#I had next to no motivation to do af thanks to this

[rainbowgetscreative]

oops.

[kithtaehyung]

minted: two (explicit) | myg

title: minted: two (explicit) pairing: street king!yoongi x street vendor!reader series: one | masterlist rating/genre: m (18+) ; angst , action ; haegeum au , gang au summary: after a whirlwind of a detour, you have second and third thoughts about the guy you saved. who even is this man? and what the hell is in that bag? note: holy shit, y’all. thank you so much for the love on this series already! it’s been a minute since we started a new series here, so nerves were firing on all cylinders. but you all showed out and gave me enormous relief and motivation to keep going, so thank you! note 2: as always, this is dedicated to hali @sailoryooons for ur belated bday, nary @joonary for being a cutie pie and letting me adopt the tangerine cart girl idea in general, and luce @minttangerines for ur url and for being a wonderful friend. love you all! warnings: language, violence, weapons (guns), blood/wounds mentions, drugs, alcohol, trauma/pstd, poor reader :(((, but also YES READER???, tension to the max, inner turmoil, mint!yoongi, haegeum!yoongi, tatted!yoongi, his eyebrow is pierced, yoongi visuals in this one areeee… a ha ha, did i mention tension?, tense situations, crass af yoongi lol, reader is also a baddie but who is shocked, slow burnnnn drop date: september 30th, 2024, 9:03pm est word count: 9.8k help me @ god

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There’s something to be said about the human gut. 

Not for being the source of multiple health aspects, nor the way it’s connected to the brain. 

But, other than when violence tears it to shreds, it can be quite the defense mechanism. Just like yours churns and churns with each mechanical click of the elevator shaft.

Who is this person next to you? 

Who exactly did you decide to follow upstairs hours ago, killing your daily life to save and join on the run? 

You don’t know if you release your hand or if Yoongi lets it fall, but you take this unlinking to create space. As you slide your gaze toward your companion, he merely shifts his weight and finds interest in increasing, beeping numbers.

How can someone’s profile be so troublingly handsome? You’d be able to think more clearly if he wasn’t both attractive and dangerous. Or if you simply weren’t on the verge of collapse.

Frankly, if you didn’t just murder a man you’d pass out as soon as you took too long to blink. 

To keep yourself alert—and to hopefully gather some much needed intel—you suddenly question aloud, “Where are we?”

No answer.

Alright.

“That driver called you Agust,” you recap on a second go. “What was that about?”

All Yoongi does is stare at his reflection in opulent, dim mirrored walls. Or whatever else he’s doing besides talking. 

Okay. Well.

You can face forward, too. 

“Those guys after us,” you try a third time, because who are you to give up now even if he radiates annoyance. “They didn’t look like Crane.”

“Doesn’t mean they weren’t.”

Your neck almost snaps when you turn. “Are you kidding me?”

As you watch Yoongi scorn the ceiling again, you can’t believe he doesn’t agree. 

Mm. Does he?

From the flex of his jaw, you have to assume you’re right to some degree. Because it looks like he’s very, very bothered by the people that chased you down. 

If those weren’t any of the high-powers but had equal resources and numbers…

What the hell were they? Where did they even come from?

Geez, it’s freezing. Is a drop in temperature the best barrier to you making sense of things? You can’t even appreciate the way Yoongi’s veins protrude with every adjustment he makes to that mysterious duffle bag.

Lies. You absolutely can. But there’s no way in hell you’re ever complimenting that. Or anything about him anymore because he clearly doesn’t want anything to do with you! 

Why did he even hold your hand? Was that just a ploy, too? 

But that taxi drive…

Yoongi looks down before lightly scuffing his shoe, and both of you fall silent as you finally give up with a huff. 

Massively dehydrated. Sore. Still covered in a myriad of unmentionables and now being ignored by the guy you saved. 

All you wanna do is go home, and you don’t even know where that is. 

How far did you travel? What district is this? You’ve never heard of a grey zone, but they seem fairly peaceful even at night. Neutral enough for you to consider relocating even if it meant sleeping on the street.

That brings up another question. “If we’re in a grey zone, how did you know—”

A ding interrupts your last thought, and you look to see where you ended up.

But the elevator doesn’t say a number. Only letters? What kinda floor did you stop on? 

One thing’s for sure, though. Whatever room you end up getting, if there’s only one bed you’re hogging it or taking the…

Floor…

There are many things that have shocked you in your lifetime. Many things just from today that had your head positively and forever reeling. 

But when the elevator doors slide open, you can’t even fathom what the fuck you’re dealing with. 

And in this second, more than ever, you understand how ludicrously out of your element you really are. 

“Holy shit,” you blurt, barely hearing the huff at your side.

Don’t elevators usually open up to hallways? Why are you walking into an entire living space? Is this a real place people choose to sleep in for a night? A whole floor?

Forget a whole floor, it’s a whole other place.

You slowly survey everything, wondering how much this has to be because you have never seen a living space so big. Or pretty. Or anything like this.

The ceilings vault and the furniture looks nothing like you’ve ever seen. Everything looks pristine. Clean. Is that a whole kitchen?

How are there living arrangements this big? This one place is bigger than your entire apartment level back home. 

And here you are: speechless, virtually homeless, and dragging your filth onto white marble floors. 

Perfect.

“What.” 

You turn at the scrape of Yoongi’s voice, wondering why now is when he finally chooses to acknowledge you. Head pounding, you ask outright, “Who… Who even are you? What is this place?”

He levels your stare before walking towards a long couch, dumping the duffle and raking his hair back in minted waves. “There’s a shower in every bedroom. Take your pick.” 

…Is that really his only response?

“That’s not what I asked,” you fire back, wondering what the hell his problem is so you can add more out of spite.

“But it’s what you need.”

“Say what now?” 

The fucking nerve? Even though you obviously, desperately need one, hearing him mention it makes you wanna re-use the chopsticks in your pocket. 

But Yoongi simply waves you off, grabbing a remote and flicking on a television so wide you would struggle to reach both ends. 

This is all too much. 

“You know what I need? To go home,” you huff out, leaving fire in your determined trek to the elevator. “Have a nice life, Yoongi. Or Agust. Whoever the fuck you are.” 

You get to the door and run into a dirt-slicked forearm. “The fuck are you doing?”

“Shouldn’t be that hard to figure out.”

“You serious?”

“Yes, I am. So move.”

Yoongi pauses, jaw working overtime before he steps aside—wait he’s gonna let you go that easily? 

…Oh.

That was certainly not what you expected, but what else would you even think? This isn’t one of those stories that ends perfectly after trials and tribulations. Yoongi has proven more than once—in mere hours—that he’s no regular civilian. 

But despite that, you blink before freezing at a terrible realization. 

No matter how you slice it, you’re much better off with him right now than you are by yourself. Even if he is a secretive criminal with a smoking gun. 

He did keep you alive that whole chase.

But there’s the smallest, tiniest chance that you aren’t quite safe with him, either. You don’t even know who this man is anymore—maybe you never did.

So in a quick decision, you skim his side to slap the elevator button, chucking daggers at his brows until he leaves you to wait alone.

Good. You don’t need this. You can find your way back to your city block somehow and live the life you’ve chosen to lead again. 

Yes. You can do all of that by yourself. The chase is done. 

And so is your story with the man that will never buy your tangerines again. 

Grabbing your sleeve, a second fact stings your fingers. A jacket woven in Dragon teal. 

Shit. You need to ditch this, too. Either right now, or before you get the hell out of this grey zone because if you don’t, this is the biggest target you could ever have on your back. 

No good. No good no good you didn’t plan any of this well at all. Fucking pride blinding you to everything else logical. Is this how your story ends? Because of regret and resistance? 

You wait for the sliding doors, about to leave the biggest room you’ll ever see to occupy a box. How poetic. 

Your heart pounds as you close your eyes. Yoongi just cut you loose; it’s obvious he doesn’t care so why should you? No going back now. You’ll figure it out. The doors are finally opening. 

And someone’s inside?

Wait.

Your brain both whirrs and skids to a halt at the sight of the staff member occupying the elevator. When they give you a look, you find your hand drifting towards your back pocket.

Fucking hell, relax. You should be safe with a staff member, right? They wouldn’t be out to kill you. This is just your adrenaline on its haunches. 

However, one foot in the elevator and your senses go haywire. 

Because you can’t do this alone. You aren’t nearly as prepared to brave this foreign space as you need to be. With red in your hands and Dragon on your back? Absolutely not. 

You bow to the hotel staff before you face forward into the expanse. 

And as the doors start to close, you see Yoongi’s stare over his shoulder, storming with emotions you can’t name.

Yeah, you fucked up.

Fuck. 

Fuck you actually made a big mistake go back don’t let the elevator close shit—

As you lunge for the door, you get your arm through to block it from closing, turning to the employee inside and seeing their expression change. 

What was that about?

“Sorry,” you blurt to their pressed and polished grey uniform. “I forgot something inside.”

“I can wait, Miss,” they immediately offer, to which you politely and cautiously decline. 

“No need.” When you step out of the elevator, something happens that you think about hours and hours later. “I’ll come down when I’m ready, thank you.”

You can suddenly breathe again. Why was it so stuffy in there?

The worker bows stiff. “As you wish.” 

Without pause, you nod, waiting until the doors close to face someone turned away.

Ugh. It’s like Yoongi knew you weren’t gonna leave. Either that, or he really didn’t give a crap about what you did at all.

Either way, fuck this guy and fuck your indecisive ass!

In full aggravation, you march through the entrance before grating out, “You’re lucky I—”

“Shower.”

“What?”

“The blood,” he calmly breathes. “If you’re gonna hit the streets, wash it out.” 

“It isn’t mine.”

“I know.”

Your mouth snaps shut. 

Fuck. Yoongi’s right. 

“Okay. Well,” you scoff, “Good point but how can I trust you to not do anything.” 

When he tilts his head with a bored, unamused, borderline ticked off expression, you almost scoff before he drawls, 

“Not interested.” 

Oh. He’s… 

Oh. 

But the taxi and the hand-holding and the the the kiss what the hell? Was your liplock not up to this Dragon’s standards? Why are you questioning something so trivial? 

The nerve. You plunge your shoulders in exasperation, hating how you chose to put yourself in another situation with this pain in the ass and he isn’t even… “I swear to—You know what? Good. Not interested, either.”

A lie. 

Scrambling, your stomach speaks the next sentence for you, “But there better be food when I come out cus you robbed me of lunch today. So do something about that.” 

Fucking hell you do not need his lips to quirk up so deliciously. That one look completely offsets what he just said and annoyingly tickles your core. 

Stop. Focus. You cannot entertain any of those thoughts so ignore him and find a bedroom. 

Opening the first door you can see, you continue your tirade, “And no more stealing my chopsticks.”

“Closet.”

Of course it’s a closet! Shutting it with force, you let out a high curse. “Who needs a closet here? Whatever, just—figure it out, I’m starving.”

“Yes, princess.”

You flick Yoongi off as you blaze down the hall, not even knowing nor caring if he sees or not. 

The next door works, and you shut him out before falling back onto its weight, so fraught with emotion that you can’t even register the appearance of the room. 

Today has aged you multiple years. So much has transpired ever since this afternoon that you can’t even think in straight nor curved lines. As soon as you remember something, another thought juts between. Why are you simultaneously thinking about dingy, stained floors while agonizing over Yoongi’s lips? Is there a place other than hell or heaven you can settle on? 

As soon as you’re physically and mentally patched, you are out of here. 

The plan is simple. Shower, eat, give this man a piece of your manic mind, then go home.

Although… It would be nice to at least know what’s in that duffle. If it’s something worth taking you could finesse a piece of the loot. 

Swallowing dry, you push yourself off the door and finally notice a flood of ambient light. 

At your side, you come across an expansive bathroom, eyeing the wall-to-wall entrance before taking in the center shower with disdain and awe.

The whole setup is lavish. 

Does the water just fall straight from the ceiling and into that large square tub? This looks nothing like your cramped, chipped one back home. There’s even lush plants lining the area and towels already folded nearby for use. 

Maybe you did get killed on the run and you’re in some type of dreamworld. 

Too bad you aren’t alone.

As you drag tired feet onto heated tile, you search for the shower knobs, realizing you have a whole panel to work with instead. 

Uhh. 

What. 

You quickly find that one button blows water like a hose straight from the top, scaring you so bad you jump. When you hastily try another, something whirrs in the floor that has your brows kissing—

“You good?”

Fuck!

You flinch and hit the wall, groaning when you see Yoongi lazily resting against one side of the bathroom entrance. Both of your voices echo in the extravagant interior.

“You ever knock?”

“No.”

“Shocker.”

He walks up the tiny steps, and you’re more than relieved you’re still wearing his jacket. When he gets closer, you turn and face the panel, “I can figure it out.”

“Move.”

You get slightly displaced as he gets close, resting a hand on the wall while bending to operate the buttons. As you inhale his musk, you respond to his second question instead of his first. “What?”

“Is this fine,” he repeats, checking the settings before turning to the shower area.

Oh. Wow. It’s a lot more than fine.

A circle of rain falls into a beautifully lighted tub, steam wafting through the glow and coating your skin. 

You’re so entranced that you are quite literally left speechless. Skirting around your present company, you gaze up, down, silently observing the plants sway with the shower air. 

Strangely, this whole bathroom makes everything you’ve seen today believable because of the sheer wonder of it all. It’s almost enough to make you forget what you’ve done. 

Almost. 

When you pause, you see Yoongi watching your face from beyond the rainfall. And he looks so handsome, even now, not doing a thing. 

Is it because he’s clearly roughed up but still so poised? Very unlike you in your banged up, dirty state? 

Huffing, you fold your arms a little too harshly—out of jealousy or whatever else, who is to say. “I’m good now,” you proclaim, keeping your walls high. “I can do the rest myself.” 

Again with that little slant. 

Ignore him ignore him. If Yoongi keeps doing that, you’re really gonna have to brave the outside world instead of dying by smirk. A tub has never been so interesting in your life. 

“Suit yourself.”

You look up again.

But he’s already left you alone.

Solely to undress and contemplate what the hell he implied by that.

Why did you walk left today instead of right?

Under scorching rain in the middle of luxury, this is the question you repeat in your head. Watching all the burnt streams of your decision swirl, and swirl, and swirl. 

The blood will never wash out.

Does the price of saving a life have to be this high? It must be somewhat divine, being that in order to save, you took. If only there was another way to achieve that end goal. Though there’s no way to do it all over again to be sure.

Staring at four chopsticks on the ground, you try to assure yourself. You need to.

Because at least you succeeded. 

But will your price be more damning because of the one you saved? 

Rushing water mutes your hearing as it pours onto sore limbs. When you reach for the scrub for a third time, you make sure to really dig, scraping at every. Single. Inch. In a last attempt to cleanse yourself completely.

Knowing that even after the water runs clear, you still see nothing but red.

You chose left today.

If you had chosen right… 

Doesn’t matter. 

Your palm tingles.

Blood never really washes out.

Holy fuck, you don’t have clothes to change into.

Wrapping yourself in plush material, you hastily pad around freezing floors as you think of a plan.

You can’t just ask for them. How would Yoongi even have any for you? The jacket was more than enough borrowing for today and you’re in a hotel room, not his place.

Thank the universe.  

But the matter is pretty urgent. Because you’d rather burn your belongings before putting them on again. Which leaves zero clothing and a thousand issues. Fuck. 

Dragging feet to the massive sliding doors, you steel your resolve. Hoist your shields back upright. 

Because there’s no choice. You’re just gonna have to dread another conversation with this man. An embarrassing, awkward, unprecedented shit why is he in the bedroom!

You flinch backward as you slam the door closed. Peeking out, you gawk, “What the hell are you—?”

Did Yoongi just pocket a phone?

The duffle rests at his feet. 

Wait. Did he stay in here while you showered? Thank god you had the foresight to slide all the doors shut because you definitely spent a lot of your time scrubbing like mad or standing completely still. 

No. Yoongi’s hair is wet, so he did shower at some point. And he’s donning a robe, which is precisely what made you slam the door shut. 

How can he look like royalty wearing that? The material is quite lush and silken, but still plain. It makes no fucking sense and you wanna rip it right off—

Gathering yourself, you rush out, “Why are you in here?”

“You took too long.”

“So? That doesn’t—”

“In my shower.”

Wait. What? “Oh.” 

You slide the door open a little more to check his claim. And now that you finally see the room, you can tell it’s clearly been used already, clothes and bottles scattered about. “You said pick one.” 

“I did.” Yoongi turns to drop something onto a dark comforter. “Figured you picked it on purpose.”

“No, I… I didn’t notice the room.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says after a brief look your way. “Not sharing the bed, though.”

“No need,” you snip. “I’m leaving soon.” 

Motherfucker. Yoongi only regards his sheets with a smile that triggers your fight response. And you almost—almost—drop the towel. 

Speaking of. How are you even standing in his vicinity with only a single piece of cloth? Are you seriously that exhausted you didn’t even think twice about it?

Suddenly very, very aware of yourself, you squeak, “Umm.” He waits. “I don’t have any clothes.” 

“That’s what you get for kicking me out so quick.”

Your jaw hits the floor. “So what, I’m walking around with a towel? Are you out of your mind? If you think I’m some—”

“Fuck, relax,” he slowly groans to the ceiling. “I was gonna say there’s robes in the closet.” 

You snap your mouth closed so hard it jangles. “Then just say that!” And you slam the partition closed before fast walking to find them. 

Missing the way Yoongi huffs before staring hard at his bedroom door.

On your second arrival into his room, your steps and demeanor are a lot calmer. 

Is it because he’s a lot calmer, too? Maybe. Is it also because you smell food, realizing he did exactly what you wanted? Maybe more so. 

Noticing a table situated near balcony doors, you blink before regarding Yoongi’s sitting form on one of the chairs outside. 

A man lounging while smoking in a robe should not be this alluring. And yet, that’s the only word you can think of to describe him.  

Throat drying and aching, you slowly walk over and take a seat, already ravenous enough to dive into broth head first. But you eye Yoongi while retrieving new chopsticks, scowling when all he does is flash teeth through the glass.

Do not engage do not engage do not engage. 

Pretending not to care and severely failing, you focus on your— 

“You’re really mad about that, huh.”

You snap your head up to see him leaning on the doorway. “I was hungry.”

“There was a cup of them on your table.”

“So why didn’t you grab those instead!” 

Yoongi ticks his brows before peering into the night. And he stays like that for awhile, letting a breeze lift his damp locks. “Didn’t expect to see you there,” he admits. “Gotta say you threw me off.”

Nu uh. No more heart skips for today. “I didn’t expect to see you, either,” you too choose to be honest. “Thought I’d never see you again.”

“You were going to.”

As curious brows furrow, you break your utensils apart. “Figured something happened.” Guess you’re being honest about a lot of things. “Or you found another tangerine girl.” 

Yoongi holds his look before taking a drag, smoke spiraling around his words, “Why were you even over there? You’re a bit far from Crane.”

You blink at his deflection.

What was that about? What is that look for? 

Holding his gaze because you aren’t done challenging him, you calmly answer, “I was shopping.”

“Shopping.”

“Mmhmm.” 

Falling silent, he observes a little longer before flicking ash off his cigarette. 

And just like that, the conversation dies. 

It’s for the best anyways. If Yoongi kept prying, he was gonna get closer to the truth. And you wanna slip around that as much as possible. 

But he keeps standing in the doorway, inked arm bending as he breathes in smoke. Donned in a dark robe and topped in teal, he suits Dragon perfectly. Way too perfectly. 

Pretending not to care and severely failing, you focus on your noodles instead. 

Your noodles.

Your noodles. 

You’re not hungry anymore. 

Something horrid jams up your throat, and you run through your day in flashes. The restaurant. The food. Dragons. The chopsticks. The kill. The chase. Yoongi. The kill the kill the kill. 

Dirt and shouts and lifeless lips clog your hearing, and your grip loosens completely as your vision shakes and shakes why couldn’t Yoongi have gotten anything else why does it have to be—

A hand. 

A robed arm. 

Your new utensils come back into view. 

But when you face reality, you don’t see them put them back into your hand. You don’t even see them dug in your noodles and left there. 

Instead, you watch as Yoongi plants one palm on the table, slowly lifting strands from the bowl and staring right into your eyes, 

“Eat.” 

Words. Get them out. Something something communication. Key is communication. What the fuck is happening to your brain? 

“I can’t,” you finally croak out. “I’m not.. I’m not hungry.” 

“You are.” 

“Not anymore.” 

Nose scrunching, Yoongi suddenly drops the food and dumps himself on the chair nearest, stretching his leg and revealing a littering of scars. “Didn’t know you were fine with wasting food.” 

The icy descent of his tone freezes your bones.

“Thought you of all people would hate that.” 

“I—I’m not—It’s not that—”

“Then eat.” 

“I literally can’t—” 

“Water. Food. If you’re gonna waste all my shit, then leave.” 

“What?” 

Is he serious? You’re in the midst of post-traumatic shock and he can’t take the hint? You’re so appalled by this man that you can’t even think straight. 

“You heard me. Stop acting like you didn’t.” 

“Oh, I heard you,” you snap. “Just double-checking what the fuck you said.” 

“So you gonna leave or just sit there? If you’re staying I’ll just walk out the roo—”

“Don’t.” 

Both of you still at your words.

And you have to force your palms to unfurl on your quivering thighs. One knuckle. Another. Nails leave half-moons in your skin. 

