you” thing, for example (at least, not while you were present – you couldn’t vouch for what happened when you were out of earshot). However, after introducing a succession of boyfriends to them over the years, the squad had developed a well-rehearsed system for sizing-up your new squeeze. In the past, not all of your squeezes had made it through the gauntlet. It was a trial by fire, to be sure, and you were pleased that Dean has not yet been burned.

Of course, whilst the boys’ approval didn’t mean everything to you, you couldn’t deny it was important; perhaps especially this time, with this guy. And, out of all of the group, Santi’s approval meant the most to you. Always had. Probably because Santi meant the most to you, full stop. You simply couldn’t imagine having someone in your life that didn’t get on with your best friend. And, so, you are not overly thrilled at the reception Santi is giving Dean right now. The reception he had been giving him all evening, in fact. And the more you dwell on it, the more an anger bubbles forth from you. Even though you try to push it down, and focus on Dean, that fucker in the corner of your eye sends you.

“What’s wrong with you tonight, Garcia?” you blurt out, a little louder than intended, causing the amiable chat and giggles to stall, all eyes turning to you - then, in turn, following the direction of your fiery gaze over to Santi, who shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

Now, he leans forward. Looks back at you with a rare venom in his eyes. With a smug curl of his mouth, he dips to pick up his beer from the floor and takes a swig - buying himself some time. Trying to brush you off. Still, your gaze does not relent as he rests his elbows on his thighs, bridging his fingers together in the space between, thumbs sticking in the air.

Now, he engages, and he looks directly at Dean, his eyes sweeping dismissively over the entirety of his form. Now, he speaks, his voice filled with far more bitterness than the situation merits. “Nothing at all. I’m fucking peachy. So, Dean. You play the motherfuckin’ banjo?” he offers, and yet, it sounds far more like an accusation than a question.

What the fuck is up with him?

Wilting a little beneath Santi’s stare, as the ex-operative squints his eyes in his direction, Dean casts a helpless, sideward glance at you from his place in the circle, and yet, you are so stupefied by anger that you can do little to help.

“I think what my dear friend means to say -” Frankie dips in valiantly, smacking Santi pointedly on the thigh, likely hoping to smack some sense into him too “- is why don’t you tell us more about your music, Dean?”

Frankie’s eyes and smile are soft when he looks at you, surreptitiously exchanging a pointed look -what’s up with that pendejo?- and you are grateful that at least some of the evident tension is diffused when he picks up the slack in the conversation.

Santi and his mood swings be damned, and, feeling bolstered, Dean continues on.

“Actually, it’s going pretty frickin’ well with the band. It’s a side-gig to my lecturing job, but we’re planning a tour during summer vacation. The States -east coast- and Western Europe for now. Maybe headlining a couple of small festivals, if that pans out, who knows.” Dean relates, humbly.

“That’s great, man,” Will chips in, helping Frankie get things back on track. “We’ll have to come down to a gig soon, hear you play.”

“Actually, we have something to tell you about the tour, don’t we, babe?” Dean says bashfully, and he looks at you expectantly, waiting for you to pick-up the thread. You’d talked about it before coming today, and it had seemed like a great idea at the time, but suddenly, now that the announcement is imminent, your mouth is dry - as if filled with cotton. Still, you force a smile, and you’re not sure why, but you look anywhere else but at Santi as your lips form the words. “Yeah – kinda big news, fellas. I’m going to join Dean on the Europe leg of the tour. I’ll be leaving you losers behind for a few months.”

Dean’s face cracks into a smile and he reaches for your hand, looking made-up at the prospect. Still, while you will yourself to be fully present in the moment, you find yourself focussed on looking anywhere but at Santi, sure that his stare must be boring into the side of your head. You hadn’t told him yet. Unfortunately, at Santi is where just about everyone else ends up looking, as the fucker abruptly pushes his camp chair back and stands, storming indoors before anyone can hope to fathom it.

You exchange glances with Frankie, Will, and Benny, with Benny thankfully stepping-in this time to distract Dean from the obvious, and asking him which stops you two will be making, and which sights you plan to see.

“Look, man, don’t mind that tool. Got any sightseeing plans?”

What is Santi’s problem? Why can’t he give Dean a chance? Yes, you’ve made some mistakes in the past- been hurt, and Santi had helped you pick up the pieces -every time- but you had a good feeling about Dean. A really good feeling. Can’t he see that too?

Frankie throws a concerned glance back towards the house and motions as if to stand, but you beat him to it, wanting to get to the bottom of this. “I’ll go,” you insist, motioning for Frankie to stay put, and with a quick promise to Dean that you’ll be back soon (and a silent plea to your boys to take care of him in your absence), you do just that, walk-jogging across the grass.

