#And I like that. It's a breath of fresh air. We love a self-assured cat.

[honestlyvan]

um... what do you think about mio and sena u-u they might b my favorite pairing....

DO LOVE THOSE GIRLS. VERY MUCH.

I think they've got an interesting vibe going on, like, Mio doesn't really treat anyone the way she treats Sena, she kind of has Sena up on this pedestal where she is the perfectest girl that Mio adores :) her favourite :) her bestest girl :) but is failing to really communicate anything about what it is that makes Sena so loveable to her.

And the answer, I think, is pretty straightforward -- Sena is very loyal and sincere in her affection in a way that flatters Mio's ego in a good way -- but since Mio's attempts to get Sena to reveal herself to her the same way Mio feels seen by Sena keep falling flat, she can only really go back to those shallow compliments to return the affection. Talking to Sena is like talking to a mirror, Sena knows how to give Mio the positive reinforcement she needs but doesn't know how to let Mio get to know her, in turn.

And Sena's rock-bottom self-esteem and the idea that she has to be someone likeable to validate her own existence holds her back a lot, and masks that Mio does love Sena for reasons that are entirely unique to Sena. Sena uses sincerity as a mask, and while that leaves all her relationships quite shallow before she learns to communicate better, it's a shallow understanding of the real Sena.

Everything both Mio and Sena do is very heartfelt, Mio with her strong sense of self and Sena with her strong sense of compassion. I think Mio is ultimately good for Sena, because she's like a puzzle, she's someone Mio gets to figure out, someone she gets to have agency with, everything she learns about Sena is new and exciting and it keeps the high of the chase up.... as long as she feels like Sena wants her to do that. And when she doesn't, Mio just goes back to trying to flatter her way into Sena's heart, paying compliments because that's kind of all she can do what with Sena trying to keep her out of her heart.

And Sena does really want to be seen, be validated, she just doesn't know how to get that from people, she just knows how to do the things she wants to others and hope that one of them catches on and does the same thing back. She's just gotten so good at sincere effusive validation that it completely blocks out the part of her that wants that for herself, too. I think people can see that she is quite awkward and anxious, they just misplace that anxiety to be about how she's, like...... bad at things, when that's not her problem, Sena knows she's hot shit, she just doesn't think her skills are worth anything to anyone.

[tojitiddies]

✰ [GHOST] BUSTING MAKES ME FEEL GOOD

pairing ⋆ connie springer x fem!reader

synopsis ⋆ you don’t know who’s crazier. your ghost hunting boyfriend or you for even dating him.

warnings ⋆ paranormal encounters, slight ghost coercion, oral sex, vaginal sex, creampie

ꔵ there was no doubt about it, your boyfriend connie was an oddball. like tin hat wearing, crazy conspiracist, dark reddit forum odd. his friends often asked him how he’d bagged a chick like you in the first place and honestly you were curious too. you’d met him at a halloween party your best friend mikasa had thrown. one wild night and two awkward dates later you both became that sickeningly sweet couple that everyone hated to love.

at this point in your relationship you had grown used to connie’s random 3AM messages about some spooky forum he’d found or him sending random true crime articles he wanted you to read. he and his roomates jean and sasha all ran a somewhat popular youtube channel — they called themselves “the phantom philosophers” — where they covered different cryptid and ghost stories sent to them by viewers. they also went on numerous ghost hunts to try and speak or communicate with ghosts. you were always curious about your boyfriend’s odd way of life and even appeared on one of his streams once — his subscribers couldn’t believe he had a girlfriend. so, when connie asked you if you wanted to come along with him, jean, and sasha for a ghost hunt you jumped at the opportunity.

that’s exactly how you found yourself in front of an abandoned church while your boyfriend and his friends began setting up their equipment. tonight they were looking for the ghost of a pastor who secretly ran his own brothel beneath the church. one of the women had turned on him and murdered him while they were having sex. the story seemed completely made up, but connie assured you it was legit.

you watched as connie started setting up his body camera and clipping it to his jacket. “so...anything i can help with?” you asked, rocking back on the heels of your sneakers. connie looked up at you as if he’d forgotten you were there. “huh? oh, no babe you’re fine. just stand there looking pretty.” he replied sweetly. you forced a smile towards him, letting it falter when he went back to messing with his equipment. you had only agreed to this because you wanted to spend time with him, but this entire trip he’d been so distracted. you were so used to having his attention all the time, it was starting to take you out of the mood.

you decided to go find out what sasha was doing. she had a boyfriend too, niccolo. he was really nice and an amazing cook. earlier you’d asked her why he didn’t come with you all, to which she told you that niccolo was secretly a huge fraidy cat. when you approached her she was sitting in the trunk of jean’s pick up. she seemed to be really focused on...some sort of device? “what’s that?” you queried, sitting next to her. sasha beamed and shoved it into your lap. “this, my friend, is a modernized proton pack like the ghostbusters use! i’ve been engineering this baby for a couple months now and this is gonna be its first field run!” she squeals as she begins to point out all the functions and uses of the device. it looked sort of like a portable cd player.

while sasha babbled on about her “precious baby” jean and connie approached you both, equipment and cameras ready. “here you are ____.” jean presented you with a headlamp and a frequency tuner. “now first rule of ghost hunting, do not be on your own. you’re always gonna want a buddy. i’m assuming connie will fill that role?” he asked, looking between the two of you. you were still annoyed with him but you nodded anyway. you’d bring it up when the two of you were alone. “alright then. sasha you’re with me. and don’t even think about trying to spook me this time, i took self defense lessons and i’ll definitely clock you this time.” he scolded, to which sasha responded by rolling her eyes. “oh please, it was just a joke pony boy.” she taunted. jean shot her a glare. “keep it up.” he warned before turning back to you.

“second rule, do not under any circumstances curse a ghost. not only will that anger the ghost and make it mad at you, it will also get mad at everyone else and we don’t want any part of your beef. so keep it to yourself.” it was your turn to roll your eyes. “jean you don’t need to mansplain ghost hunting to me, i’m not stupid. plus i watch you guys’ channel all the time.” you say, sliding off the truck and situating the headlamp on. “i’m ready to get to some ghostbustin!” sasha hops up and high fives you. connie laughs and wraps his arm around your waist. “ah don’t worry jean, i’ll be with her the whole time.” jean stares blankly between the three of you before shaking his head.

“whatever. connie go ahead and start your body cam. it’s time to head in.” connie chuckles at jean’s annoyance and switches on the camera, a small red light peeps out to signal it’s recording. jean has one on as well, tapping his slightly to test it out. “alright gang, buckle up. i’m trying to meet a horny ghost.” he said with a grin, beginning his march into the church, the three of you following close behind.

ꔵ inside the church it was dusty and reeked of mildew. you pinched your nose as you and the others switched on your headlights. “jesus christ, it fucking stinks.” connie remarks. sasha elbows him in the rib. “dude we’re in a haunted church, you can’t take the lord’s name in vain.” she scolds him before crossing her shoulders in silent prayer. you giggle as connie rolls his eyes at sasha’s ridiculous antics. a strong gust of wind blows through the church, causing the front entrance to slam shut. you shriek, grabbing ahold of connie’s arm while sasha laughs at your frightened behavior. “don’t worry ____, ‘s just the wind.” connie reassures you, rubbing your shoulder.

“alright guys enough fucking around. it’s time to split up and cover more ground.” jean says, taking charge. “sasha, you and i are gonna explore the chapel and the pastor’s office. connie and ____, you both are going down to the abandoned brothel in the basement.” he instructs. connie groans and folds his arms. “seriously? that’s probably where his ghost is hiding.” connie complains. you tense up at that. it was only your first ghost hunt and they were sending you right into the fire. “that’s the point dumbass? sasha and i will be up here gathering frequencies and seeing if we can find any phantom residue. if you two can get in contact with the pastor, we can probably record his frequencies from up here to listen back later.” he explains.

sasha pulls some weird tool from her fanny pack, holding it up. “this is mission is perfect for using my tuning fork! i’ve been wanting to try this for ages.” she squeals, her voice echoing through the church. “damn sasha, lower your voice.” jean mutters, to which she responds with another giggle mumbling out a quiet “sorry”. jean looks back to the two of you. “well we have our assignments, lets get this show on the road my fellow philosophers.” jean salutes you both and opens the doors to the chapel, sasha waves and follows after him before shutting the door behind them. “jerk.” connie mutters under his breath. you squeeze his hand and smile up at him.

“c’mon connie, i wanna see my boyfriend bust some ghosts.” you say, hoping to cheer him up a little. connie nodded, barely acknowledging your attempt before starting to head off towards the doors leading to the basement. “alright babe, stick close. i have no idea what’s down here.” he instructed. you hummed in disinterest and began to follow him in his descent. amazing! astonishing even! you were practically throwing yourself at him, yet your boyfriend was still more interested in some stinky old pastor ghost. as you traveled deeper downstairs, the air around you began to get warmer like a stuffy room. by the time you’d gotten down to the basement there was a humid temperature surrounding you.

“is it to supposed to feel so warm down here?” you asked, taking connie’s hand to be as close as possible to him. connie whipped his head around the basement floor shining his headlamp on all the different doors. “you would think it’d be cold with all this concrete, it’s weird.” he finally answered, switching on his frequency tuner. you followed his movements and did the same. “good weird or bad weird?” you asked again, growing a bit concerned. connie shrugged before making his way towards one of the doors, his frequency tuner picking up. you glared at him, having had enough of his nonchalant attitude.

seduce him.

you blinked as the thought came from seemingly nowhere. you shook your head, deciding to ignore it. you watched connie peak into the room that was making his frequency tuner go off the wire, letting out a gasp. “____! you’ve gotta come see this!” he exclaims, grinning back at you before making his way inside. you follow after him, curious to see what surprised him so much that he actually acknowledged your existence. when you stepped inside you were surprised to find the room...spotless? there wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere. the decorative rugs and tapestries that hung on the walls created an erotic atmosphere. the large bed looked clean and comfortable as well, an oil lamp sitting on the bedside. “i thought this church was abandoned, who’s doing the upkeep?” you observed, still taken aback by the surprisingly clean and crisp room. connie pressed his hand down on the bed, feeling it out. “no idea. even the mattress and blankets feel fresh.” he marveled.

seduce him and gain his favors!

this time the thought echoed louder through your head, making you feel a bit lightheaded. your knees buckled causing you to drop down to the floor. connie whipped his head around in shock, instantly rushing to see if you were alright. “you okay baby?” he asked, concern lacing his words. you nodded and took his hand to help you stand back up. almost as instantly as you were back on your feet you felt the pressure in your head drop to your chest and then to your arousal. you let out a small whimper at the sudden wave of pleasure that came out of nowhere. connie pressed the back of his hand to your forehead, his touch felt like lightning.

“are you sure you’re okay? maybe we should — “ the door to the bedroom slammed shut behind you, but you didn’t really care. all you could think about was satisfying the sudden hunger that had come over you. connie jiggled the doorknob trying to get the door back open, curses spilling out of his lips. you sauntered up behind him, snaking your arms around his waist, swirling them up to lay your hands on his pecs. “wha — ____?” he turned his head to his shoulder, trying to get a view of you. you giggled and kissed his shoulder. “awh baby, we can stay in here and get comfy.” you whine, pressing yourself against him. connie tensed up in your embrace, caught off guard by your sudden switch in attitude. the oil lamp beside the bed flickered on, casting the room in a warm dim orange glow. connie grabbed your hands and snatched them off his chest. he spun around to face you, cupping your face in his hands.

“____, hey get ahold of yourself!” he tried snapping you out of it, his fingers popping between your eyes. you leaned up and kissed him under his chin. “i want you to get ahold of me.” you murmured, grabbing his wrists to place his hands on your waist. you batted your eyelashes at him with those puppy dog eyes you knew he couldn’t resist. connie gulped, his hand hands instinctively squeezing around your waist. “y-you’re not yourself, this isn’t right.” he muttered under his breath, more so talking to himself.

you snaked your arms up and around his shoulders walking back into the bed, flipping around to push him into the bed. “you made me very upset, ignoring me all night for your dumb ghost hunt.” you said, planting yourself in his lap, running your thumb along his lips. “how are you going to make it up to me?” connie frowns furrowing his brows. you don’t even wait for him to answer before letting your head fall to the side, kissing over the expanse of his neck.

connie shivered, falling prey to your advances. you snatched off both your headlamps in a playful demeanor while your other hand trailed down to the seat of his pants, letting your fingers splay out across his crotch. “____…w-wait a moment.” he breathed, letting out a slight moan when you squeezed your hand around his clothed length. you giggled softly, slithering from his thigh to between his legs. you nudged his crotch with your nose, looking back at up at him. his face was flushed and his eyes were glazed over with lust. that was all the indication you needed to begin to undoing his jeans.

your mind was clouded with thoughts of your boyfriend fucking your mouth and praising you with all the attention you’d yearned for. you pulled down his pants and boxers, licking your lips at his erect cock, leaking with precum. taking your thumb to his tip, you gently began to spread around the sticky substance. your tongue darted out to kitten lick the little mess you made, leaving connie hissing and squirming. “you’re such a tease.” he grunted. you grinned up at him knowingly before tilting your head to kiss along the length of his shaft.

connie desperately bucked his hips slightly as your kisses became wet and suctioning. done teasing him, you eagerly wrapped your lips around him sucking his tip before bobbing your head further. your tongue swirled around his shaft expertly, causing him to groan and buck his hips. you moan as his cock travels further down your throat, the vibrations of your voice stimulating him further.

“fuck baby…keep sucking me in just like that.” he huffs out, trying to keep his moans from pitching. his hands nestle in your hair, bringing your head down further. you relaxed your jaw as he continued to fuck your mouth, saliva collecting and dripping down your chin. connie bucked his hips into your mouth with fervor, you could tell he was close. “your throat feels so fucking good around me, keep swallowing me down just like that.” he praised, letting his head fall back against his shoulders.

he takes another deep thrust before you feel him spill his thick warm release down your throat. his cock twitches on your tongue as you slowly drag his length from your mouth. connie sits breathless on the bed, panting from the climax he’d just had, but you weren’t finished. you rose back up to your feet and stripped off your jeans and panties before crawling on top of him. with your hands slowly lifting your shirt over your head, you ground your wet cunt against the underside of his length.

connie stared up at you, his daze apparent on his face. “my turn.” you whisper, kissing the side of his mouth. you raised your hips slightly positioning his cock at your entrance before sinking down. you whimpered as you felt him filling you up all at once. connie took ahold of your hips, hissing as you clenched around him. “shit…your pussy loves sucking me in.” he groaned, bucking his hips again.

you whine, rocking your hips back against him. “it’s because i wanna feel you, right here.” you move your hand to your lower stomach, where you wanted to feel connie push against. connie smirked, lifting his knees up on and raising you up to hover over him slightly. “i can do that for you baby.” he growled into your ear before rapidly thrusting his cock into you. you grabbed ahold of his shoulders as he bucked into you, trying to keep your balance.

connie kept his word, fucking you balls deep with no mercy. you were so overwhelmed by pleasure you didn’t realize how loud you’d become. the oil lamp flickered as connie swiftly switched positions so you were on your back. he pushed your thighs back exposing your wet cunt that gaped for connie’s cock. he smirked and spit against you clit rising a whine from your throat. he chuckled cruelly before burying his cock back inside of you, his thrusts causing you to lurch up against the bed.

you clawed your hands over his his shoulder blades as he fucked you deep. “you feel so good, don’t stop!” you moan, arching you back as he hits your sweet spot. connie groaned from the way. you squeezed around him before leaning down to kiss you, his tongue swirling around yours. the sinful noises that came from between you both, echoing through the room. connie moved his lips across your jaw, praising you as he kissed and sucked your skin. you dazedly let your head fall to the side.

then you saw him.

a young man dressed in preachers robes, watching you both intently. you cried out clinging to connie — connie assumed it was a moan and continued to fuck into you. the preacher grinned at you and faded from your eyesight. just then connie let out a grunt. “shit baby, i’m gonna cum.” you were too dumbfounded to respond but it didn’t matter. connie had already grabbed your waist, pulling you down on his cock faster. the movement shocked you out of your mindstate, making you forget about the whole “pervy preacher ghost in the corner of the room” thing.

“fuck connie keep going!” you whine, your hand coming to grab your tits to keep them from bouncing out of your bra. connie fucked you like that until your legs became jelly and you creamed all over his cock. just as you were catching your breath connie came inside you, spilling his thick seed all over your walls. connie collapsed into your chest taking deep breaths.

“shit.” he breathed out, his hand squeezing your waist. “you okay baby?” he asked, tilting his head back to look at you. you smiled and nodded, massaging his short silvery hair. connie seemed to have a thought of realization and frowned. “i’m sorry ____. i should’ve done more to make you feel like i wanted you here. i must’ve looked like such an asshole. i was so focused on busting ghosts, i forgot the most important thing i wanted out of this was to introduce my girl to my uh…hobbies.” the sincerity in his eyes had you swooning. you cupped his cheek and leaned down to kiss the top of his head. “you’re forgiven.”. you say, before sitting up.

not a good idea.

your head was spinning. you moaned and grabbed your head, massaging it. “____? baby, what’s wrong?” connie asked worriedly, sitting up as well. then just as quick as the dizziness came, it went. you blinked. “i have no idea. maybe you just fucked me too hard, hm?” you teased, poking his shoulder. connie pressed the back of his hand against your forehead. you couldn’t read his expression, tho it looked like a mix between a shock, confusion, and disappointment. in short, nothing good. “what?” you ask.

connie shook his head. “this is gonna sound crazy, but do you think you were possessed?” he blurted out. you bit your lip, remembering the preacher and the strange echoing voice in your head. “ah…maybe? but i wanted that, it was me no one was controlling me. it just felt more like someone was egging me on.” you explained. even coming from your own mouth it sounded delusional. “oh my god connie, did i get possessed?!” you squealed, snapping your legs shut.

connie laughed and leaned forward, pulling you into his embrace. “no it wasn’t possession baby. just a bit of paranormal influence, like in the poltergeist.” this did not reassure you whatsoever, but connie was already sliding off the bed. “c’mon let’s go back upstairs and see what jean and sasha found. don’t tell them what happened okay? jean’ll kill the shit out of me.” he chuckled, kissing the top of your forehead. you did once over of the room again to make sure there was no ghost priest hiding in here before starting to get dressed again.

ꔵ “finally you two are here! you’ve gotta come see this!” sasha exclaimed as she saw the both of you approaching. sasha and jean had hooked up some sort of computer and were huddled around it. “what is it you?” connie questioned, taking your hand and hurrying you towards them. you smiled, relieved that he had meant what he said and was starting to finally include you. “it seems like whatever you guys did down there worked! we recorded these weird frequencies and we think we might have caught the pastors attention.” jean said, clicking around the screen.

you and connie exchanged wide eyed glances. “uh…what did you hear?” you asked, instinctively squeezing connie’s hand. jean and sasha shrugged. “nothing, we couldn’t hear it until it finished recording.” jean grinned up at the two of you. “but you arrived at perfect timing, now we can play it back together.” jean pulled up the sound byte. “jean i don’t think — “ connie started to protest, but jean had already pressed the space bar.

the empty church echoed with the sounds of your lewd moans and connie’s sensual praises. the heat rushed into your cheeks as you looked down in shame. you didn’t wanna see anyone else’s facial expressions. after what seemed like forever sasha’s hand darted out to pause it. safe to assume you were never invited to go ghost hunting with you boyfriend and his friends again. however you and connie did some extensive research afterwards.

connie’s body cam had mysteriously became static when he walked into the bedroom, so there was no footage of the ghost — you were honestly just relieved the two of you didn’t film a sex tape. however, apparently the ghost of the priest wandered the church, waiting to lure couples into the brothel rooms so that he could gain pleasure from seeing his brothel still be put to use. seven other couples who had visited the church also reported a strange occurrence where they ended up having sex in the brothel as well. you wondered how jean had missed that key part of research about the ghost.

“we may not have busted that ghost, but he sure made us bust.” connie cackled, nudging you. you gave him a pointed look. “you make awful jokes.” you told him, nudging him back. though the experience was a bit of a mindfucker, it truly brought you and connie closer together.

author’s note: hello again! this took me a really long time to write and yet it still feels really rushed :( i tried to do what i could in the edits but this probably isn’t my favorite. i would appreciate feedback if anyone has any though and if you did actually like it, thank you! i promise i can do way better though lmao </3

[pagingdoctorbedlam]

Hello I just happened across this after finishing the Enies Lobby arc bc I am now liking most of the CP9. Love ur writing and was wondering if you'd do a headcannons thingy for cp9 being soft while having to take care of a colleague (us) while we recover from sickness, injuries, or whatever? I just wanna see them show some tenderness towards someone they like, whether we be a bestie or a crush or whatever to them :)

Thanks for blessing me with your writing, regardless if you write this or not. Great job! :3

(Thank you for writing Jabra content because holy hell is it rare. Whats with me liking the rarest characters in fandom lmao)

Aww, thank you anon! That's really sweet, and I'm glad you've joined us in the CP9 pit! (Jabra really does need more love, he's such a fascinating and complex character!)

Thanks for your patience while I cooked up these headcanons! I'm gonna' put them below in a readmore, but I hope you enjoy them!

Rob Lucci: Lucci isn't the sort to fret in public (though he'll definitely be more irritable, which the others will refrain from pointing out if they value their lives). But in private, he rarely leaves your side. His presence is quiet but reassuring as he keeps watch, and you often find him reading a book or sewing an outfit for Hattori. And sometimes (especially if he's fond of you), you'll wake up to find him holding your hand. He's not one to naturally show such affection while you're awake...but if you ask, and you're alone, you might be able to convince him to shift into leopard form if you need something warm and soft. (He'll claim it's solely to help you heal faster, since research suggests that cat purrs have healing properties...that's the only reason he's purring, and don't you dare suggest otherwise!)

Kaku: Kaku gets particularly antsy when he's worried about others, so he'll do all he can to help you feel better while keeping himself busy. If there's anything you need or that the doctors request, he's off in a flash to get it. If you need any sort of physical therapy to recover, he'll be there to lend a hand. He feels like he's got to keep his mind clear and hands busy, so sometimes you have to remind him that you aren't dying and convince him to sit with you a moment. Then he'll keep his hands occupied by holding yours (resting his head on top of yours or in the crook of your shoulder if you're particularly close), quietly admitting how worried he was. But he knows you'll be okay, and he'll be with you every step of the way.

Kalifa: Kalifa is ever practical, reminding you to take your medicine and helping you stick to a schedule so you don't forget to eat or sleep. To some, she seems tougher than the doctors. But they don't see her in private, quietly running her fingers through your hair and along your body to help you stay clean, because she can think of nothing worse than feeling grimy and battered while stuck in a hospital bed. They don't feel her touch upon your brow as she puts a damp cloth to help with any fever you may have. And if any of the medical staff don't take your pain seriously, she will tell them off until you get the treatment you need. She is fierce on your behalf, and soft for you and you alone.

Blueno: Blueno isn't the sort to hover over anyone; he knows you're an adult, you need your space to heal and he's got a job to do. He's practical, but far from heartless. If supplies you need are low, he'll sneak in and acquire whatever you need from even the most well-guarded fortress. If you need a break from your hospital room (and are well enough to do so), he's got a Door out so you can catch some fresh air. Once you've recovered, he'll make you a nice meal and drink of your choice to celebrate, though he'll do so in his own low-key way.

Jabra: When someone he cares for isn't feeling well, Jabra dives into protective wolf mode. This is sometimes even literal, keeping guard around your bed and growling at any unwanted visitors before curling up at the foot of your bed for the night. He gets embarrassed if anyone brings it up afterwards, especially if they call him a puppy or something of the sort...but while you're recovering, he doesn't care what others say, so long as you're safe and sound. If you need extra help once the worst is over, he'll even accompany you (in human or wolf form) to help keep you steady while you get back to your old self.

Kumadori: Once you get Kumadori to stop crying and blaming himself for whatever happened to you, Kumadori is one of the best folks to have by your side while under the weather. He knows a lot about how the body works, so he knows just what you need to feel better. He'll make you soothing tea, guide you through breathing exercises, anything else that could help. Many of his methods are more traditional, but there's a homey touch to them that warms your heart. At night, he'll tell you stories and poems until you're able to sleep...and as you rest, he'll pray to his mother to watch over you and aid your recovery, because he couldn't stand to lose you too.

Fukuro: If you need someone to talk to while recovering, Fukuro's got your back. He'll share the latest gossip and all the going-ons so you're all caught up for whenever you get back. He'll jot down what the medical staff says too, since he figures it'll be hard for you to remember everything when you're not at 100%. He advocates for you, relay messages, anything where he can use his voice to full advantage. But really, he just loves to keep you smiling and entertained, because that's how he knows you'll be alright.

BONUS: Spandam: Sends you a get-well card and flowers. He doesn't visit as often, claims he's busy. But in soft moments, he'll bring Funkfreed by, because his elephant pal always makes him feel better and he hopes it'll help you feel better too.

Nero: Assuring you that you'll be just fine on the outside, *freaking out* on the inside. But he'll do his best to hold it together, for your sake!

Bedlam (CP9 OC): Being a doctor, is likely the one in charge of your care. They're prone to sarcasm in lighter moments ("Oh yeah, that's a terminal case of the sniffles, I give you like, three and a half hours left"), but when you're in the worst throes, they work tirelessly day and night until you're back from the brink. Don't be surprised to find them whirring around you with a full carafe of coffee while they help you out, or to wake and find them asleep in the chair next to your bed.

[noona-clock]

The Personal Trainer

Genre: Gym!AU

Pairing: Junhoe x You (Female!Reader)

Warnings: None

Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 | Words: 2,395

Finally, after weeks of putting up with your older brother’s badgering, you caved. You relented to his persistent suggestions to sign up at the gym close to your apartment -- and not only that. You had signed up (and paid extra for) personal training.

You really had never been one to find any sort of exercise enjoyable. You hated getting sweaty, and you had yet to find any activity you actually wanted to do. Just thinking about going to the gym and running on a treadmill or doing strength training made you feel like whining. And hiding under your covers in bed. And sleeping for about a week.

It’s not your fault you were lazy! It’s just how you were! It’s who you were as a person, and now that you were well into adulthood, you had come to accept that about yourself.

But, apparently, your brother had not.

He claimed to be “concerned for your long-term health,” but you knew he really just couldn’t stand lazy people and wanted everyone he cared about to love working out just as much as he loved working out.

It would never happen, but you got irritated enough to give it a try.

So, here you were. Wearing brand new workout clothes and scanning your fresh, new membership card at the front desk of the gym.

“Excuse me?” you asked the gorgeous, young receptionist who looked worlds better in a spandex crop top than you ever could.

“Hmm?” she chirped, shifting her gaze up to you. “How can I help?”

“Where do I go for personal training?”

The girl stood up, a beaming, friendly smile tugging at her lips as she replied, “Right over there!” and pointed to a closed-off area to the side of the main exercise room.

“Thank you,” you murmured with a slight grin before heading over there.

“Have a great session!” she called out cheerfully after you.

...How could you be that cheerful working in a gym?

I mean, obviously, a lot of people could be. But you couldn’t imagine it. The only place at which you’d be that cheerful to work would be... like, a candy store. Or a coffee shop. Definitely something to do with food.

Anyway. 

Your heart began to beat faster as you approached the personal training area, and you chewed the inside of your cheek when you realized your trainer -- whoever he or she was -- hadn’t shown up yet.

Then again, you were basically always early to anything and everything, so it shouldn’t have been a surprise that you’d arrived before your trainer.

You let out a soft sigh as you set your bag and water bottle down next to the wall of the fairly small, roped-off area designated for personal training, and then you slid onto a bench to wait.

As the seconds ticked by, you found your gaze wandering out into the main area of the gym -- who didn’t love people watching? Especially when you were just sitting somewhere waiting for someone else to arrive.

To your slight surprise, the ellipticals and bikes and treadmills were not occupied solely by buff guys and fit ladies. There were definitely some of those, but you also saw a couple of -- truly no offense intended -- average people running and cycling their hearts out. There was even an older, gray-haired man speed-walking on a treadmill, and it brought a tiny smile to your face.

At the very least, it made you feel better that you didn’t seem to be the most unfit person here.

Just as you turned back around, you caught a glimpse of someone walking toward the personal training area.

...Maybe your eyes were playing tricks on you, but you could’ve sworn --

You shook your head quickly to dispel the thought.

No. It couldn’t be.

“Hey,” you heard a voice call out.

And it was a very familiar voice.

Indeed, the familiar voice of the person you thought for a split-second you’d seen in your peripheral vision walking over here.

...Great.

You stood, your heart jumping up into your throat as you turned to face...

Him.

Junhoe.

Your ex-boyfriend.

As soon as he saw you, Junhoe stopped in his tracks. His eyes widened slightly, but it was enough to be noticeable.

What -- was he -- I mean, was he also here for personal training or was he --

“Are you my trainer?” you blurted out. Your nerves were very obvious in your voice, and you scolded yourself for letting your anxiety show right now.