Breath haphazard, you finally break. “Just,” you swallow, hard. “I’m not wasting it just give me a sec.” 

You don’t want to tell Yoongi why you want him to stay. Despite him being the most infuriating person you’ve ever met, it beats the alternative. And you don’t want the alternative. Truthfully, that’s another reason why you left the elevator earlier. 

Yoongi looks pissed as hell. 

But he hasn’t moved. 

And that’s enough to get you to pick up your chopsticks and try again. 

You stare. Stare. Stare. Mustering courage and inhaling all the aromas you indulged in just earlier today. 

Fuck, you wanna hurl. 

“You’re gonna have to get used to this.”

Your gaze snaps to his, brows and thoughts knitted in disbelief. “What?”

“This feeling.” Yoongi looks out the glass doors, hands resting on the arms of his chair. “The faster you do, the better.”

There’s no way he’s serious. Get used to it? What reason would you ever have for doing that? Caustic, you scoff, “Why, so I don’t waste more of your food?”

You’ve never seen someone laugh in a negative way. But he does before sliding his eyes over. “So when you have to do it again, you don’t lock the fuck up hours later.”

You shoot up from your chair, hellbent on oh fuck you stood up too fast. “You—”

Yoongi just watches as you grab the table for balance, wincing from the pangs in your head. Words grind through your teeth, unable to fully form beyond the light assaulting your brain.

“Like I said.”

Palms press against your forehead before you slump back into your chair. 

“It’s better in the long run.” 

Technically, he’s right. It’s better in the long run if you get used to this. 

But there’s no way you can do it again. Who does he think you are? Yoongi’s got to know that you aren’t planning on making this a daily habit. This isn’t you. You only killed to protect somebody. Killed to save the person telling you to basically get over it.

Fucking hell, this sucks.

Frustration and exhaustion sting the corners of your eyes. 

Eat. Build your strength and get the hell out of here. Deal with it deal with it deal with it.  

As you regrettably pick up your chopsticks, you don’t care if your tears season your noodles. And quite frankly, you don’t give a shit if Yoongi watches them fall, too. 

Because they’re liquid anger. Hot trails blazing down your face, hardening into sticky paths and dried rivers. 

“What were you looking for.” 

Your eyes slide up to regard him, his arms folded and brows low. Because of course he doesn’t care about your state, either. Of course he’d rather entertain his curiosity. “Nothing you need to know,” you mutter, banning him from knowing another truth. 

“Did you find it.” 

You swipe at both your eyes.

As spice coats your tongue, Yoongi keeps prying, “Something you needed to go all the way there for?” 

“Fuck off,” you dismiss, slurping and swallowing with ease. “I don’t have to answer you.” 

“You already are,” he responds, confident. “Now tell me. Is there one in particular you need?” 

Wait. You barely gave anything away, so how is Yoongi asking the right questions? There’s no way he actually knows what you were looking for. No way in hell.

This man is more dangerous than you thought. 

“Why do you even care,” is all you choose to say, more focused on your food now because above everything else, it’s quite fantastic. It somewhat reminds you of a past home, and you can’t help but escape to those distinct walls. “It’s irrelevant to you.”

“But I have what you want.” 

You take another bite before stilling, looking up to see Yoongi propping his head with roughed knuckles. “You’re lying,” you drawl to his smugness, trying to act as if he didn’t just figure you all the way out. Because he didn’t. There’s no way. “And I’m still leaving.”

“If you stay, I’ll show you.” 

When you leer over your soup, he simply stares back with no hint of emotion. 

And you’re so curious about what he means that you finish your whole bowl. 

When you push it forward, you understand exactly what Yoongi did. It worked perfectly, and you have to hand it to him even though he mangled your character minutes beforehand. “Thank you,” you offer some manners. “This was goo—”

The scrape of a chair cuts you off, and your sentence dies in midair as you watch your runaway partner vacate his seat. 

Good riddance.

He knows how to stay on your bad side, that’s for damn sure. 

But Yoongi simply heads back out to the balcony for another light. So you chalk up his swift exit to vices and not wanting to breathe your air. Or maybe he’s done with his fun and is already writing you off before you head out. 

Clearing your bowl from the table, you walk out of the bedroom and bring it to the large kitchen, noting with a scowl that it’s obnoxiously bigger than half your floorplan back home. 

Yearning pierces right through your chest. 

The elevator is right over there. 

You showered, you ate. You can leave as soon as you clean your dish.

Are you way too curious about what Yoongi’s gonna show you? Yes. But is that gonna stop you from getting out of here? No. 

Well. This robe is hugging your figure perfectly and feels way too comfortable to just use for an hour or so… Plus, if you ditched it now, Mister Morals will scorn you for wasting that away, too. 

How rude of him to assume that about you. Of course you aren’t wasteful. The only times you let things go are when you absolutely have to, like you should have back in that noodle shop instead of braving the back staircase. 

Scoffing to no one, you scrub your bowl in the sink, grunting explicatives and stabbing Yoongi with curses until you hear a distinct beep. 

Was that the elevator?

You cut the water off with a twist.

Cautiously, you make your way across the kitchen, peeking around the corner to appease your curiosity and spike your anxiety. 

A bellhop? Another grey uniform looking to and fro to survey the area. It’s the same person that sent a look of panic your way before you went up to the room. 

And your defense mechanism blares. 

But before you can hide behind the partition, their eyes lock onto yours. Arm outstretched, the staff is motioning for you to… join them? Why? 

You’re the one bunking with a gangster. Why does this person make you even more uncomfortable? This feeling is just like the one you had when you called the elevator the first time. Was your gut warning you then, too? 

Maybe it’s because you don’t like the staff thinking they can come in unannounced. Grey zone etiquette or not, you can’t see how this is ever appropriate. In fact, it poses so many safety concerns. How is this okay? 

Walking into the foyer, you rest a hand on a robed hip. “Can I help you?” 

“I’m the one trying to help you,” they whisper, harsh and with another swipe of their hand. “You have to get out while you can.” 

Wait. What do they mean while you can? “And why’s that?” 

Sputtering, the bellhop sticks one foot out the elevator while pleading and, for some reason, that pisses you all the way off. “There’s no time to—”

“Get. Your foot. Off my floor.” 

Is that fear in their eyes or surprise? “Oh, apologies. I didn’t realize you were… I thought—”

“Thought what?” Your arms fold, weight shifting to your other tired foot. “Speak up.” 

Frankly, you don’t know where this newfound energy is coming from. All you know is that there are certain things you still despise and this person is ticking all the boxes. 

“I thought you were taken, Miss. I’m here to save you.” 

Pausing, you grip your arms, feeling silk gather under your palms. 

There’s a lot you tolerate. Many things that a lot of people can’t. But someone assuming you’re the weak one that needs saving? There is no quicker way to lose your interest. 

Stepping towards the elevator, you unfurl your arms, robe swaying and billowing around your freshly showered legs. 

“Yes, that’s right. Come on, we can take you away.” 

Hand on the entrance, you lean forward. “You’re not taking me anywhere,” you command, finger pressing the button at your side. “And you aren’t coming back up here until I say so.” 

Slowly, the doors slide shut, your reflection two halves in the metal shine. 

Well. 

So much for leaving. 

You may spend more time here than you thought. 

With more thoughts swirling, you spin, heading back into the kitchen to pick up the same bowl you were washing. Hoping you and your gut made the right call. 

Yoongi’s a criminal and a madman. But he’s not… the worst. At least, not horrible enough to warrant someone coming up to steal you away.

Besides. Is Yoongi aware that staff can come and go as they please? He seems like the type of guy that would hate that. 

Staying vigilant seems to be a little more important now. 

It’s soon after, when you’re placing the dish somewhere to dry, that you hear noise in the living room beyond the countertop. Looking up, you see someone much more familiar enter the space. 

Hmm. Whatever’s in that duffle must be worth millions for Yoongi to lug it around everywhere. 

As he dumps it next to the couch again, you don’t choose to ask about it just yet. Only because you want to ease into it later when you’re both not at each other’s throats. And while you’re not reeling from another strange encounter at the elevator. 

So you go with a safer question instead, choosing not mention what just happened. “Is this whole floor… your place?”

Yoongi looks up. “Only when I need it to be.”

Interesting. “Does anyone else know about it—”

“Do you always ask this many questions?”

You blink. “I mean. I don’t get by selling fruit cus I’m quiet.”

“You’re quiet with me.”

“And even then I get you to talk.”

Yoongi frowns slightly before moving away, more towards the sliding door leading out to another outdoor area. 

God, this place is obnoxiously huge. There’s still a whole other half you haven’t seen yet. 

When you peer out, you watch as he leans against the railing, seeming to look both up at the building and down at the streets below. 

Well. If you aren’t leaving anytime soon, may as well offer some sort of peace offering. Maybe the two of you just need to chill the fuck out. 

Rummaging through the kitchen, you manage to find some high quality beer in the fridge. On your walk to the sliding glass, you’re reminded of the time you gave him one before when he helped fix your cart. 

That was so long ago. 

You’re so lost in thought that you barely register Yoongi whipping a hand to his waist when you walk outside. But you catch the metal just in time. 

“It’s me!” you quickly alert before regressing back to annoyance, “Really…”

You’ve had way too much to deal with today. You don’t need a bullet in your chest to be another problem. 

Especially since his little maneuver showed a bit more skin than you meant to see.

Yoongi eyes you before his shoulders rest, and you stride forward to offer up the cold can in your palm. 

But you decide to hesitate while he goes to grab it, and you instead open it to have some. 

Ugh. High quality, your ass. This one is way too bitter. 

Your companion snorts as you make up an excuse, “I’ve had better.” 

“Do you even drink?” 

“Well, yeah,” you pout. Needing to prove it, you decide to keep the can. “Lemme try again.”

Somehow, this leads to you sharing the beer with him, tasting the mix of alcohol and smoke even after he tosses another cigarette off the ledge.

It’s not quite enough to forget, but it’s certainly helping. Observing the clouds so close and the city so far beneath your toes is extremely calming. It’s almost like you’re flying. 

“It’s different here,” you mention out of the blue.

“This sector?” 

“This high up.” Breathing in altitude, you sigh. “I’ve never been higher than my fourth story. It’s nice.” 

“It’s usually silent, too.” 

Your eyes slightly stab. “Whatever. You like having me around and just won’t admit it.” At this, Yoongi avoids direct contact. “Mmhmm. Don’t even try to hide it.” 

“You’re useful to me.” You freeze. “That’s why you’re here.” 

You shake your head. For someone deeming you useful, Yoongi’s pretty nonchalant about you dipping. Taking a tangy sip, you clarify, “But you don’t care if I leave? If someone comes to take me?”  

He takes the offered can. “Mm.” 

That answers that.

You should probably still tell him about what happened, though. His reaction could give more away than his words.

Instead, you drink in the night with your eyes. Knowing that you should know better about the company present. 

The more you converse with Yoongi, the more you pick up. And one of those sad facts is that he doesn’t give a shit about anything you do or don’t do. Because all he really cares about is what he needs. 

You can’t do anything to change him. Fix him. Whatever exists in fairytales. So you decide to take the night in stride. Not give a shit about him, either, per se. 

Your curiosity gets the better of you now. Not just about what he’s gonna show you, but about that duffle. You quite literally don’t have anything to lose anymore, so may as well go for the question you’ve been wanting to ask all day. 

“I was gonna ask for a cut of that,” you divulge with a head-tilt to the bag. “But figured you won’t even show me.” 

“Why not?” 

“Uhh.” You didn’t expect this. “You don’t like questions? You’re always secretive?” 

“Never talk to the streets, princess. They’ll snitch on everything you say.”  

“That’s deep,” you admit, taking a once full beer in your palm. “But I’m no snitch.”

“I know.” 

Your look carries a slight pang. 

“Come here.” Both of you walk inside as he plays with his lighter. When you round the couch, Yoongi dumps the bag right onto the cushions. “If you wanna see what’s in here, do it.” 

You stare before slowly walking forward and kneeling to unzip the bag. As your slide reveals the contents, you’re nervous about what you’ll see. 

But when it’s open, you freeze. 

It’s all…chil-don? Tons of money wrapped in sleek stacks with edges so… Crisp. New. 

Wait. 

These patterns. 

These are il-don? 

Holy fucking shit there’s no way these are real. This is currency seven generations old. The first ever of the established system. Worth more than anything in current circulation, especially in their pristine state. Forget being worth millions, these are next to priceless. 

You’ve never seen them like this.

“They’re some of the last in mint condition.” 

The shock value is so high you forgot you were alone. Slowly turning, your breath catches as you ask, “How did you know where to find these?” 

“Like I said,” he drones. “Streets talk.” 

You look at the bills before glancing back up. “Can I…?” 

Yoongi cocks a brow before angling his mouth. “Touch them? Do what you want, doll.” 

You blink at the name this time. Because him saying that with a fresh cig in his lips is making your stomach flutter. 

Picking up a fresh stack, you inspect the ancient pattern inlay with eyes wide, admiring how paper so old can have such detailed engravings. “These can’t be real.” 

“They are.” He shifts. “And most people never see one in their lifetime.”

You put the money back on the pile inside. Yes, these have got to be worth a fortune. But there’s nothing else in the bag? No drugs, no lethal substances, anything? “Wait, so. This is it?” 

Yoongi fully laughs before flicking his lighter again. “You want something else?” 

“No, I—” You back away. “There’s really nothing else in there?” 

Coolly, he lights up before taking the initial drag. “Nah.” 

Smoke spirals around you. “I dunno what I expected but it wasn’t that.”

Yoongi lets a wisp leave his mouth. You know it’s getting in your robe, but caring about the little things has now jumped out the window. “Whatever’s in that bag can feed half the city.” 

“What?” As you look, he walks over to what looks like a small section of a bar. “Is that why you stole it?”

“Stole it?” Yoongi grins and shakes his head. “Sure. That’s why we stole it.”

“We? Leave me out of this.”

“Too late.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

You step forward in anger, but you only get a sound out before Yoongi straightens, aura blazing,

“I—”

“Say I do leave you out of it. Nothing happened tonight, according to me.” He discards his fresh light in an ashtray, watching it die before sliding his gaze your way. “Doesn’t mean whoever we just fought will suddenly leave you alone.”

Shit. He has a point. You ran for so long and fought plenty of those guys.

Is this what he meant? Getting used to that feeling? Maybe your consequence is joining the cycle of the damned, forced to kill in order to protect. Both others and now yourself. 

“But I’m… Just a nobody. A civilian, I…”

Yoongi walks until he’s in front of you, hand cupping your chin and voice whispering mortifying allegations in your ear, 

“You took a body for a Dragon, love. You’re not a civilian anymore.”

Your arms shove him backward without pause, face distraught as you watch his smirk bounce with his shoulders. His cackle echoes mad through the room, pinging the floors and piercing through your robe. 

Truthfully, it doesn’t even feel like you’re wearing one. So naked and exposed in the open for this man to see. “You’re despicable.”

“That right?” His mouth sets as his lids lower. “And what about the one that killed and kept running?”

What.

“There was a police car at the restaurant,” Yoongi continues, a reminder so sharp it slices clean. “Yet you didn’t turn yourself in.”

Your feet sink into the rug beneath. “That’s not…” 

With measured steps, he stalks forward, a harbinger of horrific realizations that you don’t want to hear, “You didn’t have to keep running. Didn’t have to get in that taxi.”

Stepping back, you find the room so stuffy it’s hard to move. “You—”

“Could’ve taken another train.” 

“Stop.”

“Could’ve stayed in that elevator.”

What the fuck is happening right now? 

Yoongi’s close. Very much too close, and the energy he radiates sets your instincts ablaze.

This is the man you’ve been pining over this whole time? If you ever get back home, you have got to remind yourself to avoid him at all costs. There’s nothing good for you if you stay. Danger surrounds every inch of him, and there’s no telling when you’ll take collateral damage.

“But you didn’t,” he delivers the final blow. “And you’re still here.” 

Lifting your chin, Yoongi grins slow when you yank away. 

“I should’ve never saved you.” Gaze finally locked, you growl from within, letting a monster loose, 

“I should’ve left you for dead.” 

Wait. 

Stop. 

This isn’t you. This isn’t who you are. You’re a helper. A healer. Those words came out so strange that you’re questioning how they left your mouth so freely.

Did you really mean that? Or was this some feeble attempt to hurt him?

Yoongi doesn’t seem phased. But you clearly don’t know him so it’s not like—

Something heavy and dark as fuck is placed in your hand, and you snap your eyes to his in utmost disbelief.

“Go ahead then.”

Oh, this man is psychotic.

“Be my guest.”

No fucking way you’re gonna do it. “Stop—”

“If you regret it, why waste time—”

“Seriously, I’m not gonna—”

Yoongi forces your fingers flush against metal as he holds the gun to his forehead, both eyes piercing right into yours with no hesitation whatsoever. 

And it is frightening. 

All anger from before flees as fear and intensity rush into its place. Your brain fizzles and cracks as you try to wrestle out of his grip, and you feel burning at the corners of your eyes. “Stop!”

“Why.”

“I’m not gonna shoot you, the fuck!”

“You sure?”

“Yes!”

Mercifully, he lets go, pistol thrown as you’re tugged forward with a—

“What’s stopping you,” he grounds out, formidable presence all-consuming. “Tell me.” 

You’re breathing so hard it hurts. “You”—a shaky heave—“You are out of your fucking mind.”

When you struggle from his grip, Yoongi pulls you even closer. Reacting in a rush, you propel your knee up to wrap around his side and twist. 

But he proves just as quick, gripping the bare skin of your leg as you shove him down against the sofa. Grunting, you both curve with the furniture, Yoongi locked onto your knitted, conflicted brows.  

“You regret saving my life,” he simply repeats to your frustration. “I gave you the chance to fix that.” 

“Shut up—”

“But your will is weak.”

“I swear to—”

“Guess I was wrong.”

Who the hell does he think he is? This guy—Yoongi, Agust, whoever the fuck—has no right to play with you so casually. 

But something else is swirling inside your ribs. Because through his cutthroat words and actions, this man is somehow stirring the deepest waters of your soul. Ripples rumble and stretch into waves, tugging your toes in undercurrents of obsidian. Dark. Primal. Hazardous. All you. 

Is it from being subjected to such a heavy dose of his power? 

Or is it because—even if just for a moment—he’s handing all that power to you?

Quite literally, you’re the one on top.

And Yoongi holds your gaze, unfazed by the way your robe completely spread open during your tumble. Or the fact that you have nothing beneath that silk. 

He could easily take over. From the feel of his build beneath your hands and between your legs, you know he can. 

But he’s not. There’s no hesitation. He’s legitimately giving you the choice and reveals no ounce of remorse.

This revelation courses through your veins, pumping a new kind of life into your palms. You have a shot at a criminal with a bag of il-don waiting to be snatched. And you know you won’t take it. 

And that alone alters the chemistry of your brain.

With more fear of yourself than anything else, you shake out, “If I’m killing you, it’s gonna be entirely my choice.” 

He’s laughing? You’re instigating a threat and he’s enjoying it? God, you are teetering on the brink of madness and another emotion that won’t dare be acknowledged. 

Tugging Yoongi up a notch, you proclaim to the glint of his eyes, 

“And when I do, you’ll die exactly how I want.”

Yoongi’s lips slowly, dreadfully spread, teeth shining in the dim lamp lights that sharpen half his features. When he speaks, you shiver. Because it’s a mix of pride and fear, sprinkled with a hint of alarm,

“That’s my girl.” 

The room quiets, your bodies locked in a way that you’ll remember years from now. Breaths. Your bare chest hovering inches above his. If there were bystanders, they would no doubt get the wrong idea. Because if things were different, and if this man underneath you wasn’t who he was, you’d entertain another type of ferality and not stop until morning. 

To be fair. That same dark part of you would still do it. 

But this is about the righteous part of who you are. The one that abides by the rules. The one that fights to keep days boring, uneventful, the same. 

So you quell that monster pacing in your core. 

One more exhale leaves your lips before you let him drop, sliding off his silken, tone form to quietly readjust your robe. Turning away, you focus on the night skies, wondering if the people back home are sound asleep as you should be. 

“My will may seem weak. But I don’t care what you think of me.” 

Sound is crisp again as Yoongi rises to his feet. Around you, the air starts to lighten, cold slipping delicately into your skin. 

Slowly tying the wrap at your waist, your words float to the ground, “Because I know who I am. And no one can take that from me, not even you.” 

His presence fills the space at your back. But it’s muted. Less intimidating. Or maybe you’re just at your limit because you admit a little more than you intend, 

“This world has already tried enough.” 

Both of you come to another standstill, two black robes staining a room full of white. Even time itself gives you space, slowing and circling until you’re ready for it to flow straight again. 

As a cloud shadows the light of the moon, you feel knuckles caress your neck. And Yoongi’s never sounded so calm as he starts, “They’ll come after you.”

You slightly turn. 

“You still want to go back?”

A pause. A nod.

His knuckles continue to glide along your neck, slipping down your back before traveling the swoop of your shoulder. Everything in your body thrums, silently quaking because you have no idea where this is coming from and you can’t say you hate it. 

Quite the opposite. And that scares you more. 

“If you do, you’re dead to me.”

Of course. You’ve seen and know too much. There’s no reason for him to show up to your street now, especially if tangerines are all he’s looking for. He can always find them anywhere else. 