When you step inside to the kitchen, you find Santi stood, hunched over the counter, his palms clasping the surface tight enough that his knuckles pale, and his head hung low, his shoulders rising and falling as he takes in exaggerated breaths.

“Well?” you ask pointedly, with zero tolerance for his bullshit. “What’s going on with you? Wanna explain why you’re being an ass to my boyfriend?” you challenge to the back of him, and he instantly whips around at the sound of your voice.

“I’m being an ass?” he asks indignantly, his eyebrows shooting towards the top of his head.

“Yes. In a nutshell. Yes,” you hiss, any other interpretation feeling impossible. You fold your arms and purse your lips, making it plainly evident that you are waiting for some explanation. And, oh boy, it had better be good.

Instead of explaining though, Santi simply huffs out breath, gesturing angrily out of the window. “That guy, really? That’s the guy you’re gonna go all in for? Go to fucking Europe for?”

That guy, you mouth silently, completely stupefied for a moment. You’re not sure exactly what your so-called friend is insinuating, but you are clear that you don’t like it one bit.

“What is your fucking problem?” you ask, punctuating your words with motions of your hands, as if you are trying to strangle the air in-between you in lieu of his neck. “Dean’s a catch. He’s hot, he’s sweet, he’s a nice guy. He’s there for me. He takes care of me.”

“Like I don’t take care of you?!” Santi exclaims, his voice rising and abrasive; and then, immediately after the words tumble forth from his lips, he steps back imperceptibly, as if startled by his own outburst, his hand rasping over the stubble on his chin.

“What in the...? This isn’t about you, you ass!” you bite back, face scrunching up in confusion. Your fingers come to your temples as you grow increasingly lost-off and perplexed, and seemingly, your riposte only makes Santi double down on whatever the hell he is complaining about.

“Who’s the one who’s always been there for you, hmm? Who picks up the pieces every time you make yet another dumb shitty choice with another shitty guy?” he rambles, gesturing his hand towards you dismissively.

You step back from him this time, just a little, tears spiking instantaneously in your eyes at such an unnecessarily cruel blow. He’s right, in a sense: you had always relied on Santi to heal you, not to hurt you - and yet here he was dealing these painful, incoherent blows out of nowhere.

“Shit, Garcia. If it’s that much trouble to be there for me don’t bother next time,” you snap, your voice breaking as the swell of anger and hurt and adrenalin sends tears spilling over your cheeks. “Don’t worry though, I don’t think I’ll need you again. In fact, I have a feeling this guy might stick. So, maybe? Maybe you should think about the fact that the only shitty guy around here is you.”

“You really think he’s good enough for you, hmm? He’s really who you want to end up with?”

You listen, aghast, as his tirade keeps coming. However, as Santi’s voice breaks with emotion part-way through his second question, you can’t explain it, but you feel an intolerable sadness in the pit of you. Even though you’re not sure what’s causing all this, what you’re barrelling toward, you want to thrust this sadness away from you. Push him away from you. You want to push away the knot in your stomach for fear that if you tug at that thread, you might arrive at an answer to his question.

Exasperated, overwhelmed, you roughly paw tears from your cheeks, not knowing where all of these feelings are coming from, in either direction. “Fuck, I... I don’t understand what this is. I don’t get it!” you say, waving your hands, palms-up, through the air. “Is this some macho bullshit? Have I pissed you off somehow?”

At that, the wave of Santi’s anger crests and breaks; as you wonder if you annoyed him. Then, as suddenly as his anger came it is waning, his eyes pooling with rare tears now. With a huff of breath he tears off his damn cap, tossing it aside to run a hand through his grizzled hair.

“No. No,” he backtracks a little, palms up in surrender. “You haven’t... I.... I just...” He pinches his lips in-between his teeth and looks up at the ceiling as his words trail off, perhaps trying to steady his voice before continuing. Or, perhaps he has nothing else to say to you. Perhaps he’s said enough.

You examine him. Still pissed as all hell, but worried now too, and ultimately, your love for your best friend slightly edging-out the anger. It’s rare that anything affects him like this, and you can’t help the sudden rush of concern.

Cresting too, you exhale a tightly held breath into the now silent, taut space between you, and your body sags - just a little. You chew over your words a moment, but when your voice comes back the volume is lower, your tone softer - and, although it cannot be considered friendly, by any stretch, it’s the best you can do right now.

“You know what,” you offer, generously, wrapping your arms around your own middle, stroking your forearms with your own fingertips. “I’m giving you a pass. You don’t even want to give Dean a chance? Then just leave, Santi. Just go. I’ll give the guys some bullshit excuse that doesn’t leave you looking like a total ass, because I’m not a dick to my friends. So just go, okay?” You pump your eyebrow at him indignantly and await a response, your manner stiff and unyielding.