Junhoe’s mouth fell open, but it took him a few seconds to actually answer you.

“...Yeah.”

Wonderful.

So, he was a personal trainer now? After your break-up a couple of years ago, you hadn’t kept up with him on social media (but you still stalked his sister on Instagram kind of regularly... not that you would ever admit that out loud), so you hadn’t even known he’d quit his job at the music store.

Now that you thought about it, going from working at a music store to being a personal trainer was kind of an odd jump.

But that was Junhoe for you. He was predictable in some ways, but in many ways, he absolutely was not.

That was ultimately why you’d ended things with him. The romantic aspect of your relationship had been great -- more than great, actually, but Junhoe just hadn’t been stable enough for you. He was too spontaneous for your schedule-loving, plan-everything-within-an-inch-of-your-life self.

But, looking at him now...

Good god, was he handsome or what? He always had been and, apparently, he always would be.

“Ah,” you replied somewhat breathlessly, your nerves slowly sucking all the air from your lungs. “Well. I -- I guess I’m your new -- trainee... person... thing.”

At that, Junhoe’s expression relaxed, and an amused smile appeared on his lips.

“Yeah, I guess so,” he replied with a soft chuckle. He then stepped closer to you, his eyebrows raising just a smidge. “...How -- how are you?”

“I’m good -- doing well -- just fine,” you replied, inwardly cringing at how awkwardly you’d answered him. “Nothing much has changed, really. Same job, same apartment, same cat.”

You knew from your Instagram stalking escapades that things had changed more for him than they had for you since your break-up. He’d moved in with his sister at one point, and he had adopted the tiniest, fluffiest puppy you’d ever seen. And, apparently, he now had a different job.

“That’s great,” he said. The grin on his lips was genuine, and it kind of warmed your heart to see that he really did think it was great that your life hadn’t changed. He obviously remembered how greatly you valued stability and routine and structure.

You were about to ask him how he was doing (despite the fact you had a good idea based on his sister’s Instagram), but he clapped his hands together and said, “Well, we should probably get started” before you got the chance to.

“Right,” you murmured, feeling your heart jump again. You had been nervous about starting personal training before, but now that your ex-boyfriend was going to be your trainer...

Despite the fact this was your first ever personal training session -- and Junhoe knew this -- he didn’t go easy on you.

Maybe he was still bitter about your break-up and had made you work super hard because he wanted you to feel as much physical pain as he’d felt emotional pain a couple of years ago.

...Or.

And this is the most likely option.

Maybe he was just a tough and passionate trainer who didn’t believe in easy exercising.

(You kind of still wanted to believe he was still bitter, though.)

(But no one needs to know that.)

After the hour was up (though, you were hard-pressed to believe it had only been an hour), you found yourself lying on your back, staring up at the gym ceiling, and trying to catch your breath.

The workout had just ended, but already, every part of your body hurt.

“Good job,” Junhoe chuckled, holding his hand out to help you up.

You closed your eyes briefly because you really did not feel like getting up yet. 

“Are you sure?” you panted. “It doesn’t feel like I did a good job. It feels like I did a horrible job.”

“No, no, you did good,” he assured you with one of his signature smirks -- you know, the same one that had been the first thing to make your stomach flip back when you’d met him. “Come on, let me help you up.”

Well. You had to get up some time, so it might as well be now. The sooner you left the gym, the sooner you got to take a hot bath with three pounds of Epsom salts sprinkled in the water.

Weakly, you lifted one hand, allowing Junhoe to grab it and hoist you up. You were basically dead weight because you were so exhausted, but he was able to pull you to a standing position all on his own. And quite easily, too. It was... pretty impressive.

Junhoe had certainly had a great body while he’d been your boyfriend, but you had no doubt his job as a personal trainer had only done good things to his physique. 

...Mm, nope, better not think about his muscles. It’s not good to think about an ex-boyfriend’s muscles. Especially when that ex-boyfriend is standing right in front of you.

“See you Wednesday?” he asked casually once you were (basically) on your feet, referring to your next training session.

“Y--yeah,” you stammered. “Wednesday. Absolutely.”

There was a pause, and you were just about to turn and grab your bag... but then Junhoe broke the silence.

“Listen, I -- if you don’t want me to be your trainer, I can ask --”

“No, it’s fine,” you interrupted, though... to be quite honest... you weren’t really sure why you said that.

Was it fine?

I mean, sure, your session had gone pretty well. In terms of your interactions, at least. You had felt awkward at first, but you’d gotten used to it after a while, and Junhoe hadn’t acted at all like an ex-boyfriend -- only a trainer.

But... still.

Did you really want to see him three days a week? After not seeing him at all for about two years?

(Not seeing him at all in person, that is. You’d definitely seen him in pictures since, as we’ve established multiple times, you stalked his sister’s Instagram.)

But Junhoe’s lips had already curved into a smile at your reassurance, and you would feel too guilty if you took it back now and asked for another trainer.

“Okay,” he murmured through his grin. “Well, then. See you Wednesday.”

You just nodded before hoisting your bag over your shoulder and beginning to make your way out of the personal training area and into the gym -- limping slightly as you walked, mind you.

It felt like it took you about five hours to leave the gym, get to your car, get inside your car, drive home, walk up to your front door, go to your bathroom, and draw a bath.

And now that you were in the bath -- the hot water and scented Epsom salts relaxing your muscles like nothing ever had before in your entire life -- you were pretty sure you were going to stay in here for another five hours.

You tilted your head back, letting the base of your skull rest against the edge of the tub and closing your eyes. You breathed in the healing aroma of the salts and sighed with content.

Truly, there was nothing better after a long day than a nice, relaxing bath.

...Well, actually. A nice, relaxing bath with some music playing.

Opening your eyes and lifting your head, you reached out and stretched your arm to grab your phone nestled in your discarded clothes on the floor.

Just as you opened up your music app of choice, though, your ringtone cut through the silence and made you jump.

Your eyes narrowed when you saw your brother’s picture on the screen, but your heart was still racing with fright as you answered and pressed your phone to your ear.

“What?” you asked irritably. “You interrupted my Me Time.”

“How was the gym?”

You couldn’t stop yourself from rolling your eyes because of course that’s why he was calling.

And you were just annoyed enough to be sassy about it.

“Well, my personal trainer ended up by my ex-boyfriend, so thanks for that.”

Your brother chuckled softly and said, “Junhoe? No way, what are the odds?”

“No matter the odds, it happened, and I’m blaming you.”

“No, no, no, Dear Sister. You will be thanking me when you have more energy and don’t get out of breath walking up two flights of stairs.”

“Okay, those were very long staircases!”

“You’re going back, right?”

You waited a few seconds... let out a long sigh... then replied, “I mean, I paid for two months of sessions. I don’t want to lose that money.”

“Was it super awkward?”

“Well, yeah,” you shrugged. “At first. It got better once we were actually training, but... still. It’s not like I had a pleasant time.”

Your brother chuckled softly and said, “Hey, you never know. Maybe it’s fate.”

You quirked one brow. “...Fate? What?” you asked, entirely unamused.

“You never know!” he repeated in a singsong tone. “Good luck on your next session, keep me posted, okay?”

“Whatever,” you murmured, though you could feel a smirk tugging at one corner of your lips.

“Love you, Sis,” he teased (but you knew he really meant it).

“Love you, too, Bro,” you teased back (but you obviously really meant it).

As soon as the call ended, you tapped on the icon for your music app and pressed shuffle on your relaxing Jazz playlist.

After tossing your phone back onto your pile of clothes, you leaned your head against the edge of the tub again and closed your eyes.

The bath, although it was starting to cool already, and the ambient music were doing wonders to ease your aches -- both physical and mental.

But... your brother’s words kept ringing in your head, for some reason.

You never know.

Part 2

[remedialpotions]

An Artistic Rendering, part 2

I couldn’t stop myself. (But also, I had a lot of fun writing this so... here. Have it.)

Wednesday night art classes were typically followed by a casual dinner at a nearby restaurant. Usually, Hermione enjoyed this post-class debrief session with her mum, but that had been under normal circumstances, when they’d been working on drawings of flowers or cats or bowls of fruit. Tonight, Hermione was not totally sure how she would tolerate sitting across from her mother for an entire meal, nor if she would ever be able to look her in the eye again.

“So, what do you think you want to order?” asked Mum cheerfully, opening up her menu. “I’m rather hungry, aren’t you? Maybe we ought to order a starter - the bruschetta here is supposed to be excellent.”

“Sure,” Hermione said, staring blankly into her own menu. Words like ‘carbonara’ and ‘pomodoro’ and ‘rigatoni’ floated meaninglessly in front of her. “Whatever you want.”

“Ooh, let’s get some wine, too,” Mum added. Had Hermione possessed the wherewithal to look at her, she would have been goggling in disbelief. How on earth was she so cheerful after what had just transpired? How was she, too, not completely disturbed? “How about Chianti? I never know what’s supposed to ‘pair well’ with something else, I just always get what I like-”

“Great,” interjected Hermione, eyes fixed on a description for chicken marsala. “Sure. Whatever.”

Mum set down her menu; in her periphery, Hermione sensed her leaning curiously toward her. “What’s going on, dear? Are you all right?”

“‘What’s going on?’” Hermione repeated back, incredulous. “‘Am I all right?’”

“Well-” Mum blinked, taken aback. “I know there were a couple other drawings that the instructor liked better, but she still thought yours was rather good - and you’ve always been better at things like science and maths anyway-”

“It’s not that.”

Just as Mum opened her mouth to inquire further, a young woman in a crisp white blouse and black pants arrived at their table. “Good evening, ladies,” she greeted them. “My name is Nicola and I’ll be your server this evening. May I get you started with something to drink?”

Mum ordered the bottle of Chianti (Hermione privately thought they might need more than one by the time the night was over) and the bruschetta, and Nicola flounced away.

“Mum,” Hermione said, once she was sure that their server was out of earshot. “You drew a picture of Dad.”

“Well, of course I did.” Her voice was infuriatingly casual. “He was the obvious subject, wasn’t he?”

“So you don’t think that was awkward for me at all?”

“Yours was of Ron,” Mum pointed out, leaving Hermione to briefly wonder how she was possibly related to someone so level-headed. “I’m certainly not interested in seeing my future son-in-law like that.”

The discomfort of the evening was dulled, at least momentarily, by this implication that she would be marrying Ron. While they were not yet engaged - Hermione was in no rush, and perfectly happy to cohabitate - she was also quite certain that she would be spending her life with Ron, and it was nice to know that her mum was so certain of it too.

Though, perhaps that made the events of the evening even more bizarre.

“That’s different,” replied Hermione finally.

“How, exactly?”

“He’s not in his fifties, for one-”

“One day he will be,” said Mum, “and I’m sure when that day comes, you’ll find him just as attractive as you do now-”

“Oh my God,” groaned Hermione, squeezing her eyes shut against the barrage of unwelcome mental images that her mum had just conjured up for her.

“Well, really.” Hermione forced herself to open her eyes, only to see a knowing, almost smug sort of look on her mum’s face (perhaps they had more in common than she thought). “Am I meant to believe that this was the first and only time you’ve ever seen it?”

“Please stop-”

“And don’t think we don’t know what happened in Australia.”

Before Hermione could inquire further about this - Australia was a topic that almost never arose between her and her parents, for obvious reasons - Nicola returned with a bottle of wine in one hand and two glasses in the other. The instant the wine was poured, Hermione seized upon her glass and drank deeply from it.

“What were you saying about Australia?” Hermione asked, once she had stopped to catch her breath.

“Just that it was clear what had… transpired between the two of you.”

Hermione paused, considering this, hoping her face was not giving anything away. It was true that she and Ron had had sex for the first time in Australia, just days before locating her parents and restoring their memories. And she did not expect her mum to be under any illusions about the nature of her relationship with Ron; they lived together, and before that, she had been quite unabashed about spending the night at his. But it was one thing to know, and quite another to discuss it.

“You could tell?”

“A mother always knows,” said Mum blithely around her own, more reserved sip of wine. “And really, it was just a matter of time. I always knew that.”

“You did?”

“It was always clear to me, and to your dad, that you had a certain connection with him,” said Mum. She had grown thoughtful now, introspective. “Actually, I imagine it was clear to everyone but the pair of you at times.”

“You’re right about that.”

“It’s why we were always happy to let you spend summers with his family, or spend your Christmas at Hog - at school,” she finished lamely, eyes darting around the restaurant. “You had such trouble fitting in when you were younger, and we were so happy that you found someone who… who understands you, the way he does.”

Hermione nodded, thankful that Nicola had swept over to them with a plate of bruschetta, because she was at a rare loss for words. She always knew her parents had liked Ron, and they’d made no secret of their gratefulness that she had found friends at last in him and Harry. But she hadn’t known that they had seen the depth of their relationship, or understood its uniqueness. Most people questioned what she and Ron saw in each other… but her parents had always known.

“And he really must love you,” Mum went on, helping herself to a piece of toasted bread piled high with chopped tomato, fresh basil, and grated parmesan. “To have done what he did for you.”

Myriad events flashed through Hermione’s mind: Ron, at twelve, vomiting up slugs; at thirteen, telling off Professor Snape; at fourteen, begrudgingly pinning an SPEW badge to his robes; at eighteen, offering himself up for torture in exchange for her. Posing starkers for a figure drawing ranked rather low on his running list of self-sacrifices, and yet it was not lost on Hermione how lucky they were that this was now their biggest concern.

“You’re right,” replied Hermione, taking her own slice of bruschetta. “He really does.”

***

Ron was at the sink, scrubbing a sponge over a dinner plate, when Hermione walked through the door of their flat. “Hi,” Hermione greeted him brightly, approaching him in search of a quick kiss hello. “I’ve brought leftover spag bol if you want it.”

“You know I do.” Ron shut off the faucet and picked up a small towel to dry his hands, then bent to touch his lips to Hermione’s. “A departure from your usual, innit?”

“I didn’t want anything too fancy,” replied Hermione, handing the styrofoam box to Ron, who immediately opened it to peer inside. “I was a bit put off my appetite to be honest with you.”

“Uh oh.” Ron fished a fork out of a drawer. “Dare I ask how it went?”

“You were very well-received,” Hermione assured him, making him grin as he twisted strands of pasta around his fork. “But erm…”

“Yes?”

“My mum… she, er…”

“Oh, no.” Ron paused with his fork in mid-air. “She didn’t have… comments, did she?”

“She did, actually, but that’s not the problem. She…” Hermione waited while Ron chewed his mouthful of pasta. Unlike her, his appetite only increased during times of distress. “She drew my dad.”

To her surprise, Ron burst into raucous laughter. “Yeah, I expected that she would have done.”

“You could have warned me!”

“And you could have warned me that a group of twenty people were going to see my todger before you had me starkers in the sitting room,” Ron grinned, “but you didn’t, did you?”

Though she was outwardly scowling at him, Hermione had to work to keep a smile off her face. “Again, it’s not like I took photos-”

“Merlin’s pants, I bet that’ll be next-”

“And really, it’s quite different when it’s your own father - I didn’t look at it or anything,” Hermione was quick to state, “but even just knowing…”

She broke off with a shudder. Ron set down the container of pasta and folded her into his arms, where she laid her cheek automatically against his chest.

“That sounds traumatic,” said Ron, gently kissing the top of Hermione’s head.

“It really was.”

“Should we sign you up for therapy?”

“Yes, please.”

With another little chuckle, he kissed the top of her head again, and she settled in against him. Her mum had been right: she did have a connection with him that was unlike anything else. She had always known that they would end up exactly as they were now, even when they hadn’t been able to see it themselves.

“So you said your mum had some comments?” asked Ron after a few minutes’ easy silence. “I’m a little scared to ask.”

“Not about the picture,” Hermione said. “Mostly about how… how good you are for me.”

“Yeah?”

“She referred to you as her future son-in-law.”

Ron loosened his grip on Hermione just enough to look down at her with surprise. “Did she really?”

Hermione nodded again. “Does that… freak you out?”

It was not a question of whether he loved her, or was wholeheartedly committed to her; she knew without a shadow of a doubt how he felt. But with marriage came things like babies and home loans and joint vaults at Gringotts, and it was not unreasonable to think that at nineteen, he simply might not be ready for it.

But he just shook his head, and moved in to kiss her again - this one soft, warm, lingering. “Nope. Not at all.”

Happily, Hermione resumed hugging him.

“Maybe next time,” said Ron, his hand rubbing idly up and down her spine, “you lot could do something a little more… you could join a book club, maybe. Something like that.”

“That could be fun,” responded Hermione. “Only, my mum’s got a bit of a penchant for romance novels.”

“Oh. Perhaps not, then…”

[ikemensweetheart]

Spider Lilies Chapter 1

Yokai? Yoshimoto x reader.

-----

An unexpected turn of events leads you into the Spirit World. A land of mythical and terrifying creatures called Yokai.

Pursued by a powerful Yokai called Nobunaga, you find refuge with Yoshimoto. A 'collector of beautiful things' as he calls himself.

Trapped in a strange world with no one else to turn to. 

Will you become Nobunaga's bride or will another win your heart?

A/n: I've been wanting to explore the idea of the Ikesen suitors as Yokai since the release of Mitsuhide's route. The idea seemed perfect for October. So, here it is!

I also wanted to give Yoshimoto some much needed love.

Reader is female

It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining, birds were singing and the flowers were blooming. It was a perfect day to go out for a walk. "I'll be back soon!" You called out as you stepped out the backdoor for your parents' house.

"Be careful!" Your mother called back from the kitchen window. "I will!"

You smiled as you set off into the woods that was on your parents' property. You had loved to take hikes in it ever since you were little. It was nice to get some fresh air while surrounded by nature. There was nothing more invigorating.

So, you were off with your sketchbook in hand and a pep in your step.

You walked down the worn deer paths you knew by heart. You followed the paths with no particular destination in mind. Your mind wandered from subject to subject as you walked. You were a college student on break and staying with your family for the summer and you were finally able to properly relax after a long semester at school.

As you walked, the trees around you opened up into a small clearing. You stopped when you saw something in the middle of it: a torii gate. 

"Where did this come from?" You wondered out loud. You had never seen one in these woods before. It looked old, its red paint was chipped and dull. You were surprised to see it was still standing. There were red spider lilies growing all around it.

Curious, you approach the gate. 

Nothing looked out of place other than the gate itself as you stood in front of it.

You moved closer to get a better look at it when something caught your foot. You yell as you stumble forward, falling through the gate and towards the ground.

You were surprised when a strong pair of arms caught you. "Well, what have we here?" A voice rumbled.

Your head snapped up. You find yourself staring up at a pale face, with horns protruding from his ebony black hair. "A human?" Blood red eyes flashed with surprise at the sight of you. They then narrowed. "What are you doing here?"

You glance around. You were no longer in the familiar, sunny woods near your home. All around you was a dark, foreboding forest. Tall trees looming over you as mist lay thick around the trunks. There were more spider lilies growing around you, but these ones had an ominous glow to them.

A sick feeling started to form in the pit of your stomach. A question came out of your mouth that you were dreading the answer to. "Where am I?"

"You are in the Spirit World." The strange man said. 

Spirit World? Like in the old stories where Yokai live? The pit in your stomach grew.

"What do you have there, My lord?" You jumped at the sound of a voice. You looked up to see another man perched in a nearby tree. He has silvery white hair, fox-like ears on top of his head and seven tails swishing behind him. His ears twitch with interest.

"Ah, there you are, Mitsuhide." The other man said. "It would appear a human has fallen into my realm."

The fox man, Mitsuhide, studied you. His golden eyes gleaming. "Quite a fetching human." He commented.

"Indeed. She will make for an excellent bride." 

You stiffen. "Wait, what?!" The man still holding you looks at you. A self satisfied smirk on his face. "You heard me correctly, human. You are to my bride."

You stare up at him with shock and horror. "You can't be serious!"

"Very serious." Mitsuhide said from up in the tree. "Lord Nobunaga would not bestow such an honor lightly."

"No way! I don't even know you."

Nobunaga's eyes narrow dangerously. "You would refuse me?"

Your body grows cold. A lot of Yokai were known for eating humans, you could very well be this guy's next meal if you didn't go along with what he said.

But, maybe there was another option...

This Nobunaga guy's arms were still loosely around you. This could be your only chance.

Deciding to take that chance, you push away from Nobunaga. Caught off guard, he lets go of you and you take off running. Ignoring the shouts behind you.

Nobunaga's eyes glare after your fleeing form. "Would you like me to retrieve her, my lord?" Mitsuhide asks. "Yes." Nobunaga answers. "And see to it that my bride is unharmed."

You didn't know where you were going, you just knew you had to get away from those two guys. You ran as fast as your feet would carry you. Weaving around the trees and dashing through the mist.

Suddenly, a figure appears from among the trees. You come skidding to a halt before Mitsuhide. "Where do you think you're going?" He asks leisurely. A wicked looking grin on his face.

You back away from him and start running in a different direction. "Looking to make a game of this, are we?" His voice echoed through the trees. 

This was a nightmare. 

"Very well, I always did enjoy a good game of cat and mouse!" He jumped out from behind a tree.

You scream and backpedal.

Suddenly, the ground under your feet gave way. Sending tumbling down a steep slope. As you wheeled down the sloop, you saw a figure standing at the edge of a lake.

There's a yelp as you collide into that body and you both fall into the lake. You hit the water with a splash!

You gasp from the shock. The water was ice cold.

You quickly tried to get up, but you slipped and fell back down. "Oof." Your head snapped to find yourself face to face with another man. "Oh my gosh! I'm so sorry!" You say, struggling to get up off of him. He steadied you with his hands. "It's alright." He assured you. "Though, I didn't expect to be such a lovely lady's pillow when I got up this morning." His tawny eyes twinkled with amusement underneath his dripping wet blue hair as he gave you a gentle smile.

Strangely, his reassurances put you at ease.

He helped you get to your feet. 

"I would ask you to return that human to me, Yoshimoto." You froze at the sound of Mitsuhide's voice. You looked up to see him appear at the edge of the lake.

The blue haired man, Yoshimoto's, eyes narrowed. "What makes you think you have a claim to her?" He asked. "Not me," Mitsuhide replied. "But my lord has chosen this her as his bride."

You shrink away from Mitsuhide. Yoshimoto put a protective hand on your shoulder. "I see no union mark, therefore, Nobunaga has no real claim to her unless she is found in his territory." Mitsuhide took a step forward and Yoshimoto pulled you a little closer to him. Raising his free hand toward Mitsuhide. "Need I remind you, fox, that you're in my territory?" 

Mitsuhide scowled. "I concede this time, Jorogumo, but my Lord will have the human as his bride." With that, he disappeared, leaving his ominous warning and a chill in your heart.

Yoshimoto sighed and let go of your shoulder. "Are you alright?" He asked. "Yeah. I'm fine." You said as you started to back away from him slowly.

Which he seemed to notice. He gave you another smile. "If you're worried about me eating you, don't be. I've never had an affinity for humans."

"But, you're a-"

"It's Jorogumo females you should be worried about. They are much more predatory than males. That's why they show up in more human stories." He explained. He then studied you for a moment. His elegant brow furrowed. "Are you cold?" He then asked.

"A little bit." There had been a slight chill in the forest when you had first entered it, but now it was freezing.

"My home isn't far from here. Come, I have a spare change of clothes you can use until those are dry."

Yoshimoto stepped onto the shore, but you remained rooted where you were. An awful thought had occurred to you. 

"Wait, you're not going to try to marry me, are you?" You really didn't want this to turn into a creepy Yandere situation.

Yoshimoto looked at you, a deadly serious expression on his face. "I don't condone forcing someone to marry another against their will."

"Oh." You sighed in relief. "That's... good to know."

"Now, let's get you out of those wet clothes before you catch a cold."

"Okay." You stepped out of the lake and followed Yoshimoto around it until you reached a traditional Japanese house standing at the edge of the lake.

"Welcome to my humble abode." He said. "It's beautiful." You told him. "Thank you."

He led you to the bath. "Take all the time you need to wash. I'll leave a fresh set of clothes for you." He said. "Thank you." He gave you yet another smile before he left you alone. 

You washed as quickly as you could. Feeling self-conscious of bathing in a stranger's home.

As soon as you're finished, you found a gorgeous silk kimono set outside the door for you. You stared at it in wonder. It had to cost more than your family made in a year.

There was a problem though: you didn't know how to put on a kimono. You had worn one a time or two when you were younger, but not enough to be able to put one on yourself.

Taking a deep breath, you tried to put on the kimono the best you can. Relaying on your memory.

When you were finished, you knew that it wasn't the best, but it works.

You then stepped out of the bath and into the rest of the house. 

As you made your way to the main room you saw all sorts of hanging scrolls, statues and pottery all over the place. It was like an entire art museum was stuffed into this house.

You found Yoshimoto in the main room. Sitting at the table with tea set out on it. "Ah, there you are." He greeted you with his alluring smile. "Are you warmer now?"

"Yes, thank you." You replied as you adjusted your kimono's collar.

Yoshimoto cocked an elegant eyebrow at you. "Is everything alright?"

"Yeah, it's just been ages since I've worn a kimono." Your face grew warm with embarrassment.

Yoshimoto rose to his feet. "Here. Allow me." He came up behind and undid your miserable attempt. Wrapping it around you properly and skillfully ties the obi in place. He then came around to face you. "There." He said. "You look lovely." 

"Um, thanks." Your cheeks were ablaze now.

"I have some tea ready." He went to sit back down like nothing happened. 

You stood there for a second as your brain kicked back on. Once it did, you hurried over and sat back down. Hoping you didn't seem too rude.

"Thank you." You say as he offered you a cup of tea. "This is quite a place you've got here." You commented as you took a sip of the tea. The main room is filled with as much art as the rest of the house. "Are you an art collector or something?"

"I'm an admirer of all things beautiful and as such, I like to fill my home with it." Yoshimoto explained. "Although, I don't believe I gave you a proper introduction and for that I apologize. I am Yoshimoto and may I ask your name?"

"I'm (MC)."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, (MC)." He says with a smile. "But, if I may ask, what are you doing in the Spirit realm?"

"Well…" You explain to Yoshimoto about the torii gate, going through it, stumbling into that Nobunaga guy and Mitsuhide chasing you.

After you finished your story, you said. "Thank you for your help, and the tea, but I should really be getting home now."

You moved to stand up. "I'm afraid that may not be possible." Yoshimoto said softly. You stopped. "What? Why?"

"There were red spider lilies around the gate, correct?"

You nodded. Yoshimoto let out a sad sigh. "The spider lilies mark the path between the human world and the Underworld. On the rare occasion, that path goes through the Spirit realm. However the path is always changing and never stays in the same place for long." That pit that was in your stomach earlier came back with a vengeance. "What does that mean?"

"It means that the only way back to the human world is along that path." Yoshimoto's expression was a solemn one. "I've no doubt that since Nobunaga intends to make you his wife, he will have had the flowers destroyed by now and There is no other way for you to return home than the way you came."

You dropped back down to the floor. It felt like the wind had just been knocked out of your lungs. "You… you mean I can't go home?"

You had to go home. You had promised your mom you'd be home in time for dinner. She was making your favorite. You… you couldn't break your promise.

"I truly am sorry." Yoshimoto murmured. There was a sad look in his eyes that told you he meant it, but it still didn’t make you feel any better.

Hot tears start streaming down your cheeks. This can’t be happening. All you had done was go out for a walk. You hadn’t expected to never be able to return home. You had told your mother ‘see you later.’ Not ‘goodbye.’

Suddenly, there’s a hand on your shoulder. Your head snapped up. You found Yoshimoto looking at you with a gentle look in his eyes. “Since you have nowhere else to go, you’re welcome to stay here.” He said softly. “I can’t.” You objected. “I can’t pay you or anything like that.”

“There’s no need for payment.” He replied. He gave you a reassuring smile. It was strange how easy it was for this guy made you feel at ease. “You don’t have to have an answer right away.” Yoshimoto added. “You can sleep on it. I have an extra room and a futon you can use for now.”

“Thank you.” You murmured.

“This way.” Yoshimoto helped you to your feet and led you to another room. There, he pulled out a very cozy looking futon and rolled it out on the floor.

“I’ll leave you to rest.” He said.

“Thank you again.” You mumbled.

He gave you one last, worried look before leaving you alone in the room.

You collapse on the futon. More tears running down your cheeks as choked sobs started to escape from inside of you.

Meanwhile, Yoshimoto stood outside your door. Listening to the heartbreaking sound of you crying. He remained there, making sure you were alright until finally sleep had overcome you. It was only then that he left.

To be continued…

-----

Thanks for reading. I hoped you all enjoyed.

Stay Safe.

[taendrils]

fame & surrender (m.)

― ❝ever the curious cat, you can’t say no when notorious rockstar V extends an invitation to get to know him better after your televised interview. skin to skin, you become acquainted, and you end up discovering what really goes on behind the scenes in the forms of glistening bodies and alcohol stains on your curves.❞

• genre: smut with plot, 90′s setting • warnings: dom!tae, big dick!tae, alcohol mentions, sexual tension, exhibitionism, dirty talk, mentions of orgies, condescending praise, sensory play, cum play, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, overstimulation • pairing: taehyung/female reader ft. jimin • wordcount: 18.4k words

ROCKSTAR AU.