But, for some reason, this still stings. In a way that irks even your reasonable side. Is it because of his touch? No. That’s only making you nervous from the fact that you probably aren’t… as experienced as he is. The uneasiness is wholly from your own limitations. 

“I’ll survive without you,” you whisper resolute, chest squeezing when he replies,

“I know.” 

The same fingers get bolder, tracing down your arm before sliding along the wrap at your hip. 

And you freeze. 

Because the tension is palpable. The power is intoxicating. It’s a new type of anticipation and you are fighting yourself to not give in. Don’t let everything get to your head. Don’t let anyone in again. Don’t stray onto a path you can’t quite navigate. 

But fuck, you kinda want to. 

Rocks slide against exposed skin when he decides to speak again. And it makes you wish the two of you were extraordinarily normal. Or that you at least knew what the fuck to do here because the attraction you feel is not as one-sided as you presumed. 

“What made you stay.”

A breath you didn’t know you were holding huffs out, and you swallow with difficulty. “I just…” 

Get it together. Keep up your guard. It’s proving so hard, especially when his touches spark fires along your limbs. But you have to. 

And therein comes another lie. “I wanted to know what you stole.” Gulping down the truth, you harden your resolve. “That’s it.” 

With more restraint that you want, Yoongi bunches silk at your pelvis, hitching your robe and your breath all at once. When his other hand slowly holds your neck in place, you can’t help but flinch, and his low hum pours lava straight down your chest, 

“What a shame.”

Oh. Is this how it ends? Did your gut get it all wrong? 

He could end your life with a flick of his wrist. You know far too much. You’re not useful anymore. 

“Someone will take you back tomorrow,” Yoongi murmurs, proving every single theory wrong. “After that, you’re on your own.” 

And just like that, he releases you to stand alone. 

Oh. You’re going home. 

Good.

This is good, right?

Your heart beats overtime, almost drowning out your entire thought process. The thumps and pulses seem to cut every string of consciousness short. 

What was that? What was any of that? 

Never mind. Nothing happened and you can keep it that way, for the better. Yoongi is risk draped in beauty, and once you’re back home you can cut ties with anyone like him for good. You saved him; he spared you. It’s over. 

…But do you want it to be? 

Yes. 

Of course you do. 

Clouds let moonlight shine again. 

When you arrive at an answer, you turn to find that Yoongi’s already gone, duffle and all shut inside his room with a muted click.

A flip switches as you let exhaustion take over completely, falling onto cushions that still hold his scent. Inhaling, you drift into darkness, wondering how your final decision will affect the rest of your days.

Whether awake or asleep, nightmares are real. 

Only this time, you aren’t quite sure if the blood and guts you’re seeing are yours or someone else’s. Can’t discern the limb on the ground from the limb on your torso. Screams echo and ping from all directions, a cacophony of death that has you scratching at mania to stay sane. 

Murderer. Murderer. A murderer that regrets who she saved. No, wait, that’s not true. You’d still do it again.

And you watch the same swing over and over. The same arc of finality. Those lifeless eyes. Closer. Closer. Sharper. Judging. 

You were wrong. Were you wrong? Running does nothing and doesn’t provide an answer. The ground under your toes gives out. 

How far are you straying? How low are you sinking? If you told your neighbors who you killed for, would they be upset or betrayed? 

They’d hate you. Their fingers aim straight. Their tongues fire bullets. 

They’ll hate you. Hate you. Hate you hate you hate you—

A room bursts into view as you jolt awake. Sounds snap silent, the hum of the air all you can hear as you rub your eyes. 

So much for sleeping. There’s no way you’ll be able to now.

Focus on something else. Anything else. The past cannot be undone, so live with the choices you made and deal with the faces that haunt your dreams. 

Staring into the dark, shapes and sharp edges slowly form, your vision sharpening with every passing second. Tiny pops and creaks tickle your eardrums, and Yoongi’s scent still lingers with your own. 

You don’t want to focus on him, but it’s better than what forced you awake.

A lot happened tonight. But also, nothing at all. Something is keeping you both together, tightening and squeezing the strings in your chest. But you don’t know if that’s from the adrenaline of today’s events, or from the pure shock of your unexpected reunion. 

There’s something else you haven’t considered until now. Despite his unorthodox and hellish methods, Yoongi did keep your head on straight. You showered. You ate. You drank. You inhaled fresh air. 

Your compass righted itself when you didn’t blow his brains out. 

The nothingness was all to your advantage. Was that all calculated, too? 

One part of you—the bright side of you—knows that it doesn’t matter. No matter how helpful he was tonight, distance is crucial. Stay away from people like him. They’re all too cunning to be kept close.

But if leaping that crevasse allows you to keep your mind off everything else? If you need to stop the bleeding, why not reach for a cure?

Your exhale shakes as your shoulders fall forward, self-deprecation destroying your brain because what the fuck are you thinking? This is nonsense. Madness. 

Maybe you’ve just been insane from the very start. 

Your breath quickens at the possibilities. The potential outcomes of what you’re about to do. 

This is the most solid decision you’ve made all night.

As your toes travel across plush, trek over marble, and arrive at their destination, the rest of your body quietly, nervously follows. 

Raising your hand, you listen for movement. When you find none, you softly knock and wait for what seems like an eternity. 

For nothing. 

All that worry for naught. Yoongi’s most likely fast asleep and not dreaming at all. 

Good. This is your sign to let it go completely. In the morning, you’re going back home. The nightmares will consume you and you’ll wake up everyday to brave the streets. Assassins will be on the hunt for revenge. You won’t be saved by the boy in teal. 

What a shame, indeed.

As you step to leave, you hear the door slowly swing.

And Yoongi emerges from behind, minted hair mussed over lowered lids and robe slipping down a tatted shoulder. 

Fuck everything. 

“I don’t regret what I did and I’d do it all again,” you admit with finality. To him, to yourself, to the ones you’ll disappoint back home. “And I refuse to get used to this feeling because it reminds me I’m still a good person.” 

Yoongi’s eyes don’t change as he stares. 

“But,” you exhale with a shake. “Just for tonight…”  

This is it.

The brink of no return.

Your soul dips into the dark.

“Please make me fucking forget.”

—

—

⟶ what do we feel! | 🥢 join the taglist 🥢 | masterlist

a/n: once again, i cannot thank y'all enough for being patient and understanding as i go through life while working on this and all the other writing projects we have going on! it means the world, and even though there were some not-so-fun asks to get, the supporting and wonderful ones are what i will continue to focus on! so if you've ever left something sweet, thought provoking, encouraging, etc - thank you from the bottom of my heart! you're what keeps this writer going. a/n 2: if there's something you liked about this or a line/scene/whatever thing you enjoyed, feel free to let me know! feedback is never expected, but always appreciated. if the interest level is high, that adds motivation like no other. thank you all for reading! ++ feedback box: ⇥ of course, any reblogs/comments/messages are appreciated! ⇥ for the ones that are too shy to reblog with a review, comment on this, or send a message, i went ahead and made another anonymous form where you can send in what you think! ⇥ no emails collected, no need to put in a username. it’s literally just a comment dropbox :D feedback can be as short/sweet or as long as you’d like! ⇥ here! ++ more links: ⇥ masterlist  ⇥ minted masterlist

[fae-morrigan]

Someone put a post (where they admit they straight up dont know these characters lol, and also spell damian as 'damien' so like. yknow.) in the tags saying that if you're a fan of Jon & Jay, you shouldn't buy super son. Well, as the crowned CEO of Jay & Jon, I'm here to tell you guys that you absolutely should.

Super Son did the amazing thing of hitting several marks that I predicted while still managing to surprise me in how they hit them. Which is high praise for any story: A great narrative should be able to both meet reasonable audience expectations (i.e, staying in character, setup payoff) WHILE STILL throwing in curveballs that tell you something new.

There's a lot I want to analyze and get into, namely how I think the rooftop conversation between Jon & Nia is really brilliantly done in what it says about both characters, but mainly I've been thinking a lot about how great those last few pages were and how I think Sina absolutely nails how Jon & Jay's specific issues interact with each other.

Jay's always been a blunt person. From their first meeting back in SOKE 2, hes said what he thinks, and rarely does he try and soften himself. More than that, his bluntness is often a shield from vulnerability, which Jay struggles with the whole scene. It makes total sense, after what hes experienced (re-traumatization at the hands of a friend) that he's displaying that trait again.

Jon, however, is immediately vulnerable. This is the most poignant confession of the issue: Not even in the amazing sequence of Nia helping him make a place in the darkness (look, its back, thanks isabel!) do we get this admission of fear.

And Jay, like always, embraces him. Sidenote, LOVE how they got in the thing Jon does where he's constantly tucking his face in people's shoulders during hugs.

But the moment ends, and we get here. First of all, cold af. I could feel the aura before I turned the page.

Second of all: Jay is totally valid in feeling this way. And it makes perfect sense that he would.

Sara was his everything. Getting her back was one of his main motivations in SOKE. Because of Nia's actions, she died horribly (do you know what happens to a person when they fall from that sort of height? I do. Its AWFUL.) for an unjust cause. Of course he's glad she can't hurt anyone else!

And that's when we get to my FAVORITE PART! Oh how I love this bit. Because like. You understand why Jon's angry- Its a harsh thing for Jay to say! Nia was the one who kept him sane while he was trapped in his own mind! But Jay, like always, is RIGHT: Jon DOESN'T get it. How could he?

Jon Kent will NEVER, ever, be put in this position. Out of universe, his parents are Clark Kent and Lois Lane. They'll ALWAYS come back. Hell, the fact they'll always come back is something Ma LITERALLY says to Jon in SOKE. He will never, ever have to know this pain.

In universe, Jon's a white american. Despite being queer, despite being an alien, he'll never know what its like to be this kind of collateral, delegated as pawns in a greater war for 'freedom'. That is what killed Sara at the end of the day: imperialism.

This next bit hurts my heart. Great job, guys!

For one: Jon claims he's not excusing the mistakes Nia made, but by downplaying it like this... yes he is. But did you catch that part? Right at the start of that bubble?

"I'm going to fight every day to make up for my own part in this."

That's where it clicked for me. Something I had been hoping for since Nicole first called them twin flames.

He's projecting.

Of COURSE he's defending Nia. Of COURSE he wants Jay to forgive her. It isn't just about the fact that she gave him support, it isn't just the dreams, its the fact that... well. If Jay can't forgive her... how could he EVER forgive HIM?

THIS is where the fact that Jon and Nia are so similar as character SINGS. They become mirrors to each other, evaluating their own self worth through the other, at the unintentional expense of the people they've hurt.

Jay's right, though. Again. Its almost like he's the embodiment of the truth or something. He doesn't HAVE to do anything.

When he starts crying though, I immediately was RUINED. This is the first time we have EVER seen him cry before during his entire existence of a character. And its not really even because his mom is dead (though yes, that) and its not even because of the argument. Its because Jay fundamentally wants to be understood, and he's not getting that.

Which is important for the next bit:

I want to first backtrack a bit to Son of Kal El again, specifically, issue fourteen, right here.

Hello, two-panel sequence that succinctly describes these two as characters. How convenient you are for me, a guy analyzing a work that isn't written prose.

Jon isn't good at letting go, for better or for worse. The things he cares about stay with him, and when something or someone tries to exit his life, he clings to them with all his might.

Jay however, both selflessly and selfishly, is willing to let go first if he thinks its better for the other person. To me this line so effortlessly summarizes who Jay is- he's a person who's accustomed to not having things, and will leave before it hurts and he gets too attached.

And that thought is ALL over this scene. Jay, who begins to let go, Jon, who both literally and physically CLINGS to jay, practically begging him to stay.

(Sidenote. This is like, the third time Jay mentions breaking up when Jon starts acting up. Good for you king, keep that white boy on his toes, let him know he ain't all that.)

Every little detail of this four panel sequence is killing me. "My worst nightmare is not having a home with you in it." His greatest desire. The thing that kept tipping him off in every fake reality Nia constructed for him- Jay's absence. Him wiping the tear of Jay's cheek. Jay walking away from him.

But what really gets me is how on this page, Jon talks about them as 'we', while Jay is firmly stuck in 'I.'

This is what made me LOSE MY MARBLES at three in the morning. Just utterly fucking off my rocker in a straightjacket talking to myself.

Because this is what JON wants. But is it what JAY wants?

Jon never asks.

What about what Jay fears? What about the life that HE wants? What if he doesn't want San Francisco? What if the life he wants is the life he HAD before everything went wrong? Jon outright says he wants a fresh start. But Jay, Jay's someone with such deep connections to what he just lost, what he likely WANTS to get back. His country. His mother. His sense of self. But. He says yes.

(Sidenote. FIRST I LOVE YOU WOOOOOOOOOO) To quote my buddy Dami: Oh, the drama of needing a future with someone who can't get over the past.

It is left unclear, by the end, whether or not Jay is saying yes to this because he genuinely wants to, or if he's only saying yes because he doesn't want to lose Jon, too. Jon doesn't stop to question whether or not Jay's only reaching after him because Jon's walking away. We, the audience, are left to ponder that for ourselves.

How much of Jay saying yes is him just accepting that this is the best he's going to get? That he's never going to be understood because nobody wants to understand?

He's an afterthought to Nia, an obstacle at best, and to Jon he's a particularly handsome prop in this little fantasy he has of running away and starting new. He's either not thought of at all, or when he is thought about, it's in the context of how he can emotionally fulfill the other person And you get why Jon did this. He's desperate, he's hurting, he just got tangible evidence that the time he has with the people he loves isn't ever guaranteed. He's been needing space from Clark and Lois for MONTHS because god knows they haven't been fulfilling his emotional needs. In a very real sense, Jay is who he has.

But wanting someone to stay with you so much that you'll... Not even ignore, but just not ever consider what they may want. The intentional isolation, moving halfway across the country away from all support systems. The need to cling to someone.

It reminds me of... something. Someone.

Don't tell Jon I made this comparison. He'll kill himself. Jon and Ultraman ARE similar. They're both such deeply lonely people who cling very tightly and even though it manifests in different ways and even though they have different core thoughts about it. The effect at the end of the day is the same, isn't it?

Is loving Jay not a brutal act of destruction?

There's so many more details about this story I love. Jon & Nia's conversation being vague enough that you have no idea how Jon meant what he told her but you KNOW how NIA took it (girl you can do better hes literally ugly!). Jon breaking a pillar by bonking his head against it (LMFAO). The pretty lies vs ugly truth dichotomy of Jay vs Nia here.

But this one scene, man. This one fucking scene takes the cake. STELLAR work all around. Every panel counts.

This better lead into a full Superman & Gossamer run or SOMETHING or I'm going to have WORDS with DC's editorial staff.

[wandsandwheezes]

NASCAR IV | G.W //F.W

WARNINGS // 8.6k // SMUT 18+, George x Reader // Fred x unnamed OC, Angry Fred, Racer!George, light angst, fighting, rough sex, soft sex, breeding kink af, mentions of alcohol, cars, sex, possession, praise kink, a (tiny) amount of degradation, oral, unprotected sex.

A/N // Ladies n gents we are back n better than everrr!! This has legit been sat in the WIPs for a year and I have not had the energy or motivation to get back to it until now. ps.. thank you to @darthwheezely for helping me out on this one as my co-writer, idk what i'd do without you!! pps.. stay tuned for more works in the future!

It was always good to be home. As much as George adored being on the road, there was something so blissful about waking up in his own bed, with the woman of his dreams curled tightly into his chest. This was what made it worth it. 

“Good morning, muffin,” you muttered peacefully, hand reaching up to push the messy tufts of hair from his sleepy eyes. He threw his head back and groaned at your use of the corny nickname so early in the morning.

“That divorce and sweet sweet alimony cannot come soon enough,” he grinned, soon getting whacked in the face by the pillow next to you, his own hand reaching to pull you by the scruff of your neck into a sloppy kiss. 

Like most mornings, George was already out of bed, walking around aimlessly in his low-slung plaid pj bottoms as he searched sleepily for either his shop uniform or at the very least something that would easily pass without Fred throwing a fit.

“Are you sure you want to leave me?” You teased, pushing yourself out of bed, letting his t-shirt fall past your hips as your feet patted along the wood floors, taking you to him. You wrap your arms around his waist groggily, forehead resting against his back as you take in his warmth.

“I’m never sure about leaving you, angel, I doubt you’ll take much convincing if I suggest lunch?”

“I’ll make your favourite sandwich and swing by later, yeah?” You smiled, giggling as he spun you around, strong hands holding your arms as he leaned down to kiss you.

“They say you’re the lucky one, but lord, woman you make me the luckiest.” 

The sun was not Fred’s friend today. But honestly: no one was Fred’s friend today, not when the sun was over a hundred and two degrees in a shop with shitty A/C with his wife away playing hostess for god knows how many interviewees in that pretty black dress.

He probably wouldn’t even be this angry if she hadn’t been an insufferable prime American tease, waking up to her lips wrapped around the base of his cock and sending delicious vibrations throughout his body before pulling off right as he was about to release:

“You’ve got work today, ace, I need you to be a good boy.”

So there was Fred, as horny as a fourteen year old, deprived as a fourteen year old, and about as pouty as a toddler. Even George knew how pissy his brother had been, eyeing him rather sharply. 

“You know, Freddie, It would be nice to come into work one day with you having not woken up on the wrong side of bed.” George chuckled, pulling up the bottom of his already oil-stained shirt to wipe at his jaw. The older twin stalked around him and hit him in the chest with his rag.

“Actually, I was sleeping quite well on my lovely and rosy smelling side of the bed until I got fucking booted like a small boy and-” he was briefly aware of George laughing at him and made to punch his younger brother over the hood. “- it’s not funny, you know...it’s…” he swallowed, the familiar feeling of his strawberry tint rising to the surface, “...ithasn’tbeenasrecentasyou and before you ask me how I know that, remember you’re the other half of my DNA in mum’s womb,” he childishly spat. He slid into the driver’s seat of the Mustang they were working on and began drumming the dash, his knee bouncing against the side door - a tell tale sign of his frustration.

“I thought we established that you are in fact half of my DNA, just because you were born first doesn’t mean shit.” George rolled his eyes, throwing the rag on top of the car before joining his brother in the passenger seat.

“No, because I, in fact, am the prettier twin, which means I not only had sex first, but also get more privileges such as Denny’s coupons, discounted smoothies, and more phone calls with my mother than you.” Spotting you walk into the workshop area he honked the horn a couple times and giggled, whistling when you walked in.

“Ahoy my lovely sister-in-law!” He grinned and honked once more, a loud and obnoxious greeting - so uniquely Fred.

Rolling up to the side of the car, you laughed, seeing George rub at his temples, sighing to himself over the continuous blaring horn. You leaned in against the window, poking your head into the car with a smile, pressing a kiss to George’s cheek while Fred’s smile dropped, his face forming into a stare of jealousy, quickly forcing a smile again to hide his obvious frustrations. 

“Oi! Get a bloody room you two!” He huffed, honking loudly when George leaned in to kiss you again.

“Do you mind?” George gritted out.

“Yes, a bit, actually, you may have the back office for now to do somewhat lovey and sinful things but please try to be discreet, kids!” He winked salaciously and leaned forward against the wheel, his elbow cocked on the dash as he fought to not think about destroying his wife to be the second she got home. Usually racing helped, kept his mind (and libido) wandering if he felt a bit pent up - but at least for a few months or so, there wouldn’t be any release. The thought alone had him throw his head back and groan in displeasure.

“I brought lunch, wanna eat with me?” You grinned, batting your eyelashes, a move that practically had George falling out of the car, grabbing your hand as he followed you out to the back office. It was definitely hotter in the back, if you were being honest, yet that had nothing to do with the blazing sunshine but the way your fiance could have practically drank you in whole by the way he was staring. 

“Stop staring, George, your eyes will go square.” You laughed, setting your bag on the table, pulling out the sandwich you had made for him, pushing it into his chest as you pulled out your own lunch. 

“You know that doesn’t work with staring at humans right? Just TVs.” George retorted, walking backwards before plopping himself down on the sofa. “You didn’t happen to bring my-” You had already reached into your bag, pulling out his water bottle, something he not only had a habit of leaving at home but something he nearly always drank with lunch. Props to him for staying hydrated but after so long together you had managed to pick up on nearly all of the smaller things about him. 

“What would I do without you, huh?” He smiled, taking the bottle from your hand as you slipped onto the sofa next to him, legs swinging over his thighs as you unwrapped your sandwich. This was normal for you, reminding you of the days before racing and before America, a part of you growing fond of those memories. 

“You seem lost, Angel.” He muttered, hand reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, a worried look painting his expression. Shaking your head at him, you pulled yourself up to be straddling his hips, your nose bumping against his softly before capturing his lips into a kiss. 

A part of both of you needed this, the locked lips while his hands held your hips in their place, effortlessly controlling the way they would rut against his growing bulge, both desperate for the friction. He was moaning into your mouth, his hips bucking up to meet yours as the innocence in the kiss quickly slipped away, his own desperation to have you ruling how his hands had practically ripped your shirt off of you, his lips messily pressed against the newly exposed skin of your chest. 

“Shit, baby, I just wanna get those tight little fucking shorts off of you.” He groaned, hand snaking up to tangle in the hair at the back of your head as your hips continued grinding relentlessly. You were ultimately putty in his hands, moldable and pliant only for his skilled grip and teasing touch. 