Santi closes his eyes and knits his brow together, something like regret finally passing over his face and he shuffles guiltily from foot-to-foot.

You puff out air through your teeth and shake your head, as you observe this Delta Force hero; the bravest man you know in many ways, but still too cowardly to tell it like it is. To admit that he’s in the wrong. You are afraid to say that even as his gaze comes back to you, misty-eyed, you have little sympathy for his plight. You are sure it is of his own doing. You are almost as sure that he won’t open-up.

“You know,” you begin, breaking from your position and gathering up a fresh cooler of beers from the fridge, turned away from him as you speak. “I brought Dean to meet my family. Do you understand that? I didn’t have parents and siblings for him to meet. I have you guys. You’re my family.”

Still nothing. Nothing but silence greets you. Nothing but a pained expression on his face, his brows drown together and the artificial light of the kitchen highlighting the harsh planes of his face as you look over your shoulder at him, waiting for some reaction. Some admission of guilt. None comes. He simply slots his hands into his jean pockets, looking sheepish.

“So,” you continue, greeted with a brick wall, “fuck knows why you don’t want me to be happy, but I am. I’m happy with him. Thanks a ton for shitting all over that.”

You don’t even bother to look towards him this time, instead placing the last of the clinking, condensation-adorned bottles into the carrier, resigned to head back out without him, and without any apology.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says, and your head whips towards him in surprise.

He looks it - sorry. He looks apologetic. Deeply so. He looks sorry for this, for every way he’s ever slighted you, for every time he’s hurt you, even in ways and moments you never knew about. He looks sorry down to the pit of him, and it catches you off-guard when you see it freely offered there in his eyes.

Even so, this is a stubborn man. There’s an apology, but there’s no explanation. Nothing to explain his behaviour. So, even though it seems genuine, it also doesn’t seem like enough.

It doesn’t appease you, and yet, all you can bring yourself to do is sigh deeply.

You know Santi better than anyone, but there’s always been a part of him that has seemed out of reach, even to you. You’re not sure -never have been- whether to be scared or excited by those unknown parts of him. Not sure whether the impasse hints at buried secrets too dark and deep to bear, or whether it hints of a possibility of something more. Something deeper or something better you could have together, if only he would let you in. You don’t know, and you never have, but all you are sure of is that you have constantly teetered on the edge of that abyss, too much left unknown to know all of him, however much you may have wished to. He’s entitled to his secrets, of course, but you hate how they hurt him.

With a little sympathy now, you examine his watery eyes, and when your voice comes back this time, it is softer and slower than you intended. More tired than you expected.

“You know, Dean wants to be with me. And he tells me so.” You casually dip down to pick-up the cooler handle, eyes still fixed on your best friend. “He might not be Delta Force… he might be a banjo player from Michigan… but even he’s brave enough for that.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Santi says, bristling all over again, his hand rasping angrily over his stubbled jaw, and yet, you decline him an explanation. Instead, keeping your own secrets now, holding back, you head towards the door, beers in hand.

Still, you turn back to him. You might be angry, but you still care for him -more than you could say.

“If you figure out what’s up with you, let me know, and I’ll be there for you. Whatever you’ve got going on, you know that, right? But this? This isn’t okay, Garcia. You might think that I make dumb choices -you ass, by the way- but I’ve watched you hit self-destruct so many times instead of dealing with your feelings. Maybe you should look at your own life, huh, instead of shitting all over me for trying to be happy? Shit, at least I fucking try.”

His eyes shift from side to side in the room, the muscles in his jaw twitching, chin jutting forward, and his thumbs locked in his belt loops. He can’t quite bring himself to meet your gaze; at least not until you are disappearing through the threshold; until it’s almost too late. Why can’t he ever manage anything unless it’s too late?

“Wait!” he pleads, but you cut him off, before he can speak. Even though, truth be told, you’re not sure he would muster anything to say at all, even if you gave him a chance. He’s so used to holding back.

“No,” you say firmly. “Forget it, I’m done. I still love you- you’re my best friend. But, fuck, just go home, and get out of my sight, Santiago. I’m so pissed with you right now.”

And so, you turn away, and when his words finally do come, they are spoken to the back of your head. They are spoken without you ever seeing his lips move, and you wonder if he ever said them at all, or if this might be some cruel trick of the night. Some witching hour spell. That is, until you turn towards him and you see the words painted clearly on his face too.

“Fuck it. I’m in love with you.”

I’m in love with you.

Why can’t he ever manage anything unless it’s too late?

You’re not sure what reaction he was expecting, but you almost choke on the sudden lump in your throat. You feel a taste of bile rising-up into your mouth. An intense, resurgent anger fills you, which near makes the room spin, and makes your hands and your legs tremble.

Even if a hidden, unconscious part of you has been waiting, hoping for these words all these years, when they finally come all you can feel is... royally pissed off.