The screams you hear are shrill, sounds that tighten into themselves and spread the growing anticipation for what is about to step on stage. 

It wasn’t a matter of who, it was a matter of when, and one of power. A supposed distraction which crawls too deep and makes it uncomfortable either way–the stretch of pulling yourself out of it too empty and painful, the time spent discovering more too consuming and a notch more demanding. Word travels around in big cities if your name carries enough weight, even faster if its heaviness comes from pure metal instead of the alloy they shape in the industry. The words reflect the effect, however unassuming they might be, and with the heavy riffs of a guitar supporting his every claim, it’s possible even for atheists to catch their glimpse of God.

Of course it’s not a matter of who, you chuckle, since there’s only one person who can make everyone feel like this. With the weight of his name pressed against everybody’s lips, a contained sound which catches between them and gets free reign as it is released, it’s easy to pinpoint how their teeth want to grip into it again. The gospels he put out, the ink he splattered and swallowed to build the charm into who he was and stain the raw talent so the corrupted could lose themselves in it–they all served as contour for a distinct identity. His identity. Half boldness and half self-assurance, his rebellion is compelling to watch, since his mouth strictly speaks for his own and never caters. He sings for himself, never for you. But oh, do your loins catch fire when he puts on a show.  

It’s entirely lucky for him and fundamentally damning for you that after the four years in the spotlight, he not only owns up to, but deserves every bit of cockiness that he has.

On screen, he has the allure of an idealistic presence, but face to face the same V is tough to get used to. You would be at ease if you were one of the faces who followed after the motion of his hand, who got lost in a stare from him and lived as a subject of fantasy for the rest of the night, but the knowledge of your reality punctures the tissue of your lungs. It overwhelms you beyond your composed façade, the fact that the breaths you let out would burn under the stage lights and the ones you took couldn’t offer you any stability, as each had to pass by his word. Constricted by the tips of his fingers and depth of his answers, the wait leaves you trapped and focused on nothing but him–and you have a feeling he’d love hearing all about it.

He said so himself, he’d always been a greedy man.

Even now, you are not doing anything, choosing to direct your focus on stifling your nerves; yet his presence leaves you intimidated. Lids closed, he rests on the guest chair, sitting alone before the artists rush to him, pampering his skin and blending dark shadow into his lashes. He still looks alone. A part of you wishes to speak to him, but you’re much too aware that at one wrong move, all eyes would be on you, his eyes would be on you. Despite the instructions you were given and how your head runs dizzy with filtering your thoughts, something deeper reaches and pulls at your essence: curiosity.

Curiosity in itself has been your rise and it won against the lack of both experience and exposure, which put you as a ‘fresh face’ in television. Many stories swayed you and tempted you to search for their hidden meaning, for the side others will not even dare think to look for. Solving the riddle didn’t satisfy you, finding its roots did. And Kim Taehyung, the man behind the notoriousness seemed to have buried his under a pile of personas he came to adapt in his life. The thing is, they all seem to contradict the man sitting a few feet away from you.

His silence is nostalgic.  

It comes to you as a tender shock, since you’ve been watching him for weeks prior to receiving your schedule, listened well to his past interviews and kept a careful eye on his mannerisms. Almost a year ago, the past spring season caught him in the last interview he would give before the one with you, head tilted as he stared the interviewer down with raised brows and tongue prodding at his lips. His posture was relaxed, yet his gaze held a different story–the game changed, as it does on stage when he’s singing; or rather playing.

He doesn’t play with the honesty of those who lie behind closed doors but rather toys with it in a secret meant for your eyes, with the way he throws his head back and bends the way his microphone demands. Up close, his half-lidded gaze is unfocused yet untamed, and it moves towards an end only he knows. He grips all that is inanimate with the tightness of a viper’s fangs and reserves the delicacy of a lover for when he touches himself, fingers trailing from the ends of his mouth to his jaw and through his hair. More often than not, the actions make you wonder how it would feel if the nailbeds stained on his jawbone would be yours.

You need to know more, you realize in your haze, and despite your conscience, you straighten your top and push your shoulders back.

“V?” You approach him with mismatched steps, clipboard resting on your hip, over the high waist of your dress pants. “Ten minutes till the interview. They are giving us twenty and we’re closing the show.”

The audience around the two of you clears out as you stand before him, taller in your heels as he slumps in the chair. Gone is the melancholic air once you make eye-contact, drive fuelling into his grin as the chains of his dangly earring catch the vanity lights. He looks every bit the sin he claims to be, far overstepping the sinner title.“Got it. Thank you for telling me.”

His words have you nodding, easy enough to shake off some of your anxiety but not to the point of letting your guard down. You purse your lips, feeling like you’re missing something despite being the one to schedule things around for your segments. Everything is too calm, and from your position, with him standing down it is unsettling, like a game of chess with the kings sat on their opposite colour. Then it hits you: it’s too empty, too intimate for a backstage meeting. The band who was supposed to perform with him at the end of your interview is not here, and neither are any of the main instruments. An acoustic guitar which is nothing like the electric beauties he uses in his concerts lays against the shelves of the vanity, cream wood against pristine white next to all black.

Your head comes up empty in its search for a way to ask him about it. “Your staff…the band, they–”

V stares at you with his head tilted as if he’s about to eat you whole. The glint in his eye is dangerous and it makes you feel like a prey put on display; only this time you’re playing yourself in front of him and he doesn’t have to put a finger on it.

“Oh, them?” he grinned. “They had a little bit of a rough time last night, but I made sure to come and see you all face to face.”

From the rumours you’ve heard about his backstage persona, him taking pity leaves you taken aback. Entertaining a feeling and seeing it solidified before you hit differently, you come to phantom after his words, as you thought you were prepared by studying him so much and even rehearsed what you would say to him. The pressure of doing well in your first interview made you overthink and analyse every possibility of how it might go. And you’re prepared, you swear you are–the replies lie at the back of your throat–yet you can’t say anything.

“I’m surprised,” he says and studies you, careful to drift your attention back. His facial expression changes quickly, adapting to your current emotion but his stability never wavers.“There was no one to show me around here. In the other one they showed me the camera work, we sat and drank a bit…you guys must be busy here.”

You turn like a toy on arches yet he stops you, gentle. “I wasn’t asking you. Just making conversation, I won’t be here for long anyway.”

You bow your head, slumping your shoulders at his confession–like you’ve been taught to behave around the stars here. Conflicting emotions settle in the pit of your stomach, a simmer of anger closing down on a thread that’s stuck in your neck and prevents you from talking. His condescendingness is palpable, he is good at what he does–having you start to dread your current position. A desire for more morphs in the heavy rise of your chest. You want more status, more power, to be considered beyond your position so you wouldn’t have to bow to the likes of him or act as his entertainment.

“It’s such a shame, right? Not many people call me up for interviews nowadays. I can’t seem to figure out why…”

He doesn’t look at you, rather ponders on the questions–equally demanding and mischievous, innocent enough so when cherubic eyes shift to yours, you are compelled to answer.

“Why do you think that is?”

Your mouth closes on its own as you take him in, leather pants and dress coats, choker adorning his neck, caressed by the tips of his hair. Such a presence is the first to ask.

It startles you, since you were not paid for your opinions and they didn’t weigh much either. Despite being displayed on television, you had little influence over those in higher positions. To know your supervisors are choking on the chains this man tugs on for the moment as they roll your little strings between the creases in their fingers makes you bold.

“I think… they don’t know where to start with you,” you say, voice barely passing a whisper. Seeing how he doesn’t stop you, a part of you pushes you further, the taste of disobedience lingering on the tip of your tongue and frustrations coming out through its flavour. “It scares them that they don’t know how to handle you.”

“And you do?” he challenges, getting out of his seat in slow movements. The balance acquired through your distance is thrown off and it leaves you more vulnerable as his weight settles in your personal space.“Or do you need more practice? You can ask your questions here too.”

You’re pulled towards him with how his voice deepens and he plays with its inflexions. You’ve heard these in his concerts, how he dips into growling tones and tastes the ending syllables. Your eyes, captured by the metal resting on his collarbones switch to meet his, and so he switches to the gentleness of the whisper again. “I’ll sit pretty for you while you ask. But I can only promise that if we’re here.”

“There’s no camera here though,” you state, lost in the eye contact, lost in how your throat constricts when you watch how his mouth curves.

“What reason do I have to misbehave then?”

He is toying with you, mischief now clear in how he quirks his brow and smirks, the line of professionalism being pulled by its threads, and your heart thumps to the bass of his voice. The threat of a clock skims by since your heartbeat no longer follows its normal course, running erratically–over what, you don’t know. The disobedience through your interaction flares up and directs itself towards him, and it builds in your chest, top too tight for the heavy breaths your taking.

“How about me? What reason do I have to bother?” you throw, careless to how your words drown the established boundaries. You have no sense of repercussions. You wonder what he’s going to do next.

His lips purse as his eyes drift down before a chuckle leaves him, breathy sound meeting a restless tongue, as he runs it over his lip. Pause, break, exhale. Steps, composure, lungs–“You’re right. Who am I to demand this from you?”

“I’ve been getting too comfortable. I take from others like they do to me,” he says it with a nonchalance which almost tricks you into thinking it’s a fact. “It’s not your responsibility to give into a brat like me, mm?”

The way he’s coming close to you, head tilted so his soft breath falls upon your cheek, instead of asking, it’s rather tempting you. You had a responsibility to keep your eye on him, you had plenty others to ensure a smooth flow, to avoid being overwhelmed on air where your slip would be replayed again and again. Giving into him, however–it was a voluntary action. He was merely suggesting to proceed.

You slowly shake your head, indications forgotten but still rooted deep within you, regrets sinking in at your impulsivity. You should’ve been more careful, not get caught up in his presence since the stakes have already risen beyond your influence. So why are you still yearning to push further?

Always attentive and attuned, V seems to sense your hesitation, as he takes a step back. You can’t discern between lines of arrogance and satisfaction on his face with the ease he may do it to you–reading into the conflict on your face. The contrast between the impersonality of his stage name and his interaction with you, how he asked for privacy upon sight, how he came to you… Who were you speaking to? The man, or a character?

His baritone keeps you alert, yet there’s a tint of safety to it, of the privacy you’ve been given since the beginning. And once again gentle syllables surround and silence your doubts.

“There’s no reason to get involved. For you, I’ll behave.” He extends a hand for you to shake, and you take a moment to grasp his hand, to soak in how the long fingers engulf your own. “If you promise to do it slower.”

You look up to him in question, but his voice doesn’t waver.

“My name…” he trails off as his thumb swipes across from your palm to yours, “You should say it like you want me. That’s how it gets the charm.”

He winks and pulls away, teasing yet ever the unassuming in the way he claims the public’s attention and bites into it. You follow after him on set, mentally preparing for what’s to come when he plops on the couch, legs crossed and gaze ready to claim every inch of the gold in your veins. The cameras are set in front of you, on your left and right and above, though the most careful eye you want to catch is his.

“Welcome back to Late Night Blues!” you grin as the framework zooms out, catching more of the background and bringing light to the couch your guest was leaning on.“Now that we’ve covered the latest pop-sensation news, for our last segment, we’ll sit down with popular singing figure V and look back on his latest album–Chaos and Disorder.”

You ensure your voice slows down at the mention of his name. Your confidence returns as you spot how he further relaxes into his pose, thighs spread and elbows resting by his sides. He’s watching you with his head tilted, lashes fluttering as you continue your introduction. “Chaos and Disorder, the sixth album of his career and the fourth to be attributed to V has sold no less than four million copies, three months after its release. This is a huge step from the latest album, which neared a million in eight months and saw an additional five-month hiatus.” He nods at your mention of past achievements, brow rising to tease. “How does it feel to have such a reception not even half a decade into your career?”

V pauses, chest rising with the deliberate breath he’s taking and the joviality on his features melts in the slightest under the heat of your question. “Looking at the pictures and flashbacks over the years, it’s…it’s a little surreal, not gonna lie. I mean, my songs are received well, I’ve established my style and I have a clear direction of where I want to go from here. I’m not scared to experiment–I’m doing what I was born to do and I get paid for it, does it get better than that?”

You laugh, and it’s laced with genuineness once you catch his confident expression. “Sounds like the dream life. Are you any closer to it, or has anything changed with your most recent release?”

“Well, not much has changed–I’m keeping it like it’s been. I’m constantly evolving, trying to look on my whole being and reflect on what I want to do better for the next time.”

“It’s rare for a musician to be praised by media and be so loved by fans throughout the years. There have been other acts to approach the same subjects as you do in your music, but it’s a rare instance to get such a wave of support, especially as you continued on with your new stage name.” You can sense the waves of truth through your question’s blinds, your own curiosity having you lean in more–the effect of his presence is an internalized fact.

The industry in itself always seeks for profit, engagement and shock value, and the ways of achieving it are rarely held in moral qualms. Yet, despite its nature, it pushes against acts promoting too much deviation from the norms, though along with his arrival, the aesthetic gained more popularity. The tabloids like him a little too much and they exploit him with the same controlled vigour, praise every line he sings and every line of skin the leather doesn’t cover. It should have eaten him, should have manipulated his essence and disturbed the covalence of his atoms till this moment–if only he wouldn’t fight against it.

“I’m happy they like me for now, they–they’re very passionate. Instrumental does half my job though, if they keep praising me and my voice it’s gonna get to my head.” He chuckles, shaking his head as if he takes his time to bring the thought back onto the surface.“What are we gonna do when my pride gets too big for my body, when I start to think I really am special?”

“It could become a thing they’ll love you for,” you say as you shrug, slight pout crossing your features, and he nods in acknowledgement at your posture. Your shoulders are high, propelled by the reminder of your ability to stay in character after your backstage conversation. “The interest in going against the norms in different domains has even been documented by your fans through polaroids of their creations. They’re even mimicking your pose, and the choice seems to be popular–what made you take the step from your real name to this? Does it have a relation to the peace symbol?”

“Mm, so many questions…” he ponders, eyebrows furrowing yet there is no trace of malice in his words. “Peace is not a common theme in my songs though. I don’t know if it’s a good example, but it’s a nice juxtaposition, using such a symbol to say ‘fuck you’ to whatever you’re given, whether it’s on air or not.” He makes sure to match the emphasis with a grin which widens till it’s all teeth, glints of mischief reflecting as he strums the chords of permission with his words. He’s probably satisfied with your cracked composure when he sees you taking a deep breath at his cursing, already picturing your director’s face at his disrespect–and the fine about to follow.

You remember his last hiatus, how they milked his name until they ran out of news and ways to market his style. No new club appearances or ads, no encounter with the media that would soil his image, no proof to adhere to the rumours about his notorious behind the scenes life, followed by the silence that came in February. The layer of quietness shredded to pieces as the explosion of his last album ripped into the general public. A break again, no words to the media, until your interview which was losing track the more he spoke, the more he ripped into you too.

It must be natural for him to misbehave, to strive for a tight grip on the attention he’s given, and he’s working it however he wants to. Even as the brattiness he used to display is making itself visible in tight-lipped smiles and head tilts, it doesn’t hold much of a bite. Innocence sits pretty on his cheekbones and runs through a body that’s chiselled and polished from every angle–and his voice, his speech patterns never disappoint either. You’d let him talk as he pleases if this was any other situation, but you’re much too aware of the eyes following you, the neutral figures behind the scenes who don’t watch–they scrutinize.

“So yeah, feels good that guys like me are the backbone of our genre right now and I get the opportunity to tear the house down while still having people openly supporting my message,” he adds in response to your silence, and you suppose he means it as comfort.

Your eyes switch between him, the camera and the dark backstage background, fidgeting in your seat to process the rest of the lines you lost as his answer came. The loss of control has you vulnerable, and your muscles lock into themselves, constant pressure leaving your hands rooted on the cards. The idea of forgoing them entertains the rotten part of your conscience, and you choose to ignore the bullet points laid in the middle, jumping instead to the next section.

“With such a broad range of tracks with influences in R&B and funk, it’s hard to classify your music in one genre. You’re constantly experimenting with new sounds and vocals, is there any space left for reflecting yourself or who you want to be in your lyrics?” Despite being sudden, the transitions you use to fill the gap sound natural to your ears, and the thread of your story is steady, leading up to the more pressing questions assigned–that’s until it splits.

“I don’t know about that, you’ll have to tell me.” He shifts from his position, crossing his legs and redirecting his attention to you. The distance between you does not shift–it’s the implications which seep through his casual tone that make it so intimidating. “You know me well–you did your homework, right?”

The balance sways too much and ends up bending to his corner, down to its foundation. He is too relaxed, too confident, while you are too scared to breathe. You now understand why he accepted the interview instead of turning it down like he has done with those he received in the last months. You’re confident in your belief, yet his tone sets off a range of possibilities running through your head regarding what he might continue with. None of them are clear to discern between, but they can somehow prepare you for his next hit.

“Those of you in the media assume you know me best, no? I could play any tune and I’m sure one of you can spot what’s made up and what’s really me,” he tells with the same calamity and inflections from the sphere of truth, which would make one believe and comply. “You wouldn’t waste your time writing all those articles if you didn’t.”

“Are you thinking about if you were to play something for us?” You’re treading on thin ice, but he is nonchalant even as he is confronted with your question, though the glint in his eye says otherwise.

He’s caught on.

“Yeah, ‘course…if I were to play. Fine, I’ll play something for you.” Faster than you’d expect, he picks up the same acoustic guitar at his feet before settling it in his lap. “Any preference? Anything that you love?”

“I…I Rock, Therefore I am,” you say, and you’re surprised at how stable your voice comes out. Your choice could never reach his level of boldness and neither could it reach your previous one, but it has risen since you have started. You brought to light a track which is essential to him and his message, while still coming back to the album in question. You’re doing anything you can to give continuity to your interview, to constrain his deviation and criticism even though it doesn’t have to do with you, and it is more than transparent.

“Mmm, that’s a good one.” He nods, licking his lips as he pats the guitar in a similar rhythm. “I could accompany you, since nobody’s gonna focus on me with you here. Would you like to sing?”

You pause, looking at him with wide eyes. “But…but I’m not a singer.”

“Neither am I,” and the way he challenges you as he’s beaming sets your loins on fire.

“I–I don’t know what to do. I’m sitting with such a presence, and he’s the one telling me to sing,” you stutter as nervous laughter bubbles in your throat. The thought is so ridiculous you are even admitting to vulnerability, certain that he is toying with you again. You stare at him, bottom lip caught between your teeth as the hint of a smile plays on his own and gods, he is beautiful. All delicate features and sharp corners, tight grips and careful fingers, who could say no to him?

You shake your head, overwhelmed tears glossing over your eyes, structures tinted by admiration disbelief shaping your confession: “You’re killing me.”

“That’s the idea.” He chuckles, brightening up, and the creases near his eyes deepen as he urges you on. “Give me a little, come on.”

The melody starts, and the temptation to get lost in it thrums under your skin, sinking part of your doubts in a muted place. As of now, he is commanding your limitations, and his demand is too innocent to further cause you trouble. Previous instructions made you approach him with such hesitation, told you to comply with his wishes and not press him too much about them. But what were you supposed to do when he was telling you to take the spotlight from him in a set put together to serve an opposite purpose?

In a soft murmur, you begin the first verse after the chorus, foot tapping the floor cautiously as you fixate on him–waiting for his reaction.

“There we go. Let it out, sugar.” He continues strumming, bobbing his head to as you end the verse before you’re tongue-twisting your words as you near a faster part. “Good, good–this is way more fun than those stupid photoshoots.”

You giggle into your hand, beyond embarrassed at what you did, so much that it drowns your sense of the current reality. What comes next is allowed without much thinking. “How did you end up there?”

“My manager wanted the extra promo and hey, money is money.” He shrugs. “I need something to fall back on in case this whole singing thing ends up failing me. Might have to work a little on my body for photo shoots, but I think I have the face for it. What about you?”

From your peripheral vision, you see the main cameraman raise his hand, fingers splayed out and signalling the five-minute warning, and any intention to answer dies in your throat. The lightheartedness shared between the two of you vanishes without any trace and the previous pressure lays over the back of your head and bends your vertebras bit by bit.

You peek at the script, checking on what you already knew. Sure, you enjoy listening to him, he has cooperated for a majority of your time together, he’s answering your questions–just not in the way you anticipated. He starts off with your lead, yet he turns it around just as fast, reminding you of the rhythm and bass in his songs, the crescendo that he builds and drops at his own will.

One part of the flashcard you’re holding threatens to rip, you realise as your grip tightens more and more and the paper holds no real barrier against pain. The tips of your nails dig into your palm and the foundation for the smile you have built shatters the more you realise you could never reach a balance. None of it made sense with your current situation.

Pleasing the directors meant filled-out grins that were unmovable, thoughts already printed and the cover of undivided attention as you rehearse what you’re told. You had no real basis on your guesses of what pleasing V meant, but it came clear that he didn’t sit well with rehearsed ideas by how he eyes your mouth. More time is ticking away, counted with the beats of red in the camera lights. It’s ironic how before even considering him for an interview, you’ve pushed for more freedom in your interaction, and now that it came to you without meaning to, it forces you to reconsider your position. Your stomach sinks the more your grin lifts.

And at once, it drops. You nod to yourself, almost frantic, and you have no conscience of disturbing your hairstyle or the golden pins in your hair. You’re hyper-aware of everything that’s keeping parts of you in place, and instead of building composure, this time they have you hesitant and self-conscious. Even the way your heel sinks into the floor has your balance off–there’s nothing natural about how you’re sitting, back straight and chest pushed out. The imposing status which came with performing these acts leaves you bit by bit, and you sink with the weight in his stare. He’s expecting more.

You recall your next lines, you are supposed to ask him about future collaborations, you’re supposed to ask about him feeling threatened by rising stars, but the transition sounds wrong to your ears. Who out there is doing things like him? Who has a more distinct identity, who sits on top of the balance between brattiness and maturity? He would never feel threatened. You can’t find it in yourself to believe, so with the utmost care, you move your shaky hands from your lap and put the script down, ignoring the anxiety which flares up in your gut.

What about you?

“Of course you do,” you breathe out. “It would be a pity though, seeing how well you’re doing now.”

“Hey, I’m talking about you too. That’s a face you want to capture, I’m sure the audience agrees.”

His compliment stirs up the same simmering warmth, but you remain impassive, your goal now becoming clear in your mind. “My influence is nowhere near yours, I won't have a lot to give up. You're sharing a lot with this album, expressing your wishes and reprimanding current society. Is the title connected to your vision, to what you'd like to see as a future for us?”

“Partially? Chaos and disorder, fame and surrender…those are things you have to experience for yourself before daring to speak out. They’re ideals, fulfillments–well, in a sense.” His candour sets a new spiral of hope within you, glazed with uncertainty–you feel you should stop hoping as if you know him. These feelings would soon vanish, you recognise, but now they are your main influence, and all you feel a sense of is hurt at how easy you are for him.“When you want to reach any of these, you give too much of yourself, and there’s always the chance to feel empty once you did. And it's...it's one of those things you're wishing but you're also scared of.”

You don’t know him, you don’t–

“Did you have those thoughts when you released your first songs? Speaking from experience?” you ask as if you’re testing the syllables for the first time.“Your style changed over the course of the albums, even your instrumental, the–the sounds refer to different emotions…”

It is his turn to remain quiet, to gaze at you like he depends on you to give more so he has the courage to answer. His eagerness slips from him like sand and it pours on your fingertips, and you wish to pry further into the space he let you open.

“Did anything… did the inspiration arise from your lifestyle?”

“My lifestyle?” he grimaces. He grips his sheer shirt, pulling it to cover his sternum. “What do you mean?”

“Talking about your first release, Stigma. The feelings of resentment and not being worthy made your audience empathize and relate to it, a–”

“Did you?” He’s focused on you, any hint of the teasing he has been playing with gone. Confident demeanours evaporate, and you’re met with an image you’re seeing for the first time–he doesn’t match the image of a notorious rockstar, he looks like the song’s writer awaiting your verdict.

Stigma, such a personal piece, released as a studio version in his early twenties. The melody you listened to until the pieces of glass in his chest grew into yours and brought conflicting emotions, desires of forgiveness. The ode missing any rights to say sorry, for abandoning and being unable to protect, which is too far from the man in front of you. The one who a spotless image and has no care in the world about who he touches. If he was closer, you’d tell him all about it, explain in your best terms how it touched you. You’d further consider the possibility that he hasn’t changed much from the man he was then, emanating the same warmth. You’d soften your gaze and let your mouth fall open the way it should without time stopping cold.

Instead of pinning you with his stare, you imagine he’d smile and mirror your expression. He wouldn’t make your sphere this small, like he wants to take from you and only for himself. He’s not downplaying his intensity, almost pleading with you to answer, like it was a moment shared between the two of you and nothing else, like he needed your answer. He doesn’t budge. He waits and wants.

“What do you need forgiveness for?”

And when you’re too scared to give, he still speaks.

You don't want to break yourself apart from this moment, content with the tension and the constriction in your chest as it is allowing you to see bits of him not yet explored. Your silence makes you feel you went too far to keep him close, built the same hope to him, as your willingness to tell him about it scatters. There's not enough time to explore his true depth, no time for you to open up and bloom as he must have liked. Two fingers up serve as a reminder that your conversation is nearing its end, and you're hyper-aware of it, lips rubbing against each other and pulling bits of lipstick off their creases.

“It's a lot... a lot of responsibilities that I've neglected,” you say because you can't find it in yourself to leave him empty and he carefully follows your trail. “Do you think it’s a responsibility now? That you’re the face of a genre right now, are you pressured to put out songs that deliver strong messages?”

What you wished to avoid on your part manifests upon his, as his mouth opens in recognition and his body falls back on its ordinary, relaxed position, at the same distance it was in the beginning.

“Responsibility? It sure doesn’t feel like one. Freedom and responsibility–they’re not tied together. I have no sense to be a role model, but if the public takes my actions, my lyrics and makes them into something freeing, then all props to them. That doesn’t have to do with me personally.”

“What should we expect for this year? Is promotion going to continue with no televised appearances or are we looking at another possible hiatus?”

“You'll have to wait and see, but I…I wouldn’t call it a hiatus. I’m never far enough from music to say I’m taking a break from it. I’m still gonna sing, I’m still gonna write.” He looks away from the cameras, head leaning on his hand–“I just leave it for me sometimes.”

The last finger up rushes you to the written ending, gazing for one last time at V, but your previous excitement is replaced by something more demure whose rise blossoms from underneath your vocal cords.

“What a way to end this. Thank you to V for joining us here today, and thank you to everyone else at home watching. Make sure to tune in next Friday for more in-depth looks at our latest stars! Have a good night!”

He stares at you, forgetting any acknowledgement of your mention, and while you get up to bow, he remains seated. You don't stay and question, choosing to have this moment for yourself, to collect your breath before you walk backstage. As you reach your corner, you squeeze your eyes shut, wasting no time to take your blazer off and hug your shoulders, letting your head rest in that space. It doesn't erase the past hour in its entirety, but it silences your thoughts, and you're grateful for the moment of silence you get as the rest of the crew wraps up for the day.

The volume rises with your guest's voice again and you turn around to follow the sound, “PD! What a great choice you’ve made with this one!”

He says his congratulations as he grasps the man's hand and shakes it once, impassive. “Thank you for having me on your show, I look forward to working with you in the future,” His attention switches to you as he notices you staring back, and he makes a point to pat your director's shoulder before dropping it entirely, “If you’ll allow me, I’d like to congratulate our interviewer too. Don't want to keep all of you for too much.”

The same hand hovers over the small of your back as you lead him back to your vanity, and it only grips when you're under the safety of the lights and his body covers you from the rest of the scene.

“Before more pleasantries, I want to know whose idea was it to ask those questions? And don't lie to me.” His gaze is intense, yet his demeanour screams calm to the point where even his demand sounds gentle. “Was it you?”

“I…well…the writers are the ones responsible for my speech, but I was curious too,” you say as your eyes linger on the ground. “You gave me a hard time. I had to ask things of my own since none of the ones from before were working.”

He nods as if he takes it all in, and you switch back to him, wanting to grasp his expressions, understand his actions better.

“Curious too, huh...Did I satisfy?” He quirks an eyebrow at you, tongue prodding at his cheek. “Or would you like to know more?”

“I...of course I want to.”

“I’d like you to have dinner with me. Have more with me.” He’s testing your reaction more, next words slow and languid as they roll off his tongue, “Would you?”

“Are you… are y–…”

“If you’ll take me.”

You don’t register what comes first, your nod or how he grins before gripping your hands and bringing them to his lips, quick, grateful. No longer are you surprised at how your heart jumps, you find the feeling pleasing–after all, it's better not to worry about it. There are much more putrid thoughts eating at you.

You never know what to expect from him, and you guess it's one of the things that incited you the most about him. It left space for you to make your assumptions, to twist the narrative in any way you liked about his stare, his intentions. His contribution, the invitation he extended rose hopes for you to give new meanings to his actions and mould yourself from those pointers in the time you spent away.