“No time for that though.” He chuckled, his quick fingers effortlessly slipping the material to the side before the pad of his thumb found your clit, rubbing in teasing circular motion, a loud and lewd groan falling from his lips at the feel of just how wet you were already. Your hand flew to his mouth, finger pressed against his plump lips to keep him silent.

“Not so much noise, Georgie.” You giggled, a faint moan falling from your lips as his fingers began to tease your entrance. Your own warnings of silence had fallen short the second you found yourself wrapped around his fingers, his long digits pulling desperate moans from you by the second.

“Not so much noise, angel.” 

—

The elder twin had watched his brother follow you out, had seen the way his twin’s eyes had smoothed over the curve of your ass, how he’d admired your shorts and in utter and complete disdain Fred kicked the inside of the car. It was dumb, the way he was wishing he could have his girl thrown in front of a bathroom counter and force her to watch him fuck that pretty pretty cunt of his, and unknowingly slid his hand down to his jeans and started to palm.

His jaw was clenched at the thought of her slutty little stunt she pulled this morning when they both knew how wet she would get when she had her mouth around him, and gritted in a groan as he squeezed his clothed erection.

“God, fuck, love,” he panted, unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans half way to slide his boxers down, his cock springing free instantly. He thought about how her cunt fit perfectly to his cock, how no matter how many times he’d slipped deliciously into her, she always seemed just as tight as the first time, meanwhile his hand loosely pumped back and forth on his shaft. This was pathetic, he knew it was pathetic, but still the idea of her underneath him while her breasts heaved and her smokey chocolate hair was strewn about the pillow had him grunting.

“God, I’m so surprised you’re not pregnant yet, with the amount of cum I stuff you with and the rounds we do in a day,” he growled, all eleven inches sunk deep into her.

“Oh, shit, baby, god, you feel so good,” he panted, his thumb tightly rolling small circles on his tip. 

“Want it so bad, baby, wanna be so full and round soon as we can,” she had moaned, arching so far into his hold that he had thrusted at the same time a nipple brushed his lips and into his mouth, biting the sensitive flesh and causing her to whine.

“Such a fucking whore,” he snarled, his hips bucking up to meet each stroke of his fist, his head thrown back in ecstasy as he imagined his palm to be nothing but her - no, his - soft and soaked pussy. 

His hips were jerking at the speed of sound, he didn’t really care if anyone else could hear, if anything it made him more turned on, let ‘em hear, he could give less of a shit and especially if she were here, he’d make damn sure everyone from Houston to L.A. knew exactly which racer she was getting boned by each and every night.

“Freddie, honey, please, I need you to so bad,”

“I’m right behind you, baby, goddamnit so fucking good,” and with a faint shout of her name he released, his dick twitching under his own rough touch, his eyes screwed shut at his own frustration, none of it was real, the memory of it and the smell of sweaty sex in not only hotel rooms but in cars across the country dimming his mind back to square one. He laughed harshly at his own predicament, assessing his own situation before whistling lowly.

“Fuck, I need a drive.”

—

“George, for the love of God, stop fuckin’ with the carburetor, we already checked it an hour ago,” Fred whined, leaning against the back of the car. The day had been relatively slow beyond that one car, the hour approaching about 4:30, Fred eagerly awaiting until those hands hit 6.

“We did? I could have sworn we didn’t but I wouldn’t know, would I?” George rolled his eyes, pushing himself away from under the hood, heading over to you to take the tool you aimlessly held from your hands, not before his hands pressed against your neck, pulling you into a quick kiss.

Fred went to retort, interrupted only by the grizzly rotary of the engine rev close by. He knew exactly what the sound was, the same kind of rev that ecologists blamed on the hole in the ozone, the smell lewd and hungry for attention. 

It wasn’t just any old car, it had to be for racing. And sure enough it was, two in fact, fully souped up in high gear and brand new paint blinding in the Arizona sun. Fred held a hand above his eyebrows to see who it was, and George leaned back around Fred trying to do the same thing. When the cars pulled up and swerved albeit messily into the lot the twins broke into grins.

“Is that-?”

“-yeah, it’s-”

And then the car doors opened, one man rather lanky and lean and the other shorter and stocky, the rather lean one putting both his hands on his hips and clucking: “Well, I’ll be damned, freshen up then lads,” and grinned mischievously.

“DEAN!”

“SEAMUS!” They both yelled and jumped at their friends, a chorus of rowdy hugs and how are yous being traded from each of the boys.

“Alright then, boys?” Seamus quipped.

“Well, Jesus, we sure hope so, haven’t seen you since, shit what March?” George ran a hand through his hair, looking at Fred to confirm that and he nodded in response.

“Sounds about right, we’ve had to keep to ourselves - don’t want a bust like what happened to Diggory, y’know,” Seamus smirked.

“That arsehole from - shit what was his sponsor, Georgie?”

“Wonderbread,”

“Yeah, I never liked him, hits on everything that moves he does, my girl included,” Fred made his way to their mini-fridge swinging out a couple of bottled cane-sugar Coke (the only kind he and his wife ever drank, unfortunately for their bank account), and distributing them to each of the boys, passing around the bottle opener.

Dean scoffed. “Fred, you think everyone flirts with your girl and Y/N.”

“I’m a protective man, Thomas, not my fault I see a douche bag and-”

“Anyway,” George cut him off, leaving a rather pouty Fred in his place, and leaning back to sit on the hood of the car. “What brings you two ‘round then?”

Seamus and Dean visibly held their bottles a little tighter, then looked at each other.

“Well, we um...we have this thing we do on Thursdays down behind Tucson-” Seamus started.

“-not the raceway...it’s a bit more shifty, if you get it.” Dean finished, taking a swig of Coke. George studied the two for a second and finally leaned back on the car hood.

“Boys, what is this?” He asked softly, Fred shifting uncomfortably on the minifridge.

Seamus opened his mouth again, his face a great shade of crimson when Dean leapt in again.

“We do it in secret because if Indy or Nascar found out we’d all be dead but...we never really stopped racing you know. We just...we do it in the backwoods area of town-”

“Where it’s basically just sand and flat land for miles,” Seamus added, nodding vehemently. 

“Count me in.” Fred spoke quickly, pushing himself up off the mini fridge and over to the two boys, a smirk hanging off his lips in anticipation of being able to put his foot to the floor again on a track, albeit a dirt-road track, it was a course nevertheless.

“Yeah, no, Fred you can’t, if the Wood Brothers find out you are never racing again.” George cut in, fingers pressed to his temple in fear of his brother’s own recklessness.

“Come on, baby brother, I think you need to loosen up a little, what do you think, y/n?” Fred’s smirk only grew as he raised his eyebrow, hoping to entice the younger twin into his lure.

“You know, Georgie, I think it would be good for you and Fred to race together, you know, just for fun...” You shrugged, staking over to George, arms wrapping around his waist, as you looked up at him with a pout.

“I suppose if those two big brains can still have jobs, we’ll be fine, right?” George sighed, feeling himself giving in, purely from a look from his girlfriend.

“That’s the spirit!” Dean smirked, a smile cracking up on Seamus’ lips as the four boys looked among each other, almost silently communicating a plan until they had erupted with laughter.

—

The clock had said 9:34, roughly 26 minutes before Fred would be ecstatically waiting for George outside his studio apartment. His neck was tilted upwards, covered in shaving cream with a bath towel wrapped loosely around his waist. The sink was littered with expensive cologne and aftershave, the first purchase he ever made after his first check at the shop, his scalpel grifting smoothly up his jawline. 

Fred had learned very early on that preparation was absolutely everything, and after his little twelfth place charade - he felt his mates needed to remember that he was, for all intents and purposes, that bitch. 

“Fred, baby, you home?” He heard her call out, the clanging of keys falling into the empty fishbowl on the coffee table.

“Yeah, cupcake, I’m in here,” he called out stiffly, listening to her start to rant on about the interviews at hand - none of them were ever any fun, he’d been to enough to learn that all they cared about were raunchy questions geared at his wife and female reporters flirting with him in front of studio audiences. 

“...and god my feet were killing me, she wanted to walk with me all the way down the block and-“ she stopped analyzing his posture, his broad and freckled back still slightly covered in drops from the shower, his V-line angled to the side to a point where if she tugged on his hips juuuust right it would be sure to drop in one fell swoop, combined with the fact that he was shaving. 

“Honey?” 

“Yes, dear?” He side eyed her and smirked before turning his eyes back to the mirror, finishing the last of the area around his upper jaw and by his cheekbones.

“Are you going somewhere tonight?” She questioned, standing next to him now, looking at him directly through the mirror. He licked his lips at the sight of her minorly aggressive position and broke contact.

“Just for a bit, love, I’ll be back probably when you’re asleep.”

“And were you planning on telling me?”

“And were you planning on being a tease this morning after I gave you such a lovely time last night?”

He watched her mouth open and close as if she were about to say something and faltered, and snorted. “Yes, exactly, I thought so,” he said, turning around to grab a hand towel, splashing water on his face to rinse off the cream.

“Oh...I see what this is,” she purred. He stopped and slowly pulled his face up to the sink, setting a hand down on the sink to ground him from the massive hard on that was occurring under his towel, and turning towards her.

“What was that?” 

“I think you’re a pent up, horny teenager that doesn’t like being told no,” she smiled cruelly at him and watched as Fred’s jaw tensed ever so slightly. 

He rolled it gently and went to move past her but she was quicker, and pushed him backward with five painted red nails to his chest. She looked up at him and roughly scratched down his torso, causing Fred to hiss at the fresh red stripes. She slid a hand up his chest and stopped at the column of his throat, gripping ever so slightly, before leaning up to kiss him and pulling away just so he could feel her exhale.

“Have a nice night, Freddie,” she whispered before quirking a brow and grinning, prancing off to their bedroom alone.

When she was out of earshot he shakily breathed out, trying to steady his breathing and his yearning cock - he’d deal with her later for sure, regardless of his behavior or not.

It was 9:32, approximately 28 minutes before George would pick him up outside his studio apartment…

—

The twins arrived at around 10:15, the drive there filled with only uncomfortable silence at what was to come. George was a bit pissed to say the least, once again Fred was getting his way for an adrenaline run, and this time Y/N had backed him up.

George’s last place he would be right now is behind the wheel of his own fucking car.

He parked it next to Dean’s sleek, jet black chevy, his hands gripping the steering wheel ever so slightly as he leaned back against the headrest.

“You realize if we get caught we could never race again, right?” George prompted quietly.

“Here’s an idea; don’t.” Fred rolled his eyes, reaching over to flick his brother in the ear, eyebrows raised playfully.

“Yeah, no shit, sherlock.” George grumbled, turning off the ignition, listening to the signature growl of his engine grind to a stop. 

“Why is it always such a bad idea to do anything fun once in a while, Georgie,” Fred grumbled, his knee bouncing against the floor of the car. “It’s not like we’ve had anything to do as of late, you know.”

“Of course, besides, hmm, I dunno, not making our sponsors upset? By like possibly following the very slight and basic set of rules we’ve been given?” George snipped, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel. He sighed to himself and went to get out of the car when Fred grabbed his arm.

“Hey, you agreed to this too, you know-”

“Yes, at the behest of my lovely fiance and my snot nosed, ant thorax of a barely older brother and as such, I’m driving this thing when this shit factory of a drag race starts.” He whacked Fred’s arm away and exited the car, immediately all but smiles on his face as he went to greet his friends, a sporadic and adrenaline heated Fred on his tail.

“Well if it isn’t the two most obnoxious bastards in NASCAR,” Fred turned to see his best friend and ex-pit crew member, Roger Davies, and excitedly gripped him in a hug, hands clapping backs and tears falling down cheeks at the renewal of friendship.

“Georgie! Look, it's Rog!”

“Holy shit, not my first husband-!”

“Your only husband, Weasley number 5, and Fred can disagree all he wants,” Roger grinned and pulled both boys into a hug before whispering in their ear, “watch out for Finnegan and Thomas, boys, the cheating hasn’t stopped since last season,” leaving the twins utterly confused.

“Oi! Not another sleepover without me?” Boomed Dean from behind them. Roger immediately pushed past the two entirely confused twins and went to clap Dean on the back.

“Just getting them acquainted with the rules before a race...you know how hard it is to follow all the rules, don’t you, mate?” Roger winked and headed back to the twins, moving them back to the car as all the other drivers retreated to theirs.

“Rog, what was all that?” Fred whispered.

“Dean has been known to be a bit...well, shifty as of late with these. Always been a bit of a windy bloke, you get it, but ever since Target dropped him from the sponsorship he hasn’t really been...getting off as much in racing as he used to.” Roger nervously laughed, rubbing the back of his neck, leaning against the back of George’s car.

“By ‘cheating’ what does that entail?” George crossed his arms in repose.

“He’s always been a thrill chaser, you know this, Georgie.”

That was true, Dean had always been after a nice high. An adrenaline junkie back at primary school, Dean and Fred (as George unfortunately remembered) would feed off each other like invasive flowers, the group think of two singularly aggressive and needy young boys clouding the canopy of their friends (and brothers) with misfortune. Anything from groundings to almost arrests to nights spent aimlessly wandering the London streets in the wee hours of the morning - to Dean’s favorite: bets.

Dean would bet and bet and bet if his life depended on it and when it came to racing, if there was a bet out in his name to win, he was sure as shit going to make sure that he was the winner, this led to more and more alterations to his cars, some that even street racing frowned upon. The media never got their hands on the true reason Dean had lost his Target sponsorship; just one simple, illegal, engine part. One that gave him the lead in a race that caught him out. 

“How hasn’t someone banned him then?” George laughed, looking over at his friends, only for Roger to clear his throat with a chuckle himself.

“You can’t ban someone from street racing, Georgie, not without the authority that NASCAR has.” Roger explained, pushing away from George’s car to head towards his own. “See you on the track, boys.” 

“Track?” Fred choked over the words, confused thoroughly at this point.

“I don’t think we’re in for just a drag race, Freddie.” George gulped, watching Roger slip inside his car, the lights flashing on and the sounds of rumbling engines echoing through the air. 

—

“What do you mean I can’t drive your car.” Fred practically whined, if his eyes rolled any harder they would be in the back of his head.

“I mean what I said, dumbass, you’re not driving my car.” George protested, his arms crossing over his chest as he stood protectively in front of the driver’s side door.

“But you’d let me drive it in a drag race, that doesn’t make any sense, like at all.” 

“That was when you had to drive in a straight line, you are not putting my baby in danger just to race her round a track.”

“Your baby? George, you do realise I race too right?” 

“Fuck off. You’re not driving, that’s final.”

“Yes the fuck I am, now move.” Fred was practically pushing his brother out of the way as he tried to get himself in the driver’s seat. “Twenty minutes ago you didn’t even want to be here, now you want to drive?”

“Fine.” George sighed, finally stepping aside, only to grab the back of Fred’s shirt. “One scratch and you’ll be fixing it, either that or I’ll break you.” 

“I’m not gonna crash the car, George, now get in.” Fred slid inside the car, George following suit on the passenger side. Fred went to pull out of the space that George had parked the car in, only to stall, dropping the clutch out of excitement, causing his younger brother to yell, out loud and quickly. 

“Nope! I’m not doing this.”

“Fucking hell, George, shut up I can drive.” 

—

There was something about the way tires kicked dust up as they sped around the dirt track that had Fred on edge. This race was unlike anything he’d ever seen or been a part of before, if he was being brutally honest it was exhilarating to be doing something like this, much more so when his brother was sat in the passenger seat. He didn’t need to look over or even take his eyes off the road to know that George was already being hypercritical of Fred’s driving skills, especially when the livelihood of his pride and joy of a car lay in another’s hands.

If George were gripping the steering wheel in that moment, his knuckles would have been well and truly white, watching clouds upon clouds of dust spray over the freshly washed exterior of his car. Instead, George’s hand was dripped tightly on the door, bracing himself for the sharp corners and bumpy jolts, thinking about how all the up and down was surely going to fuck his suspension. 

Fred laughed to himself, but mostly at the way his twin was acting, almost as if George hadn’t spent most of his adult life behind the wheel of a car driving faster than any other man would dream of. Fred shouted over the roar of the engine “Jesus, Georgie, let loose a little will you?”

“I’d be way less uptight if you would have just let me drive.” George replied, sighing to himself, a small ‘woah’ falling from his mouth at the feeling of the back wheels spinning.

“It’s a bit fucking late for that decision.” Fred laughed back, passing a car that had the unfortunate and untimely end of spinning themselves off the joke of a track. Once the dust parted and George saw the mess in front of him, his eyes widened, heart racing if it could have beaten any faster.

“I will kill you if you do that.” the younger man grumbled, watching Fred speed past car after car, pushing them up the ranks. 

“I told you I won’t crash your precious car… I’m starting to think you love her more than your lovely lady.” Fred bit his lower lip to stop himself laughing at his own comment. Looking up in the rear view mirror, he spotted the glistening black and bright blue of Roger and Dean gaining on the lead the twins had.

It was nearing what Fred hoped to be the end of the track, watching as the finish line grew nearer with every second. In what seemed to be all at once, a loud revving came in from Fred’s Left, The lightning bolt blue car overtaking George’ in a matter of seconds, pushing right past the finish line without a care in the world. Following closely in second was Dean’s beauty of a car, Fred managing to keep right behind his two friends, pulling third rank in the race. 

—

Fred was the first out of the car, slamming the door behind him as his rage was starting to bubble out from his lungs. George hurried to catch up with his older brother, the look in his eyes and his body language evident that nothing short of violent impulsivity would amount from the situation. Fred pushed past Roger, ignoring the pleas for peace, he was never mad at Rog, Rog deserved a top rank, but his anger was centered towards Dean.

Dean needed a nice loss.

“Oi, Thomas.” He got closer to the man, Dean turning around slowly, a haughty sense of pride glazed on his face. “What’s wrong, Freddie, I’d figured after your little twelfth place at the table third should be a nice welcome to you,” he drawled, before Fred lunged at him, getting held back only by Davies.

“Aw, does poor little Freddie still need a babysitter?”

“Open that mouth one more fucking time-”

“Fred-” Roger stuttered.

“No,” he pushed from his grasp and proceeded to get inches from Dean’s face

Dean smirked and leaned back to grab a beer from the cooler beside him. “Fred. Your little tough guy act doesn’t scare me anymore, you know that.”

George stepped up next to Fred, “It’s not an act, mate, I think you know us well enough by now to get that we don’t take kindly to cheaters,” he said softly, rising to his full height.

Dean immediately leaned back at the sight of the two gingers, and even going as far as shrinking at the pure sight of Roger Davies, not as tall but definitely as intimidating, standing between them.

“The track never did cater to a liar, Thomas, we figured you’d know that by now,” Roger added quietly. 

Dean scoffed, the adrenaline clearly rising in his chest, as the men behind him started to eye each other, the violence of the situation reaching a silent all time high. “I’m not gonna take shit from a losing tosser, his stooge of a younger brother, and a dumb blonde-“ 

Fred had launched himself all the way forward, his index and thumb forming a U shape as he grabbed Dean’s face, slamming it directly into the window. Dean struggled in Fred’s grasp, lifeless and sloppy fists flying in every direction possible. When Fred finally pulled off the boy and began to walk off, a smug and bloody smirk gracing his haughty face, Seamus lunged forward, a punch matching the back of Fred’s head. 

A full on fight occurred, George rushing forward to slam Seamus to the ground, dust flying in every which way under the artificial lights. Fred had taken to pummeling Dean as if he was losing himself entirely in aggression.

The twins had always had an aggressive streak - but it had rarely been released in their current younger years of “adulthood.” 

Amongst the mess of brawling fists and kicked up dirt, Roger had managed to summon the presence of one of the two Weasley girls - you, the understanding quick thinker with a tendency to be for whatever your boyfriend did and Fred’s Wife, the american firecracker who rarely took no for an answer.. When you had arrived, Rog and George were stopping Fred from lurching at Dean once more, Instead you were focused on the graze that lay above George’s brow, taking a deep breath and shaking your head at just how reckless he had become. 

“George Weasley, I swear to fucking god you bastard.” You shouted, pulling him up by his bicep and pushing him back against his dust-covered car. “One night I leave you, One night and you end up in a back street race nearly getting your ass handed to you by Dean fucking Thomas-”

“It was Seamus, actually-”

“Not the fucking point, George.” you slapped his chest, only for him to wrap his arms around your waist, keeping you pulled close, a small smirk hanging off his lips.

“Fred said I needed to let loose, and I did and it was the best fun I’ve had since the end of season… but that obviously isn’t what I should be saying… I’m sorry, really am.”

You rolled your eyes, a sigh falling from your lips as you rested your head on his chest, with all the stress that NASCAR had given him, it really was the best thing that he was getting some actual joy in his free time. “At least you had fun.”

-

You knew you couldn’t be mad at him for long, not with the puppy dog eyes he was giving you as he knelt down on the floor, elbows resting on the mattress to look at you. Part of him realised that he needed to not piss you off any more than he already had, after all it was a little more than what you were expecting from him and with so much on the line after all of his hard work you were more mad at the fact he would so easily chance it.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” He quipped, a small smile on his lips as he stretched his back out, leaning forward across the mattress, fingertips grazing over your knee.

“You know what you’re doing.” You sighed, trying to look away from him, only to feel his full firm grip squeeze at your thigh.

“I’m just trying to apologize to you.”

“Yeah right.”

“I know how much you gave up to be here with me, for us, for me to achieve my dreams and I only went and nearly threw it away for a cheap race and I’m sorry.” 