“Oh. No. No. No,” you repeat, words gradually increasing in volume, looking at Santi as if he has mortally wounded you, rather than offered that confession. “You do not get to do this to me.”

You see a hard swallow bob down his throat, a near-instant regret on his face, and your heart pounds in your chest as you reel with the implications of his words.

The coward. The fucking asshole. He waited until now? All the times things had gone to shit, and he waited until you were happy?

“All the times...” you accuse, your tone as bitter as the taste in your mouth, the metallic tang of blood as you feel a rushing in your ears. “All the fucking times. All the chances, Santi, and you do this now?” you continue, your finger sawing through the air, wagging accusations at him, even as your voice wavers, as your hands notceably tremble. “No. Fuck you, Garcia. Fuck you.”

You want to cry, or scream, but you are too angry. So angry, that it eclipses anything else which might come to light. So angry that you almost come full circle again, beginning to stabilise out at eerily calm.

Santi looks down at the floor, and exhales air, chuckling disbelievingly to himself, then lightly nodding his head, lips pressed tightly together. His feet shift agitatedly below him as he brings his endlessly familiar eyes back up to meet yours. This time when he looks at you, it hurts. You remember bullet wounds, and you swear that was nothing compared to this.

“That’s it? That’s all you’ve got to say to me, hmm? Fuck you, Garcia?”

“What the fuck were you expecting?” you say, launching your words before you realise the implications of them. Yes, you know fine well that your boyfriend is sitting outside, likely wondering where you have got to. But, if you had the wherewithall to have thought about it, you would know exactly what Santi was expecting, despite all of that. You would know that a part of him must be expecting, hoping, that when he told you, you might reciprocate. That you might love him back.

And, would that be so outside of the realms of possibility? Would it be so hard to imagine that the deep, magnetic, and unshakeable friendship you shared could be something else? Something more? That you could tip over the edge you had long been teetering on? Maybe it could, or maybe it could have, but right now, you can’t see past the flashbang he has just dropped over your life, and it is clouding your vision.

You were happy. You are happy. Fuck him for doing this now.

Why would you fall into the unknown for him, if you never knew whether he would catch you? If you never knew whether ruin or safety awaited you if you let yourself tip? He always held back.

What the fuck were you expecting?

Your words linger in the space between you, and in lieu of any other lifeline, realisation dawns on Santi’s face. Realisation that, although he jumped, you are not intending to catch him either. But how could you catch him, with your arms already full?

And, so, he slowly nods his head once again, his eyes beading with glassy tears and his hand grazing over his chin in a self-soothing gesture. Wordlessly, he sets his jaw and he abruptly replaces his baseball cap on his head, padding a few steps forward to stand opposite you, sucking all of the breath from your lungs. This time, when he looks at you, you see all of your past, but you still can’t see beyond that. The abyss still scares you too much.

Like this, facing each other down, eye-to-eye, the silence in the room grows sharp as a knife, refined to a point. So, when Santi abruptly turns to leave in a sharp, determined trajectory, without so much as looking at you, it is as if he has dragged the blade across your skin in an equally swift motion. As if he has left you open and bleeding-out, having delivered a mortal wound with the act of his exit. You’ve felt like this on the battelfield before, and in life, yet he was always there for you. Always there to patch you. To pick up the pieces.

Instead of screaming open-mouthed for help, this time, you simply watch him go, and now you are the wordless one, mustering nothing but a gasped inhale of breath before your vision blurs with tears - as you watch his hazy form disappear along the hall and out of your sight.

“Santi,” you call pathetically, your voice small and weak and teary, barely making it past your throat, and he doesn’t hear you. He doesn’t hear you but even if he had, you’re not sure anymore if he would have stopped.

When Santi slams the front door behind him, you shudder with it in its frame, your hand coming to your chest as if to hold your heart inside your opened-up ribs, and you close your eyes against the jarring sound, tears spilling down your cheeks, your face screwing-up into a shined, contorted grimace.

Entirely lost, now alone, you bizarrely wish for the room to be filled with anger again, instead of the intolerable sadness - which all too suddenly takes hold of you as your emotions crest and break. It is all you can do to stumble forward a few paces and hunch over the countertop, finding yourself in the exact position you had discovered Santi in. You stand, bracing yourself with your arms, fingers clutching the edge of the worktop, and your head slumped forward, tears freely spilling out of you as your chest heaves.

You wonder whether he’d held himself in this same position because he had felt an intolerable sadness too. An intolerable sadness at seeing you happy.

Suddenly you could understand it.

That fucker. Santiago “Pope” Garcia.

I’m in love with you.

The words echo in your mind, but this time, if you’re honest, you’re not wholly sure if they’re his, or yours.

PART TWO IS HERE

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