You talked to him for such a short time, yet it was enough for you to wonder. You wondered why and where he would take you, if he would choose places which suited his fine taste or matched the raw core of his character. If he wanted his girls like he guided his grip, a little caught up and tight around the edges or loose and ready to move with his flow. If he left enough space for you to squeeze deeper within the cracks you have scratched across his surface.

An address and a time is all that has been given to you, and you should be more nervous, since you were left in obscurity for the most part of this meeting, but all you feel is a thrill that moves along your spine and makes your chest rise up and your smile widen. You had no qualms yet regarding what he needed from you, and you found that in moments where your face wasn't grazing his line of vision he wasn't too keen on revealing more. It did not bother you, since you’ve seen him more in passing, a word here, a promise and a thankful smile there. He mentioned how he would love for you to meet him soon since he'll be leaving town in the next two weeks to perform at the Arts Center. You can't blame him for his decisions, you really can't, because he needed the privacy, and hadn’t it been for his clear sincerity, the depth of his words would have risen and vanished like smoke later when you lost sight of him.

It was an interaction which needed you to be close, needed you to speak it into the existence in the rhythm of his exhales, or else the string would be broken and the linearity of him opening up further would lose its path. The invitation was there, no shame or misunderstandings: he knew he was the lock and you the key, and he dared for nothing else than you opening him up yourself.

That's how you chose to go for now, sure and easy to open, had everything loose on you as opposed to the constriction you felt in your first interaction, part from the clothing and part from him. You smooth over the material of your two piece as you step out of the taxi and into the lobby of a four-star hotel with the same uncertainty you felt upon approaching him; only that this time it diminishes when you catch sight of the same metallic choker, sat over the dip between his exposed collarbones.

Taehyung raises from his seat when he spots you, a tint of a smirk gracing his lips when his gaze follows the curve of your hip and falls into the nets of your stockings.

“I’ll have to apologise,” he muses as his hand hovers over your waist in the same way he did before, fingers brushing against it only serving to make you more alert. “A rundown bar full of beer and rowdy bikers is more my style, but all of them were closed. I hope this will do.”

“Disappointing indeed. I didn't take you for a man with such elegant tastes,” you say, yet your tone is teasing–he had all the ground to represent any style, class or level of luxury there was. And by the fine silk that gave peeks to the planes of his chest and his smooth stomach, there was no doubt he loved to be surrounded by the same delicacy that his voice gave into the world.

“But I'm standing with you, aren't I?” He slows his step as he leads you towards the elevator, pushing the button for the secluded area on the second floor. The gold of the chandeliers and dark of the night painted between the window frames accentuate the atmosphere, making his words sound all that more intimate. “And I still want to sit with you. I say I'd need a little taste for that.”

You cater to his wish with a smile and he lets you pick where the two of you will sit. The place is crowded for this hour, and you find yourself at ease within–there are not many faces paying attention to you, most who do choose to watch are glued on V. On Taehyung. The Taehyung who left his leather in his closet for a shirt opened at the first two buttons. Each wrist tinks with the gold he wears around it, complementary with the fine chain that starts at his cartilage and meets the diamond stud on his earlobe. The colours only serve to complement his tan skin, a portrait of holy aura which shifts its focal point when he takes a glass of champagne from the tray and returns in your proximity.

“Is this usual, or did you need a change of scenery for now?” Now. The moment where you're closer to him than before, where you sit on stools next to each other and wonder out loud, part confirmation, part you wanting to know more about him, to hear him talk and never stop.

“How much is this for another interview?” he retorts, fingers rubbing the glass surface of the counter as he leans his head into his left hand, eyes on you. Mischief suits him well and paints a splitting image of a poster problem child for all the right reasons. You lick your lips as you watch him, pondering on the right answer when he changes the game, plays you as he likes, “Then how much do you want to know me?”

“I...I told you already. I was curious too,” you pout, chest constricting for the same right reasons and this time you can't control it. You had an eagerness about you which you didn't explore till now, didn't know yourself how much it aches when you let it free and you’re met with the wrong reaction. Sure, you were young and starry-eyed and willing to be swayed, a dream for the producers out there–but too much eagerness also showed inexperience you wished to avoid.“I could ask the same about you.”

The pure that Taehyung saw in you comes and goes, and he hopes he can see it clear enough to cut through and sink his teeth into it. This game that you're playing, the bits of vulnerability that you give him, they all serve to tease him, to pull him in more. He knows how the rules work and does not mind bending to them as long as it meant more of you. He's looking to prompt you, get the things you want from him out of you, so he lets out a soft 'oh?' and waits for your reaction, waits for you to continue.

“You...you didn't invite me here for nothing,” you whisper, fiddling with your thumbs as you lean in more as if you're telling him a secret he sees as endearing. “You want to find something out as well.”

“And if I do?” He chuckles, tongue toying with the edge of his canine, making a show of the syllables that make his mouth gape. “Will you be nice and tell me what I need?”

Your career path has led you into being taught what to say, and your mind doesn't grasp all the meanings in his message and the speed at which he turns things around. Without a clear string, it's too easy to get lost in him, to say yes baby, I'll do what you ask. He doesn’t try much though, and you suppose it’s a trait quintessential to him since you haven’t seen anyone behave similarly in recent years.

Because of him starting at your current age, the four years of experience place him ahead of you in the search for answers. The bits and pieces you found about his private life, you discovered he’s never tried to flaunt his experience to anyone–but in the league he is in, you imagine he is not lead by his impulses with the ease that you are.

A fight for control from two different sides of you, that's what it is, in which imitating his game is too dangerous but letting him win is overwhelming to your senses.

“Words,” he reminds with sweetness pouring out with every hit of tongue on the roof of his mouth.

One beat, then another.

“I made the time,” is what he says when you remain quiet, “I wanted this. All I ask is for you to talk to me.”

“What would you like then?” You tiptoe on a high edge, one which gives him far more reign than you have wished for.

“I'll let you ask your questions, answer the best I can,” he suggests, the steps pleasant to your ears. “Then I'll ask mine. I only want your honesty. Can you do that for me?”

The intensity of his gaze, laced pretty in carefulness has your shyness taking over and your head dropping down to stare at how you continue to play with your hands that are grazed by his long fingers. Other times, his touch served to bring your focus back to him, but now you concentrate on the opportunity he offered as his fingertips linger on your skin.

“What made you take that step?” you make eye-contact when you're sure your voice doesn't waver. “You had a stable career, not the best. But how could you know breaking off from your label was the best option? You had enough there.”

Your breath leaves you at once in a mirror gesture of his, since you're aware you dipped into the curiosity of others before you, the one he was asked at his past interview. The one where he made sure the media didn't toy with his boundaries, answers echoing deep within the man who overstepped his status. V stared at him with a fire untamed, questioned about the other's worth to talk to him in such a way, and the same fire is reflecting against you, only that it burns in both his hazy eyes and your belly.

“That's a little personal,” he comments, and his fingers squeeze your own. “Are you sure it's worth it?”

You know you made a bold move, maybe even too bold for you, but the impulse does not care about the implication. The rough edges and insistence to never cater brought you to him, and in his way, he was an inspiration, a dream forbidden for ordinary people like you. In his way, he ended up laying a foundation where you’re free to live through him as you wish–and you needed to further your fantasy.

“I followed their ways,” he begins with a calamity uncharacteristic to how he's looking at you right now. “And I'm not saying that they're bad, but in time I realized my way was the best way. I got to that point where I was comfortable with them telling me what to do and what to write because I had a promise it'll be well.”

“And it was.”

“But it wasn't what I wanted to do. On stage, what you see, that's part of me. I didn't want to sell it, to act and be a character, and I...” His stare is blank as he ponders over his thoughts before the corners of his mouth rise on arches, and the core of his composure changes, lifted to his usual spirits once again. “What you see is what you get.”

It's a surprise to you how it hurts. Your past assumptions match his description and with the discovery, you feel like too much of a familiar for him, a place you were never supposed to reach in any daydream of yours. You couldn't have anticipated anything close to it, for him to speak to you with such candour, but, unlike you, boldness has always been a trait of his. Chains pull at your heart's desire and deep down you wish for him to stop, but the temptation, the stakes, they're all too high, and the possibility of him telling the truth, you can't–

You can't stop now.

You lean in, and your hand slithers under his so that yours is now half-covered by gentle fingers. “We saw a different side of you before that. We saw Taehyung, the music you made before, the vulnerability–”

He hisses at the mention of his real name but doesn't press it further, too caught up in you. “Those are me too. But it's not what the public wishes to see until way later. Why shouldn't I have fun then? I'm not stupid, I–”

“You didn't seem to care about it when you started out,” you interrupt, a habit unheard of from your part coming to light because of images of the man you admired, the one on stage and the one in front of you not matching.

“I didn't know a thing when I started out. I didn't care about implications or labels or processes, I wanted to sing. They sure were quick to tell what they thought about that.” Patience hasn't been a nice cloth for him, and now it wears him down, trying to hold down the revolt simmering under his skin. His tone remains gentle, but you pick up on how he is abstaining from saying more.

“I didn't know I'd make music on demand and that I'd be either ogled or treated like I'm loitering. The label didn't anticipate for me to be the teenage girl's dream or some rebellion the tabloids get to write articles about.”

“But the attention you get...do you hate it?” You're aware of the superficiality of your questions, but you don't have enough experience or knowledge about him to add anything of value. You hope for him to continue.

“I don't. I like that my word has worth. I don't like that I had to compromise and give up songs with emotional value. I hate that I can't have an actual impact unless I act upon this part of my personality.”

“I don't understand.” The assumptions you made and narrative you pushed for yourself make it impossible to wrap your head around him telling you he wanted to continue the way you did. The route he's taken is plausible by itself, but with his attitude and his image in mind, with what he is presenting, you'd associate it with anyone else but him.

“What is so hard? They don't care about my emotions for now. No one made a career out of feelings.” The air he takes tastes bitter, and it's obvious by how it filters through his clenched teeth. “They'll be happy to see me in a scandal, b...break down a little, and I can't stand for it. Better to let it out early than have it be my downfall later.”

The single word sounds foreign to your ears in the situation where you allow for the both of you and no one else. They, he says, but you have a feeling it's half meant for you as well. You have no time for offence, his guilt is your guilt–you spoke in plural too, when you were too scared to speak for your own person. When you wished to detach yourself from the situation, to take the blame and place it onto others, onto another evil which would minimize your own interest.

Thoughts of personal feelings mingling with those which said your curiosity rose from the media's obsession–just like the others. It makes the situation blurry. Maybe you were a copycat looking to get her entertainment, maybe your head was empty and you'd get your excitement from the exploitation of his emotions. Maybe you saw a distorted image of yourself in him, one who instead of wondering and searching attempted to act and not let herself be pushed around.

Your job, your status, your inferiority in media–none of those had to do with anything you were asking right now. You craved to know for yourself, and the realisation sets another ache in your chest. What made it such a thrill that at the slightest loss of composure you would do anything to keep pushing once the barriers were lost?

For what did you need to always go deeper, and why did it satisfy you so much, pushing his buttons further until he snapped?

“You can't know if that's true.”

“Humour me, how many people would have listened then? Two? Thirty at best?” He shrugs, reminiscing of his teasing aura, yet stiffness is palpable in his movements. “I don't take directions from anyone in what I say or the person I am. Beyond that...”

He sighs and leans into his free hand, and the action further brings him in your line of vision.

“I'll be kind and say it's up to the audience.” The grin he gives resembles the mannerisms of the puppet he makes himself seem as it is pulled up against his will. “My job? I talk back, I sing, I make my money. That's all.”

The lines supposed to differentiate you from the mass of his supporters blur, since there was comfort in anonymity, in making statements which cannot be traced back to you. Before you can ponder more over your decision, you find yourself speaking.

“No, that's not what the audience asks for. They want a model for those with attitude, a reason to justify their actions. They can watch you, grow with you and if you succeed, they'll think they're the ones who made it.”

“I'm not looking for that.”

“It's not about what you–” are looking for, but it dies on your lips. There is pain and truth in how the public doesn't care, each selfish in their own purposes, as it was what all of you were made of. Dreaming and chasing an industry that benefits off exploiting your being, for the illusion of spotlight. To assure you will not be forgotten.

That’s what you craved as well, why you are pursuing your career and why for the first months, your satisfaction with your job has been held constant. Seeds of doubt blossomed here and there, yet none of them grew enough to have you fully aware–until him. You felt it with him, what it means for the light to be on too long, for the things you meant to be private to burn under the watchful eye of hundreds.

You can’t say how much you have left, but with how he has been holding on, he still has a say in it.

“Guess I've been lucky then, huh?” In this position, luck was subjective. With the minor role you have, your actions will never be justified the same or thought of as your original intentions. For him, whether he plays nice or not, there will always be reasons to defend and despise him for, no matter if he’ll ever do it again. “Living with the idea that I get to decide what matters. That's not the case.”

His reaction is not entirely triggered by you, but also the obsession regarding ownership of his work, with releasing music on his terms and at the time he felt like it. Topics of money were mentioned, but you're sure there was no issue with money from his side, and your theory is validated by the lack of articles about royalty scandals in the last two years. Irony seeps through the cracks whose foundation crumbles more and more.

“You might be right. Did they tell you to say this for confirmation?”

“Nobody’s telling me what to do,” you huff in indignation before your body takes a more mellow stance, “It’s just… It’s how it works. Always about them.”

“You think you know what this is about?” he prompts, and panic settles in your gut, mixing with rotten curiosity when you spot how his jaw ticks.

Chaos and disorder, fame and surrender, you need to experience those for yourself before you speak out.

“I–I learned a thing or two.” Of course, it's nowhere near what he learned, but you have your pride, you have to fight to reach his level. Fame is the only thing that's missing from your list, as living in the sphere of disorder comes with the erratic hours of your job. It’s not about having similar experiences though, it’s about drowning another boundary, one for which you're purposefully provoking him.

“Is it enough for you to talk to me like that?” He furrows his brows as he speaks, and you'd take it for a display of superiority if it weren't for the desperate edge in his tone, one which tells you he is demanding the respect he deserves. “I don't get it. What do you want to see in me?”

He doesn't let you answer when he sees you hesitating, prompted by your lack of self-assurance, by how you can't own up to the things you ask.

“Are you not the same?” He continues, but instead of the rebellion he accustomed you to, he sounds defeated. “You're also in the public eye. Did you think it would be different for you? There you have it, what happens when you grow.”

Throat stuck with thorns, you struggle to get the words out. “I'll never be like you. Our fields, our personalities... they're different. There's no one to back me up if I don't move as they like.”

No one. Your face falls when you realise your mistake, realise how you denied it in front of him. He had the status to afford to mess with you and leave you the consequences to sink into. With time taken to reflect, you don't see him as the shadow of a persona. You're sure about who he is now, the one who challenged you and provided you with the safety to get out of the norms he kept breaking.

“Then why ask in the first place? Why go off track? I got the script beforehand, the dog got on his knees for me to be on his show,” he retorts, careless at how anger and disbelief pour out of his mouth with the loss of composure. He looks lost as he switches from you and returns, he is searching your eyes for an explanation. “Was it some sort of plan? I knew everything you were gonna ask, I thought there would be no more surprises, but–”

“But?” you press, newfound desperation making its way through you and pulling you towards Taehyung. V. You can't comprehend the single letter anymore, don't care about whatever peace symbol or the relations, part of your past which brought you here is erased. You care for now, for him, for Taehyung.

Taehyung. His name is so pretty. Taehyung, Taehyung, Taehyung.

“Why?”

“Because I–because they–” You babble, too lost into chasing more of him, elbow sliding on the counter as you lean closer–until you're centimetres away from his face. Your thoughts turn frantic when you see his head down and hear nothing else from him, and you're reminded of the same nostalgia you saw backstage the first time–how more than ever you want to soothe it. You're scared to touch him, to offend or unnerve or do anything which would bring him back to you when you don't have the right words to mend his ache.

There's so much to say, how they never planned to make such an effort, how it was you and your curiosity and no rehearsed plan could have saved you since he was too much for you to handle. You gulp, throat dry and incapable of more when you hear his shaky exhale. It pains your heart and your breath when you force yourself to whisper, yet all you manage is a whimper when he looks up, hazy eyes staying open for one last moment before his forehead softly falls against your own,

and your world shuts.

His shaky hand reaches out, but it never ends up touching you. The shadow of his figure falls upon your exposed skin–you see it when you look down to hold onto the last bit of control you still had.  The brightness of your dress deepens into a much sultrier colour where his shadow brushes it, and he gasps when he sees the same connection. He's lost, and that leaves only innocence on his features, innocence that screams his need for guidance and begs your palm to settle on his neck. You crave for nothing more than to steady him, though all your touch does is bring him closer. With his lips hovering over your own, your heart breaks and falls into the pit of your stomach where it melts into heat. Why, why, why.

“Why me? Why are you not leaving me alone?”

He is too much, too close for you to think of anything else and it weighs on your conscience, manifests as a visceral press on everything that made you whole. The syllables sound broken, whispered in a breath you swallow as you lean in more, thumb stinging with the sensitivity of the touch when it brushes against his bottom lip. He has given it to you. Whatever state of mind or information you needed from him, he has given it up in place of being raw and open for you despite your ties with a world looking to break him apart. It's hard for you to pin what he expects from you now, if he expects pride to swell in your chest instead of the ache building in your core. You can't think beyond this moment, you can't care about anything else.

You want to kiss him. You want it so bad.

“I have no responsibility towards anyone, I don't owe anyone anything. Just like you had no responsibility to deal with my tantrums and how you still have no responsibility to give into me.” His lips tremble, and you catch the movement, fixed on nothing else but his open mouth and the laboured breaths he's taking. “You'll only do it if you want to. Why is it so hard to understand,”

“I'm sorry,” and you hope the broken words can convey their meaning. The distance cuts through you with the realisation of how far you are from attempting to seal it with a kiss.“You don't seem to take yourself that seriously, maybe it's why everyone assumed–”

“But that's what I'm doing. I am looking for someone that can take me seriously.”

You're locked in the sensation, locked up with the anticipation which prolongs the moment and you wait for the trigger to be pulled. He presses on, but the effect never comes.

"Oh, in that case, I–I'm..." you mumble, lost when your expectations aren't met but Taehyung silences any apologies you had when you feel his hands on you.

He cups your cheek with the utmost care, and it's unclear whether he wants to bring you back to earth or to bring you closer so that his mouth swallows the breaths you've been taking over his bitten lips. His hand glides up and down, uncertain in its movements as it descends to your neck, one step away from covering it whole. The delicacy of his gestures has you chasing after the warmth, head following after the motions of his palm, bending how he likes, easy.

“You risked so much. No one knew how he was going to react.” He takes you back to his previous question, the reason why he sought you. He's talking about the PD, the man in his forties who let no ground for the younger staff to express themselves, had no consideration for his employees when the cameras were off unless he had something to gain from it. Of course, he was not the only one with authority over you, but he is the one whose characteristics you can list in the eight months you have worked under him. You recalling how revolted you were in the first weeks–complaining to your mother endlessly before swearing you will not be rendered by it. If you weren't part of the situation, if that scene was not part of your current reality, you suppose you would react the same, but now the thoughts leave you voided of any emotion.

Taehyung is right, you are aware, but you cannot process it.

“Who would you have done this for? A friend?” He smiles for the show, eyes closed as his lip drags across your jaw, shy. “A lover?”

You let get lost in the sensation, let him play you as he wishes in hopes to avoid his question. His lips tease the curve of your jaw, but he never takes it further: he holds you in place as you search for an escape to cling to so you won't say it–how you wouldn't have done it for anyone who wasn't him.

“Your honesty. That was all I asked.” He sounds like he's begging, tampering with his tone and letting you see him for what he is to weaken your resistance. A fighter who refuses to die off gently. “That's my question. Indulge me a little, won’t you sugar?”

The plea shakes your entire being, and only when he moves to say it into your ear you can breathe again. You're brought back to a thread of reality he pulls at, though his presence and aroma still linger. You can feel your surroundings, and they still mess with your senses when you notice the gold all around you, how your thighs are resting between his spread ones. “I'd do it for anyone who needed it.”

Taehyung laughs in your ear, and the vibrations run shivers down your spine. “Quite the interesting answer. After what I've told you, I didn't think there was any way left for you to surprise me. Didn't take you for a liar.”

With how wrecked you feel, body walking the line between tight and boneless, you can't understand how he can be so sharp and articulate. How much experience does he really have with strings to bring a new star to light, alternating between your loss of control to his vulnerability which goes away on whims. You're taken aback by how his voice is drained of emotion and replaced with a sensuality that serves to tempt you. It comes naturally to him, and so you suppose that is why it’s easy to forget, because with him experience every moment in the present. You see him as a new person with each reply.

“I'll lead you back if you don't want this. I shouldn't have to beg,” he whispers and you jolt, too shocked at him suggesting leaving as he rests in your space, touching and breathing on you.

“I can’t,” you admit, weak, “I don’t want to humiliate myself.”

“How is it humiliating? You did not feel a thing when you asked me those questions. You had a lot to say before,” he teases with his tint of condescending before setting on gentle. “We can talk another time. We can do it when you’re ready.”

He gets up and waits for you, and the graveness sinks your stomach to the ground. You walk the same pace, steps slow and deliberate, and you fix your gaze on the floor to avoid looking at him, as if you'd announce your defeat, your weakness if you were the first to do so. Every move bringing you closer to the point of departure gives more heaviness to your legs and alarms ring in your head in the rhythm of your heartbeat. You need to say something, you need to stay–

“It's still a truth, no matter if you choose to believe it or not.”

He says nothing, smirking when he spots traits of him in your stance, in your words. “Pretty games for a pretty girl. Too bad I won’t get to play them.”

You press the elevator button, the indicator lighting up to signal the following descend from the tenth floor. Crossing your arms in indignation, you lean against the cream wall and in his personal space, looking at him from under your lashes. “You can’t say that, you’re hurting my pride.”

“Come on, I have no intention of doing that, I’m just trying to work you a little, get my entertainment. It gets tiring–kinda lonely after a while.” He is rambling, distracted by the change of position and how you seem to be pulled in his direction. He gulps, eyes wide at his own actions, as if he surprised himself by holding onto a mask that cannot stay any longer. In your mind, the meaning blurs. You can't make the difference between the two variants of his truth: if he is selling you the transparency or if it is a figment of your perception. Acknowledging how it might not be an act would only bring you back to where you were before, too scared to admit you’re wishing for it to be true.

“Is this why you want to hear this from me?” you urge, pulled towards him no matter the implication or how much you lie to yourself that you're not affected by it.

“Yeah. You don’t know how lonely it is. You don’t know how bad it is to be in need of a touch,” he smiles but it's full of need and bitterness, the heat of his exhale falling on your neck as he speaks into it. He's far too close for you not to notice every move, how your hairs rise as he noses along it.

“There’s all these people–” you protest, but instead of pulling away, you grip the hair that's touching the nape of his neck. You're not sure if you mean for an ode his audience, or a warning about the people around you whose interest you lost, but who could turn around any minute at the slightest sound.

“So? Are they going to touch me? Fuck me how I like it?” he demands, chest pressed against yours, and it's so rare to anything dirty spew out of his mouth. The effect is far more powerful, far more wrecking. Oh, how it bites. “What do they have to give to me?”

What do I have, you mean to say, but your thoughts are blurred by the groan he lets out as his lips seal over your own, hand pressing on the wall to steady himself as he presses into you more. His pace is frantic, hands gliding across your body and your rationality spreads all over the place till you have no sense of surroundings, till all you can register is his touch. The first sound is what gets to him, makes him push his knee between your thighs and spread them as his for the taking. You can't take it, impatient in your gestures as your splayed out fingers travel across his ribs, searching for more material to grip. Half-lidded eyes meet yours before falling on your jaw. His fingers reach to caress it for the briefest second, gentle hand pressing over of your throat as he sucks hard enough to bruise.

You can't explain it, how much you like him filling up your space, how much you like it that at every angle there's a piece of him on top of you. How he can't wait any longer to take from you, how he pins your wrist away as his other hand reaches and toys with the ends of your dress, lifting them so he can grip the fuller part of your thigh and wrap it around his own. Satisfaction floods your senses, since there’s no way around it anymore: you’re getting a side of the real him. The part of him who is reckless, who can't wait to rip the same hems apart so he can reach deeper, move your underwear to the side and make a mess out of you.

Despite the roughness, despite how he handles you in a way you can’t do anything about it, you still feel safe. But it's not enough right now, no, no. You crave to lose that sense as well, to get so lost you'll never find your way again. You crave his mark, yes, you want for him to soothe the desperation eating at your conscience with no regards, take the pure part of you and wash it away with traces of his tongue. You’re about to voice it over his mouth when the sound of the elevator opening brings you back to earth, and you hold onto him to find a balance for your weak legs.

His hands cup your cheeks in support, like he fights to pull away but he can’t, heavy breathing falling over your lips–only that this time he bites at them and soothes the sting with another kiss.

“I'm not some tragic story. All that they say about me, my lifestyle and the shit I thought you were going to ask–those are true as well.” He grins, no regards to the people who pass by you. “Not even a little bit curious about those?”

Your body lights up at the words, familiar with the rumours of the things they do after performing, though it holds no fear or judgement. You couldn't say no to him right now, not after he kissed you, the dark red of your lip around his mouth a clear reminder of your act. A reminder that you’d love for your stain to reach deeper and take parts of him yet unknown.

Too lost in the possibility, you choose not to answer and pull him inside the elevator, hands brushing the satin as they glide down his back till they reach his hip bones. You don't think, pressing him against you once again as your hips drag against each other. He nods against your neck, a wrecked chuckle passing him as your breaths become weaker, needier.

“Fine. Eyes on me and I’ll show you.” With that, he distances from you and turns to press the button for the penthouse, eyes flaring with promises of more than you could handle.

The doors to the elevator open, the foreign space they hid making you shift closer to Taehyung, whose hand now remains tight around your waist. Throughout your interactions, you've made yourself one between the tints of gold, shone and felt burned under the bright lights–each colour scheme bringing the best version of yourself for everyone to see. This time, with no shame, dark surrounds you and overshadows your presence. With the exception of the ambient neutrality of the walls, all around you can find leather and recklessness, people who drink in motion with the bass, images you’ve taken as universal truth before meeting him.

The penthouse covers the same surface as the private area, might be even bigger at a deeper glance, only that the silk on tables and the big windows are replaced by accent walls and liquor stains on wood. You can't name most of the bottles you see, much less the faces, but you catch sight of the signs of luxury, how the drinks are adorned in coloured glass and cursive writing. Seems like that's the place Taehyung left his leather at, as everyone has a quintessential part from its element, from pants to chokers, to jackets that sit pretty over bare skin. At its core, the scenery is modern, but it keeps tints of the classics, with an imposing chandelier being the only source of light, the bulbs inside covered in translucent reds. Pairs of eyes turn to you as they see you, careful to move with him at once.

A shadow of scarlet falls upon the centre, where most of the group sits, where most of them turned to watch the both of you, giving meaningful glances to Taehyung and studying your figure, from the crossed model on your stockings to the slight rip in your dress. He grins when the attention lingers on him, pulled by his string, and he turns to you with mock curiosity gleaming in his eyes. “Looks like anything you've imagined?”

“I haven't got to that yet,” you confess, thoughts of Taehyung's presence alone overwhelming you. “Is this the place–the place where...?”

You haven't considered this aspect of his life in its entirety, too caught up in untangling the wires lost from the start of his career and up to the point of now. As you see him, he is in control of every aspect of his identity, making active choices of where and when he'll show his vulnerability–it's hard to imagine him losing that control without his will like the ones here seem to do. Your mind swims in all the possibilities, mixing the scenery with what you have heard and what you have experienced with him. His inhibitions were limited regardless, though their level has yet to be discovered.

The picture snaps on the newspapers you read were blurry and inaccurate but captured the same essence: he hung around places where someone could mingle, make relations, drink, hold no inhibition when it's about feeling each other, no matter the person, no matter the number. Places where he had the opportunity to deviate from whatever it was imposed from his lifestyle as a songwriter and a chance to experience the fantasy people associated with his kind. As the clarity of the area is faded by incense, opulence drowns your remaining senses. You feel out of it, and oh, how you'd shame this if it was anyone else but him.

Him, you think, for him it's not enough. He deserves more than that.

Taehyung ponders over his answer, slight pout shaping his mouth, confirming all your thoughts. He does deserve more. “For now.” He leads you towards the corner where the appetizers are, parallel to the line of instruments and sound equipment. Ever so careful, he avoids the centre where people stare and nod at him. “They needed a place to bring all the instruments till we move to the next city.”

“I'm sure this is the case,” you state without much conscience, and there would be more sarcasm laced in your tone if it weren't for your disbelief and closeness to Taehyung, which has you reconsidering the roots of this place. “What do you do here?”

His brows raise, free hand gesturing towards the groups. “You're free to do as you like.”