His eyes were glassy, filled with a sadness that you only recognised from the day he left for America, he truly was sorry for what had happened. 

“I want to make it up to you, princess.” He pushed himself up onto the bed, his head resting on the pillow, your eyes never leaving him as you watch him shift to get comfortable. 

Your hand reached out to brush the hair out of his eyes, watching his eyes flutter closed as a small sigh fell from his lips. You were quick to shift so that you lay next to him. 

“There’s nothing to make up for, Georgie.” You smiled softly, shifting slightly closer to him, feeling his hand drape lazily over your side. Something about seeing him so vulnerable made you want to protect him with your whole heart and yet he was always the one to protect you.

“There’s everything to make up for, my love.” He smirked, leaning in to nudge his nose against yours softly before pressing a small kiss to your lips. “Just let me make you feel good.”

“George you don’t–” You went to protest, but he was quick to cut you off with another kiss, this time his hand gently pulling your hips closer towards him.

“I know just the way to make things up to you.” He pushed himself up slowly, arm wrapping around you to lay you down on your back, finding his place between your thighs, your legs either side of his hips.

His hands slowly raked up your thighs, finding his way up to your hips, fingers hooking underneath the waistband to pull the material down your legs, leaving you bare from the waist down. You had almost forgotten how much of a tease George could be, the way his fingers had quickly found your clit, the long digits finding your entrance soon after, only to warm you up.

Positioning himself with your legs hooked over his shoulders, he drew in a breath, releasing the cool exhale over you as you sighed frustratedly, hips bucking to try and get some friction if any, only for his hand to push your hips back down, a chuckle falling from his lips.

The second his tongue was licking a prominent stripe along your aching pussy, you were well and truly putty in his hands. Each flick of his tongue had you squirming, unrestrained moans falling from your lips as the pleasure built.

It didn’t take him long to attach his lips to your clit, sucking relentlessly at the bundle of nerves, his fingers pushing knuckle deep into you, curling up to hit your favourite spot, having you a wordless mess of nothing but moans of his name.

“Such a pretty thing you are, baby.” He hummed, thumb coming up to circle over your clit as he watched the way you had thrown your head back, your hands finding his hair to pull him back down needily, earning a chuckle from him.

His tongue continued its work, pulling you closer and closer to release with every flick. He didn’t let up until your thighs were shaking and your chest heaving, mind clouded only with thoughts of him and how lucky you were.

—--

Fred Weasley got home all too late, the door closing a bit louder than the man had wanted behind him. The slightly elder Weasley crept from the doorway to the bedroom, careful to mind the light creaks in the hardwood floor, taking every ounce of stress on his feet to avoid any miscalculations. 

When he got to the bedroom, he saw the woman he loved, asleep no doubt by the sight of her mussed hair and lightly agape expression on her lips. Fred exhaled slowly, what he thought was quietly, until he heard her voice clearly say:

“So where were you?”

The man before her felt his heart thump harder than he felt when his own mother would corner him in the kitchen, the memories of sneaking out and sneaking back only to return with a-

“So are you going to tell me where you were?”

“Out.”

“No, really?” She spat, sitting back up and clicking the lamp on, her face etched with rage.

“I waited up for you the entire night, the least I probably deserve is an explanation.”

“Well, love, you didn’t seem to want to talk to me earlier, so I guess the lack of communication goes both ways, now move over.” he said briskly, beginning to take off his shirt. When she didn’t move, her face unwavering in anger, he rolled his jaw, swallowing back and refusing to feel the light effervescence of guilt in his throat.

“I said m-”

“I’m aware. See, Fred,” his wife exited the bed, and unfortunately for him, she was clad in only the black satin nightie he had gotten for her after his first big win. The guilt was rising now, as was something else low on his hips.

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry, okay? I am, I-”

“Interrupt me again, and you get the couch, got it?” He nodded, his eyes drawn to the tears welling up in hers. “Fred, I’m your wife now and-and knowing my husband, my husband was out doing god knows what or who for that matter and has the audacity to come back in at three in the morning and be pissed at me? Who the hell are you?” 

“I was racing! I was racing alright, and I’m sorry, I’m sorry I-I came in late and made you pissed because I love you and I am never going to do this again but God can you please put something else on so I can focus correctly-” and then he was kissing her, and somewhere deep in his cerebral cortex, this was probably unbearably toxic, for him to start apologizing angrily for the shit that he put her through but-

“God, you are a piece of fucking work aren’t you?” She snarled, already beginning to unbuckle and unzip his pants. 

“But ‘m your piece of work, and currently,” he spat back, mouth melding in a messy and unkempt addition to hers, the entire situation wholly and completely Fred in every way possible, as he shed himself of his shirt and picked her up, “-I’d like to be fucking you.”

It didn’t take him long to pitch her body on the bed, his wife scrunching delectably at his fiery hair and his own ropy and iron hands squeezing at the bottom of her bare thighs. It had been long, too long, and with the already latent tension from their little bathroom incident earlier in the day - there wouldn’t be any denying Fred nor his girl of a quick, ravenous fuck tonight.

“Missed you so much, baby,” she whined, yanking his head up to mold herself to him in a heated kiss, the man atop her not needing to be shown twice at her action. “Missed you more, had me fuckin’ twitching and creaming in a car earlier, you did,” he chuckled, arousal thick and evident in his tone.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” He rasped, his eyes scrunching close as one of her delightfully un-dainty and gently calloused hands palmed him over his boxers. “God, wanted you so bad, baby, wanted to just drop the towel and have you on the sink, then ‘n there.”

“You mean that?” She said shakily, as he kissed her one last time before sliding down her body, his lengthy digits trailing down above him.

“God, absolutely, and if I look under here I wonder if - oh look at that, ‘was right, wasn’t I?” Much to her disagreeing whine, he sat up on his heels, his damn near naked body covered in sweat, his myriad of constellations adorning his chest like only the finest stars in the night sky. He looked up at her, the face only him or his twin could make, rum eyes bright and full of mischief, but also something else more sinister as his fingers trailed up her thighs.

“Fred, please-”

“‘Got you, baby, don’t you worry about me,” he mused, lazily almost, while his fingers drifted higher up the apex of her thigh before-

“No.” She said simply.

“Shit, I’m sorry do you want me to stop-?”

“No.” Fred’s wife, almost too fast for him to register, threw her left thigh around his waist, gathering momentum from her other leg fast enough to get him on his back, effectively pressing her hand to the center of his chest before all he could say was:

“Didn’t know you could do that, love,” he drawled, a quirk of a brow and a little smile on his face.

“You didn’t know I could do a lot of things, Freddie.” She shot back, bringing her nails up and in to scratch at his bare chest, her hips rolling to his and rubbing his tip under his boxers so well he thought he was going to explode.

“You have any plans beyond making me cum in m’pants, dear?” He hummed, his hands reaching up and under her satin to cup and squeeze at her bare ass.

“I was planning on making you cum so hard your ears pop, actually.”

“Merlin, woman, get on with it then,” he groaned, her laugh bubbling in his ears like champagne as her nails abandoned their spot on his broad chest to the hills and valleys of his v-line, the light grazing and nimble touch causing a wanton moan to erupt from the back of his throat along with a small, “fuckin’ hell, petal.” He watched with rapt but seemingly pained eyes as she slowly - too slowly, for his personal taste - began to lift her hips and grind the tip of his erection, his palms getting more clammy as he waited with need for her to sink onto him - if she’d even give him that.

But all too soon, she stopped her rolling onto his cock, making him swear at the loss of contact. “Goddamnit, fuck me already.”

“Oh, Freddie,” she preened, moving a hand back to cover one of his own sliding it to her soaking cunt, “after how bad you’ve been today? And you think I’m gonna reward you? Baby…” she drawled, reaching down to squeeze his thick cock, the action alone making him grunt and his neck veins pulsate with life.

“‘Do anything y’want, anything,” he whined, desperately trying to fuck his hips up to meet her friction. He knew his wife would push him, push him to the absolute limit until his dick exploded and his throat gave out from how hard he’d be screaming, she’d done it before, but it was so late, and God, he needed to bury himself deep in the milk and honey of her sex before it was too late.

“Then you have to be a good boy, Freddie, remember?”

“I know, I know, ‘m sorry, ‘m sorry, ma’am,” he babbled, the pleasure and lack of stimulation running through his veins. “Please,” he whimpered, his voice small and pliant like rubber.

She cocked a brow at him, curling her shiny red nails around his chin and gently tilting him toward hers. 

“Been so bad, baby boy, but I guess ‘m gonna have to give you a treat some time…you just look so delicious like this,'' she purred, moving her hands to the swell of his bulge, delighting in the whine that escaped his throat like the rush of water in a stream (or something a bit more sinful in its entirety.) Fred’s wife swiftly lifted his cock free from it’s confines, his hands coming immediately to steady at her hip bones and kneading greedy circles into the tough skeleton. 

“Ready f’me, precious?”

“Fred, don’t be pretending you’re the one on top at present,” 

“Good Lord, woman, stop the banter and rock already.” The two chuckled breathlessly at Fred’s words, his wife pressing an airy kiss to his red and puckered mouth before bringing her cunt to just barely graze his tip, a movement that had the ginger subjected to her ministrations roll his eyes back and murmur a throaty “fuck” against her lips. 

“Baby, please-“

“I know, Freddie, my love ‘ve got you,” she whispered before finally sinking down onto him, both partners releasing hisses and throaty moans at the feeling of being one.

It took no time at all for the ginger beneath to bring his hands to her now bouncing ass, guiding her roughly to every ridge of his cock. She was sloppy, the ride of pushing Fred’s high further and further to the forefront of his system. Fred oh the other hand had started to spastically fuck up into her now, moaning out her name the more he listened to the sound of her wet cunt being slid up and down on his thick cock. 

She was close, dangerously close, the feeling of his balls clapping against the bottom of her ass in time with her pants. Fred was in nirvana, the way the light graced the sides of her face making her look like the most fallen of angels when-

“Fred, I can’t, I, please”

“I know, bub, ‘m right there with you,” he coaxed, all too soft in contrast with the rampant fucking he was giving her, waiting until he could feel her about to soak his cock before flipping her over, almost too quickly throwing her legs around his waist and thrusting further than what he thought was possible. His hands gripped hers and somewhere in his mind he blacked out against the feeling of the black satin rubbing against his torso. 

“Baby-“

“Fred-“

Fred relished the feeling of her collapsing around him, his back fully extended as he rolled softly and slowly into her to push them through their conjoined high. He loved this, he always had, how her body heaved gently under his and his hands and mouth could whisper sweet nothings into her skin, soothing her form and giving her all the love he could possibly muster. 

“I am sorry you know, bub.” He finally said after a while, his hands rubbing back and forth on her thighs. 

She leaned up and pressed a kiss to his nose and then his lips, smiling lightly against his mouth as her eyes fluttered shut, “yeah, yeah, I know.”

“Just…don’t do it again okay-?” She whispered.

“Baby, you know I won’t. Scout’s honor ‘n all-“

“You didn’t let me finish, Weasley!”

“Well, then what’s the rest of it?” 

She smiled at him before craning her lips to his ear: “next time you drag race, I better watch.”

She giggled when he threw the covers above their heads.

—

It was two days later, the sun blaring just as brightly as it had when Dean Thomas proposed a drag race, and now, as the front door bells jingled an entrance, the twins had done something they didn’t last time.

“We’re closed,” they both said flatly, not looking up from the respective cars.

“Even for me?” A familiar voice asked the boys, causing them both to raise their heads.

“Sirius!” They both squawked, the lanky men scrambling to their feet to hug their favorite agent, the older man hugging them back immediately.

“Why’ve you come from LA?”

“Yeah, is something wrong? I can guarantee you whatever it was it was 100% George’s fault-”

“Fred.”

“Sorry.”

Sirius released a small smile that had been tugging at his face the whole interaction. “Boys, I’ve got a bit of an announcement for you.”

“And what would that be?” George asked suspiciously. Fred looked out the corner of his eye at his twin, and all Sirius did was throw his hands out and up.

“Boys: we’re going to Monaco.”

[charbies]

I'm mashing together my review of totk and reactions to random encounters with the masterworks I've had lately into one stream of consciousness

Totk should have had true continuity, not a 6 year time skip that we never get to see, experience, and feel. It's not that hard to bridge 2 games with a 1-2 min cutscene, esp in a zelda game. Majora's mask starts with quick, but meaningful exposition that bridges OOT to MM! The intro to wind waker is a 6 minute long cutscene!! This series thrives with its detailed, intriguing intros, so what happened?? Before I even launched totk the night it came out, I booted up botw and replayed the final boss & ending because I was so stoked to see the transition in story/world and wanted to honor both games. Instead boom, we're walking in a cave w/ no context.

I was so disappointed that zelda wasn't a companion character to link in totk, it was disempowering to her character arc. Really thought this game would build off of botw's snippets of link & zelda working together in memories. The teasers and trailers for totk gave this perception that she would be there (which would also "break tradition" like devs wanted, ffs). When I was on the tutorial island I was fully convinced I'd be finding her and we'd reconvene like "ok what's next." When I realized 20 mins into the game that she was GONE gone, as in will not reappear likely until the end of the game damsel-in-distress-style, my verbatim thought "wait... really? Is this still going to be good?" Which was kinda sad, for a game I waited so many years for :/

I had major pet peeves with the copy/paste nature of the cutscenes with the old sages. The dialogue, bgs, pacing, literally all identical. They just hot swapped the character models for the sages and said that was good enough, wtf!!! I live for cutscenes in games, I have since I was like 5. This felt lazy, and seriously demotivated me from completing the dungeons bc I knew there was going to be nothing novel or intriguing to look forward to

The secret stones were gimmicky af. Sorry. Also stupid name, they couldn't even opt for "sacred?" Ik in other languages they have way cooler names, which would have helped. Link's fucking thanos glove of stones was a stupid gimmick, I cannot believe they didn't think to alter that concept to be more mythical, or creative, or just original. I would have killed for the stones to relate to the triforce in some way, or to do away with the stones and have this game connect to the triforce, since the whole direction of this story was going back to ancient myth & lore.

the Zonai lacked depth, and honestly just felt like a boring distraction even tho they were supposed to be a central focus of this game. I 1000% agree with other folks posts on the take that rauru was a flat, 2-dimensional colonizer. Sonia got sidelined. yikes. ew. no thanks.

^similarly, ganon really was given no character or depth imo. It's like they did a fantastic job making him visibly LOOK scary, so they didn't bother to give him motives beyond "I'm bad, I do what I want."

the cliche "back to normal" at the end irked me. Link could have come out with no arm, keeping the zonia arm, or at least scars w/ the zonai arm pattern and that would be meaningful. Zelda got factory reset from irreversible draconification in a method that for all intents and purposes, could have been done as soon as link got rewind ability. There was no investigation or inclusion of the other dragons, which seemed like a missed opportunity. Actively working on reversing her could have been a main quest in game!! Like 1. Complete all dungeons/get all stones, 2. you can now go round up the spirits of rauru & sonia and reverse zelda yippee, 3. you and zelda go beat the shit out of ganon together. The dragons fighting was beautiful, powerful imagery, but honestly I think too much potential was traded away just to execute that one fraction of the boss fight.

The masterworks book annoys me, which is sad bc I love concept art. I wanted to be a concept artist growing up, I can accept that you'll often see things that never make it into the final cut. I was enamored with early posts abt things like zelda's haircut, char designs, etc.

But more recently I'm seeing the anthology side of the book taking major liberties that it didn't even bother showing us directly or alluding to in the game, and I think that's such a cop-out. They are literally telling us instead of SHOWING us in the game they release a year ago, and spent SIX YEARS making. There was a festival celebrating the return of zelda/defeat of ganon?? Freaking show us that!!! Show us link & zelda acclimate to post-calamity life. Show us imperfect, non-linear healing and resilience. I would have loved a festival scene w/ link and zelda that conveys the nuance of celebration and recognition of their efforts, and the contrasting weight of what they went through. Show me zelda, exhausted after a festival struggling with guilt and indecision about whether to bring back the monarchy with hyrule's restoration. Throwing in a "oh btw imagine if we actually had done this" post-game makes me so irritated and feral. It's like the post-release canon is sidling up to fanon and saying, "hey look we can do that too! look at our fan art" idk if that makes sense, I don't think I'm explaining it well. But it just feels disingenuous.

I'm not a timeline purest, I don't need everything to interconnect, but I don't love how assertions in this book invalidate connections and lore of other games. Also really don't love how this game overwrites and sidelines the sheikah.

I know majority of my disappointment stems from my own, personal expectations of a game that, let's face it, was probably given many mandates and initiatives to appeal to *everyone* in broad, lackluster ways. I still love the world and characters of zelda, if anything, totk reaffirmed what I love and want to prioritize in my art that I didn't see present in this game. Fun fact I used the world of botw to learn a lot about drawing landscapes & composition. It actually inspires me a bit to try to learn to do comics, which has been a longtime goal I've been too busy and/or timid to pursue lol.

mmm anyway if u read this and any of this resonated DM me and lets froth at the mouth and commiserate lol

[barclaysangel]

Death by her Side

And here it is! My fully sapphic vampire x death story! Wow…in complete disbelief that this random idea I had came out to a short story that’s close to 10K words. Insane af. But I’m proud of myself and the motivation I received along the way, it meant the world to me! I do have ideas for a spinoff story involving witches, over a decade after this story, but that requires making even MORE characters and I don’t think I have it in me. So for now, no story. I may jump into some Chucky fanfiction and/or continue my sapphic human x mermaid/siren story before I start my new semester of grad school next month. Anyway, I hope you guys like this and PLEASE leave comments if you do, it motivates me to post more of my stories if you do so!

Thank you and enjoy :)

Tags: @streets-in-paradise @cult-of-dollbabies @morganandtheemorgana @fairchilds-glasses

Word count: 9.2K

Magdalena Iglesias was 24 years old when she was turned against her will. 

A wicked and monstrous man named Nathaniel Murrow had been enraptured by her beauty and wanted her for his bride, his mate for eternity. 

He followed her down the alleyway, a shortcut to her home, and pinned her to the cobblestone ground with his body while his fangs punctured the soft flesh of her neck. 

Magdalena had tried screaming, but to no avail, no one would hear her. No one would care. 

She was no one. 

As her consciousness began to slip away, Magdalena saw someone. 

A woman standing some distance away, watching intently. She wore a long black dress and corset wrapped tightly around her frame, a black hood almost hiding her face but her piercing blue eyes were noticeable. 

But Magdalena could not focus on her for long because the moment Nathaniel cut open his own wrist with his teeth, feeding her his own blood, the image of the woman slipped away. 

She was gone as quickly as she came and her body turned cold. 

It was clear that Magdalena was part of the undead now, the ones that feasted on blood. And she despised Nathaniel for turning her into the demon children fear at night. She had tried to kill him but was too weak to do so, something he enjoyed mentioning one too many times. 

Instead, she had to kill others. To drink their blood just as he had with hers. 

She would be lying if she said that the taste of blood was not the most delicious thing she ever tasted. Filled her with delight and the warmth she had been missing since her turning. 

But there was also something else. 

Each time Magdalena fed on her new victim, she would see the woman in black. Watching with that same intent yet neutral look. And the more she saw the woman, the more Magdalena realized little details about her. 

Her skin was pale, so pale she was almost grey. 

Her curls were long and a soft brown color, almost looking like there were streaks of copper in them. 

And in one hand, there was a scythe. 

Magdalena always wondered about who the woman was. Perhaps she was a figment of her imagination? She must be. No one else has seen her, even Nathaniel has not. He just found her ‘delusions’ to be amusing. 

Perhaps she was delusional. Perhaps he took her sanity along with her soul. But she did not care. None of it mattered. 

She had already lost everything. 

Her family. 

Her heart. 

Her life. 

At the very least, Magdalena just wanted to hang onto the woman in black in her imagination. 

That was all she wanted. 

And for decades, Magdalena built her strength. She agreed to be Nathaniel’s bride, and let him take her as he wanted every night. Let him think that she loved him when in reality, her mind wandered elsewhere. 

Her mind was focused solely on revenge. 

Until finally, one night, she got him where she wanted him. 

Magdalena was 62 years old when she straddled his hips, her mouth on his and her hand on a wooden stake that she kept hidden. 

Then she made sure that her stake met his heart, just like how his fangs met her throat all those years ago. 

Blood spurted as he screeched like an unholy demon, his body convulsing until he was nothing more than blood and other bodily matter all over their once shared bed. Magdalena was out of breath but so full of glee. She was covered head to toe in his blood, even licking parts of him off her hands and the wooden stake. 

Then, she felt something. A cold yet warm presence, something she felt before, making her slowly turn her head. 

The woman in black was there in the corner of the room, scythe in hand, her hood down this time, but there was a different look in her bright blue eyes. 

A look of pride. 

It made Magdalena’s insides flutter. 

“Are you God?” She asked, trying to find her words. 

The woman now looked amused, shaking her head. “I am not.” 

“The devil then?” Magdalena asked instead. 

She smiled just slightly. “No.” The woman in black said simply before stepping toward Magdalena, unfazed by the blood that coated her body. Instead, she took the bloodied stake from her hand, tossing it to the side. 

The woman’s blue eyes met her maroon ones, and then she spoke her next words clearly and strongly. “I am Death.” 

Death. 

The word that would strike fear in Magdalena as a child. A word that still did. 

But it was different now. She had taken lives. She had killed. 

And now Death was standing before her, just after she slaughtered her maker. 

