Bts Scenarios/Oneshots

Threesome (Yoongi x Reader x Jimin)

I watched him daily.An abandoned cigarette between his lips. Like an excavation crew swept through his body whilst he was still aware, still there. The cold nipping at his chin. His arms, covered by a heavy black trench coat to keep the maggots of his mind from eating what was left of him. Everytime he opened his mouth to give the world a contempt sigh, I saw his teeth, one overlapped the other front leader and they were pearly white, despite the nicotine deluding them and evading the crevices of his mouth. He'd press the bitter end of the cigarette between his tongue and the roof of his mouth to remind himself of the pain and the subtle memory of a boy who lay in ruins, a boy who knew how to do nothing but keep quiet. He rarely ever spoke to me, and he'd never speak to anyone else. I don't know how he survived. If he was really there I had no idea but the footprints he left in the snow told me otherwise. I was a photographer, an artist. And this boy was my muse. I don't remember when he started talking to me, I think I was only grateful that he spared no one else a second glance and I didn't have to suffer the jealousy. The jealousy that could creep up on you in the night, and wield an axe through your mind until it's nothing but a squashed puddle of pink flesh, red blood, and scarlet tissue glaring up at you from a gaping skull. That's what I thought jealousy was. But then Yoongi started coming aswell, and he wanted Jimin to be his muse too. But Jimin was supposed to be my muse. I stopped walking over to Jimin and striking up a conversation when Yoongi followed me into an alley and said, "Hey, you've had him for a while, I think it's time for me to take over." When had Jimin become a posession? Something to pass around when someone else was done with him? But to no avail for Yoongi would Jimin talk to him.

He'd sit there for hours lying about his relatives and talking about how his day had been until Jimin got bored, stood up, walked over to my apartment steps and sat down. One time he even looked me in the eyes when Yoongi placed a hand on his thigh, almost pleading that I at least bid him goodbye before I went to the studio. I ignored him. I even covered the portrait of him I had painted. There was smoke coming out of his mouth and he was ripping apart the seams of his empty chest with the buttons of his shirt also abandoning his clothes. One hand covered his mouth trying to force the smoke back in as punishment, but it just spread through the spaces of his fingers and left his soul. The last thing I had painted that day in the same time interval was when Yoongi had cornered me, there was Yoongi and me and Jimin. I painted Jimin in the middle. Me on the left and Yoongi on the right. Yoongi was possesive, angry, greedy. I was silent, face void of any emotion, like Jimin. But I made his chocolate orbs look begging, desperate for me. On the right side was Jimin's arm, ripped from his body with all of the gory fleshy bits and skin handging off of the missing appendage. Blood everywhere. Dripping from Yoongi's fingertips. It was just us three on a black background when I put in some minor details so you could tell the black floor from the black wall. On Yoongi's side was the wall that sputtered blood. I think I made my side too clean and flawless, while Yoongi's was me staring down into the beast he really was. I didn't talk to Jimin or even look at him for an entire seventy-four hours.

I walked into my two bedroom apartment. The other room was for Wren. My first inspiration. All of the paintings of her I painted were burned and stolen from their easels. She left me for Hoseok Hyung. He was going to be a rapper, she said. He was going to make it big, she said. I closed myself off from her and didn't dare waste anymore paint, time, or feelings on her. I erased her, and the look on her face when she came home for the rest of her things and the paintings was the only painting of her I'd ever let her keep. But she didn't want to see the twisted grimance on her face between anger and pain. Or the wet tears falling down her porcelain cheeks as she looked horrified. She only thought she was beautiful when she saw the way I had painted her. With roses in her stark black hair and wine glasses on her lips as she stared out at the setting sun. She still loved me then, and now she loves me even more. The next week she came back with a sour look on her face when she saw me painting Jimin. Now, she leaves a single rose and a glinting piece of glass in the middle of my doorstep every month. I'd set the rose and the piece of glass on fire and leave them out for her to pick up by lunch so I wouldn't cut myself on her love like she wanted. Now I was standing in her old room. Staring at the way I painted the exact look she harnessed with pride.