“I'll stay with you” you blurt, feeling your cheeks heat up at how fast you made your choice. “I mean, of course. Is this the rule for everyone?”

“Well, who am I to tell them what to do? Mm?”

“What if they ask you to?” The question has you holding your breath as you watch his gaze darkening, the intensity from moments ago blazing in his eyes. He reaches out to cup your face, thumb massaging your lip and your lids are already dropping when he presses deeper–moments before a hand slaps upon his shoulder.

“You said you wouldn't be here tonight,” the man says as Taehyung cuts to him, confusion morphing into acknowledgement. “We didn't expect to see you so soon.”

His tone is snarky, more scolding than playful but you suppose it is a casualty since Taehyung smiles at him. The latter mentions how he was not planning to do so, and his eyes travel to you by instinct, making the stranger watching with intent, doll eyes sharp as they study you. Taehyung introduces him as Yoongi, mentioning how he plays the keys and works for his previous label, the one deciding to stay while Taehyung left.The dark-haired man nods at you and disappointment spreads under your sternum at how he doesn't pull you closer to introduce yourself like you've seen around here. Like you've seen the two women in cut-out shirts do, shake hands and whisper to each other before embracing. Last you've seen them giggling, tangled in each other as you passed the fuller part of the crowd. Thoughts of sticking out too much overshadow past desires, and anxiety climbs up your spine once you make eye-contact with Yoongi again.

“We worked on a couple instrumentals together. And this is–”

His talk is interrupted by another presence, and if Taehyung had the looks and emanated the thrill of the rockstar, the man in front of you had it pouring out of every pore. While Taehyung is a subtle controlling aura, asking for what he wants through tints of games and teasing, the other man's smirk tells you he had no qualms about being upfront about his needs. His body tells the same by the open shirt halfway down his chest and the way his hands lay his pockets, how he stands with his legs spread. Even with the blur around, you can make out shades of messy pink hair and coloured drops of sweat which have dripped down his forehead. He looks like the kind of wanderer you'd lose yourself in with no mind, one who seems like he doesn't care for hiding, skin glistening and pairs of hoops hanging from the cartilages. Crystals adorn the translucent silk brushing his chest, sticking to bits of skin where sweat has sunk in. It didn't take a lot to figure out that if Taehyung was the core of this place, this man was a split image of its surface.

“Jimin, good to meet you.” His aura shifts and you're marvelled at how young and pure he does look when the grin he wears emanates warmth and self-assurance in the way Taehyung's does. “The one responsible for all of this.”

You suppress the reflex to bow your head as you introduce yourself, aware that there was no room for respect and formality in a place like this. He seems to lose the last tints of shame as you take him in, and you presume he wouldn't mind more arrangements with you. Jimin, in all his careless glory, is a pretty face the tabloids wouldn't mind. A face you wouldn't mind seeing every night from your TV screen as you breathed out the worries of the day. While fine taste suited Taehyung the best, Jimin's luxury was written in the same cursive next to the signature of his name.

“Say, how did you meet V?” Jimin throws, focused on you, and Taehyung's hand on you splays out, a change of position which lets you know that he is listening, more carefully than you'd like to consider. Heat is still simmering under your skin as a reminder of his touch he is not keen on letting you forget, back arching when his hand moves to your stomach over your belly button. It's not fair, he can't demand answers from you when Taehyung pulls you in like this and you feel his solid body on yours.

You can't think when he touches you like that, with warmth burning at your side and your mind focusing on nothing but how hard it is to bury the urges of following the trail of his mouth. Pressure lays upon your shoulders but it sinks in your stomach and manifests in how you pulse from it. It's too much, the attention that makes you feel small under their gazes, makes you steel yourself to hold eye-contact with the man in front of you. “I was with him in my last interview.”

Jimin's face lights up in recognition, and a wicked curiosity stains the previous warmth of his smile. His gaze is lost in the red marks on your throat before switching back to your eyes, not bothering to hide his interest. “The bold one, huh? Are you like this always or is my Taehyungie over here making you act like that?”

“Jimin.” What comes off your date's lips is a warning, but he fights against his lips curling. “You're too much.”

Fake innocence settles over the man's features as he tilts his head at you two, peering at how Taehyung's holding you. “What, you can't blame me for wanting to know. I'm sure she had her questions too.” With another glimpse at Taehyung, Jimin abandons the focus, taking a step closer towards you. “Did he satisfy? It's hard to get him to talk when he insists so much on being an ass.”

Another one and he'd be in your personal space, body pressed to your front.

“He's a little impatient, isn't he?” Jimin chuckles, but the connotations are open enough to include you in his game. “I didn't expect him to bring you here so soon.”

“She wanted to know.” Taehyung shrugs and says nothing else.

“Did she? In that case, you can ask me all about it.”

Although Jimin himself resembled the protagonist of any fantasy you’ve had arisen from the crescendo of the moonlight, had the boldness you so much enjoyed in his approach, you couldn’t comply. Your presence there was owed to Taehyung. Your interest laid on discovering parts of him yet unknown, untangle webs from such a complex character that details beyond him overwhelm you–aiming to get to know Jimin would be too soon, too much.

“I asked him,” you begin, words forming with difficulty. “I do want it...from him.”

Jimin purses his lips and nods with you. “Such a sweetheart, and so eager to ask...him. Who gave you the reign for it?”

The question makes your blood boil and your walls rise in defense, possibilities of forgoing the thoughts you've had of him running rampant. A part of you feels that Jimin's approach comes from how protective he needs to be, of both the collective and Taehyung. You're sure exclusivity must be kept, and the stamp comes with being a judge of character, an ability to look beyond and into the transparency of outsider intentions. With the way you're clinging to Taehyung, you can't understand how Jimin might think you're here for any other reason. More than pissing you off, it is upsetting you.

“What did you do to deserve it?”

You unlatch from Taehyung in need of something to prove, hoping that Jimin can see through you without your use of words or the need to scream for it. Despite how fresh into the scene you are, you can figure out that once you have to say what you mean, the words lose their value.

“Or what will you do, hmm?” Your breathing is heavy as Jimin zones into your lips. The tension lays a thick web in your stomach that's grows all that more intricate when he arches an eyebrow at you, provoking you with the same vigour. Anger and craving tighten against each other like vines, you wish to prove him wrong so bad it fades the lines of morality you built. Teeth clenched, you take the remaining step towards him and break the barrier as you fist his shirt before turning around and roughly pulling Taehyung into you.

You feel restless, impatient in your own skin as you cup his face and slam your lips against his, and he lets out a choked moan as presses against you, grip tight as he sits you on the table. The sound of glass shattering is deafening to your ears before you sink underwater, muffled by his breath. Your tongue licks at his bottom lip and he opens his mouth further and lets you lead as you fall back, dragging him with you and spreading your legs further to accommodate him better.

There is a rush you get at the fact you know Jimin is watching, the image of his expression stirring you on further and making you spread your legs as much as you could to bring Taehyung closer in his rut against you and prove something to the man. Your thigh knocks against Jimin's hip on purpose, and his fingers fit themselves into the dark nets, and oh, how you like it when he pulls on them.

“Take a shot with me.” Jimin offers to Taehyung as big hands drift to pull your skirt down, until he could slip his fingers under your stomach. Taehyung struggles to break apart from you, the softness of your lips molding on his tempting him to forget anything about paying attention. You whimper against them, rotten satisfaction burning your loins as you feel his hands falter and how the rhythm breaks, and you can't stop thinking it's all you. You're making him feel like this.

“I’m not drinking,” Taehyung states as he lifts your thigh to press deeper into you, rough drag of his cock against your clit.

“From me. He'd drink from you though.” You break apart at the affirmation and look at Taehyung to confirm, mouth gaping at how wild his eyes are, though there is no sign of denial. Confused, you grab a cup and wait for Jimin to fill it, turning back only when the whiskey nears the tip of the glass. He doesn't budge.

“Not like this,” Jimin tutted, tipping the glass so the liquid falls on your exposed skin, over your low piece and hipbones, and before you can express your shock you feel Taehyung pulling down your skirt, drops dipping into your belly and gliding further down. He falls to his knees, grabbing your hips and pulling you close to his mouth as his tongue cleans it all up, lips sucking on the skin there, so close and yet nowhere near enough.

“I could show you more,” is uttered through reddened lips before big eyes plead for your confirmation.

“Here?” you ask when he takes a step back and fumbles to take the belt off. Molten pleasure runs through your core at the idea and it lights up ablaze when you're met with his smirk.

“Where else? I'm sure that they don't mind.” He looks like he wants to say more, but something is stopping him. “Come here,” he motions as takes his belt off.

You take deliberate steps until your thighs brush against his, hands rising to splayed over them. There’s a hesitation on your part, used to him making the first move–some could say it’s shame burning in your belly at the faces watching, distant memories that remain in dark corners of your mind as the star twirls in his toybox. Taehyung stares at you with his head tilted and intensity sharpening his features no sooner than you feel the leather of his belt snaking over your shoulders till it reaches the back of your neck. He pulls on it teasingly, bringing your face to his. “I said closer.”

He leaves a fleeting kiss on your lips, enough to have your mouth chasing after his.

“Usually you're so well-mannered, why is it so hard to get you to listen baby? I've been patient with you,” Taehyung pouts as his hand reaches between your legs.“I think I deserve an apology.”

“I'm sorry,” you mumble as you throw your arms around his neck, face attempting to hide there as his finger massages over your underwear before deciding against it. He dives in, sliding his fingers in and circling your bare clit. Your mouth gapes at the sensation and at just how easy it would be for him to go further.

“Who are you speaking to?”

“I'm sorry, Taehyung.”

“That’s right, say that again,” he commands, but his voice is breathy. “Say my name again and I’ll give you what you want.”

“Why are you teasing her like that,” Jimin, whose presence you have forgotten about makes your breath hitch up in your throat. “Can't you see how bad she needs you?”

Your unfocused gaze falls on him, leaned against the same table Taehyung kissed you on with Yoongi not too far apart. You’re aware of how Jimin’s eyes devour you, taking in the image of your loss of control, but you’re not shy. You’re grateful for him, for the interruption, believing that his provoke Taehyung into hurrying up. And hurry up he does, unbuttoning his shirt, giving you all the space to roam over bare skin and over the band of his boxers.

Based on first impressions alone, Jimin is slim and chiseled, straight line defining his abdomen. He is a stark difference from bodies you have seen before, and trying to get used to it grows the surprise you have when you get a peek at Taehyung, who is solid in all the right ways and feels warm under your hand. A tiny sound from the back of your throat leaves you when you squeeze his shoulder and splay your palm on his chest, finding how his heartbeat matches yours.

“And just how am I teasing?” Taehyung smirks, pushing one finger into you, making you clutch the collar of his shirt. “Hear that? That’s what he believes.”

His free hand drifts higher till it reaches the belt still resting on your neck, gripping it to have his mouth brushing over yours as he takes his time spreading you open and curling them. “Am I so mean to tease such a pretty baby when she’s already this gone for me?”

You can’t say anything, too focused on trying to push back against his fingers so you’re getting more of him. Your head shakes in an attempt to soothe him before his tongue licks into your mouth and laces with yours, hints of champagne still on his tongue. When he parts, he takes the belt in his grasp and raises it until it reaches eye-level, the hand slick with you remaining on your mouth. “If I were teasing, I’d say this.”

You let your eyes close as the leather wraps around your eyes, presses on your lashes. You're more vulnerable like this, more easy to be watched without a shame in the world but you can't find will to care about it, too busy running your mind with possibilities of what Taehyung will do. The action heightens your other senses, hyper-aware of every move happening around you, so it comes as a no surprise when you feel Taehyung leading you backwards, pushing until your back makes contact with the table.

“I’d say you know me.” It is not a hypothesis, it is a statement, one that has been tested throughout your evenings and which gave you an illusion of hope. “I’d ask you to tell me where I'm touching and I'll let you cum.”

You don’t grasp the full meaning of his words until another hand lays softly upon your shoulder and your back arches from the touch. “Yes, yes–” you breathe out, pushing your chest up to slide the touch lower, to dismiss the softness in place of something bolder. The blazer you are wearing is pulled down and the skin to skin contact intensifies as you’re left with your two piece before you’re pulled into another body, bold teeth grazing the zipper of your top. Your back is left exposed, top still hanging by the straps on your shoulders, and no further move is made. It leaves you feeling that much more vulnerable.

Footsteps are heard to your right and the grip on the belt is released until another one takes Taehyung’s place. You can’t make accurate guess, but you follow the motion of his fingers, know that the large palm below your breast and brushing over your rib belongs to him before he moves again. Others are too soft, respectful almost, and your train of thought is confirmed when lithe fingers dip into the curve of your waist. It’s all too much, trying to keep up with his trail when the touches mix and hands intertwine and lay upon the other on your body until his fingers fuck into you again, making you moan into his mouth.

“Taehyungie, look at how much she likes it.” Jimin says into your hair, marvelled and Taehyung’s pace increases, a third finger teasing at you.

You’re getting closer to your orgasm, voice left free and inhibitions gone as you whine and whimper at the smallest touch, at every motion inside of you. Your reasoning pours from your mind right between your thighs, yet no matter the moans and how wrecked you feel, you still can’t prevent your mouth from speaking, questions left unanswered still gnawing at you. “Do you do this with a lot of people?”

“I do,” he admits freely, breathing into your neck, and you hold no judgement. He seems to press himself deeper into you as he anticipates your next question. “Most of the time with however many Jimin wants. You should see him, he's very demanding.”

His reply births another meaning to his words and spreads heat to your core, burning the remaining sanity you had so hard you jolt, clenching around his fingers. Taehyung, surrounded by more bodies. Oh.

“In the future, you could join us if you ask. Jimin doesn't seem too upset about it.”

“Aren't you happy? You'll have to ask.” Jimin teases, and he seems to hold it over your head, yet all his remarks do is make you roll your hips harder into Taehyung.

“That’s all it would take to make me do so much.” Taehyung pauses to laugh, a little wicked and breathless and right as you want him. “Scream your name? I’ll scream for you. I'll do it if you want it.”

He scissors his fingers inside of you to support his claim, that you throw your head back, sense of reality alternating the balance. Jimin holds you still, darkness muting everything else surrounding you.

“Ask me.” Taehyung demands, adding a third finger, and the knot in your stomach tightens until the friction has the fibers breaking the foundation apart. “Ask.”

“Make me cum,” you whisper, defeated. “Please make me cum.”

At your plea, he press on your clit, touch firm and tight and you unravel, thighs shaking as Taehyung mutters little praises. Before you can catch your breath, you don’t register how he keeps going until you feel how sensitive you are, body trembling against him but he is relentless, tone sweet and apologetic. “I’m sorry baby, you’ll need it.”

You hiss at the overstimulation, unable to register what he is talking about until head of his cock pushing against your sore clit and slides further, length reaching your stomach. You gasp as he repeats the motion, your thighs closing around him.

A higher, sultrier voice speaks and tangles you deeper into Taehyung’s nets. “Look at him, such a wicked man, and you'd let him touch you? Let him stretch you open? My, my.”

“Jimin's right. You'd let me do whatever I wanted, right?" he taunts as he pushes in inch by inch, stretching you beyond what you'd normally take. He's so big. "What a little deviant.”

Your moans are swallowed once he thrusts into you messily, all senses of morality gone. Yes, you would do whatever he asked, you realise as he sets a rhythm, slow and reaching depths that haven’t been stained before. Your morality ends in downfall as your head falls back, dizzy. In your haze you can’t think of anything else, only Taehyung, Taehyung, Taehyung, how let him take and take no matter who is watching and what might come after.

“Do you even care about the consequences?” Jimin's condescending tone makes its way to you, the world outside is so muted you hear it right by your ear. You whine, ashamed and needy, because you don't and you wouldn't even consider them if it meant getting your pleasure. Jimin takes it as a cue to push you further. “Oh, you don't, you're so close, you want it so bad, yeah? Poor baby.”

“Ah, fuck–please.” You can’t help begging when plump lips kiss behind your ear and the grip loosens, belt falling off your eyes, and you can’t understand how he’s in front of you, inside of you, moaning because of you. It’s not possible that you have such an effect because how far up he is, how unreal he is.

Taehyung gazes at you with unspoken promises and primal need to claim, and you want to scream how you’re his for the night, and you’d remain that way for other times, titles which dance to the night in fear of what the light brings spinning in your head.

As much as he toys with the idea of sharing, he is possessive, you can sense it in the way he grips you harder than the others, how he groans and keeps you at a closeness where your breaths mingle. You can sense it in how his body shields yours despite the setting and how he asked for you in the open and under scrutiny.

It turns out you get a sick pleasure from it, from the low pitch he can't shake off, familiar yet contrasting the playful aura resting within the shape of a classy surface. From what you have noticed, Taehyung as a man and in regards to his own self must not allow anything far away from the untouchable. Like this, he looks disheveled, messy from his sticky hair to his clothes and down to the way he is handling you.

“Look how well you're taking it, you're so good for me, shit.” He mouths at your neck and grips your chin before tilting it down, fixing your eyes on the motion of cock sliding in and out of you. “Gonna let me be a man, mm? Watch me stretch you out?”

You can’t nod, the breaths you’re taking and nothing else overwhelming you as you get closer, knot building so soon and with no regards to your feelings. Your hand travels and reaches into your thighs, opens you further for him as he fucks harder, faster, until your toes are curling in your satin heels.

“Oh–fuck. Too much.” you cry out when coming down from your orgasm you still feel him rutting into you.

“I know baby, I do–” he gasps, pace turning frantic as he pulls you to his chest, little whimpers leaving you at his insistence. You can't make out the ties between how weak his voice is and how hard he fucks into you, chasing his release. “Just a little more.”

He uses the last bits of his energy thrusting in deep, slow drags of his cock into you, a primal growl makes its way from his chest before pulling out of you.

His cock pulses on your stomach as he cums, and your fingers follow its path, bringing them to your mouth for a taste. The substance stains your lips as you dip it in, craving to swallow though you can't bring yourself to do it. An urge deep within tells you to await his request, tying you to him, “Open up.” You obey, letting him see his cum in your mouth, how your tongue swipes across it and Taehyung coos, reaching to caress your jaw. “Want more of me? Close.”

He drags his finger down your neck, throat bobbing under his thumb as you swallow. “Very good, such a sweet girl.”

You find comfort on the feel of sturdy wood, still pulsing from sensitivity and need, Taehyung's embrace holding your threads to reality. The bass is thumping along with the beat of your heart, but you can't hear anything else for now, senses surrounded by a thick fog that clears up only when you feel another hand turning your jaw. Jimin drags the wet tissue across your mouth, careful not to miss on the corners and you stare at his plump lips, remember how wild his eyes were as he dug the same fingers into his thigh, pushing himself not to touch you any further.

Your fingers circle his wrist, guiding his soft gaze to yours. You pucker your lips and he grants your wish, covering them in a gentle caress, almost shy. His touch barely there, treating you with such tenderness it has you whimper at the contrast between his words and his kiss.

“I…” Taehyung watches you with expectations gleaming in his eyes as you push your hips up. He stills them and bites his lips as Jimin taunts him further, poster troublemaker for all the right reasons.

Taehyung has no reason to hide. He doesn’t play with the honesty of those who lie behind closed doors but rather toys with it in a secret meant for your eyes, with the way he throws his head back and bends you the way his body demands. Up close, his half-lidded gaze is unfocused yet untamed, and it moves towards an end only he knows. He grips all that is inanimate with the tightness of a viper’s fangs and reserves the delicacy of a lover for when he touches you, fingers trailing from the ends of your mouth to your jaw and through your hair as he fucks deeper into you. More often than not, the actions make you wonder how it would feel if the nailbeds stained on his jawbone would remain as yours.

“How is it?” he asks through the haze you’re in, messy hair and scarlet around his mouth, expression far overstepping the sinner title. “Feeling sated?”

It must be natural for him to misbehave, to strive for a tight grip on the attention he’s given, and he’s working it however he wants to. Even as the brattiness he used to display is making itself visible in full smiles and head tilts, it doesn’t hold much of a bite. Innocence sits pretty on his cheekbones and runs through his tongue, through your body that’s covered by his marks and feels coarse from every angle.

What is about to follow makes sense to you, because it is a matter of when, and one of power. A power you surrender as pleasure pushes at you until it stings, until you shake your head and shake off any past thought you have wished to bring into this.

“More,” you say and spreads you further and claims his space till there’s no part of you he hasn’t covered, no root left untouched. He nods and teases you in the way it makes your head swim as buries himself within you to the core, taking and taking until his lips are over yours again, bitten and about to taint the tears on your cheeks.

A moan tears out of him as he praises you more, voice rough with effort, and he seems to have the same reaction you do as he hears himself talk. The words reflect the effect, however unassuming they might be, and with the heavy breaths of a clear desire supporting his every claim, it’s possible even for atheists to catch their glimpse of God.

a/n: for my sweethearts who might have caught it, taehyung’s character is partially inspired by prince and his songs, and the interview scene was inspired by his interview with maria bartiromo in 2004! scream to me about him please. chaos and disorder wasn’t much of a happy album for prince, but i thought the title was cool. i killed 2 of my 3 braincells writing this and slaved away for ur consideration ok byye

[musicallisto]

Hey hope you're doing good! Could I get a Harry Potter (marauders and golden era) ship please? I’m a (straight) 5’7 girl, ENTP, Slytherin and studying English literature, I want to be a writer! I have curly, blonde, shoulder length hair with hazel eyes. I’m very social and can talk to pretty much anyone, and hate being alone. I'm quite hedonistic and stand up for what I believe in, as well as my friends! I love standing out in my fashion, I usually wear long floral dresses, flares, blazers :))

I Ship You With...

Sirius Black (Marauders era)

I imagine that at first, and in some twist of irony of life, Regulus would be the one to have a crush on you, not Sirius. You’re in his school year, in his house, he sees you practically in every class, and you’re so gracious and confident, starting up conversations with everyone like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Every time he gets home, the habitual silence in the Black centuries-old manor is Regulus talking about your prowesses with stars in his eyes. It’s not like Sirius talks much with him, but he’s bound to hear it as some point, and your portrait piques his interest. You don’t sound like such a terrible Slytherin. In fact, you sound like an tringuing person... someone he inevitably grows to love, just through his brother’s eyes.

He resolves to woo you, whatever the cost. But he’s seen how much of a loser James is when he’s trying to court Lily, so he obviously won’t go down that route. He’s much more gentle, much less pushy, even if he’s still sure of his charm. He’s Sirius Black, after all. He won’t get cocky with you - he’s too afraid that could drive you away -, but he’s sure you’re bound to give in someday.

And giving in you do, but it takes much longer than Sirius had anticipated. It’s a cat and mouse game that plays out where you’re both too proud to admit you lost, but can feel yourselves slowly slipping in the pits of your doom: you’re both crashing into each other, and it hits you at the most random times. When he first sees you in a new dress, long flowy around your ankles, the cut perfectly complimenting your body, the warm flowers echoing your radiant smile, he’s taken aback for a second, and he realizes that he loves you so much that any other girl in that dress wouldn’t even catch his attention. And when he’s concentrating on studying for an upcoming DADA test, for the first time something that genuinely interests him, you notice how unsuspectingly cute he is when he gets totally immersed in something he loves. You can’t help wishing he would give you that much care. When you’re unashamedly, carelessly being yourselves, it’s hard for the other to keep the self-assured facade. So you give in, at the same time, in a parallel urge, meeting the other halfway.

He often tells you how you should’ve been a Gryffindor. You know it’s a running joke from the way his eyes crinkle when he says that and readies his fingers for a tickle match, but you can’t help wondering if he means that. If he sees a little bit of himself in you as well, a little bit of what he could have been. You just answer that you’re not a Gryffindor, not because the hat said you weren’t, but because you feel in your bones that you are a Slytherin, and that you choose every day to be a Slytherin. A true Slytherin, not like the perversion that runs along your classmates. If anything, it helps Sirius see that some arbitrary verdict given by a decrepit hat can never be a basis for his worth, or for anyone’s, for that matter.

You never knew about Regulus’s passing crush on you, but once you learn, you make sure he’s not bitter about the whole ordeal. Not that you would want to have dinner at the Blacks regularly, but you don’t want things to be awkward between the two of you. He’s not bitter, actually. He tried his hardest, really, but he can’t. He loves his brother too much, much more than he thought he loved you romantically, and he respects and appreciates you too much to lose himself to some disillusion.

Sirius Black (GT era)

Your life shattered in a single night. One second Sirius was playing the piano in the room next to yours, a calm yet somber melody, and the other he was gone through the door. He had heard before you did, he had stormed off before you did, blinded before you were. You knew instantly where he had gone. To Godric’s Hollow, destroyed already by some harmful hope that anything, anything at all could remain of his best friends, of his godson. You waited for him for one entire night. You had to find out the worst way possible - in the newspaper, brought at the first lights of dawn by a distracted owl. “Mass murder. Criminal. Sirius Black. Azkaban.”

No matter how much you tried to, some part of you couldn’t bring itself to move on, to think about anything other than your love in a cell for a crime you were certain he didn’t commit. When you became a writer in the following years, between pamphlets and poems dedicated to spread your message of persistence and rebellion - the Death Eaters are still out, the threat is still here, the Order of the Phoenix will not stand down -, your words would sometimes take the shape of a defense speech, a plea for your lover and his unjust case. You called on everyone who had known him to testify on his behalf. You pleaded the Ministry to issue a second trial, a fair trial, to use Veritaserum, to get him out of here.

Naturally, in such times, it was hard enough being a known Slytherin writer, let alone vouch in favor of a convicted criminal. The Black family were rotten to the core and had always been; it was no surprise that one of them would turn into a murderer, and anyone who associated with the likes of them were equally as rotten. And yet, you didn’t lose hope. One day, Sirius and you would be reunited. You were sure of it.

The first time you saw him, twelve years later, you were working on your next novel in the quiet of your bedroom, after receiving a check-up visit from Remus, the only one who had always, deep down, refused to believe the tale. A rustling in the leaves outside your front door caught your attention. Thinking it was a wounded animal, maybe a raccoon, you unlocked your door and took a few tentative steps outside. In the pitch black night, you could distinguish, clear as day, a familiar black dog. You held back a sob - you had been deceived so many times. But when he turned back, and he embraced you for long minutes, so emaciated and disheveled, you couldn’t doubt anymore, and you let your tears flow.

The Order gets a breath of fresh air in its lungs when Sirius is back. You were two of its most prominent members, so his return and his innocence are a victory worth celebrating. A party is held with all of your friends at 12, Square Grimmaurd, where he’s in hiding now. As usual, you are both the life of the party. Twelve years in Azkaban couldn’t tear the wings of two social butterflies. But Sirius still saves a moment for you and only you, stepping out in the backyard, under a million stars, and extends a hand to you. “We have many dances to catch up on,” he smiles michievously, although you notice a glint of nostalgia in his eyes.

You slow dance under the stars all night long, your heart resting on his. A thousand hours could not make up for all you missed in that time, but it’s a great start.

(I hope you don’t mind that I paired you with the same character in both eras, but because I saw you with Sirius so well and also I love him, and because he’s a character in both eras, I thought I would make this the continuation of the first part.)

[chroniclackofselfpreservation]

Creatures of the Night

Chapter 11 - better by far to forget and smile

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AO3

Masterlist

(TW: injury, pain, graphic violence, unconsciousness, panic attacks)

(The title of the chapter comes from "Remember" by Christina Rossetti )

Patton blinked. He’d zoned out, though he couldn’t tell how long. Long enough his limbs felt stiff and weighed down—similar to waking up from a nap. The world hadn’t so much as twitched in the time he’d sat there reminiscing. Wakeby was stagnant as a reflecting pool, but just murky enough for him to forget that the outside world existed, that his past had even happened.

For a while, he’d worried about lying to everyone. To Dot… What if he couldn’t keep it up? What if they found out he wasn’t the happy-go-lucky guy everyone knew and loved? Those concerns hadn’t lasted. It had only been a façade for the first year or so.

After that, the repression seemed to catch on. He really believed he was as happy as he pretended to be. When he thought about his childhood, he only pictured one with Dot. It was a strange sort of dual-memory. He knew that he was adopted, sure, but it was easy to forget. He and Dot looked similar enough, and if he really wanted to, he could pretend she’d raised him his whole life.

Dot didn’t have many friends outside the nursing home, and the ones she did didn’t have good enough memories to wonder how she’d suddenly acquired a thirteen-year-old son. Patton lied and told people at school that he’d been homeschool up until now.

No one knew but him and his mom, even now. It didn’t seem like an important detail. He was happy now. That’s all that mattered.

The hard part came when his friends asked questions about his childhood, or wondered why they’d never seen a picture of him younger than when they’d first met. He’d have to thank Merri for his quick wit and talent for squirming out of difficult situations as easily as a fish through water… but then he was thinking about Merri, and that was an issue.