Who knew Death could look like an angel. 

“Have you come to take me?” Magdalena asked but she was not afraid. If Death was here for her, to finally pay for her sins, then she would allow it. 

Death smiled gently and shook her head. “No. I have already taken a part of you. Your mortal soul.” 

Magdalena tilted her head just slightly. “I remember you. I saw you, when I was…” 

Death nodded, a sympathetic look in her eyes. “Yes. But I could not intervene. I cannot. I am only here to guide those who have passed or to ensure they go where they are supposed to. Nathaniel will not harm you ever again.” 

She swallowed thickly, trying to push down the tears that threatened to come out, tears of blood and pure relief as she let out a long breath. 

Free. 

She was finally free. 

After a moment, Magdalena asked her next question. “If you are not here for me…then why can I see you before me?” 

“I do not know,” Death answered truthfully, “many cannot. Even creatures of the night, such as yourself. No one can see me unless I allow them to. But I have never allowed you to see me. You are…a conundrum.” 

Magdalena did not know why that sparked something in her. She was a mystery, a paradox, a conundrum. 

How incredibly lovely. 

Death stared at her some more, her eyes staring so intently before she took a step back. “I must go. More spirits to guide and collect. Quite laborious work.” 

“Will I see you again?” Magdalena asked without thinking twice. 

For a moment, she feared that she had been far too desperate, but Death only smiled. “You need blood and I need souls. We will meet again.” 

Magdalena smiled watching Death turn away before she suddenly rose to her feet. “Wait! I…I am Magdalena. Magdalena Iglesias.” 

She didn’t know exactly why she felt the need to introduce herself to Death herself, but the woman in black merely turned back around and smiled sweetly at her. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Magdalena…” she paused for a moment before speaking again, “You may call me Thanathea.” 

Thanathea. 

Oh, the name that sounded so holy, so beautiful, as if it would haunt Magdalena for the rest of her days and she would allow it without another thought. 

Thanathea. 

And without another word, Thanathea was gone. Leaving Magdalena all alone. 

She could not wait to see her again. 

The next night when Magdalena was on the hunt, this time her victim was a mortal man that resembled Nathaniel in his unrelenting perversion, she again saw Thanathea. 

For so long, she would be forced to hunt young girls, girls that reminded her of herself. But now, Magdalena swore to herself that she would only go after those who resembled her maker in mortal form. 

His blood and screams were much more delicious compared to her other meals. 

And just like before, Magdalena saw her. Her fangs were on the center of his throat, some blood spraying her face as she kept him pinned below her body. But none of that mattered. All that mattered was seeing Thanathea there, watching her with that same look of pride, her blue eyes sparkling. 

When the man was finally drained, Magdalena pulled away, her face and even her chest covered in blood. But Thanathea did not look afraid. Well, she was Death after all. Perhaps she had seen much worse. 

“You came.” Magdalena said softly, smiling at her. 

“You took a life. So I came.” Thanathea replied simply, scythe in her hand and she drew it near the man’s corpse. The blade glowed a bright shade of gold until it faded away. 

“What was that?” Magdalena asked in curiosity, tilting her head to the side. 

“I collected his soul. I will take him to where he belongs soon enough.” Thanathea told her as Magdalena stood up to face her. 

It still surprised her to know that she was standing this close to Death. Death, in all her glory, was even taller than her, and there was a certain coldness yet warmth surrounding her. 

How peculiar. 

“Is there a heaven? And hell?” Magdalena asked. It seemed as if she had a million questions whenever she saw Thanathea. 

She simply shrugged her shoulders. “There is all and none. It varies on one’s belief. But I am very real, I can say that. Death comes for everyone.” 

“Will you come for me again?” 

The silence was quite loud before Thanathea finally replied. “I cannot answer that. No one knows when or if their time will come. I shall not answer.”

It made Magdalena frown just slightly. There was a part of her that wished for Thanathea to take her. She missed her family, her life, the future she could have had. All of it was gone without a second thought. 

Now here she was, a monster that feasted on blood every single night and had to hide from the sun unless she would burn to a crisp. 

Suddenly, Thanathea took a step closer and wiped some of the blood off Magdalena’s cheeks with both of her thumbs, her eyes looking gentle and sympathetic. “Immortality can be a blessing and a curse. Enjoy the blessing. Live your life. It is what matters. Do not allow yourself to be held back. You are free. What will you do with your freedom?” 

What will you do with your freedom? 

Magdalena wished she had the answer. 

“I do not know.” She finally answered, looking down. “I have not had freedom in so long. I have lost my family. I cannot go back to them, not like this. I have no friends nor allies. I am simply…alone.” 

Thanathea did not say anything for a moment. She watched Magdalena silently, an unreadable expression on her face, before she finally smiled. “You are not alone now. For I will be your friend.” 

Those words brought comfort to Magdalena, comfort she had not felt in decades. 

She did not know how long Thanathea would be her friend but she knew that she would treasure her kindness and friendship until her immortal form had finally passed. 

Magdalena was 73 years old when she wished to have a child. 

She had wanted to be a mother for a very long time, ever since she was a child herself. But that dream of hers was stolen away by that monster, leaving her unable to ever conceive. 

“Did you ever want to have a child?” Magdalena asked Thanathea suddenly one day, the both of them sitting near one another on a bench, the moon illuminating the dark streets just as a woman walked by, holding an infant in her arms. 

“I do not know,” Thanathea replied after a moment of consideration, “I have been quite busy. I have helped young ones pass on, holding their hand as they crossed over. I never thought of becoming a mother all that much.” 

Magdalena nodded in understanding. She was sure that it must have been different for Thanathea, being Death, an entity as old as time itself. Surely, she would not have the time to want to have a child. 

“You wished to become a mother?” Thanathea asked her, almost rhetorically. 

“I always have.” Magdalena responded without hesitating. “I wanted to have many children. It was the only reason I wished for a viable suitor.”

“You desired to be married?” 

“Yes. I wanted to be married. I would only need a husband for the sole purpose of procreation. That is the only importance to me of a man.” Magdalena told her calmly. 

Thanathea chuckled under her breath, an amused look glistening in her vibrant blue eyes. “Men bring more issues than what they are worth. Perhaps one day they will not be needed.”

“I could not agree more,” Magdalena answered before smirking, “until then, I shall drink the blood of men and decrease their population. And help your business as well, of course.”

Death herself smirked as well and rested her cool hand over Magdalena’s, making her blood feel as if it was rushing throughout her body. “Thank you, my night.” 

Magdalena was 81 years old when Thanathea gave her a cottage in the woods. 

Ever since she killed Nathaniel, she had been staying at his mansion. She never enjoyed it, but she could not go to the streets. The sunlight alone would kill her. Nor did Magdalena wish to break into the houses of mortals, killing families just to have some shelter. 

The mansion would have to do, even if it was hard for her to remember all that she has been through because of that monster. 

“Your mind wanders, my creature of the night.” Thanathea said suddenly one night, sprawled against one of the seats in a lazing manner with her scythe lying on the floor beside her. “What ails you?”

Magdalena’s pose was rigid with her back pressed against the wall, a glass of fresh blood in her hand in almost a tight grasp. She forced a smile at Death herself, shaking her head just slightly. “My apologies, muerte. Sometimes my mind goes back to the past. I cannot control it. I feel as if I am still stuck with that man. This place haunts all of my memories.” 

Thanathea smiled sadly yet gently before sitting up some more, raising one hand toward the blood drinker. “Come. Sit by me.”

Like a moth drawn to fire, Magdalena moved towards Thanathea wordlessly and without another thought, sitting beside her. “Drink up. I would like to show you something.” Death told her, even tapping the center of her throat before Magdalena drank the blood from her glass.

Perhaps she was wrapped so tightly around Death’s finger. 

They walked for a while, going deeper and deeper into the woods. Magdalena knew she could get to the destination in seconds by running and even that Thanathea herself could teleport them both there. But it seemed as if Thanathea would rather enjoy the detour the longer way.

Magdalena would not complain. She enjoyed the adventure after spending much of her afterlife under lock and key. 

“If I did not know any better, I would assume that you are luring me to my death.” 

“You have already died, Magdalena.” Thanathea replied swiftly, sounding just a little amused. 

“I could die again.” Magdalena jumped in with a playful smile. “You could put a stake through my heart. Or perhaps tie me to a tree and wait until the sun rises. Maybe even cut me into little bits with your scythe.” 

Thanathea raised an eyebrow at her. “You think that I could kill you?” She asked and moved her scythe closer to Magdalena’s arm, the sharp blade just grazing against her bare skin. 

It made the creature of the night shiver in anticipation. 

“I hope not.” Magdalena responded after a moment, her maroon eyes staring deeply into Death’s eyes. 

Thanathea smiled, chuckling quietly before removing her scythe. “I will not harm you. I swear upon it. You are safe with me. Besides, you are my friend. What kind of friend would I be if I intended to wish you ill will?” 

“Not a very good friend, of course.” Magdalena said and giggled under her breath, staring up at her. “Do not worry. I merely jest. I trust you, madam death.” 

“Good,” Death told her with a smile before taking her hand, “follow me, we are near to my surprise.” 

Magdalena walked right beside Thanathea, still spending the next few moments curious about what possible surprise Death had in store for her before she saw it. 

It was a small but precious looking cottage deep into the woods, far from civilization. There was a warm feeling to it but she could sense its emptiness. The cottage held no owner. 

“It is lovely,” Magdalena told her with a soft smile, turning her head to look at Death, “but why have you shown it to me?” 

“Because it is yours now.” Thanathea said suddenly. 

The creature of the night paused momentarily. “What do you mean?”

“The cottage is yours. Away from the mansion, away from your pain and suffering. There is a coffin inside for you as well. It is small but I…I do hope you like it.”

There was a hesitancy in Thanathea’s voice, something Magdalena had never heard before. The cosmic being seemed as if she was nervous. Even as she looked at Thanathea, Magdalena could see a certain bashfulness surrounding her facial expression, her body language, like she was concerned that the bloodsucker would not want the cottage. 

It was truly sweet to see Thanathea like this, realizing that Magdalena might have an affect on her as much as Thanathea has an affect on her. 

Magdalena’s grip around Death’s hand tightened slightly, a genuine and true smile gracing her face. “You are too kind, Thanathea. Thank you. How can I ever repay you?”

Thanathea smiled happily back at her, her shoulders relaxing and her thumb began rubbing against Magdalena’s knuckles. “Your friendship is all I desire, Magdalena. That is all I can ask from you for the time being.” 

And for the creature of the night, that was all she wanted as well. 

Magdalena was 95 years old when she realized that the feelings she had for Thanathea was much more than friendship. 

They had been by each other’s side for three decades, easing Magdalena’s loneliness and filling her with joy. She had forgotten what it felt like to have a friend after nearly forty years of isolation and was cherishing every moment with Thanathea. 

But something began to change although she did not know exactly when it started. 

Magdalena did not know when she began feeling the urge to run her fingers through Thanathea’s curls. 

Magdalena did not know when she began feeling like she was drowning in Thanathea’s blue eyes but enjoying every moment of it. 

Magdalena did not know when she began to crave Thanathea’s touch, how she would beg inside her mind for Death to touch her hand once more. 

Magdalena did not know when she began to find herself lost as she stared at Thanathea’s lips, wondering if they would be soft or harsh, cold or warm, against her own. 

All Magdalena knew was that something about Thanathea made her feel completely alive and human again and she didn’t want to give that feeling up. 

Magdalena tried her hardest to remember if she has felt this way before, for any of the boys in her village. But the more she thought of it, the more she realized that she only felt this way for one of her friends, a young girl who was bright and lovely. She married young and Magdalena remembered feeling heartbroken in a way that she could not describe nor could she tell anyone about it. 

But now the feeling was back at full force, stronger than ever. And despite all her years and wisdom, Magdalena did not know how to navigate and shift her feelings to turn a different route. 

“Have you ever been in love?” Magdalena asked one day, a thought that simply bursted past her lips, as they walked beside one another along the streets. Thanathea had made herself visible to the mortal eye, her scythe tucked away from anyone’s view. 

Thanathea had not said anything for a moment, seeming like she was thinking the question over before responding. “I have not. Even though I am a cosmic entity, other entities try to…stay away from me. With my job, of course. Death is a frightening thing.”

“I am not afraid.” Magdalena told her without another thought, looking away briefly before looking back at her. “I have walked beside Death. I have experienced death. I partake in death every day of immortal life. I do not fear you, Thanathea. I never will.” 

Thanathea looked at her, wearing an unreadable expression before her eyes glistened and she rested her hand on Magdalena’s shoulder. “You are very kind. A wonderful creature of the night. I am grateful for your friendship.”

Friendship. Of course. Friendship. Thanathea is an all powerful omnipotent being. She could never feel anything more than friendship for a bloodsucker like her. 

It stung, it hurt. But Magdalena still smiled. She would keep her thoughts to herself and value her friendship with Death herself. 

The last thing she wanted was to ruin everything and lose her only friend. 

Magdalena was 108 years old when she experienced the kiss of death. 

She had kept her big secret to herself for over a decade, hiding it so well that she strongly believed that she fooled Death herself. She had to, it was the only choice she had as to not destroy their friendship, even when it teetered on something more, something deeper. 

But it was okay. Everything was just fine, Magdalena had everything under control. 

“Shhhh, hush now…” Magdalena found herself whispering to the man squirming in her arms, trying to escape and failing each time, with her hand clasped tightly over his mouth to suppress his screams, “My beloved awaits…” she told him before sinking her fangs into his neck. 

No matter how many times she fed from mortals, she would never get over the rush she got the moment their blood was down her throat. It was delicious and something she craved more of, she would drink and drink until the body was finally empty, filling her body with momentary warmth and pleasure, as if the blood was an aphrodisiac. 

Perhaps it was. But Magdalena enjoyed it each and every time. 

“Your beloved?” The blood drinker heard an all too familiar voice behind her, turning to look at Thanathea quickly and then dropped the corpse as she stood up. 

“You finally came. I was beginning to wonder if I would have to kill another just to get your attention.” Magdalena told her with a shy chuckle, licking some of the blood off her lips. 

“My apologies, my night, I was preoccupied with other souls. But I am here now, as always,” Thanathea told her with a smile, waving her scythe over the body and just like always, it glowed a beautiful shade of gold, “you did call me your beloved, did you not?”

Magdalena could feel her cheeks flushing from the newfound blood in her body, chuckling under her breath and looking down at the ground momentarily. “I…I did. Yes. You are my beloved friend, after all.” She told Death, smiling as well and hoped, prayed even, that Thanathea would believe her. 

She truly did not want to lose everything and be left alone all over again. 

“How sweet. Like an angel of death.” Thanathea told her with a smile. 

Magdalena sighed quietly in relief. “Are there angels of death?” She asked curiously. 

“Oh, yes. Quite a few. Although they mostly appear for young ones whose time has come. They provide them comfort in their last few moments.”

“I would die again before I ever harmed a child.” Magdalena pointed out. 

“I know you would,” Thanathea replied, still smiling at her, “it is very admirable, your dedication to the little ones. Very sweet as well. My beloved.” 

It should not, it really should not, but those two words made the blood swirl inside of Magdalena, making her crave even more for Thanathea to call her that over and over and over again until she finally took her immortal soul to the Underworld. 

“No one has ever called me their beloved before.” Magdalena told her, almost shyly, almost bashfully. 

“They were fools,” Thanathea told her as she took a step closer to her, “no one has called me their beloved either. Only you, my night. Only you.” 

Those blue eyes, those beautiful bright blue eyes, were staring so deeply into Magdalena’s maroon eyes. Like she was trying to read everything about her, read her soul. She would let her, of course. She would let Thanathea do whatever she would like. 

Because even if Death might not know it, Magdalena’s heart belonged to hers and would be for the rest of her immortal life. 

“Lena? May I ask you something?” Thanathea asked suddenly, making the creature of the night a little surprised before nodding while the nickname made her feel all flushed. 

“Of course you can, Thea.” She replied, using a nickname for her as well. 

“Do you know what it is like to fall in love?”

Of all the questions that she could have asked, that was not a question Magdalena expected. 

There were a million things that she wanted to scream, to let Thanathea know exactly how it feels like. But she had to be discreet, cautious. 

She couldn’t let Death know the truth. 

“I am unsure. I…I feel very strong feelings. Where the person is all you can think of. Where you wake up every night, wishing to see them. Wanting to see them happy. To see them smile. To have them touch you. To spend time with them. You want nothing but the best for them and you’ll push everything aside just to keep them with you and not shatter everything. I…it is just a nice feeling, I believe.” 

I have said too much, have I not? Magdalena thought to herself, no longer looking at Thanathea. She should have just said no, should have just kept her mouth shut. She should have never said anything at all, after a century of being alive, she should have known better!

Thanathea took another step toward her and then a hand was on her shoulder before slowly moving to her chin, lifting her head up to make sure that Magdalena was looking at her. “I have only felt that way once in my lifetime. Just once. Magdalena, my beloved…I have fallen in love with you.” 

Magdalena’s breath hitched in her throat. 

Was this real? 

“Thea…I love you. I…I have for many years. I do not know if this is wrong or right. I just know that I love you. That I have craved you for so long. I want you and only you, my Lady Death. I swear it.” Magdalena told her truthfully, leaning her cheek closer to Death’s hand. 

Thanathea smiled at her, her blue eyes lighting up. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then she began moving closer to Magdalena, her movements slow, as if she was giving the blood drinker a chance to pull away, to refuse. 

But Magdalena would never do that, not to her beloved. 

Then, finally, Thanathea’s lips were on hers. 

And every part of her exploded. 

Magdalena had kissed before and felt nothing. They were simply kisses with no attachments, only brought on by force. But this was entirely different. Thanathea’s lips were intoxicating, mouthwatering. She wanted more of it and for it to never stop. 

Without another word, the blood drinker pulled Thanathea closer to her, her hands all over her body and her mind spinning. “Take me home.” Magdalena whispered breathlessly before she felt Death’s shadows all around them, taking them both to the cottage, their home, where they remained attached to each other’s bodies until the sun rose above the sky. 

Magdalena was 116 years old when she first tasted Thanathea’s blood. 

The bloodsucker, or vampire as some of the mortals began calling creatures like her, would be lying if she said that she never wanted to take a bite out of Thanathea. 

She could not help herself. She was curious after over fifty years of friendship and nearly a decade of being lovers. Magdalena never even knew if Death had blood. But she had to have had something because the vampire could smell how delicious her scent was. Similar to the smell of mortal's blood inside their body, but there was something stronger, something different that made her want to have just a taste. 

“If I did not know any better, I would think that you are about to make me your newest victim.” Thanathea said while she was polishing her scythe with a black cloth while Magdalena’s lips were on her neck, light and soft, with her fangs just barely grazing against her soft flesh. 

“Hmmm…why ever would you ask that, my heart and soul?” She asked innocently, still kissing and feeling her fangs brush against Thanathea’s neck, anticipatory, craving for a bite. 

“Because your thoughts are quite loud as well as your actions.” Death replied, an amused tone shining through in her voice. 

Magdalena giggled under her breath, her hands now trailing up and down Thanathea’s exposed arms. “Well, I do not intend on making you my next victim. I just…want to have a taste.”

“Lena, my darling, the blood of a cosmic entity could kill you.” 

“Even if it’s just a drop? Just one little taste on my tongue?” Magdalena tried to bargain, tilting her head in front of Death, batting her maroon eyes at her. 

Thanathea sighed loudly, not saying anything for a moment as she stared back at the vampire before nodding. “Just one drop. That is all. Nothing more.” 

Magdalena immediately grinned and then tried to sink her fangs into Thanathea’s neck but she pulled away just before the vampire could. “No no. Easy, my love. I will do it.” 

She was confused for a moment before Death took her scythe and pressed the sharp blade to her finger. In that very moment, Magdalena could smell the blood that emerged from her lover’s prick finger, gold instead of red. It made her mouth water at the sight and smell, wanting nothing more than to taste her blood. 

Magdalena was craving it, desiring it, wanting as many drops as she could manage. So when Thanathea brought her finger closer to the vampire’s face, Magdalena automatically opened her mouth and closed her lips around Death’s finger. 

Everything exploded in that moment. 

No amount of mortal blood could ever compare to the blood of a cosmic being, a deity, so delicious and making Magdalena crave for it, sucking the blood, swallowing the few drops, desiring for more and more of her blood. 

Then, as quickly as it came, Thanathea pulled her finger away, making the vampire whine like a child for just a moment to be withdrawn from the exquisite blood that she was tasting. “That is enough, my love. I cannot allow you to drink any more, you will burst into flames if you continue.” 

“It would be a worthy death.” Magdalena said simply, feeling almost out of breath with her mind spiraling as her mouth and body processed the immortal blood she consumed. 

“I may be Death, but I will not allow you to die because of me.” Thanathea told her, sounding amused again. 

“Perhaps just a little, my beloved? Un beso de muerte?” Magdalena asked her sweetly, taking Death’s hand and pressed a kiss to each of Thanathea’s fingers and then her palm before resting her hand on top of the vampire’s chest, Death taking control as her hand slowly began to descend. 

“Who would I be to deny love to you?” Thanathea asked rhetorically with a smirk, before her body was on Magdalana’s and her mouth on hers, throwing her into another night of pleasure. 

Magdalena was 127 years old when she learned that vampires were not the only supernatural beings walking the earth. 

A part of her truly never thought of other entities or beings there could be beside her. She spent so long stuck with that monster during her first few decades as a vampire, that the thought of other creatures lurking around did not dawn on her. And then Thanathea came around, filling her dark life with light despite being Death. It brought her comfort and security, so once again, the thought did not occur to her. 

Until one day. 

“Are werewolves real?” Magdalena asked suddenly, book in hand, with her head on Thanathea’s lap. 

Death raised an eyebrow, looking almost amused. “Why, of course they are, my night. Why would they not be?” 

“They are?!” She exclaimed in astonishment, sitting upright and turning toward her lover. “How do you know? Have you met them?” 

“In a way, I have.” Thanathea told her, “I do help guide souls over. Mortal, werewolf, and otherwise.” 

“Otherwise? Are there more? Like…mermaids? Sirens? Witches? Warlocks?” 

“Yes. Yes. Yes. And yes. Although in certain regions, mermaids and sirens are the same as one. The same for witches and warlocks, separated by genders but it is all about personal identification.” 

Magdalena’s mouth opened, looking completely surprised still. Thanathea chuckled quietly before bringing her finger under the vampire’s chin, gently pushing her jaw back up. “Lena, did you truly not know about this?” 

“No! Of course not!” She quickly said. “I thought they were myths, stories mortals come up with to keep their unfulfilling lives entertained.” 

“Well, those mortals had to have had inspiration for those stories, would they not?” Death asked her, still looking amused herself.

“I suppose you are right,” Magdalena huffed under her breath before moving closer to Thanathea, resting her head on her shoulder, “can you tell me about them, my Death?”

“About who?”

“All of them? As much as you know.” 

Thanathea smiled at her. “Hmm…it is rare for someone to turn into a werewolf. Most are born. Although if a strong enough werewolf bites or scratches a mortal, it can trigger a transformation by the next full moon. And the werewolves tend to stay within their own pack, very rare for them to become rogue or deviate toward a different pack.” 

“Fascinating…I wonder if they smell like wet dogs.” 

“Oh, be kind,” Thanathea chuckled again, “mermaids and sirens are born the way they are. Impossible to be turned, unlike vampires and werewolves. Although they can go on land and have legs, the transformation can be quite painful that not all survive. It is very unfortunate.” 

“It is,” Magdalena agreed while nodding, “and the witches and warlocks?” 

“Born so. Yet they are quite an enigma. Some witches can have mortal children while mortals can have witch children. It can be quite random and depend on their blood and strength. There are many types of witches too. Elementals, healing, divination. Some more common, some not. Spirit witches are extremely rare, they only happen once every few centuries. Although, they are quite the hassle. And do not get me started on chaos witches, they are much worse and a complete headache.” 

“How come?”

“Their magic can create a disruption into the natural order of balance within the universe. They take and give in uncontrollable manners. Makes my job very difficult to manage.” 

“Oh, you poor thing,” Magdalena told her with a little pout and reached up to begin playing with Thanathea’s curls, twirling each of them around her finger and watching them spring back up, “my beloved, do you know if it is possible for a cross between the other beings?”

“You mean hybrids?” Thanathea asked for clarification and the vampire nodded. “It is extremely rare, but yes. They do exist. Including dhampirs.”

Magdalena tilted her head to the side and raised an eyebrow in confusion. “Dhampirs? I have not heard of them, what are they?” 

“Half mortal, half immortal. Vampire, just as yourself. They can only be born from a mortal woman and a vampire man. They are immune to the sun and age as mortals do. Although, they do drink blood and become completely immortal once they reach a certain age, usually in their twenties.” 

Now, that was something Magdalena never expected. And there was something in her that felt almost saddened by it. She had accepted that she’d never have children, and even now as a vampire, she couldn’t but the vampire men could. 

Those bastards. She thought to herself. 

“How completely and utterly intriguing, Thea. Thank you for telling me.” Magdalena said with a small smile, still playing with her lover’s curls. 

“Of course.” Thanathea said, wrapping both of her arms around the vampire and pulling her almost on top of her. 

The way Death held her in her arms made the vampire realize that Thanathea knew what Magdalena was feeling, thinking. No words needed to be said between them but there was a mutual understanding between them. A mutual comfort. 

It helped her feel better and secure, knowing that Death herself was there to fill the hole in her heart and give her the security and warmth she had desired her entire life. 

Magdalena was 139 years old when she finally became a mother. 

She had accepted for many decades that she would never get to have children. It was not in the cards for her and Magdalena would never dream of turning a child into a vampire. It pained her to even think of allowing a child to endure the painful aspects of immortality, nor did it seem reasonable to take mortal children from their families and raise them as her own. 

But Magdalena did find solace in watching families at night, walking down the streets hand in hand, mothers and fathers tending to their young ones. It was quite sweet, in fact. It had her pretending for just a moment, that she could have had the same had her mortal life not been stolen away from her. 

Although, she adored Thanathea. Becoming immortal led her to find her beloved Death, she fell so deeply for her and did not want to change or lose that. 

But if she was being truthful, Magdalena would have loved to see Thea become a mother. She was always so nice and sweet, especially to children that she has watched her lover cross over. Magdalena has followed Thanathea to work and was always so interested in Death’s work, including the ways that she could calm children and reassure them so they are no longer afraid. Even Thanathea’s appearance shifts, wearing green instead of black, her scythe turned into a glowing gold bracelet instead, with color flushed to her usually very pale skin. 

It was quite the sight that beheld Magdalena, but she treasured those moments so deeply. 

But it was not something that she thought too much about, she would rather focus on spending time with her lover instead, even on times when it was clear that something was weighing on Thanathea’s mind. 

“Are you alright, my beloved? It appears that something seems to be troubling you.” Magdalena asked her one day, her head tilted slightly. 

“My apologies, Lena,” Thanathea smiled slightly at her, “I do not wish to fill your mind with worry.” 

“My mind will always be worried if I do not know how I can help you.” Magdalena reassured her gently, her hand going up to her lover’s curls and she heard her sigh softly. 

“Sometimes it is very…burdensome. My duty. Taking souls. Orphaning children, leaving them alone. It is painful at times.” Thanathea told her after a few moments of silence. 

The vampire frowned a little. “I apologize if my meals have contributed to your burden, my Thea.” 

“Oh no, it has not, I can assure you that,” Death told her fairly quickly, “the men you feed on and the souls I take are well-deserved, we have both made sure of that. There are simply others that can make things difficult for me and bring me down at times. But I will be alright. I know I will be because I always am.” 

Magdalena moved closer to her, pressing a kiss to Thanathea’s cheek while continuing to caress her curls. “I still apologize for your pain, lover of mine. Perhaps we shall take a walk? To help put your mind at ease?” She offered gently. 

Death smiled at her, more genuine this time, before taking her hand. “Yes, I would like that, my love.” 

And so they walked peacefully together, their arms looped into one another, talking amongst themselves. The streets were nearly empty, many mortals already asleep in their homes. All seemed to be going well, until Thanathea went quiet again and sighed under her breath. 

“What is wrong, my heart and soul?” Magdalena asked in concern. 

“Someone has passed. Near us. A mother. I must go take care of it.” Thanathea told her after a few seconds. 

“Now? Are you sure you are feeling alright with that?”

“I must, my darling. I will not be long, I can assure you that. Just wait here.” Thanathea told her, putting up a small smile that only looked true after she kissed the vampire’s hand, before walking alone to a few houses down, her body slipped through the closed door. 

Magdalena could not help but to feel concerned for her lover, not wanting her to put so much pressure on herself. Thanathea had been growing more lenient, allowing angels of death or other death entities to take on more responsibility so she should not rely so much on her omnipotence, but she still desired for Death herself to rest. 

But Thanathea has been doing this since possibly the beginning of time. She knows her boundaries, her limits. She knows when too much is too much. 

At least, the vampire hoped so. 

Although her worry began to grow when Thanathea took longer, a little too long, than usual. This was unlike her and Magdalena wanted to go into the home, but she knew it was impossible. In an occupied home, she needed to be invited inside or risk disintegrating. Curse those vampiric rules, completely infuriating at times. 

The vampire started to consider other options but before she could, the same door opened and Thanathea emerged, dressed in green…

…with a child in her arms and another clinging to the hem of her dress. 

Magdalena blinked a few times in confusion, not knowing quite what to say in the moment. Thankfully, Thanathea had the words for her. 

“They need food. They have not eaten in a while.” Her Death told her, staring at her in a way that the vampire could not quite understand. 

But she looked at the children, the one Thanathea held was still very small, curly blonde hair on his head and big brown eyes, filled with tears. The girl that was nearly hiding behind her lover looked similar but a little older, seeing a mess of the same blonde curls but stormy grey eyes, showing fear but stubbornness. She was afraid, upset, but putting up a front. Pretending to be strong while staring at the vampire warily. 

It nearly broke Magdalena’s heart. 

“Of-of course. I believe there is a diner, close by? They will have food there, they are open all day and night.” She told all three of them, giving the children a soft smile to try and reassure them. Then she caught a whiff of their scent and it completely caught her off guard. 

She had never smelled something like this. It was nothing like mortal scents, or even cosmic beings. It was something entirely different that she could not put her finger on. 

It did not matter in the moment, she had to put those children’s well-being first. “Hello, young ones. I am Magdelena. I am sure my lover, Thanathea, has introduced herself. What are your names?” 

The boy did not say anything, merely sniffling and hiding his face into Thanathea’s neck, but the young girl did speak. “Rose…Rosemarie.” 

“How beautiful of a name. Is this your brother?” Rosemarie nodded. “What is his name?”

“Sylvain.” She replied, her voice still quiet but she began to show her face a little more. 

Magdalena smiled sweetly at both of the children. “Lovely name as well. Do not fret, Thea and I will not bring any harm onto you. Come with us, we shall get you some food.” 

They did not protest as she and Thanathea walked them toward the diner. They were all quiet, no one saying a word, but the vampire could not help but to look at her lover. 

There Death was, holding a little boy that now seemed very comfortable with her, and an older girl that continued to hold onto her green dress. It was a beautiful scene that Magdalena never expected to see, even if it was quite sudden. 

They both absolutely needed to talk about this as soon as they could. 

When they made it to the diner, they moved to a booth in the corner even though there was no one else there. Magdalena went to order them food, hoping at least that the children would like it since it has been a very long time since she has eaten human food before and food has evolved so much over the last century. 

Thanathea made her way to her side while she stayed by the front of the register, now being free of Sylvain, who sat nearly attached to his older sister. “Care to explain what has happened, my beloved?” 

Death sighed under her breath. “Rosemarie and Sylvain Dumont. Five and two years old. Their father is no longer around, left not long after Sylvain was born. Their mother was the one who passed, and drank herself to an early grave, unfortunately.” 

Magdalena’s heart broke once again for the two young children, looking back at them at the booth before looking at her lover again. “Their scents are different. Why is that?”

“Because they are both witches. An odd mix, because their parents are human. Must have been magic somewhere in their ancestry, because it caught up to both children rather than just one.” 

“Witches…” The vampire said to herself in complete surprise, she had never met any other supernatural being before and now she met two young witches, “but that still does not explain why they are now clinging to you and why you are helping them.” 

Thanathea went quiet again, running a hand through her auburn locks for a moment. “I just…could not bear to leave them alone. With no family. Nowhere to go. I thought I could at least make sure that they are well fed before I make my next decision.” She sighed again, louder this time. “Perhaps I am growing soft.” 

“Oh yes, quite soft. It is a beautiful look on you, Thea.” Magdalena told her with a big smile, making Thanathea smile as well. “I would love to see you looking soft like this more often. Soft around those children, around our family…”

Thanathea did not say anything for a moment, as if she was getting the same idea as her lover. “You…you wish to keep them?” 

“They have no parents. No other family. I would not forgive myself if we sent them back to their home with no one to care for them,” Magdalena told her and then placed her hand over Death’s, looking back at the two children sipping their cups of milk, “We could care for them. Teach them about their magick. Raise them as our own. Is that…something you would like to do with me?” 

Thanathea smiled sweetly at her, nodding. “I know you have always wished to have a family. And while they may not be a very conventional family, I would want nothing more than to have a family with you, my love.” 

Magdalena’s smile grew and she leaned forward to press a kiss to Death’s cool cheek. “Let us go make sure our children are well fed, my Thea.” 

And so they did. They were gentle and patient with Rosemarie and Sylvain, making sure that they were comfortable and warm. The little boy fell asleep not long after eating, his cheek pressed against Thanathea’s shoulder. The older girl was drawing on a piece of paper, waves of blue all over while continuously eyeing the vampire and Death, as if she was trying to make sure that they could be trusted. 

Eventually, it seemed as if she made her decision. 

“Are you going to send us back?” Rosemarie asked, her voice still quiet. 

Magdalena shook her head. “We will not, little one. You may come home with us, if you would like. Thea and I will protect you both, I swear it to you.” 

Rosemarie did not say anything for a minute, thinking over the offer. “You won’t hurt us?” 

“Never,” Thanathea said this time, smiling lightly at her, “you both will be safe and sound with us. No harm will come to you.” 

Finally, Rosemarie smiled at them both and nodded. 

That was all they needed. 

Their home would need to change, beds and clothes and blankets for the children, toys of their choosing. But the first night Rosemarie and Sylvain slept in the cottage would always be Magdelana and Thanathea’s favorite, both young children curled close to their bodies, in their arms. 

The vampire would never forget the feeling of finally having her children. 

Magdalena was 145 years old when she realized that she had a family and she was home at last. 

Rosemarie was eleven now, long blonde ringlets that were halfway to her back, her grey eyes still resembling a storm in the middle of the ocean. 

Sylvain was eight now, his own curly blonde locks touching his shoulders and seemed to always be smiling now, running through the woods barefoot whenever he could. 

But Magdalena could not be any happier watching her children grow. 

It was not very easy raising them, of course. Thanathea had to watch them over the day and Magdalena over the night. Not to mention when their magickal abilities kicked in, Thanathea had to teach them ways to be able to manage their powers. Magdalena read book after book on witches so they were well educated on who they truly were. 

It was fairly easy to see their connections and the types of witches they were. Sylvain was easily an earth witch, his affinity with growing flowers and plants at will expressed that. As for Rosemarie…

“Mama! Look!” Rosemarie exclaimed, one hand out in front of her and the water from the ocean swirled upward, twirling around her all over her arm before it fell right back to the shore. 

She was very clearly a water witch and a very good one at that. 

Magdalena smiled widely and clapped her hands together. “Great job, my Rose! Your power continues to grow!” She praised her, making Rosemarie smile back just as Sylvain went up to the vampire. 

“For you, mama.” He held a purple flower up to one of his mothers, making her smile once again. 

“Oh, how sweet, Syl. Thank you very much, my boy. Is this other one for your mom?” Magdalena asked him as she took her flower and he nodded. “How about I give this one to her and you can make a rose for your sister. How does that sound?” 

“Okay!” Sylvain said happily, giving the vampire the green flower for Death, and then ran over to Rosemarie. 

Magdalena smiled sweetly for a moment as she watched the two siblings before strolling over to where Thanathea was, her eyes on the ocean. It was Rosemarie’s idea to go to the beach and with the full moon shining up in the sky, it was the perfect night to do so. 

“M’lady.” The vampire presented the green flower to her, making Thanathea chuckle quietly and smile at the sight. 

“Sylvain is learning very quickly.” She pointed out. 

Magdalena nodded, humming affirmatively under her breath as she placed the flower behind her lover’s ear. “He is. Both he and Rosemarie will make their coven proud.” 

It was no secret that witches belonged in a coven. Once they turned sixteen, they would leave home and go on their own to discover their true coven. 

Rosemarie will leave in five years. Sylvain in eight years. 

It was something that saddened Magdalena but the children have promised both of their mothers that they would visit and call often. 

She appreciated the sentiment and she was truly proud to see the kinds of witches they would grow up to be. 

But it was more than just that. Even now, watching Rosemarie’s hands glowing a soft shade of blue around the water while Sylvain’s hands glowed green to create more flowers, it just made Magdalena feel warm to see how happy and peaceful her children were after everything. 

She never expected to have a family, especially after turning into a vampire. 

She expected to spend the rest of her life alone. 

But then Magdalena met Death. 

They fell in love. 

They adopted their two wonderful children. 

They raised them, told them about who and what they were, and their children accepted them just as Magdalena and Thanathea accepted them. 

No judgment or fear whatsoever. 

Just love. 

“You are quiet, my night. What haunts your mind?” Thanathea asked her, wrapping an arm around the vampire’s waist and pulling her closer to her own body. 

“No haunts,” Magdalena reassured her, “I am merely…happy. Happy with the life we have. A life I never thought I would have. For myself and with you. Yet here you are, right by me, with children who are loved and happy. I could not ask for more.” 

“Does that mean that you do not want to expand our family?” Death asked with an eyebrow raised, slightly amused. 

“No, I still want to expand for children who need help,” The vampire quickly responded with a smile, “I am just happy and content at the moment. And so…so loved. Thank you for your friendship. For your love. I could never thank you enough, my heart and soul.” 

Thanathea smiled at her, her blue eyes filled with so much love that it made something warm burst inside of Magdalena’s chest, cupping the vampire’s cheek. “You do not need to thank me. You made immortality special. In all my existence, you are the only person, the only being, I have ever wanted. I truly love you, my love.” 

“And I love you, my beloved.” Magdalena told her genuinely, melting under Thanathea’s gaze as they kissed before watching over their children playing in the sand again. 

The vampire did not know how long she and her children would be around. But she knew that they would be protected. They will be loved. They will be safe. And Thanathea would be with them through it all. 

After all, Death had been by her side for over a century and will be there for centuries to come. 

Magdalena could not ask for anything more.

[lixenn]

give me your favorite manga or anime of all time. NOW. like, the ones who changed you as a person. if you are okay with questions like that!

UWAAAA!!! ummm favourite

favourite manga or anime

yes.

i have that... probably... i think...

I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO PICK THIS IS DIFFICULT 😭😭😭

I will make my life easier and try to pick a favourite per genre? I hope that's okay 👉👈🥺

So Lix' favourite manga/anime coming right up:

Romance This one is easy: Maid-sama I admit to not having read this in literal years so I honestly can't say if this would still be true if I reread it but Maid-sama is what really got me into anime and manga. It was one of the first animes I watched (I remember watching a german fandub of scenes on youtube... that were the days) and it's the only manga which I have all volumes of (though i think they made a sequel? i don't have that because I honestly didn't see the need to buy it). It will always be important to me even though I really don't have that strong of an urge to read it again.

Shounen Okay. So I like shounen a lot. And I know I always yap about KHR on here but it's not my favourite shounen because that one is One Piece. Which might be basic af but it doesn't change the fact that Oda's story telling and worldbuilding and characters are fucking godtier and I love it so much. The way I read/watch One Piece might be completely fucked up (out of order, skipped arcs just to rewatch them later, constantly switching between manga and anime) but I'm obssessed with it all the same. It has aspects I could do without (aka the fanservice OTL) but everything else is so amazing that I can easily ignore it. As a reader and as a writer I'm constantly in awe of this story and it's one I always come back too even when I took year long breaks from interacting with it.

Comedy I love comedy. I love crack so fucking much it's unreal. The easiest way to get me to read any kind of story is to make it as hilarious as humanly possible. I gobble that shit right up. So my favourite comedy manga is Gekkan Shoujo Nozaki-kun simply because this story never - and I really mean never - fails to make me laugh. It's one of the few mangas were I religiously read the update as soon as it's out since the story format doesn't require me to remember the things that happened in the last chapter. It's also a story that I can reread easy as pie, it's just so funny and endearing and it speaks to my crack loving heart.

Sport Ah yes... Sport anime my beloved. In this category Haikyuu is the winner. I remember always being so hyped everytime the manga updated and rewatching the anime for fun. I also remember it me motivating to actually go outside and play volleyball for a bit (though I'm not really good at it lmaooo) so I would say it had a lot of influence on me. Though... I actually haven't finished reading the manga (I'm a fake fan OTL) I'm still stuck somehwere during the timeskip and at this point I would need to reread that entire arc becuase I remember next to nothing about that match lol.

I will stop here because that was a lot of yapping 😅 and yes I'm totally okay with questions like this! My inbox is wide open so if you are curious feel free to drop by it makes me happy!! Thank you so much for dropping by Lotte it was lovely to have you here 💜💜✨✨

[sc0rpiflow3r]

I love your writing and your characterization of both Voldemort and Harry, especially Harry's he just feels very in character. Voldemort's obsessivness is so fun to read because that's my favourite part of him. Your latest chapter was amazing and hot af I'm very excited for the next one 🥰

Just curious what is your general idea of who Voldemort is? I was intrigued when you mentioned his way of "murdering" Tom Riddle by creating his other identity and later his first Horcrux to essentially get rid of his "weakness". Do you believe that was what motivated him to become Lord Voldemort and a murderer (in canon) ? His deep and unsatiated desire for connection, loneliness and constant hurt that he couldn't fix?

Wow, thank you, anon! 🥹❤️

I’m so happy with all the positive comments Fetters is getting! ❤️

Harry is fascinating for me to write because it’s difficult to balance his character. He’s incredibly human — kind, but suffering a lot. He feels rage and carries terrible survivor's guilt.

The thing is that he can’t be the same pure and good hero as his relationship with someone as dark as Voldemort unfolds. We'll see in the next chapter, which will be entirely from Harry's POV, the contradiction inside him.