Patton looked down at his watch. It was half-past midnight. He’d been gone for nearly five hours. He hadn’t spent the whole time in the alley, of course—wandering absently around Wakeby for the better part of it, feeling twitchy and unsettled and sending polite smiles to those he passed that called greetings. He’d retreated to the alley to escape anymore similar encounters, but he hadn’t even realized…

Reaching behind himself, he pulled his phone out of his pocket. He’d set it to silent when he’d left the house. Five missed calls. The first from Roman, three more from Logan, and one final one from Virgil. Several more texts accompanied the missed calls, asking where he was and if he needed help.

Guilt rising in his throat like bile, Patton typed out a quick text.

I’m okay. On my way home now. Sorry for making you all worry.

He hit send and shoved the device into his pocket, still on silent. He’d deal with the collective worry-induced wrath of his friends once he was home.

                                                * * * * * * * * * *

Patton hadn’t gone three steps into the house when Logan came sprinting down the hall. His face was hard with worry and concern. Patton startled, memories and instincts of his old self still fresh in his mind. 

Logan stopped an appropriate distance away, but the movement was halting, like he’d restrained himself. 

“Are you… well?” he asked. 

“Um…” Patton’s voice wavered. He swallowed and glanced around. He hadn’t realized how close to the brink of tears he’d been, but he was so tired, there wasn’t much he could do about it at this point. 

“Yeah,” he said, his voice breaking pathetically. “I’m okay.” Tears spilled over and down his cheeks. His breath hitched in his chest. Logan’s expression grew panicked, and Patton didn’t blame him. He’d never lost it like this in front of any of them. 

“Patton, I don’t—oh, no. Can you—what do you need? Why is this so much easier with Vir—”

“It’s okay! I’m fine, you don’t have to do anything.” Patton said desperately, but he didn’t stop crying. Why couldn’t he pull himself together? His hands were all shaky and his breath came harder in his chest. He wished Dot were here. Patton wanted his mom, and he hated himself for it. Here he was, twenty-one years old, and still crying for his mother. 

“You are objectively not fine,  Patton. What can I do? What will help?” Logan said. He placed a hand on Patton’s shoulder, and that was it. He couldn’t resist anymore.

He fell against Logan’s chest, clutching his shirt in his fists and sobbing. Logan didn’t hesitate, wrapping him in his arms and resting his cheek against Patton’s hair. 

“What’s going on, Patton? Can you tell me what happened?” Logan asked softly, but it only made Patton cry harder. His life happened, that’s what. His whole life he’d been a failure, and even now he was failing at being the person he wished he was. 

Logan tightened the hug, like he was scared Patton would disappear if he let go. The pressure was nice, actually, and Patton found himself relaxing into it, the tension bleeding out of him.

Soon, he was reduced to a sniffling mess, feeling exhausted and raw and scraped completely hollow. He calmed down somewhat, his breathing slowing. 

Logan let him go, and Patton had to bite his tongue to keep from telling him not to. It felt so good to be held. To feel protected and safe. 

“Please refrain from wandering off like that again,” Logan said not unkindly, his eyes softening. “Or, at least, answer your phone and let us know that you are unharmed.” 

“Sorry, Lo.”

“It was a simple request for future incidents. You do not need to apologize.” Logan placed a steady hand on Patton’s shoulder and managed to convey just as much emotion into as any bone-crushing hug. 

He was suddenly reminded of his dreams. 

“Where’s Roman?” 

He waited a moment before answering. “Visiting his father.” 

“What?” Patton breathed. “Why?”

Logan shrugged, though Patton could tell he was far more concerned than he was letting on. “He said he was going to battle some of his demons. He should be fine.”

“Should be?” Patton wondered if that was what Roman had been so upset about today. 

“That was a poor choice of wording. He assured me that he would be fine, and I believe him.”

That’s a lie, Patton thought to himself, but didn’t call Logan out. If anyone could spot a lie, it was Patton. He did it enough, he ought to. Right?

“Okay,” he conceded. “What about Virgil? Is he… doing alright? Roman sort of told me what happened earlier, but…”

Logan ran his hands down his face, now unapologetically frustrated. “He went after Roman.”

“He just left? Should we go too? What if they need help?”

“I assure you,” Logan said wearily, “That our interference will only cause them strife. It would be better if we let them handle it on their own.” He said the words as if trying to convince himself of them. 

Patton wiped his face and took a breath. “Have you eaten anything?”

“What?”

“I left before I made dinner. Have you eaten anything?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Come help me make dinner,” Patton said, grabbing Logan’s hand and dragging him to the kitchen. Logan didn’t complain. 

It seemed they both needed distractions.

                                                * * * * * * * * * *

Roman sprinted through the dark forest, using his ears more than his eyes to keep tabs on where the giant demon was headed. His blood pounded in his ears and he unsheathed his dagger. 

Virgil was here. 

Virgil was here, and somehow Dorian knew him, and he was a cat. 

His mind had been racing with unanswered questions, but as soon as Dorian had struck, all unimportant things had left his mind. He’d gotten used to doing so after spending every night hunted. 

Except now, he wasn’t the one being hunted. Or even the hunter. He was the third party simply trying to keep his friend alive. But he was only human. He couldn’t hope to keep up with Dorian, especially on the ground. He could only hope that Virgil could outrun him long enough to survive. 

Fortunately, the cat—or Virgil—was zagging through the trees, and circled back towards Roman. His ears were so flat against his head they might as well not have been there, and his pupils were blown wide. He ran past him, only a few yards to the right. Roman crouched, silently calculating the distance, then lunged, tackling Dorian. 

The serpent was moving so fast, he kept rocketing forward when Roman crashed into him, only slightly sideways now, rolling a few times. Roman tried to grab hold of him, but his arms couldn’t reach all the way around. All the wind knocked out of his lungs as he rolled with the demon. Lights popped in his eyes when he hit a tree. 

Dorian didn’t stop for even a second. His scales ripped through Roman’s sleeves and cut his palms raw as he wriggled free, too distracted by his new prey to give Roman a second glance. Roman cried out, his chest, arms, and hands now stripped of the first few layers of skin, leaving them pink and bleeding and looking like he’d skidded bare-skinned across asphalt. He wished, now more than ever, he’d continued wearing Logan’s leather armor. 

At least he’d had the common sense—or paranoia—to wear the amulet.

Gritting his teeth through the pain, Roman got to his feet and kept running. They weren’t too far ahead.

Virgil veered suddenly to the right and scrambled up a tree. 

“Virgil, NO!” Roman bellowed, out of breath. Dorian may be slower in trees, but Virgil had effectively blocked himself in. Unless he wanted to climb down toward the giant snake-demon, he’d be too high up to jump down without hurting himself. 

Dorian let out an excited growl that sounded altogether not human in the worst way possible, and began winding up the trunk after Virgil. 

Grunting and willing his legs to keep running, Roman tightened his grip on his knife, sprinted toward the tree, and leaped. 

He flew through the air for only a second, bracing himself as he slammed into Dorian and clung for dear life to the slick, scaly body. 

Dorian either didn’t notice, or didn’t care. 

Ignoring the protest of nearly every part of his body, Roman desperately trying to keep his hold as Dorian wound higher and higher up the tree. 

“Dorian! Stop it! Stop this!” he barked, but he received no reply. Virgil wobbled as he began to reach branches that were too thin to support his weight. He looked around frantically. He’d have to go back down the tree to even reach the adjacent pine, let alone jump to the ground, and that meant getting closer to the giant fanged mouth. 

Cursing in a way his father would have belted him for, Roman squeezed the serpentine body with his legs to keep balance as he placed the tip of his dagger at the edge of a palm-sized diamond-shaped scale, and slammed his other fist against the hilt. The blade slid under the golden plating, and, nearly losing his balance as branches slapped his face, popped the scale clean off.

Before Dorian could react, Roman plunged the dagger deep into the newly-exposed flesh. Blood as black and hot as tar sprayed Roman’s arms and face, setting his open wounds ablaze with pain. 

Dorian howled in pain, but before he could so much as snap in Roman’s direction, he lost his grip. The blood made the scales slick, and Roman fell. He tried to turn, to catch himself, but didn’t react fast enough. His back collided with a branch as thick as his thigh. Bones crunched inside of him. Roman hit the ground, but he barely felt it, his mind white with pain. His head swam and he wheezed into the dirt, unable to breathe. 

Don’t let Virgil die, he told himself. Don’t do it. You’ll never forgive yourself.

He had to get the amulet off. Otherwise, he and Virgil were as good as dead. The thing was, the arm with the amulet was folded beneath him and growing numb. Roman was pretty sure he’d broken it. That and he couldn’t feel his legs. 

Virgil let out a heart wrenching yowl of helpless terror from up in the tree. 

Roman grit his teeth and threw his weight to the side over and over again until he flipped himself over onto his back. Moving quick with his one uninjured arm, he ripped the amulet from his arm. Cold, prickling magic surged through him. His legs spasmed and his nerves lit on fire. Roman gasped and nearly was sick when he felt his vertebrae pop back into place. His whole body itched unbearably.

Roman stared up at the canopy. He wouldn’t make it. The magic wouldn’t heal him fast enough to save Virgil. 

He could see the two of them high in the trees. 

Dorian was only seconds away. 

Virgil crouched as well as he could on the thin branch that dipped beneath his weight. 

Virgil leaped. 

He soared true, right toward the next tree. He was going to make it. 

Dorian’s pupils constricted paper thin. With his body still anchored around the pine, he lashed out, mouth stretching, fangs dripping. 

He clipped Virgil. Grazed him right across the ribs with a single fang. 

Roman surged to his feet, regardless of his still healing body and sprinted to catch Virgil as he was knocked out of the air. Roman could survive falling from that height, especially with an amulet, but Virgil? As a cat? Such a fall could kill him if he didn’t land on his feet. 

Virgil plummeted. 

Roman dove…

and caught him. He rolled to slow himself, cradling Virgil against his chest. Roman came to a stop, his hands shaking. Virgil was trembling, his tiny chest heaving and he panicked. He clawed Roman’s hands, still in fight or flight mode, until he dropped him. 

“Virgil, wait—” 

The cat stumbled this way and that, like he’d been spinning in circles, shaking his head and making confused, terrified sounds. 

It was the venom. It was starting to work through his system. In a body that small, it surely spread faster. 

Roman heard Dorian leave the tree, slithered toward them. He rounded on the demon. 

“What did you do?!”

“What a shame,” he sighed, looking over Roman’s shoulder at Virgil, who was now on the ground, twitching.

Roman panicked. He had to do something. Virgil was going to die, and it would be his fault…

“Turn him back, now!” he demanded. 

“What? Why?”

Roman stepped right up to the demon’s face, aware of the fact that the thing couldn’t kill him. His mind turned dark with anger. “Turn him human! Turn him back right now, or I swear I will make you wish you could die.”

Dorian met his gaze for a solid moment, before flicking his tongue and remarking,  “The game’s over anyway,” He slithered around Roman and blew on Virgil as he had earlier. Another flash of golden light warmed Roman’s skin and suddenly Virgil—in his normal, human body—appeared. 

Unfortunately, the wound had grown with him. The gash wasn’t deep or bleeding too badly, and Roman was thankful for that, but it was as wide as his palm in places and stretched from his left shoulder down to his opposite hip. 

The venom was the real concern. 

Roman rushed to Virgil’s side, grabbing his hand. 

“Hey! Hey, Virge. Buddy, can you hear me? Look at me. Right here, yeah, like that. Good job. Okay, I’m going to go get the antidote, alright? You have to hold on for me, okay? Don’t fall asleep.”

Virgil made a slow sound of acknowledgement, his eyelids drooping. Roman stood and rounded on Dorian, pointing a finger at the serpent’s snout. 

“You even breathe in his direction again and I’ll rip out your tongue and feed it to you myself,” he growled, then sprinted off in search of Silkweed. Roman had experienced the venom’s terrifying effects before. It slowly numbed your whole body, shutting down all of your muscles and nerves. It obviously hadn’t killed him, but he’d been able to deduce the final effects. It stopped your heart. Or something of a similar nature. 

It didn’t take Roman long to find the plant. That same familiar feeling entered his mind the second he’d gone to find it. Nestled between two large tree roots, he grabbed fistfuls of the soft, velvety leaves and ran back as fast as he could. 

He skidded to a stop at Virgil’s side, falling to his knees in the damp dirt. He was still breathing but only just. His eyes were closed and his skin had gone clammy. 

“Virgil! Virgil, no, come on. Wake up! You have to chew these! Virgil!” he cried, cupping his friend’s face in his hands. Frantically, he shoved a handful of the leaves into his own mouth and chewed them into a pulp. Roman spat the green mess into his hand, opened Virgil’s mouth, and pushed it inside. 

It was gross, sure, but if it saved Virgil’s life, he’d do it without hesitation. 

Everything was torturously silent. Nothing happened. 

Dorian slithered past, “I doubt this is the best time to bring such an issue up, but you have still yet to break your curse, little prince. I’d advise you to do so soon.”

“Shut up!”  Roman screamed at him. “This is  your fault! If he dies…”

“Yes, yes, I know, little prince.”  He slunk away into the darkness. “I know.”

Roman knew that the antidote took time to work. It had taken  hours  for himself to recover. He’d only survived because he’d stumbled into a good enough hiding spot before going completely numb. That’s where he’d found the Silkweed the first time. 

Desperately telling himself to be calm, Roman got up. He situated Virgil in a position that hopefully he was comfortable with, then set off to find where he’d thrown the amulet after ripping it free of his arm. 

It only took him a few seconds. 

He’d always been good at finding lost things. Ever since he’d been a kid. 

The string was broken, but Roman was able to tie it back together, and wrap it around his arm again. He wished it would help Virgil, but it only healed injuries that were inflicted while someone wore it, and then took it off. 

Without much else to do but wait, Roman sat with his back against a tree trunk and Virgil’s head in his lap. He ran his fingers through Virgil’s hair absently as he looked out at the forest.

It was soft. He must have showered not too long ago. 

Roman clasped his hand in Virgil’s, then tipped his head back against the tree, closing his eyes. 

And the crickets sang. 

[saintheartwing]

Undertales of Friendship: Derp-TEMMIE-Nation

Temmie was crying in the rainy streets of Ponyville. What had just happened was absolutely horrible. The laughter, the teasing, the harsh words, it was too much for one Temmie to bear. Worse, her super deluxe ultra rare super delicious Temmie Flakes were now mushy in the mud, the catlike monster crying and shivering.

"Hey... you okay?" A kind voice said behind her. Temmie turned, and saw a sight that made her go wide eyed with uber cute happiness. The grey pegasus before her was about average size, gently flapping her wings, with seven bubbles for her flank tatoo, as Temmie called it. But the cuteness came from those eyes, one looking up, the other down, making her look so huggabale combined with thta Frisky Fun smile.

She called it that because it reminded her of Uber cute and snuggly hoooooooooooooman Frisk, such a CUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUTE!

But, she remembered what happened, and sobbed again. "Tem.... sad, so 1 lik Teme, cuz Teme tak werd."

The pony sat beside Temmie, offering her an umbrella, making the Temmie blink happily. "I know what you mean. Ponies pick on me all the time because of my derpiness. They even call me Derpy. My full name is actually Dizty Do Derpy Hooves."

Temmie smiled widely from ear to ear. Literally. "Derp e? Such a cuuuuute nam! I'm Temmie!" Temmie hopped closer. "Derp not allergic to Tem, r u?"

Derpy smiled, hugging Temmie. "Nah, Just clumsy. Ask Twilight. I once dropped a piano on her." She tilted her head a bit. "Followed by a hay cart. Followed by an anvil."

Tem went wide eyed, anime style. "OWWWWWWOWOWOW! Dat mus hut!"

"It did. But she forgave me. And now I even can fly pretty good thanks to Rainbow Dash teaching me to adapt how I fly to my vision." She pointed a hoof at her crossed eyes. "For a long time ponies thought I was retarded.... but these were just messing up my vision, making me clumsy. Some ponies still tease me about it, and I am not as bright as many others...but..."

Before she said another word, a rather annoying, nasaly voice was heard. "Oh isn't THIS rich! Looks like the Temfem found a fweeeeend." The two groaned as they saw a monster shaped like a ufo, with two eyes on the sides, a big ugly nose, and a small, mocking smile under an M shaped mustache.

Jerry.

And with him were several of the local bullies, a group of ponies who basically caused trouble for everyone. During the date bidding not long ago, they made a point of making obscene cat calls to Rainbow Dash, and shortly after the monsters came they were some of the first to rail against Muffet, saying she wanted to turn everyone into flies with her evil pastries, and eat them.

Admittedly that was partially true, but she only did that to parasprites because they were both delicious and cuddly.

"Wow, retards really DO attract."

"Man, you see her eyes?"

"I bet she can't even see us!"

"And I heard yesterday she tried to deliver the princesses's mail to Big Macintosh!"

"Big Mac? I heard she almost started a war by delivering a sex note to Queen Chrysalis!"

Temmie growled, and with one paw that got VERY long, successfully slapping every last one of them, only too late realizing her mistake.

"OOOOOOOOOO... I've been temmied! Now I am gonna have... Hoives!"

Temmie began to sob, bolting. Derpy snorted and growled at the laughing bullies. "You all oughta be ashamed of yourselves!"

Jerry snickered. "You oughta be ashamed of those eyes! I mean, are you looking up or down? Oh wait, it's BOTH!"

Derpy gritted her teeth. With a mighty whinney, she charged Jerry, knocking him down. The two were brawling as Twilight and several guards, including Papyrus, broke it up.

The look on the faces of the guards meant there would be a lot of trouble.

***

"And after what Jerry said, I didn't know what else to do hon! WHat kind of monster is that monster? He is such a.....a....."

"Monster?" Doctor Whooves said, working on his steam powered inventions while he and Derpy talked. The two had married some time before, despite obvious differences (Or perhaps because of them). Now they lived in a quaint cottage in Ponyville, where Derpy spent a lot of time baking muffins to go with the money she maid as a professional mailmare, while the Doctor worked as both a medical practitioner and a fringe scientist.

"Yeah, monster." Derpy whimpered some. "I hate Jerry."

The Doctor peeked out from under his latest work, the Steamy Dreamy 3000, meant to use a gentle steaming mist to help ponies sleep when it is too cold. "Dear, that is still no reason for assult and battery. And Jerry wound up with those bits with you paying out the nose because he had his gang as witnesses. He played you like he tried to play Temmie."

"Ohmygosh! Temmie! I forgot all about her... poor thing, she is so cute and kiind, and those creeps had no right to-"

"Dear." The Doc came over to her and nuzzled. "Think about this logically. Temmie is a very unlogical creature. Now if I were her, where would be the last place I would wanna go after being insulted?"

Derpy pondered, thinking mostly of muffins. Sweet, delicious muffins, with fresh raisins in them, and that home grown oatmeal from Sweet Apple Acres...

"Ummm.... the bakery?"

The Doc hmmmed. "Unlikely.... out of the way....very unusual..... yes, I do believe you are right love!"

Derpy blushed. "Well... I'l be honest, I was kinda asking if we could go there, all this made me kinda hungry." She made a little shy blush, the Doctor chuckling.

"Why not. I need a break and you need a pick me up. Then we can figure out what to do about Temmie."

Derpy hmmmed. "Maybe she is like me? Maybe she just needs to find what she is good at. Something that is just her?"

The two nodded, waking out of the home, humming a gentle tune (Ironically to the music of Temmie Village)

What talent does a Temmie have? What skill, does a temmie show? What job, can a Temmie do? I admit, I really just don't know. Can they sing? Dance? Love? Romance? Run? Play? Sleep all day? Do they cook? Cuddle? Solve puzzles? Do they laugh? Sing? Do anything? Sew? Sell? Ask? Tell? Kiss? Hug? Comfort? Bug? I'll tell you... It's all of the above! What power, does a Tem possess? What things, does a Temmie need? What hope, does a Temmie have? What is, their eternal creed. Can they sing? Dance? Love? Romance? Run? Play? Sleep all day? Do they cook? Cuddle? Solve puzzles? Do they laugh? Sing? Do anything? Sew? Sell? Ask? Tell? Kiss? Hug? Comfort? Bug? I'll tell you... It's all of the above! That's what a temmie does! Just like me and you! That's who  and what a temmie is! And I assure you, it is all true! Tem...Tem Tem... Tem Tem...Tem Tem... "TEM!"Derpy said in shock as she walked in. As she had guessed, unintentionally, there was Temmie, trying to hide in Muffet's Spider Batter, several spiders tryng not to laugh at the cuteness. Muffet herself had her four arms crossed.

"Look, I have no orders for a Temmie Cake...yet." Muffet added under her breath. "And I highly doubt the Cakes, speaking of which, will approve of you hiding in my cake batter."

"Tem not lik even az foob. Tem worth 0."

Derpy approached. "That's not true! You're just different is all, and different means you have different ways, like me."

Muffet nodded. "Derpy is right. You remember what I was like when I first came here, how I was ridiculed because I used spiders in my pastries?"

Nearby, a pair of changeling girls were being tickled inside and out by said spiders. "Yeah, then you found out what we think of them, you doll!" One said, the other smiling and nodding.

"Or Huey! The monster kid with no arms? No one is making fun of him now!"

At the school, Diamond Tiara smiled as the high jumping Huey retrieved her crown from a tree after a crow took it, earning a kiss from the formerly snotty pony and cheers from the other kids.

"Or TWILIGHT?!" Muffet pointed out.

Temmie blinked in surprise. "Huh?"

Derpy nodded. "Yeah, before she became a princess a lot of people made fun of her bookworm nature. But now? Now she is the princess!"

Tem huddle din the batter. "But.... tem knot lik dat...."

Muffet petted the battered Temie with sprinkles. "Yes you are. You're friendly and kind, and everyone who needs a hug can count on you for one. You're the best friend anyone could ask for, and you make everyone laugh!"

Derpy nodded.

Temmie smiled a little. "But.... wha bot Jerr?"

Muffet growled. "JERRY. Now he is someone who IS worthless. No wonder all the good monsters ditch him. He not only has no friends, he does his best to alienate them."

Derpy was confused somewhat. "But why?"

Muffet sighed. "Bullies are often self hating. But if you ask me, Jerry is a rare breed, deary. He bullies just because that is who he is. He hates friendship and hates others, he'd rather be alone yet loves to annoy others, it is like my spider doughnuts are to those changelings in his mind."

Derpy growled. "Man, even Discord has friends, how can Jerry go out of his way to ruin friendship and be happy about it?"

Muffet leaned close to the two. "Because he is... well... JERRY."

***

As the duo of Derpy and Temmie left the bakery, they saw Jerry waiting there, bulies beside him. He snickered some as he watched the two walk out.

"Well well, the cross eyed mule and the low eyed pike return! I wonder if they have any.... derptemmination?! *Snicker*

Ok, that's it. Buck this, I'm done.

"Huh?"

Everyone... let's ditch this guy. He is so annoying and wrong and even I as the writer am sick of him.

Temmie smiled. "Dat goooooo idee! Tem flakes any 1?"

Derpy smiled. "Maybe we can try some Temmie Flake muffins?"

Temmie was so excited she literrally lept 100 feet in the air with her paws still on the ground... and stayed at that height. "OOOOOO! Nomnomnomnomnomnomnomnomnomnomnomnomnomnomnomnomnom! Lezzgo!" She said, wlaking with her new long l-

"HELLLLOOOOOOOO?! I wasn't done insulting them!"

*The entire story ditches Jerry. The world is better for it. After all, who likes a bully?*

...

...

...

...Back at Derpy's house, Derpy and Temmie worked on the TemMuffins, Temmie unintenionally believing that SHE was supposed to go in one and not the flakes, resulting in a couple dozen little fruity smelling Tem Muffins, and one giant one with Temmie in the middle, breathing out actual balls of happiness that smiled as they floated by.

"Tem lik muffen. Muffen so warm!"

Derpy smiled, playfully nomming a bite. "And tasty too!"

Everyone laughed, especialy Temmie, because she was with friends who loved her, and when you had that, then who cared what anyone else thought?"

"Cuz afta all.... Tem happy is best Tem!"

TEMMIEND!

...

...

...

...JERRY: Where did everyone go? Oh come on guys! Where is everyone! Hello? Hellllllllllllllooooooooooo? *Snort* Fine,. this story is dumb anyway*

Jerry walked away. Thank goodness.

Classic Jerry.

[matrixaffiliate]

Quarry

Chapter Update! FFN and AO3

I'm so excited for you all to read this! See you back on February 8th with chapters 45 and 46!

Chapter 44

James:

James was trying to keep a level head. Just because she'd come back to him did not mean she had forgiven him. It did not mean she wanted to marry him. And it most certainly did not mean she loved him.

But, Merlin, whatever it did mean she'd chosen to show up looking like a dream.

"You're gorgeous," he breathed as he shut the door between his room and Sirius'.

She smiled and sat in one of the chairs in his large room. James tripped trying to make it to the other chair. He was positive if he looked away from her she'd vanish.

"Careful," Lily reached out to steady him.

"Lily, I…"

"James, we…"

James shoved his hand in his hair, "You go first."

Lily bit her lip, "I want to figure out how I feel about you. I thought I might love you when we were traveling and then all of a sudden you're my arranged husband and you knew I was supposed to be your wife but you said nothing. And, and I recognize that you had been trying to tell me for a while who you were. But," she frowned, "I'm really upset with you for lying to me all this time. So I came here because I want to know if I do love you, and if I do, if we can be happy together."

James thought he was going to pass out.

She wanted to give them a chance! She'd come to him because she thought she loved him too before she knew who he was!

She was giving him a second chance!

"Lily, I'm so sorry, and I promise you there will be no more lying. I want us to be happy together, to go horseback riding and practice archery, just like we dreamed about." He smiled encouragingly at her.

Lily sighed and looked down at her hands, "I want to trust you."

James reached across to intertwine his hand with hers. "I fear there's a 'but' lingering behind your lips."

"James," she hesitated a moment, "what was true? How do I know what was lies to keep us traveling together and what was real?"

James felt his smile fall from his face.

"Lily," he squeezed her hand, "everything was true except leading you to think that I didn't know who you were and that there were people after me as well. All those stories, they're real. I can take you to meet Georgina, the head maid with the best stories that I scrubbed the main hall to hear. And Ruth can tell you how the whole capital scoured the streets looking for their six-year-old Crown Prince when he went after his father."

James took hope from the little chuckle he pulled from her lips.

"Lily, everything I told you was real, every story is true, every feeling, I meant it."

Lily finally looked up at him from their intertwined hands.

"Why did you agree to marry a princess you'd never met? Why agree to marry me in the first place?"

James frowned, where to begin?

"Lily there are no good reports coming out of Privet. The rumors I was getting were mostly wrong, but I didn't know that until I had spent a few hours in Privet. I'm a magic-user, and if Privet reached out to me to marry off their princess, then I felt confident that their princess was likely a magic user too. And I was worried if I said no, then that princess would suffer. I didn't know if I'd actually marry you, but I knew I could keep you safe if the rumors that Privet wasn't safe for magic users were true. And that was far more important to me because I was worried I might have needed to create some sort of underground escape route for all of Privet's magic users to make it to Godric's Hollow since one of the most common rumors was that they were burning magic users."

James ran a heavy hand over his face at the memory.

"Before I knew you, Privet's princess was to be the first refugee in my rescue mission. And I hoped you would have a better description of what was going on. I didn't know if I needed to get Arthur and Rosmerta involved or not, but I didn't want to sit by while some monarchy decided they could abuse their power to hurt their citizens."

James pushed his free hand into his hair.

"So maybe it wasn't completely altruistic, you being here was hopefully a way to get the information I needed, and if we felt like a marriage would work then I guess I probably would have married you, but I was fully prepared to set you up as a noblewoman here and let you live your life however you wanted."

Lily looked up at him silently as she processed his answer. But James couldn't seem to let it be silent between them.

"I am so sorry. I'm sorry for betraying your trust. I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry I didn't just explain all of this from the beginning. If I had known how amazing you were, how I was going to fall in love with you, how... If I'd known… If… Lily, I promise, if you give us a chance to work through this, I'll prove that I can be the man you want to be with."

She bit her lip and James feared it was hesitation he saw in her eyes. So he gave her the best assurance he could.

"And if you decide you don't want this if you don't want me," he swallowed hard, "I'll give you refuge here in Godric's Hollow. I'll set you up as a noblewoman in your own right and you'll be safe from your sister and from me and can live out your life as you wish, with whom you wish."

Lily was quiet for a long moment before she squeezed his hand.

"Can we start over? Can we pretend that I showed up because Petunia sent me? Can we get to know each other knowing that the end goal is seeing if we could be happy together, married?"

James felt his smile grow across his face at the same rate that relief flooded his chest.

"That sounds perfect," he stood before turning towards her and bowing deeply.

"My poor kingdom is dim compared to your stunning beauty your Highness."

Lily laughed at him and it felt like life ringing in his ears.

"Your words are kind your Majesty, and terribly flattering." Lily smiled as James returned to the seat next to her.

"Nay, your Highness, for your beauty would be radiant even if you had traveled the roads of the world for two months wearing plain travelers clothes and plaited hair."

Lily blushed with a small smile and it was a glorious sight.

"Is this how you would have behaved if we'd met this way?"

"These are all the things I forced myself not to say when I met you in Knockturn." James took her hand and brought her knuckles to his lips, smiling when he saw her chest rise quickly with the catch of her breath. "You won my heart that night, your Highness."

"Would your Majesty consent to house me and my guardian in this arrangement?" Lily's voice started breathlessly before she seemed to pull in enough air to finish with the confidence he'd grown accustomed to hearing from her.

"I suppose it would be inappropriate for you to sleep here just yet," he smirked at Lily's laughter and the slight tinge that returned to her cheeks, "So I will most gladly give you rooms until such time you feel them tiresome."

"You're Majesty is too kind," Lily smirked.

James reached for her hand again and intertwined their fingers, "I suppose I should let you get some sleep. We have an early morning ahead of us."

"We do?" Lily frowned in confusion.

James nodded, "I told you in Ottery that I had a dozen little things I wanted your help with but couldn't ask you about them because they'd give away too much. Well, all those things are to do with the running of Godric's Hollow, and I want your input."

"Petunia kept me in the dark about the politics in Privet, James." She sighed.

"It's nothing to do with Privet," he assured her, "it's all things with what's happening here in Godric's Hollow."

"But I'm not a citizen of Godric's Hollow," she started to object but James cut her off.

"That's why you'll have the best input. You're not tainted by popular opinion or jaded from years of how it's always been. You're giving me fresh eyes."

"I was never trained in politics, James." She shook her head. "My parents had me focus completely on magic."

"See," James grinned like a cat in the cream; she'd just made his point! "You'll think of better ideas because you won't be influenced by made-up rules that we follow only because no one points out there could be something different."

"You really want me to help?" Her bright emerald eyes looked up at him skeptically.

"I'm begging you to help me, Lily." James kissed her knuckles again before stealing a kiss against the inside of her wrist.

"James!" She laughed.

"You asked for us to start over," he smirked as he set her hand back in her lap, "This is how I would have tried to woo you."

Lily bit her lip and smirked, "Would your wooing also involve kissing places other than my hand?"

James leaned in closer.

"Oh yes, but," it took all his self-control but he managed to pull back, "it would be completely planned out; it would be memorable and heart-stopping and would guarantee that you'd never want to return to Privet permanently."

Lily laughed breathlessly and James almost threw the game away to kiss her right there, but he held strong.

She was giving him a second chance and he'd be damned if he threw it away like that!

"Let's see about some rooms for you and your guardian, your Highness," he stood and offered her his hand.

Lily took his hand before moving to his arm. "Thank you, James."

"Anything for you, Lils."

James pushed on the door and frowned when it didn't open. He pushed again, with much more force, and then nearly fell through the door into Sirius' room, dragging Lily with him.

He let Lily go at the last moment, thankfully not pulling her to the ground with him. James, however, found himself splayed out on the floor of Sirius' room.

He'd have to remember to ask Robert to have a look at his door.

"Alright there, James?"

James turned to see Sirius looking incredibly smug sitting on his bed with Marlene who was tying off the plait in her hair. James pulled himself up off the floor and tried to look composed.

"Remind me to ask Robert to look at the door." James nodded to his brother.

"You're plaiting your hair?" Lily's tone had a sing-song quality to it and James looked down at her for context but Lily continued to grin at her guardian.

Marlene turned with a smile that looked decidedly happy. "It was a bit warm and I thought it would help me cool down."

"I'm sure," Lily smirked, "James is going to procure rooms for us and then wants my help with matters of State in the morning."

She moved to take James' arm again.

"Lead the way, James," Marlene stood and nodded to James, her smile still in place.

James blinked at her willingness to go along but was distracted when he noticed Sirius fall into step beside the small woman and place a discreet hand on the small of her back.

James grinned but said nothing; there'd be time to tease him for it later.

[daturanerium]

i’m finally all caught up with @thepenumbrapodcast​ ‘s juno steel stories! here are my discordant thoughts on the story and the characters.

(i did this with the magnus archives season one, too! check it out here.)

SPOILERS FOR JUNO STEEL from s1e1 to s3ep2

general plot stuff:

this show. THIS SHOW. is written so well. the characterization is top-notch. the characters are fleshed out and interesting and engaging and they all grow and change and are affected by people and environments and time and events. they’re not static in the slightest.

i haven’t come across a story that deals with depression and suicidal idealization so well. i’m thoroughly impressed with how the writers both portrayed them and how well they have (so far) portrayed the healing process. wowowow.

THE LGBT REPRESENTATION IS OFF THE CHARTS. QUEERS LISTEN TO THIS SHOW. they have a nonbinary politician?? mlm romance and kiss in the first episode???? main character is nb with he/him pronouns??? SO MANY BADASS SAPPHIC SPY/MAFIA COUPLES.....IT TUGS AT MY HEART. the big strong guy is asexual??? i could go on for days but spoilers! just know that genuinely, you will not be disappointed.

this show has two main focuses/themes: trust and the future. it’s been so fantastic to see how juno and the other characters view both themes and how they changed themselves and/or others while encountering those themes in their everyday life.

ramses o’flaherty and the entire plotline that came with him was absolutely top-notch. it blew me away. ramses is a true complicated character, a grey area that makes you question everything you believe in. the storyline tackles politics, morals, and values while keeping it exciting and entertaining. it’s definitely one of my favorite storylines ever.

the writers are truly incredible. i’m really in awe. they inspire me!  i wish i had the energy right now to give them the praise essay that they deserve but i’m really tired and i want to get this posted. someday!

the worldbuilding is the perfect balance between two extremes that a lot of scifi authors really struggle with. juno explains how a (sort of) functioning mars city works in a way that feels natural and easy to understand, and the world he describes is both familiar and fascinating. although the environment is different, the audience is all too familiar with corruption and capitalism and classism. they keep the world relatable while giving it some really new and funky details (do i want a cat with six eyes and a stinger? of course! do i want to step outside for more than five hours and get radiation poisoning? that’s up for interpretation). they also chose a great route in making this story take place in the aftermath of (what seems to be) a galactic war instead of taking the traditional Save The World, End The War scifi route. it’s refreshing, and again, relatable (especially to me: i was born after 9/11 and have lived through the entirety of the war in afghanistan so the underlining feeling that hyperion city has that Something is Going To Go Wrong....i feel that).

there is so much more i want to say but this has been sitting in my drafts for weeks and i want to get it posted!

tl;dr: juno steel is really a fantastic work of art. it’s engaging and relatable and teaches valuable lessons about healing, trusting, and moving on in ways i have never seen another piece of media do so successfully. please give it a listen if you have a chance!

some character/character arc thoughts under the cut :)

juno:

god so dumb. just so fucking stupid. i love him.

i’m going to be honest. s1 and the beginning of s2 Juno was really hard for me to listen to. the way he treated others obviously was, to put it lightly, not the best (the monitor incident with rita comes to mind; i really hated that). it almost got repetitive, and since i’m already not a big fan of the depressed-asshole trope i was kind of hanging by a thread by the time ramses came around.

god am i glad i stuck around. his character growth and maturity within the second half of season two and the beginning of season three has been so satisfying! it hasn’t been perfect, but that’s part of the reason why it’s so good--it’s realistic and believable. he’s realized where his faults lie and is making a physical and mental effort to better himself. he’s even doing it verbally, explaining to people he trusts (rita) that he’s trying to be better and then actually acting on it. too often we see the depressed-asshole say the “i’m trying to be better!” line but don’t see any actions following it that signify that effort--that was my fear going into this. but that’s really, truly not the case here, and it’s such a breath of fresh air. plus, in-canon-wise, i’m so happy for juno he’s come so far!

okay nonbinary king i see you

GET THIS LADY A CAT PLEASE.

that moment during the end of s2 when he found that baby rabbit in the sewers.....god.

juno appreciate rita challenge (accepted!)

his voice......is so soothing. except when he yells but he’s better now we’ve established that

i LOVE how as soon as he figures out that he likes you he sticks to you like glue. that’s super funny and cute and also fits him perfectly

miss dahlia rose if you’re out there.....

his complicated relationship with ramses was so fascinating and important. i loved listening to that storyline.

juno: “there’s no way in hell i’m doing this, fuck off” juno, five minutes later: [is doing it]

that’s pretty much the beginning plot of every episode lol ur so valid juno we love u

he’s ability to make the dumbest decisions continues to astound me. he likes to talk about how mick is always getting himself in trouble but god juno you’re really not one to talk

the fact that, in a world that literally runs on tech, he has no idea how a coms works. that’s so fucking funny. if you ignore the backstory that comes behind it.

did juno ever tell alessandra that he made it out of the desert alive or is she just out there in hyperion city somewhere mourning him with her wife?

i already sort of wrote on juno’s backstory but it’s so good. so good.

he’s so fucking soft. he loves so much!!!! and that scares him!!!! but he’s working on it!!!!!

rita:

is she the love of my life or do i just relate heavily to her? who knows

actually no we’re gonna talk about this

rita penumbrapodcast, queen of adhd. queen of oversharing. queen of tangents. queen of love. queen of excitement. queen of caring for her friends more than herself. queen of incredible intelligence shown in an unconventional way. queen of being underappreciated.

s1 and the beginning of s2 really stung me because i’ve been in rita’s positon--used as a punching bag by someone i care deeply about because it’s better me than someone else, because i’m willing to sacrifice my own health and safety for the sake of giving them an outlet. we put it under the guise of “helping”, but we don’t realize until later that it’s really not; we’re just letting them get away with hurting themselves and hurting us. the monitor incident comes to mind again. i actually had to pause and take a step away after hearing juno yell and the glass break--although my abusive friendships thankfully never got violent, that kind of unbridled anger was all too familiar and i was begging out loud for her to leave. she handles it like a champ, and i honestly can’t say whether or not that’s a good or bad thing: good because she knows he doesn’t mean it or bad because she’s used to it? because it’s later revealed that juno’s treated her poorly from the first day they met. i was really worried that their relationship was going to end up being static, “depressed-asshole bullies quirky female sidekick and she never fights back because she loves him” trope. but, thankfully, they’re not!

towards the end of s2 and the beginning of s3 we didn’t just see growth in juno, we saw growth in rita. she confronts juno through a thetabot down in the sewers, calling him out on his self-destructive tendencies and his habit of doing important things without anyone else’s help (in this case, disappearing for weeks without telling her where he was). she points out that maybe the only way for him to appreciate her is for her to do the same thing--disappear for weeks, forcing him to realize just how much he needs her. thankfully, this is after juno’s Big Realization, and he sincerely apologizes for his treatment of her and assures her that he’s trying to be better. (and, side note, but that apology was a good one. a really good one. he verbally acknowledges his many mistakes, including the one rita specifically mentioned, acknowledges that he does not deserve her forgiveness, tells her what he’s trying to do to be better, and then apologizes and asks for her help. that’s good. take notes, people.) later that season, she takes initiative for what seems to be the first time, coming up with a solid, well-thought-out plan, enacting it on her own, and saving both an entire city and her boss. you could probably hear my cheers from wherever you are on earth, because they were there and they were loud! rita saving the day mixed with juno breaking through the mind control with his overwhelming love and appreciation for her.....god. good stuff.

rita buying juno’s office as a surprise for him.......i Will cry

literally she’s just so wonderful i love her so much

every time she talks i’m like [one billion heart emojis mixed with like forty crying emojis]

RITA SPINOFF WHEN. i come from the critical role community so yall know for a fact i’ll back it on kickstarter

once her and juno’s relationship reaches a healthy balance (and they’re already well on their way which i’m so happy about!) they’re going to be so good together. so powerful. the Ultimate cheery vs broody relationship (although juno is less broody at this point and more....gentle asshole. we love growth). they were unstoppable before, but now? god help the galaxy lol

the fact that rita can just casually hack into literally any system in the galaxy is so.......impressive? hot? yeah.

please get this woman a girlfriend and a cat

rita x franny xoxo

RITA BACKSTORY WHEN. PLEASE KEVIN AND SOPHIE PLEASE AS A RITA STAN I AM POLITELY BEGGING YOU.

rita is now in space, which is an interesting development. i just.....”rita in space” is not something i would have ever guessed at a week ago

wait oh my god.

i was sitting here thinking rita has some sort of trust fund/is secretly rich and that’s how she bought juno’s office and kept it afloat, but with the most recent episode’s developments it’s probably equally if not more likely that she either hacked into the nearest bank to give herself the creds needed or hacked the person she was buying it from to make it seem like she had made the payments. i literally adore her whoops

the little rita episodes make me so happy and i hope we get more of them!

tldr: i love her and she deserves the world and more, i’m glad her relationship with juno has changed into something a lot healthier with juno’s Realization mid-season-two, i hope she realizes the hero she already is in season three

peter:

.........oh how the turntables.

peter, season one: juno come with me so we can be together forever and travel the galaxy! i think i love you! juno: aw babe i wish i could but i’m sad and the city needs me :( peter, season three, when handed the opportunity to travel with a healing juno through the galaxy on a silver platter: actually fuck this lol i have One Job and it is to Only Think About My Current Assignment. this is smart and healthy.

this man.....this man right here officer. stole my fucking heart.

i don’t really have an essay for him because we haven’t seen enough of him to really gauge his character development beyond an obsession with debts and his aging. i’m guessing that will change this season though

the debts....what are they

can rita hack in and pay them off

god wouldn’t that be so funny. he spends his entire life trying to pay off these impossible debts and it’s stressing him out to the point where he feels he can’t focus on anything else. and one day he comes to the fam and explains everything and rita’s like “oh shit that’s easy i’ll take care of that right now!!! why didn’t you say something sooner” and hes like “what” and she’s like “yeah!” and he’s like “holy shit” and then he gets married to juno and they live happily ever after the end.

no but real talk

these debts. there’s a lot about them and the way he talks about them that really worries me. i feel like having them be simple money debt would be too easy, so maybe it’s something medical? that would explain both his obsession with his aging and his uncharacteristically excited reaction to the healing mother prime (i think that’s what it was whoops).

he also mentioned someone else before juno, someone that had some pretty strong romantic undertones. maybe they’re sick? but peter doesn’t seem like the type to throw away a relationship like that so quickly, so it doesn’t really match up that he would have someone sick and waiting for him but he’d still go after juno in season one. hmmm.

this one’s a real mystery lads. you think you have something figured out about peter nureyev but it just gives you more questions.

peter is the one mystery juno can’t solve. god, that’s good.

his voice is so good. i don’t remember who his voice actor is but they’re doing a fantastic job thank you!!!!

i actually don’t picture peter like how he’s portrayed in the official art and fanart? i wish i was an artist so i could draw him the way i see him but alas. (i still really like his official design tho!)

listen. you give me a mysterious thief that doesn’t exist and i am Forced to love him. i have a type.

thankfully peter seemed to come around during the most recent episode (s3e2 the man in glass) so i don’t think we’re going to get a repeat of season one. these debts, whatever they are, are definitely going to cause problems. i can’t wait to see what the writers do with this.

(my only fear is that it will end up fitting the “gay character has a sickness parallel to aids and it is incurable” trope. although the writers have so far done a fantastic job of writing queer characters and worlds as well as turning tropes on their heads, so even if it may seem like that’s the case in the beginning, i’ll most likely stick through it to see where they take it. i trust them).

peter i know you’ve never had a family in your life but. im gonna tell you a secret here. found family is cool and good and you’ll like it if you give it a chance.

i love him and as soon as i cut my hair short i’m gonna cosplay him. fashion king

peter nureyev makes me want to fall in love

watching (listening) to juno grow and mature was already fantastic, but to see it through the eyes of someone who respects him, cares for him, and loves him deeply? good lord.

the way peter talks about juno.....yeah.

and peter as an individual....WOW. master thief, yes wow impressive! but his growth is already focusing so much on trust and it’s been written so well. i can’t wait to see how much he continues to grow and learn to trust this season!!!

i would love to see him continue to narrate s3. i think it’s a really strong change of pace and it also puts some extra emphasis on juno’s growth while focusing on peter’s motivations and inner thoughts. i’m genuinely fine either way tho!

tl;dr: i love u emo boy i love u i love u

[cost-of-chaos]

All You Need Is Love (Chapter Six)

Thank you to the lovely @xgoingdownx for helping me out!  Sorry for the wait, hope you all like this chapter, if you do, please like and reblog! If you wanna be tagged or just give me feedback my ask box is always open xx

Roger Taylor x OC 

Words: 2.9K

Warnings: A little angsty?

Previous Chapters: Chapter One / Chapter Two / Chapter Three / Chapter Four / Chapter Five

After only a few hours of sleep, I awoke to a cold, empty room. I had spent the majority of the night tossing and turning and lost in my own depressing thoughts. I got out of the bed, I felt the effects of the restless night on my body. I had woken up sore all over, my eyes were dry and felt like sandpaper from the countless tears I’d shed, my throat was sore and my limbs ached.  There were only a few things that made me feel better when I felt like this, I needed to get out of this stuffy room. I needed to feel fresh air on my skin, breathe in the cold air into my lungs and listen to leaves rustle in the wind, I needed to escape my mind and be one with nature.  I bent over to slide some boots over my thick socks, and as I reached down I felt my back pop and crack all the way down my spine,  if only it was that easy to release the discomfort in my heart.

I dug through my suitcase for the warmest thing I had packed and retrieved my cream cable knit sweater that I had accidentally stolen from my roommate from Ealing. I smiled to myself remembering the conversation that had taken place with Freddie when he saw me in it the first time.

“Veronica, darling, I’m not one to begrudge someone for expressing their own personal style… but you look like a sheep.” He had exclaimed before turning his back on me and rummaging through my wardrobe to find something more stylish to wear to the band practise he had invited me to. It had been only been a short time after I had met Roger that night in the bar and normally I wouldn’t have been so eager to accept the proposal to spend time with a guy I’d had a one night stand with. But after an afternoon of full of witty, flirtatious banter with Roger, we had a date planned for the next day and the rest was history.

When Roger finally saw the jumper, it was a rainy Sunday morning after we had moved into the flat together. I was making was a full fry up, dancing around to the record playing and he had walked in and told me I was the sexiest woman in the whole of London standing there wearing nothing but this jumper, a pair of knickers, rainbow socks and a paintbrush in my hair restraining my curls from cascading into my face. He had strode into the room and picked me up over his shoulder, walking me back to the bedroom with a giggle as I hit his back with a spatula. My ineffectual cries about our breakfast quickly faded away and it was the first of many meals that were burnt due to our infatuation with each other.  

I blushed at the memory and felt a pang of hurt as I thought back to one of the wonderful times we had together. Freddie had been right, of course, the jumper was far too large for me, it went half way down my thighs and I had to roll the sleeves up so I could use my hands, but it was warm and cosy and still smelt like home so I didn’t really care if I looked like a farm animal today.

Before leaving the room, I scribbled a note for Freddie on the hotel branded stationery and threw my coat on, slinging my bag over my shoulder. I hastily walking out of the room that held such bad memories, memories that were repeating over and over in my head.

Once I made it to the bay of elevators, a panic swept me. What if I saw Roger? What if I saw any of the band? I didn’t want to talk to anyone, I didn’t want to see anyone, I just wanted to lose myself in a foreign country where no one knew me. I hesitantly pushed the down button and checked my wrist for the time, it was only seven, the feeling of panic which had been growing by the second instantly eased as I realised none of the boys would be up yet.

As soon as I walked out into the busy streets of Japan I felt better. Walking into the brisk cold morning air had woken me up, and as always, seeing the beauty of the world and observing everyone else running around in their busy morning routines made my problems seem less significant. Sure, I was single again and was about to be homeless but I’m still young, I have my whole life ahead of me, this will just be one of the turbulent moments that make life a bit interesting.  

After half an hour of exploring small laneways with funky buildings lining them and petting cats that walked into my path,  I found myself sitting on a metal bench along a river bank watching the world pass by, completely oblivious to my presence. I mentally kicked myself for not bringing my camera with me, but I had the next best thing to capture the scene unfolding in front of me. I dug around my handbag for my sketchbook and charcoal and finally found them tucked away, long forgotten in the business that has been my life recently.

While flipping through the pages to find a blank page, one page stuck out in a sea of sketches of people and scenery. I flipped back to the page that caught my eye and found messy biro notes scribbled all over the page. It was Rogers writing, he must have left me a note in here before I left for the US.

He had filled the page with words dedicated to me, love notes, notes saying how lucky we were and how much he’d miss me, he’d even penned a very long description about how much our fur baby, Lenny was going to miss me. Tears were pooling in my eyes and suddenly my new found self-assurance was dwindling. One particular poem wedged between a love heart and a messy drawing of a cat captivated my attention.

You’re my love, my life

The air that I breathe

You’re my soul, my happiness

The all that I need

You’re my world, my galaxy,

Even if we’re worlds apart,

We will never be far from the love we share,

the memories make

and the exciting future to come.

Ronnie, you’re my everything.

My eyes welled up once again. The words he had hastily scribbled on a blank page on my journal was the most beautiful thing I’d ever read, most heartfelt and meaningful. I just wished I had seen this before this whole mess. I wished it didn’t carry the tang of bitterness from the lies and unfaithfulness.

I ripped the page out of my journal and folded it neatly before throwing it into an inner pocket in my bag. I tried to bury the feeling which had started bubbling again as I looked up at the busy and diverse road, bustling in front of me and I began a quick sketch. As I sat there, with my charcoal floating across the paper in quick strokes I felt myself slowly become centred again. As I was putting the final details onto the page, my stomach let out a loud rumble. I checked my watch and was shocked to see it had been two hours since I left the hotel. I needed some food, I snapped my journal closed on the page. Stuffing it back into my bag before starting to make my way back to the hotel. Regretting my choice to race to the hotel last night instead of taking the time to change my money to Yen as I walked the surprisingly long walk back to the hotel, with smells of amazing, foreign and exotic foods filling my nose.

By the time I made it through the doors to the reception of the hotel, I was ravenous and too hungry to wait for room service. I decided to cut my losses and risk going to the buffet. As soon as I walked into the grand room, with gold chandeliers, antique mirrors and intricate red wallpaper I felt horribly underdressed.

“Veronica!” I heard from a group of people sat at the largest table in the room. I scanned the table and saw Brians unmistakable head of hair before spotting Deaky who was sitting beside him, he had the attention of everyone at the table. Deaky had obviously been the one who yelled my name alerting the whole room of my presence. Freddie turned around, with a sympathetic smile on his face,

“Ronnie, why don’t you have breakfast with us? We have plenty of room here!” He said, waving his arms around, pointing at all the seats that were free.

“I was just going to get a plate of food so I could go pack.” I said, quietly as I walked to the table, feeling uncomfortable with the amount of attention on me from the rest of the breakfast goers.

“You’re packing?” He said, much louder than he needed to with me standing so close next to him, I noticed a certain head of blonde hair whip around to face our direction, to listen to what was being said.

“I’m going back home Fred, thanks for letting me sleep in your bed last night, I’ll be out of your hair soon.” I said, almost whispering to him now, not that it mattered because he responded in the same volume as before,

“Darling if you’re going back home then you must have breakfast with us!” I half expected him to broadcast it so I was already watching Roger in my peripheral vision and watched as his mouth dropped with the news. Everything felt more real now my plans weren’t a secret, he knew now that I was leaving, that it was over.

“I...I’ll just get some food.” I said, already walking away from the table, I was no longer feeling very hungry but I couldn’t just go back to my room now. However much I loved Fred, I really wished he’d keep his head out of things that weren’t his business.

As I watched my bread slowly turn to toast as it crept along a conveyor belt under a bright orange light I felt a hand rest lightly against my back. I looked up to find Brian, looking very uncomfortable, he’d obviously heard about what happened last night.

“Ronnie… I”

“Bri, I’m really not in the mood for talking” I said forcibly, cutting him off. I picked my toast off of the conveyor belt before it had even dropped to the plate below and walked across the buffet to get butter and a knife.

I heard a frustrated sigh from Brian as he began walking back to the table and I felt a little guilty at my harshness, it wasn’t his fault, I didn’t have any right to be rude to him. I jogged to catch up to him before getting back to the table and whispered that I was sorry before shooting him a small smile. I found the perfect spot at the table, wedging myself between Freddie and Brian, but as far from Roger as I could sit.  As I sat down on the plush antique chair, I glanced up the table towards Roger and noticed Roger shooting daggers down this end of the table. Typical, he’s the one that fucked up but he’s turned it on me.

As I cradled my coffee cup in my hands, and I chewed the last bite of my soggy toast and the boys around me chatted away happily. I couldn’t help but look at Roger one more time, one last time. His long blonde hair was sticking in all directions, mostly concealing his face as he stared at his bowl, swirling his cereal around in the milk aimlessly, without eating it.

He must have felt my eyes on him because he lifted his head, and looked straight to me, it was then when I noticed that his brow furrowed and his eyes glassy and bloodshot with large dark bags under them. By the looks of it, he hadn’t gotten any sleep after last night. Good. I knew it was spiteful and petty but it made me feel better seeing how bad he looked.

Time seemed to stop as I stared into his eyes across the table. Both of us were unblinking, with dancing eyes as we thought of the thousands of things we wanted to say to each other. A big part of me wanted to run over to him and stroke his face, brush his hair and tell him we were going to work it out. But I didn’t, I just sat there, glued to my chair as I imagined what I would be doing if I didn’t have quite as strong of a backbone.

“Excuse me, I need to go pack, have a good tour.” I said, unable to stop staring at Roger. I ripped my eyes off him once I finally managed to stand up, I gave the rest of the boys tight hugs. I hoped this wouldn’t be the last time we all spent time together, but I knew it probably would be. Sure Freddie and I would probably still see each other, but Brian and Deaky? We only became friends because of all the time I spent with Roger, and I knew the same thing would happen that happened after every other relationship I’ve had. I knew I’d lose all the friends that I made these past few years, they’d take their mates side in the breakup, leaving me not only mourning my partner but also friends and a whole life I’d built up.

As I walked away from the table, I heard a fight erupt from the table I’d just left. Voices raised, and I could hear Rogers accent grow thicker as his voice raised above the rest of them, putting a damper on the argument.

After a long flight delay and many glasses of gin at an airport bar, and one book by some American named Stephen King I’d picked up in New York and I finally touched down back down in London. After standing in the pouring rain for a cab for 10 minutes my clothes were soaked through, wonderful, the last thing I needed was to get sick on top of everything else.

I finally made it to the flat after a long cab ride and walk up the stairs to our top floor apartment. As soon as I opened the front door, I was blasted by cold air from the uninhabited rooms and felt my teeth start chattering. Memories of the warm and comforting flat are gone as I walked into the empty apartment, feeling more empty and alone than ever. I peeled my wet top off of my body and searched our coat rack, hoping that I hadn’t just left all my coats in the bedroom like I normally do, but I found it empty except for one jacket.  Rogers fur coat draped over a coat hook at the front door. As I slipped the coat on, I buried my face into the soft brown fur collar and inhaled Rogers scent.

I raced around the tiny flat turning the radiators on before filling the kettle for a much-needed cuppa while the heating kicked in. After pouring the boiling water into my mug, I ran downstairs to our neighbour below us, Mrs Lancaster,  hoping she wasn’t at bingo. I knocked on the door and I heard faint footsteps behind the door.

“Oh hello dear, you’re back! How was your time away?” She asked, with a sweet smile. She had been my favourite neighbour ever since we moved in and she baked us freshly baked banana bread as a moving in gift.

“Oh it was great!” I said, lying through my teeth. “Just don’t have any milk and I’m in need for a proper brew!” I held up my mug of black tea for emphasis, forcing a large smile on my face, I didn’t want to have to explain anything to her, I just needed a dash of milk.

After a few minutes of pleasantries, I was on my way back to my flat, my smile disappearing just as quickly as it arrived. As I got back to my flat, I was pleasantly surprised to feel the heating was already working. Walking into the living room, I sat cross-legged on the couch, reaching behind me for the thick blanket which was always draped over the back for late night cuddling. I sat on the couch, bundled up in a cocoon, sipping on my tea for what felt like hours. I gazed at the wall opposite me, at all the photos and drawings we had hung up over the years of our life together, remembering all of the good times we’d shared. The way the sun was poking through the clouds and coming through the window made the room look magical, the way dust particles floated in the golden light looked like fairy dust and I was captivated. Gold turned to pink and soon the only light that was coming into the room was from the streetlights.  

Taglist:  @perriwiinkle @hiyadarlingirl @asquiresofftime

[ask-the-matsuno-neets]

ahHh!! thanks for answering the s/o nervous abt sitting on matsus lap! it was very refreshing to read. I always have a soft spot for inclusive self insert style imagines and fis. could i ask for hc on how the boys would react to their fem s/o giving THEM flowers? ive always looked forward to doing that w my own future partner so ye know :>

It was my pleasure anon! I love writing inclusive self inserts, because I know someone somewhere will relate or see themselves in the s/o that I write, and it makes me happy to know that people will feel appreciated. We love and appreciate everyone regardless of what they look like in this household 😤👌

And of course you can get HC's of that! I love how the conventional roles are swapped, and it's a breath of fresh air to my dead shrivelled lungs sksjjsjsk

Oh and same about the wanting to give flowers to an s/o in the future; personally, whether it's a guy or a gal, I'd like to give my s/o flowers one day bcus I love flowers a lot. Low-key want to be a florist bcus I love flower arranging and just flowers and plants in general.

Enough about that, on to the boyos-

。

So, Fem! S/o giving matsu flowers;

Osomatsu would be very bashful. He'd make the typical "thought this was my job?" joke, but he'd assure her that he liked the change and adored the fact that she'd even considered giving him flowers. The flowers would be proudly put on display in a vase on the living room table.

Karamatsu would tear up, and ask what the occasion was. Wouldn't even try and hide his tears eventually and would let out a huge wave of gratitude. Between happy overwhelmed sobs, he'd find a (probably painful) vase and put the flowers in. They'd go right in the best spot in the room for flowers to grow - he'd make a cheesy one liner about how 'his love has grow like these flowers, and that his sorrows will die with them'. Painful but cute nonetheless.

A wild broken chainsaw has appeared! He'd be flustered and stuttering, bless his heart. Sweet boy wouldn't quite know what to do. He'd very graciously accept the flowers from his s/o and thank her, but he'd feel a little silly that he'd been beaten to the punch.

Ichi would be confused but quite touched? Like, she's giving flowers to trash?? But, she's giving flowers to me??? HecK yeAh ;;;;;;. Would low-key be internally sobbing and would probably even crack a soft little smile because he would feel very loved indeed. Would put the flowers in a vase and put them in the best spot by the window so his cat friends can also see them from outside

Jyushimatsu would be super happy and excited! He wouldn't mind that it was her giving him flowers, because he liked getting flowers too! He'd smile the biggest smile and twirl his s/o to communicate a huge ass thank you. He'd treasure those flowers and would be ever so careful with them.

Totty wouldn't quite know how to react to his cute s/o being the one to give him flowers. He was meant to spoil her with flowers and cute stuff, not the other way round~. He'd still appreciate them a lot though, and would learn to not make it a 'guy spoils the girl' thing. He'd let her get him flowers, but only on the condition he could spoil her every now and then too

。

I love the role reversal, it's so sweet. They'd all be flustered boys, I'd give them all flowers if I could ❤️💙💚💜💛💗

- Mod Yuki 💤

[ragewerthers]

Stink or Swim

Summary:  Ignis is by no means a house cat, but there are some creature comforts that are harder to give up then others.Using a lake full of fish and gods knows what else as a pseudo-bathtub may be pushing his comfort a bit far.

A/n:  This is a fun little fic I wrote for @bgn846 with he prompt for skinnydiipping!  I hope you enjoy the silliness! :D

You can also find it on AO3 at: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17749826

Word count: 3,274

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

By no means was Ignis a house cat as it were.  He had been through enough training to know how to rough it, but hat didn’t mean that he didn’t still enjoy his creature comforts.  

A coffee maker for one thing.  

A bed for another.

And a shower.

Oh his kingdom for an actual, honest to gods shower.

Ignis knew how to get his hands dirty, but that didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy washing them afterwards.

Currently the four of them were finishing setting up camp and all of them had definitely been getting their hands dirty and it was starting to make Ignis’s skin crawl.

Apparently it was starting to get to the others as well.

“And where do you think you’re goin’, Princess?” Gladio groused as he hauled a dirty and crumpled looking Prince out of the tent and away from his attempts at slinking to his sleeping bag for a quick nap.

“Gladio, let me go!  We’ve been doing hunts for the better part of the day!  Can’t I just lay down and die for a second?!” he grumbled, wriggling to try and get away from the arms locked around his waist.

Gladio rolled his eyes so hard that Ignis could practically hear them from his spot by the campstove.

“I don’t think so, Stinkerella,” he said simply before hoisting the younger male up over his shoulder and carrying him away from the tent, causing the Advisor to have to cover his mouth to stifle a snort.

Prompto was not so kind, instantly laughing as Noct squeaked and looked like the most indignant sack of potatoes that the world had ever seen.

“Stinkerella?!” he cried out as he flailed, trying to get Gladio to put him down.

“You heard me!  I’m not lettin’ you roll your grubby little body all over our sleepin’ bags,” Gladio said simply, as Noct continued to grumble behind him.

“You don’t smell like a bed of roses yourself, ya know!  If you don’t lower your arms soon I think the local wildlife will be in danger!” Noct shot back and this time, Ignis did snort, though excused himself as if passing off a sneeze.

Gladio didn’t buy it for a second.

“I don’t smell that bad!” he shot back, instantly depositing the squirming Prince into a camp chair and crossing his arms over his chest, perhaps a little self conscious now.

“I hate to break it to ya, big guy, but I think you could knock out a Red Giant with that funk,” Prompto teased from his spot in his own camp chair, not paying attention as he looked through a few pictures from the car ride here.

Gladio instantly stepped up and got the gunner in a headlock, growling playfully as Prompto made a strangled noise of fear and disgust.

“Keep it up, buttercup.  You think anyone wants to sleep next to you and those socks of yours?” the Shield teased back causing Prompto to gasp dramatically and regret every life choice he’d ever made as he was hit with the full musk of the other man.

“I smell like fresh daisies compared to you!  Noct!  Mama Ignis!  Help!” the blonde cried out, trying to free himself.

Ignis gave a deep sigh, wondering if perhaps he should leave the gunner to his smelly fate after calling him by that nickname, but as the poor boy seemed to be turning green he decided to intervene.

“Gladio, please release, Prompto.  None of us are at our best, myself included, but one more hunt should put us into some good gil to get us into a hotel where we can all get a chance to freshen up,” he offered peacefully, happy to see Gladio releasing the poor gunner who immediately dropped to the haven floor, gasping dramatically and wheezing.

“Dude, are you okay?” Noct asked amusedly, a light smile on his face at Prompto’s theatrics.

“The things I seen, dude… the… the things I smelled…,” he stammered as Gladio growled once more.

“I’m not that bad!” he cried, flinging his arms in the air before quickly lowering them again.

Definitely self conscious now.

Ignis made his way over to his partner, pressing a little kiss to his cheek and patting his chest.

“They’re only messing with you, darling,” he offered gently, watching as Gladio relaxed slightly and brought an arm up to wrap around him… instantly being hit with the funk that Prompto had spoke of.

On reflex Ignis quickly stepped back and brought a hand up, watching as his partner looked both surprised and hurt.

“I’m sorry, love… but… you know you can get a bit… pungent after a few days,” he offered by means of an apology, lowering his hand once more and fixing his glasses.  “I assure you that you wouldn’t want a hug from myself either, but as I said.  One more evening roughing it and we should be able to get into a hotel.”

Pouting slightly now, Gladio went and slumped into his own chair with a huff.

“Well this stinks.”

“Yeah you do.”

“Shut up, Stinkerella!”

As Gladio and Noct decided to get into a mini snit fit with each other, Prompto, who had finally caught his breath, made his way back to his own seat.

“You know… at that last outpost one of the hunters mentioned there being a pond or lake or something around here.  I mean… I know it’s not much, but at least we could wash up a bit?” he offered, making the bickering stop if only for a moment.

Ignis’s lips instantly turned into to frown.  

Wading into an open body of water that fish and any matter of animal waded into to clean up?  That seemed the antithesis of cleanliness, but before he could open his mouth to form his rebuke Gladio was already standing.

“Good idea, Prom.  Now that you mention it I remember him saying that too.  It should be just a little south of here.”

Ignis gaped at the man.  Surely Noct wouldn’t stand for this?  His Highness would say something and put a stop to this… madness.

“I’m game.”

WHAT?!

Ignis turned to look at Noct with wide eyes, trying to figure out if he‘d heard him correctly.

“If it’ll let me sleep in the tent again and get rid of your death pits then I’m all for it.  Besides maybe I’ll be able to get in a bit of fishing as well,” Noct said with a bright smile as he popped up from his chair, Prompto giving a little whoop of excitement next to him.

“Alright!  Stinky field trip!” he cheered, making Noct laugh and push his friends shoulder playfully.

“- there, Iggy?”

“Oh!  Uh… apologies, Gladio.  You were saying?” Ignis asked, realizing that he’d been lost in his own mini spiral of thoughts.

Gladio looked at the man with a bit of concern, but offered a little smile.

“I said, did you want to drive or are we walkin’ there?” he asked gently.  “You feelin’ okay?  You look a little pale.”

“I’m fine.  And if it’s not too far I’m sure we can walk.  It would be less conspicuous,” he offered, trying to brush off any concern.

Not looking like he fully believed his partner, Gladio gave a little nod deciding to let it go for now.

“Alright then.  Then we’ll head out in ten once everyone’s got their stuff,” he said, as Ignis nodded dumbly.

Oh his skin was definitely crawling now.

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

By no means was Ignis a house cat… but this… was absolutely unacceptable.

The hunter hadn’t led them astray with his information.  There was indeed a lake near the haven, surrounded by trees and a few outcropping of rocks  and boulders and by all accounts it was rather picturesque… when one wasn’t considering it to be a your personal bathtub.

“Woah.  This place will be great for an impromptu photo shoot,” Prompto said as he glanced around.

“You mean an ‘im-Prompto’ photoshoot?” Gladio said with a smirk, getting a groan from the younger two.

“You’ve gotta stop hanging around Iggy so much.  You’re starting to do horrible puns just like him!” Noct teased, earning him a large tank top to the face, immediately setting him off gagging.

“You thought it was funny and you know it,” Gladio shot back as Noct finally freed himself from the smelly shirt and flung it into the bushes.

Taking the cue from Gladio, Prompto and Noct also started to undress, setting their fresh clothes and toiletries near the closest rocks at the edge of the water.

Ignis… remained where he stood, arms clenched around his own items as he continued to gaze out at the water.

He couldn’t do it.  He refused to do it!  This was unsanitary!  A crime against cleanliness!  Fish would see his bits and regardless of how much soap there was his feet would still get muddy and sandy as soon as he stepped out of the water and gods knew what other disgusting treats lay at the bottom of that water.

Ignis gave a full body shiver before being drawn out of his thoughts by the sound of a whoop and a rather large splash, the water spraying out enough to sprinkle his glasses with a few droplets.

Apparently the other three had decided that to get over the shock of cold they would each take a turn, running and jumping off a nearby boulder.

Obviously the first one to go had been Gladio, thus the rather large splash that had occured.

He watched as the man soon broke the surface again, flipping his wet hair back from his face and wiping some of the water from his eyes.

“Come on, Princess!  You gonna chicken out on me?” he called back to Noct who glowered down at him.

“As if!  I’m just gonna do my jump with flare!” he declared, standing brazingly in the buff with Prompto standing behind him, equally as naked.  This easily led Ignis to his conclusion on what Gladiolus had decided to wear while bathing and he shook his head.

“I think I’m gonna take a running leap,” Noct began, stretching his arms over head and to the sides as if readying himself for some Olympic sized tournament.  “Then maybe do a double flip twist forward before striking a sweet pos-GAH!”

With a little push between his shoulders from Prompto, Noct flailed, fell forward and landed with a SMACK in the worlds most painful belly flop.

Gladio was literally beside himself with laughter as Noct slowly sank into the water before popping up again and sputtering, looking like an angry wet kitten.

Prompto was wheezing from his perch on the boulder and even Ignis couldn’t help chuckling a little at the sight.

“You’re a dead man, Argentum!” Noct growled back up at Prompto who merely shrugged at the threat.

“I’ve had a good run!” he called back with a bright smile, taking his own running leap before jumping and landing a perfect cannonball beside Noct and Gladio, dousing them in water again.

As Prompto resurfaced and Noct proceeded to try and drown him for his earlier betrayal, Ignis found himself getting lost in his thoughts again.

“Aren’t you comin’ in, Iggy?  The waters not that cold, I promise!” Gladio called, behind him Prompto was attempting to splash his way to freedom from Noct.

Ignis shook his head instantly.  His mind made up utterly and completely.

“I’m sorry, Gladio, but I refuse to use this… this… fish tank as a bathtub,” he called back, setting his clothes aside.  “It’s unsanitary.  I’ll wait til we get to an actual hotel.  Thank you.”

Ignis’s words seemed to cause all the chaos happening in the water to cease.

Gladio was staring at the man as if seeing him for the first time.

Prompto, who now had Noct in a headlock and Noct, who had a hand full of Prompto’s hair, both stopped to look at the man as well.

“But… don’t you want to get clean?  You love being clean!” Noct called back, making Ignis huff a bit as he nudged his glasses a little further up his nose.

“Exactly.  I love being clean, but this is not clean.  No amount of soap will stop you all from smelling like fish when this is all over!” he shot back, though he really had no way of saying whether or not this was true.

“You literally refused to hug me earlier because I was pungent and now that we have a remedy you refuse to do it?!” Gladio asked, swimming a little closer to shore, his eyes narrowed.  “Ignis… don’t make me ban you from the tent like I did to Noctis earlier.  Look!  Even he’s trying it!”

Ignis snorted and crossed his arms over his chest, turning his face away from the other three.

“Go ahead.  I’ll be perfectly content to take my sleeping bag to the farthest corner of the haven if I have to, but I am not taking a bath in that disgusting water!”

Gladio’s eyes had narrowed into slits at this point, watching as Ignis resolutely stood his ground, refusing to get into the water with them.

Slowly he began to swim forward, but soon he began to pick up speed, his feet soon hitting the sandy bottom and once he was positive he had good footing… he attacked.

With a war cry he rushed from the water in all his naked and tattooed glory, looking like the world’s most deranged seabird with the black feathers printed on his back and shoulders glistening in the sunlight.

Ignis instantly startled but as he turned to run he found two huge, wet arms wrapped around him before being picked up bridal style.

“Gladio?!  Gladiolus!  You put me down this instant!  Don’t you dare do this or I swear to Ramuh I will end you!” Ignis sputtered as the Shield started to carry him toward the water.

With a bright smile, Gladio chuckled and held the man a little closer, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“I’ve had a good run,” he teased, using Prompto’s earlier words before running full tilt with Ignis in his arms back into the water, getting up to his waist before tossing the Advisor in, glasses, shoes, clothes and all.

With a loud yelp, Ignis sank into the murky depths to a chorus of cheering from the other three.

However… instead of popping back up like he’d expected Ignis to, Gladio watched as the ripples that signaled where Ignis had sunk began to calm, his smile soon giving way to a look of confusion and then a bit of worry.

“Ignis?” he called, wading closer to the spot he’d thrown the man, the water well up to his chest now as he wondered what had happened.

He didn’t have to wonder long.

Shooting up out of the water behind the Shield, Ignis instantly latched onto the man before dragging him down under the water with a yelp.

“Gladio?!  Ignis?!  Noct did you see that?!” Prompto yelped as he watched Gladio jump back out of the water, Ignis still latched onto him from behind.

“I’m sorr-EEHEHEE!” Gladio squealed as he doubled over in the water, instantly giving way to hysterical laughter and alerting the others to what torment was happening to him.

Ignis’s hands were latched onto Gladio’s sides, fingers digging in and tickling mercilessly as the larger man attempted to dive back under the water to escape his attacker.

“No you’re not, but you will be!” Ignis seethed, his hair fallen over his features from it’s normal updo, glasses askew on his face and his shirt clinging to him uncomfortably.

Gladio positively howled with laughter as Ignis moved one hand down to knead against his bare hip while the other scribbled against his stomach.

“Do you think we should help him?” Prompto asked as they watched Gladio being tickled to death by a vengeful Ignis.

Noct gave a little hum of thought before coming to a conclusion.  

“I suppose we have to,” he sighed before raising his hands out of the water to cup them around his mouth to shout.

“Get under his arms, Iggy!  You know that’s his worst spot!” he called out as Prompto blanched beside him.

“Dude… Gladio’s going to murder you when he gets free,” he gunner warned, getting a chuckle from the Prince.

“Eh, I’ve had a good run,” he said lightly as Ignis seemed to attack the Shield with renewed vigor.

“My phone was still in my trousers you behemoth!” Ignis chided, though any real anger had started to melt away into amusement as Gladio shook with laughter in his arms, his hands having found their way to ticklish ribs and scribbling quickly as Gladio’s arms pinned them in place.

“I-I’m… I’m sosososo SAHAH-REHEHEE!” Gladio begged, cheeks rosy from laughter and exertion.

Finally deciding the man had suffered enough, Ignis stopped his attack, simply wrapping his arms around the larger man and shaking his head as he rested his chin on his shoulder.

Gladio easily slumped against him, back pressed against Ignis’s chest as he tried to catch his breath.

“I…. I’m sorry, Iggy.  Really,” he panted, giggling adorably when Ignis gave him a little teasing flutter of fingers against his side.

“You’d better be,” Ignis murmured softly a moment later before sighing and stopping, letting Gladio go and watching as the Shield turned around.  He could see the question in the others eyes and gave a little sigh.

“Well… seeing as I’ve already been contaminated I guess I might as well try bathing in this.  But I want you all to know that this means that as soon as we get to a hotel I get first dibs on the shower.  No if’s, ands or buts about it,” Ignis warned, looking from Gladio over to the other two who had finally decided it was safe to get closer.

“Fair enough,” Gladio said softly, it was the least he could do after what he’d done to Ignis.

“Good.  Now… if you’ll excuse me I feel I’m a bit overdressed for this occasion,” he said as he waded his way back to shore to undress out of his wet clothes, getting wolf whistles from Gladio as soon as he was out of his boxers and flushing slightly with an amused smile.

“You’re absolutely incorrigible,” he chuckled.

“Yeah, I am,” Gladio called back, a large smile on his face.

It wasn’t long before Ignis was back in the water with the others, everyone finally settling down to bathe a bit and to be fair, Ignis did feel a bit calmer after getting some of the grime off his skin.

It may not have been what he was used to, but really it was better than how he had felt before.

As he rose up from the water after rinsing the shampoo from his hair he felt two strong arms once again settling around his waist and smiled.

“You smell good,” Gladio murmured softly against his shoulder, pressing a soft kiss there as Ignis leaned back against him.

“As do you,” Ignis admitted with a soft smile, soothing his hands over the others forearms.  “You no longer smell like you rolled in Anak dung.”

Gladio chuckled and nipped at his neck lightly.  “Watch it, Iggy or you’ll get yourself in trouble,” he warned lightly as Ignis gave a little hum of thought.

“Ah… well… I’ve had a good run,” he teased before sending a massive splash of water up into Gladio’s face, making the man sputter as he made his escape.

No… this wasn’t so bad at all.

[norabrice1701]

An Accidental Demon

A “Fantastic Beasts And Where To Find Them” AU fanfic

Pairing: Vet Student!Newt Scamander / Demon!Percival Graves 

Summary: All Newt wanted from IKEA was a bookshelf. Instead, he left with a demon that he accidentally summoned while trying to pronounce furniture names. Lovely. 

Rating: General  Audiences - nothing to fear here [full warnings on AO3 link at bottom of the post]

A/N: This was born from a post on a friend’s FB page, and I had to let it out. I might continue this?? It’s proving to be too much fun, but for now, it’s a one-shot. Also, the demonology here is pretty general.

Oh, dear. Shopping at IKEA should not be so stressful. As if assemble-it-yourself furniture wasn’t intimidating enough, there was also the indignity of trying to pronounce the furniture names.

But there was nothing for it. This was the third bookshelf that Dougal – his Great Pyrenees rescue – had taken out in as many months while chasing his sweet Niffler cat around. Honestly, one would think after a year of cohabitation, the dog and cat would be used to each other. But the sad, destroyed remains of Newt’s bookshelf told a different story.

That’s how he found himself back at IKEA. But this time, a simple replacement wouldn’t do. He needed something more robust. Hopefully, something that might be spared catastrophic damage during any future high speed chases. Maybe even something wall mounted? Perhaps those modular shelves that he could pick, arrange and mount well above Dougal’s sizable height? Hm, that might be just the ticket.

But now, as he wandered through the aisles, trying to match the product names from his internet search to the various tags of assembled, display furniture – maybe it would be simpler to just get what he got last time. Even if Dougal would likely destroy it a fourth time.

Newt ran a hand through his hair, biting his lip as he looked back down to his loopy handwriting. “No, not Ehk-t…Lix-hult. That looks familiar.” There was certainly a time and place to appreciate cultural and language differences, but navigating the aisles of IKEA was not it, in Newt’s opinion. He just wanted to buy shelves, go home, assemble them and change out of his fur covered scrubs. Yes, he loved his vet school clinical rotations but Dougal, Niffler and the others tended to be a little possessive when he was home.

He moved for the next row, holding up his paper to compare more names, mumbling under his breath. “Let’s see – oh, there’s Lix-hult, Li-xhult…err, Mos-torp. Sval-na. Um, Best-aa.”

A just barely-there puff of air brushed his cheek, carrying an odor. A rather…unpleasant, rotten odor. If Newt didn’t know better, he’d swear it was the smell of rotten eggs. But that was impossible in the middle of a furniture store. That’s when he noticed the dark shape in his peripheral. A dark shape that he distinctly didn’t recall before.

He turned, keeping his eyes down, but he couldn’t help but take in the man now standing next to him. Refined and polished, his sharp suit and shoes alone must have cost at least a year of Newt’s sad student job salary. And that was to say nothing about the sleek black overcoat that teased a luxurious white lining. The man’s dark eyes, thick brows, strong jaw, and dark hair streaked white at his temples, completed the unfairly attractive, imposing picture.

Newt – with uncombed hair, scrubs covered in all manner of animal fur, and a worn blue overcoat – felt like a downright slob by comparison to this man who looked fresh from a magazine cover. Newt blinked quickly, trying to quirk his lips in a polite smile. Small talk with strangers was always the most excruciating. Especially when the stranger was so handsome. “Um, hi…please, excuse me. If I’m in your way, that is.” He stepped back, not daring to meet the man’s gaze, feeling his cheeks flush. Curse his fair skin that betrayed him at every turn.

The dark-haired man said nothing, but Newt could feel the weight of his stare. It made him want to fidget even more than normal, and he chanced a lingering glance at the man’s face. The man studied him with an otherworldly intensity in those dark brown eyes. It reminded Newt of a predator studying a prey, learning their habits to plan a more effective kill. He wrenched a nervous swallow, suddenly wondering if he could outrun this man.

The man blinked, licking his lips quickly. “Hello, Mr. Scamander.”

The blood froze in Newt’s veins, every survival instinct kicking into gear. “H-how…do you know my name?” Sure, it was the obvious question, but it had to be asked. “We’ve never met before. And I certainly don’t know your name. Are you…have you been stalking me?” The words poured forth, more a nervous tic than anything. But still true. Newt would never have forgotten such a striking face.

“No,” mild astonishment and irritation colored the other man’s gaze, “I was quite content to mind my own business until you summoned me.”

“Summoned….I beg your pardon, summoned you?” Had Newt gone to IKEA or the Twilight Zone? Who just went up to strangers and said stuff like that? Newt blew an exasperated sigh, shaking his head. “Look, if you really have nothing better to do than prank defenseless people at IKEA, then I’m sorry for you. But truly, this has gone on long enough, and I’m genuinely not amused.”

The man raised a brow, affronted. “You’re genuinely not amused? I assure you, the feeling is quite mutual. So, let us conclude our deal here, and then I’ll gladly return to my previous business.”

“Deal?” Newt echoed, shaking his head. “We have no deal to conclude. I don’t even know you!”

“Your mistake if you spoke my incantation without knowing who I am. Which, I will confess – is rather reckless of you, Mr. Scamander. In fact, no protection charms, no summoning circle,” the man’s lips curled with a devilish air as he took a step forward, gazing down Newt’s body with a calculating assessment. “Mm, the fun I could have with you right here.”

The purred words should in no way race a tingling shiver of anticipation down Newt’s spine, but dammit, they did.

Newt licked his lips, holding his ground. “A summoning circle, protection…why should I need protection from you?”

“You really don’t know who I am? Or what you’ve done?”

“Well, you said I summoned you. But I didn’t…I was just…,” Newt shook the paper with the shelf names scrawled on it, “I was just trying to pronounce the names of these shelving units-.“

“And instead, you summoned a demon. Please stop wasting my time, Mr. Scamander.”

Newt registered nothing of the man’s bored tone, stunned at the admission. At the possibility. A demon? A real, live demon?! Weren’t they just supernatural make-believe? But this man before him, pulling a silver pocket watch from his suit vest and flipping the cover back with an irritated gesture, was so very real. Newt’s eyes lit with possibility. “A demon. Truly? That’s what you are?”

“Yes,” the self-professed demon huffed mildly, “now, please, to the business at hand?”

A grin cracked Newt’s face. “I don’t even know what the business at hand is. But a real demon. My goodness.” This was far better than any Christmas morning. A chance to learn about a whole new species - a whole new creature. A supernatural creature! If everything the man said was true, then Newt wanted to learn everything there was to learn. His wild curiosity begged for so much more. Where did the demon come from? Did he have powers? What was his purpose here? “I-I have so many questions.”

“None of which I’m inclined to answer. Especially not here.” The dark eyes glanced around shrewdly, taking in the movements of other unsuspecting shoppers.

Something in the man’s - demon’s - assessment suddenly made Newt self-conscious, glancing around with a nervous edge. Goodness, what a picture he must make standing next to this man. This man, dressed to the nines, clearly many years older than Newt - supernatural implications notwithstanding - who could at best pass as Newt’s friend, and at worst a sugar daddy. Heat flamed unbidden in Newt’s cheeks at the thought.

He shook his head, physically trying to shake the thought away. “Yes, yes, of course. We should probably leave. Well, that is, assuming you’re bound or stuck to me, or something...until whatever brought you here is concluded.”

Irritation flashed in the demon’s eyes, staring back at Newt as if trying to convince himself that Newt was actually real.

Newt waited for the demon to respond, shifting his weight on his feet. Anything to lessen his discomfort under the scrutiny of those intense eyes. Annoyance bubbled as the older man said nothing and Newt puffed a sigh. “Alright, very well. If you’re coming, that’s fine - if not, then...then, good day.”

He’d been plainly aware since his arrival in New York for veterinary school that his accent and manners didn’t fit with the vibrant American hustle and bustle. But they were something he hadn’t wanted to lose. There was no cause to bring more ugliness to the world, and everyone deserved well-mannered treatment. Demon or not.

Even if the man had interrupted his bookshelf buying outing. 

But if Newt did indeed now have a demon to contend with, perhaps replacing a damaged bookshelf was now the least of his worries.

The well-dressed man fell into step beside him as Newt turned to thread his way through the rest of the labyrinth store. It...this was just too absurd. And certainly not what Newt had planned for his Thursday night after clinicals. He cast a sideways glance, surprised to note that the demon was actually a couple inches shorter than he was. Something about that amused him, and a lopsided grin lifted his mouth. “You know, we haven’t properly met yet. It sounds like you already know, but I’m Newton Scamander. Newt, though, if you please.”

The man nodded almost imperceptibly. “You may call me Graves.”

Newt’s brow furrowed. “Just Graves?”

“Mr. Graves, if you prefer.”

“Don’t...don’t you have a first name or something less...severe?” The demon stared over at him, blank and hard. “Right, Mr. Graves it is. I...I take it that’s not your real name?” The smell of the cinnamon rolls and other food from the eatery reached his nose as, thankfully, they neared the exit.

“I’ve had many names over the millennia. Street. Dandridge. Clayton. Each served a purpose, just as Graves does now. And if you don’t already know my true name, then me telling you is certainly not advantageous.” Graves’ coat flared in the cool, late afternoon air as they exited into the fading sunlight. He looked completely unbothered by the transition from inside to outside, paying Newt no mind while Newt fumbled with the buttons on his coat. They were in for a chilly subway ride, after all.

Newt glanced over to Graves, intrigued. “Does... the cold not bother you? Or...or the sunlight?”

Graves’ face pinched with obvious irritation, even bewilderment. “I’m not a vampire.”

Newt’s eyes widened, excited. “Do those exist, too?”

Graves’ hand clenched at his side under the flared sleeve of his overcoat, a condescending disapproval hardening his gaze. It was impressively intimidating. Especially considering the man stood shorter than Newt. Without a word, Graves turned with a sweep of black and white fabric, and stepped forward on the curb, raising a hand at the passing line of taxis.

“No, no,” Newt moved after him with an obvious air of panic, “we’ll do better to take the subway. See, I don’t exactly live all that close. And with traffic at this time of day, well - a taxi won’t be cost effective. I don’t...I don’t know if you understand about money-”

“I understand plenty, Mr. Scamander.” The words were snarled with a coiled frustration that froze Newt in place. “I understand that you ripped me from my previous business without a purpose. I understand that you’ve initiated a contract that you don’t know the first thing about. And I understand that if I must endure New York City until our business is concluded, I will never set foot on the subway.”

A yellow cab stopped at the curb and Graves stepped up to it without waiting for Newt to respond.

Oh dear. Newt worked a hard swallow down his throat as he debated following the demon or just bolting for the subway station. Would that make things worse? Could things get worse?

The cab door stayed open behind Graves as he settled against the black interior, glancing back at Newt. The silent command on the demon’s face was unmistakable.

With another nervous swallow, Newt stepped forward and climbed into the taxi.

Full fic link to AO3!