Relationships change people, and as I wrote in the notes of the first chapter, this fic is a case of "how he can make me worse."

Fetters of the Damned is about breaking free from societal restraints, giving in to your worst impulses, and being cherished for it. In other words, it’s the raw and pure idea of "they match each other's freaks".

I loved your question about Voldemort!

Voldemort is charming, cruel, and relentless. He thinks he’s the best at everything and despises everyone else. Even his most faithful followers, like Bella and Barty, he sees as “pets.”

He views them all as inferior to him, even Harry. The only one he can’t see as inferior is Dumbledore, which is why he hates him so deeply.

He’s a contradiction - he loathes Tom Riddle because he sees Tom as the weak boy who was beaten, humiliated, and had nothing. No one wanted Tom Riddle, not even his own family.

“Voldemort felt weak, more vulnerable than ever, and disgusted with himself. He did not feel like the powerful Dark Lord; he felt like Tom Riddle. A pathetic orphan.” (Chapter 6)

Tom Riddle craved love, but he never received it. So he craved power, because he had none.

When he discovered his magical heritage, he saw an opportunity to gain control over his life, a possibility to change it. However, to become this powerful being, he has to die. Tom Riddle must die for Lord Voldemort to be born.

And it wasn’t enough. Nothing is enough for him.

He has this craving, this rage, all rooted in self-loathing. He hates himself (hates Tom, which is him, no matter how hard he tries to deny it) and has a constant need to prove himself as better than everyone else.

“He had always known he was destined for greatness. He had always known he was different from the others. Not only different, but also superior to everyone else. It was his destiny to rule the world.” (Chapter 2)

And the similarities between him and Harry — the way they connect— oh, Voldemort isn’t even a bit ready to see Harry as an equal. He sees him as a pet, as his object, his Horcrux.

Both are solitary orphans who crave companionship deep down. The difference is that one accepts this need for someone, while the other does not (at least not yet).

Anyway, I hope I answered your question. Sorry for the essay; I get excited talking about this! 😅

[comesitintheclover]

Six Sentence Sunday Monday 📚📜🖊️

Thank you so much for the tag @bookish-bogwitch! your chart is awesome!

I will remember to try that/ a similar thing if I keep having issues with this fic I'm writing (but I should at least try to slog through a first draft of my trouble chapters first - i just get so anxious that I will fuck up the funny-conflict and make it miserable or something when it's 'perfect' (but vague af) in my brain and has been that way for 4 years...).

And thank you everyone who has tagged me in the last months/year <3 @nausikaaa, @ileadacharmedlife, @monbons, @supercutedinosaurs, @brendughh, @rimeswithpurple, and anyone else if I missed you because my tumblr notifs won't go that far back 😭💗💞💖 I love you all! Thank you for including me in the community even when I haven't been writing for a while! It's been so inspiring seeing what you all have been up to and I've finally started writing again so yay!

My goal is to finish this fic I've been writing for four years (i've written what I'm estimating is 50k words freehand and am transcribing and editing them onto my laptop and I still need to write the other half ... hahahaha 😅. But I love it. ) called *The Long Summer*, within a month (the first draft at least, I'll come back and edit it at a later date. I want to post it on ao3 over a summer so hopefully I will be ready next summer! I need to write it while I still love it!), and then I want to write the first draft of an original story for a month or so/NaNoWriMo, and then I will pick one of my Carry On WIPs to work on (hopefully just in time to celebrate snowbaz's anniversary!)

(The Carry On WIPs in question: I'm thinking I will probably pick my soulmate au fic called Meet the Parents/When You're an Adult You'll Understand, or a trans au called Fraternity house, orrrrr this magical Agony-Aunt fic called Basilton Grimm-Pitch’s 10 Step Plan for Getting Over*(letting himself be in love with) Simon Snow ).

And I'm planning to interact more with wip-wednesdays and six-sentence-sundays from now on to keep me motivated and accountable! (hopefully this works, battling my motivation is like trying to wrestle a fish or something... i'm constantly at a loss with my brain - oh why won't I do things that I love and have time to do??)

....Oh and I want to make some Carry On animations.... (this is probably why I don't do things... Too ideas many and hard to pick. I tried to make a schedule last night that included everything I wanted to do in a day and it was 35 hours long... oops).

*The Long Summer* is a harry potter fic, and since I know all of you lovely people from Carry On, and I know lots of people avoid hp stuff for obvious reasons (JKR is wrong! Trans liberation now!), I will keep the rest of this under the cut <3

here are the first six sentences from my 💗beloved fic💗:

Ron Weasley wasn't an introspective soul. By the time something actually rolled around to happening he would probably have had twelve chances to predict it, if he was Hermione. He presumed something like this would never have happened to Hermione. Summers were probably a lot more quiet in the Muggle world, as an only child, with parents who weren’t - well Hermione was so smart she probably already knew, no there was really no reason to write to her. And Harry - well he didn't want to write to Harry about it either.  Honestly, it would probably be better if he never found out.

(I wrote these when I was 16 and they may need editing but that's for future me to worry about - rn I'm trying to push out a first draft as fast as possible...)

Thank you to anyone who read this far!

Hi!'s, tags, and hand-hearts to everybody 🫶 @stitchy-queerista, @umdiasujo, @carpeosculum, and open tag to anyone who wants to be tagged! <3

[cool-thymus]

can i get uhhh no3 and a no10 for the nart questions pls? (hi thymus!!)

Hiiii, Ard! thanks for being interested in my opinion xD I'll start with THE question hehe

10. OTP Who could that be...? 🤔😅 I'm going to use this opportunity to finally make a verbal statement about why i love my otp so much. I started watching Naruto as an experiment in 2022 (at the ripe age of 28) and the land of waves arc got to me: Haku's death (and the way Zabuza used him -yes, i have beef with that guy) got my empathy involved, and Kakashi-sensei charmed me by being incredibly cool AND mysterious. The mysterious part about the origin of his sharingan intrigued me the most: what do you mean "a friend gave it to him"??? who is this friend? where is he? are they still friends? All those questions needed answers. So i learned about Obito Uchiha (mostly through fanart). Then i cried my eyes out watching Kakashi Gaiden and stalled the war arc as long as i could because i knew what was going to happen, and by then i’d already fallen in love with them beyond reason.

Before anything else, this ship is so powerful because separately Kakashi and Obito are incredibly well-written characters. Yes, they complete each other and share their arc till the end, but nevertheless, each of them is autonomous, believable, complex, and deep. They are both the main dish. So the dynamic, the bond they establish between them feels true and natural. One has this sunshine personality, is kind, caring, tenderhearted, and fun; the other has too much to deal with for his age: being a genius will mess with your pride and sense of worth, but not with your tiny, pure, brave heart. Kid Obito and kid Kakashi are so precious, you wanna shield them from everything that is wrong with the world. And then tragedy №1 and tragedy №2 happen that push these two boys to realize they were supposed to be each other’s lifeline. Obito got a head start over Kakashi though. When Kakashi finally sees Obito for who he really is, the sacrifice is already made, leaving Kakashi attached to his lifeline that goes nowhere. 

Tragedy №3 crushes their souls one more time and marks the beginning of the horrendous paths they take: Kakashi drowning himself in guilt and the violence of ANBU missions; Obito being groomed, brainwashed and manipulated into a gruesome conspiracy that perverted his ideals. And despite everything that happens next, they still hold on to their lifeline (the shared sharingan serving as the visualization). They are loyal to each other in their own ways. Kakashi lets his memory of Obito guide him and help him live, while Obito never seeks vengeance or takes the eye back. He even goes beyond imaginable and saves Kakashi’s life one last time. 

They were written to be tragic, but they were also meant to be special. If only Kishimoto had more sympathy and allowed Obito another chance. Those two precious boys could start all over. And this time, post war, their respect, longing, sorrow, adoration, grief, regrets, hopes would be shared, and the love that had struggled to grow for so long would finally be in full blossom.

(and they’re both hot af)

3. Favorite villain

(No worries, sweet anon, i don’t consider Obito a villain xD) The key villains like Madara or Danzo remind me of middle-aged men who get hung up on conspiracy theories and start believing that they have the world figured out. So they are more annoying than scary to me. And a villain should be frightening, i think. In the ninja world this would be Orochimaru. He’s an egomaniac, a sensible madman, who is deceitful, merciless, and cruel. We were shown such atrocities, so much abuse, torture, and physical pain inflicted on innocent people. And for what? I’m not sure i fully understand his motives: was it out of fear of death? Or is this just him doing what he loves? He IS the worst, and yet, by the end of shippuden he turns into a comedy bit?! Seriously?! This is all kinds of wrong xD But the facts remain, he is a good villain, creepy and scary.

To lighten up the mood i'll attach this scene from Rock Lee and his Ninja Pals that shows the funniest wtf-ish way to defeat Orochimaru xD (now i wonder what else Kakashi can do with his water jutsu ..)

the nart questions

[beatsboy]

7.28.24 / day 35 of romanticizing my life until i love myself again

it’s almost 2am, i woke up about an hour ago from a 5 hour “nap” after going to a queer day market to support my friend selling their art, and it was really cute and i was honestly super social as i have not had that much social interaction lately (getting used to living alone and having to actively go out and seek social interaction has changed my capacity when i do have it so much, like crazy not feeling drained every time i leave the house because i’ve already been like 5 people’s father/therapist/cleaner/etc before getting to the place i’m going to be supportive/present for someone else) but god damn it was so f u c k i n g hot and tbh i’m very proud of myself for making it as long as i did i only made it thanks to the ice cream vender who put my ice pack necklace (shoutout to my mom who has these for menopause and told me about them) in her cooler so it could get cold again and the lemonade vender who gave me a giant cup of ice to hold against various parts of my body to stay cool af and i got to talk about the music video, and future music videos, the more we talk about this stuff, the more motivated i feel to work on music i want to get to the part where i get to be the thing i’ve been building mostly in my brain for so long

originally, we were going for summer release, and then everything got all fucked up with my roommate situation and moving but i think it was meant to happen this way; this project is better suited for the fall, regardless, and clearly brat has taken over this summer in terms of music, on all levels, especially in the hyperpop scene there are still brat parties going on in la, smaller artists are still reaping the benefits of this album (though not getting much credit, as per usual) love seeing the dare dj a petal supply remix of a brat song and getting all the credit, it’s fine we can continue letting cis white dudes get the credit for queer artists, it’s fine i was literally at a brat market today, where everyone had brat merchandise it’s hard for any other music to break through the brat noise in pop/hyperpop right now, not to mention, boypop is kind of fucking freaky, so i do think sept/oct release would be good for the theme

i rewatch the assembly of the first minute or so of footage and literally cannot believe that that is me these are the movements i practice in the shower, in the corner, in my room, when no one’s looking, movements, expressions, i rarely actually see and the thing is, when i do see, i often shrink from them when i tried to practice performing like this in front of a mirror, i always lost it, the authenticity of it, the commitment, giving fully into the performance, the character, the self that’s the only way, in my opinion, to perform, because any level of restraint pulls you back to reality, that i am just a human, an insecure boy, going through puberty for the second time in his life of 27 years, afraid that he hasn’t done enough in his short time on this earth and wishes he’d taken a life-altering journey to a faraway planet where pop music was the harbinger of liberation instead of a stint in rehab and a coke addiction

anyway, market was fun, although so so hot, and after not going out all weekend, especially after thinking i was going to go to the rave on friday night and not, i really needed some socialization, with friends, and new people, and really needed some real time spent out of my apartment i got a really cute trucker hat that says “gay son” that i’m obsessed with and a really beautiful zine made by a trans guy about his gender journey (originally to raise money for his top surgery, which he had evidently already had, as he was standing there, fearlessly, with his shirt off) i honestly didn’t want to spend another $10 (i literally still have to make my rent in the next 3 days but telling myself i got this) but i think i just feel this intense awe when i see other trans guys post op shirtless, so free in a way i cannot imagine being so, naturally, i was blinded and overcome with this feeling, so i paid the $10 for the zine, and of course i do not regret it at all another vender had a kitten cafe with two 2 week old kittens inside (pictured) because they were too young to be left alone and while i was worried about them and the heat, they were quite cute

after being at the market for over 4 hours, af and i came back to my place, where i made us greek wraps with ground turkey and homemade tzatziki and cucumbers after we walked to h mart to get fresh tortillas i showed them the latest version of “boypop” which is so close i can taste the final mix (and am a bit mad i didn’t work on it today, but it’s fine, i was exhausted) they noticed the automation, the changes i’ve been making, i feel like i’ve actually been moving forward in my work this past week instead of just hyperfixating and going in circles, which is a danger i face in the finishing phase it’s hard to let go of a project, to let it be done i still listen to “king” and think of different harmonies i could record now with my current voice and i can sing whatever i want live, but the recording is done, the mix is done, there are no more changes to be made

i think, in the same way that i love people for their potential, and not always for who they are right now, i see a song as it’s potential, which is why i can imagine so much more than what is actually in front of me, and translate that symphony in my head into the daw, and i also why it’s so hard to let go, to stop, to step away from the infinity of changes and evolutions each project could still face sometimes it feels like i could just work on something forever and as i learn new things it will keep getting better and better, but at some point, i just have to let go

when i was a kid, my dad told me that an artist’s first album is always the best because it’s the cumulation of only their best works at the time, but then they just have to keep creating and they slowly get worse and worse i don’t know why i let this stick with me, more insidious influence from my father on a career i hadn’t even chosen when i knew him, it was just some dumb musing from a middle-aged man making himself feel smart by making a comment about maroon fucking 5

his birthday was 2 weeks ago i wonder if it makes him sad, on his birthday, at the age of 66, knowing he’s grown to be the kind of man who would offer back his relationship to his child, who has grown to hate him more than he hates himself, at a price, who has grown to be a man who can put a price tag on anything, even his love and support knowing he is one of the only people left in this planet, soon including even TSA agents and the DMV, to call me that name to wonder if i will ever come back, if i will ever call, if i will ever reach out, if i will ever show up and say i’m sorry dad you were right all along i got off the path and i sold my body and i want to go back to my normal life with a check for $5000, crying, and return to his control (i won’t) he tells my brother that it’s on me, ball’s in my court, if i want to come back that’s all i have to do, say sorry and pay the fine my terms have always been more simple, which i have communicated let’s talk, with a therapist present you two (parents) schedule (since they have crazy schedules) and i will be flexible (even though i too have crazy schedule) “he said he’s willing” my mother claimed, but it never came to fruition, of course not i blocked his number at first, i had to he wouldn’t stop calling, threatening me, telling me i’d made my mother sick with my behavior (becoming financially independent after realizing i was being financially/emotionally abused) i responded to his emails for a while, but they got worse, so i stopped then, his dad died, and i unblocked him just to call and give my condolences i left him unblocked after that. he could have called any time he wanted, but he didn’t i would know if he’d even tried

i wonder if my dad, too, ever sat alone in his first solo apartment journaling about his thoughts and reflecting on the ways his actions impacted other people mostly i hope not, because i don’t want to know if he did good things before he went bad, i want his fate to feel impossible for me to come to i already know that he read the tao te ching and the four agreements, things i’ve read as a young adult, that have brought me peace, that have taught me ways to move through the world, that don’t make sense when i think of him, and it makes me uneasy i don’t want to envision him being a morally good person and suddenly turning it makes me fear that i could still face the turn, when i want to believe that i have avoided it, that i am not capable of becoming a man like That

but, in truth, we are all capable of becoming like that, of selling out to some idea worse than what we believe in because it’s easy, because what we’re doing now is hard, because the rat race is tiring on the ground because our bodies are tired because maybe our fathers were right and the world’s a hard place and maybe i won’t because i know he wasn’t right, he never was, he was a professional bully who practiced on his wife and children but it is in every decision we make, daily, hourly, minute by minute, that determines who we are, and in ever decision, we can make the turn, we can cave and be cruel, we can give in and take the easy route, knowing that each of those decisions pulls us closer to That which we fear becoming the evil you fear lies as much in buying all your furniture on amazon as it does saying something cruel to someone who doesn’t deserve it just because you’ve had a stressful morning as much as the goodness you chase lives in being friendly to the coffee employee who’s taking forever on your drink when you’re late because it’s not their fault and their morning is just as important as yours as much as it lives in buying from local artists every decision determines how you move through the world, connecting each step and choice like a river, that is where you find where you’ll end up, which ocean you end up submerged in, which fish you will find yourself swimming into the dark night with and i crave free, calm waters for when i my end

[kithtaehyung]

minted: part two (snippet) (m) | myg

snippet: minted: part two (m) pairing: street king!yoongi x street vendor!reader rating/genre: m (18+) ; angst , action ; haegeum au , gang au series: masterlist | part one summary: after a whirlwind of a detour, you have second and third thoughts about the guy you saved. who even is this man? and what the hell is in that bag? note: holy shit, y’all. thank you so much for the love on this series already! it’s been a minute since we started a new series here, so nerves were firing on all cylinders. but you all showed out and gave me enormous relief and motivation to keep going, so thank you! enjoy this snippet since i missed the initial part two drop! note 2: this series is for @sailoryooons, @joonary, and @minttangerines! love you all! warnings: language, violence, weapons (guns/knives/chopsticks/etc.), blood/wounds mentions, drugs, alcohol, trauma, poor reader :(((, mint!yoongi, haegeum!yoongi, tatted!yoongi, his eyebrow is pierced, yoongi visuals in this one areeee…, tension, tense situations, crass af yoongi lol, reader is also a baddie but who is shocked, slow burnnnn est. drop date: september 16th, 2024 snippet word count: 1.5k est. total word count: 9k >:))

—

—

There’s something to be said about the human gut. 

Not because it’s the source of multiple health aspects, or the way it’s connected to the brain. 

But, other than when violence tears it to shreds, it can be quite the defense mechanism. Just like yours churns and churns with each mechanical click of the elevator shaft.

Who is this person next to you? 

Who exactly did you decide to follow upstairs hours ago, killing your daily life to save and join on the run? 

You don’t know if you released your hand or if Yoongi let it fall, but you take this unlinking to create space. As you slide your gaze toward your companion, he merely shifts his weight and finds interest in increasing, beeping numbers.

How can someone’s profile be so troublingly handsome? You’d be able to think more clearly if he wasn’t both attractive and dangerous. Or if you simply weren’t on the verge of collapse.

Frankly, if you didn’t just murder a man you’d pass out as soon as you took too long to blink. 

To keep yourself alert—and to hopefully gather some much needed intel—you suddenly question aloud, “Where are we?”

No answer.

Alright.

“That driver called you Agust,” you recap on a second go. “What was that about?”

All Yoongi does is stare at his reflection in opulent, dim mirrored walls. Or whatever else he’s doing besides talking. 

Okay. Well.

You can face forward, too. 

“Those guys after us,” you try a third time, because who are you to give up now even if he radiates annoyance. “They didn’t look like Crane.”

“Doesn’t mean they weren’t.”

Your neck almost snaps when you turn. “Are you kidding me?”

As you watch Yoongi scorn the ceiling again, you can’t believe he doesn’t agree. 

Mm. Does he?

From the flex of his jaw, you have to assume you’re right to some degree. Because it looks like he’s very, very bothered by the people that chased you down. 

If those weren’t any of the high-powers but had equal resources and numbers…

What the hell were they? Where did they even come from?

Geez, it’s freezing. Is a drop in temperature the best barrier to you making sense of things? You can’t even appreciate the way Yoongi’s veins protrude with every adjustment he makes to that mysterious duffle bag.

Lies. You absolutely can. But there’s no way in hell you’re ever complimenting that. Or anything about him anymore because he clearly doesn’t want anything to do with you! 

Why did he even hold your hand? Was that just a ploy, too? 

But that taxi drive…

Yoongi looks down before lightly scuffing his shoe, and both of you fall silent as you finally give up with a huff. 

Massively dehydrated. Sore. Still covered in a myriad of unmentionables and now being ignored by the guy you saved. 

All you wanna do is go home, and you don’t even know where that is. 

How far did you travel? What district is this? You’ve never heard of a grey zone, but they seem fairly peaceful even at night. Neutral enough for you to consider relocating even if it meant sleeping on the street.

That brings up another question. “If we’re in a grey zone, how did you know—”

A ding interrupts your last thought, and you look to see where you ended up.

But the elevator doesn’t say a number. Only letters? What kinda floor did you stop on? 

One thing’s for sure, though. Whatever room you end up getting, if there’s only one bed you’re hogging it or taking the…

Floor…

There are many things that have shocked you in your lifetime. Many things just from today that had your head positively and forever reeling. 

But when the elevator doors slide open, you can’t even fathom what the fuck you’re dealing with. 

And in this second, more than ever, you understand how ludicrously out of your element you really are. 

“Holy shit,” you blurt, barely hearing the huff at your side.

Don’t elevators usually open up to hallways? Why are you walking into an entire living space? Is this a real place people choose to sleep in for a night? A whole floor?

Forget a whole floor, it’s a whole other place.

You slowly survey everything, wondering how much this has to be because you have never seen a living space so big. Or pretty. Or anything like this.

The ceilings vault and the furniture looks nothing like you’ve ever seen. Everything looks pristine. Clean. Is that a whole kitchen?

How are there living arrangements this big? This one place is bigger than your entire apartment level back home. 

And here you are: speechless, virtually homeless, and dragging your filth onto white marble floors. 

Perfect.

“What.” 

You turn at the scrape of Yoongi’s voice, wondering why now is when he finally chooses to acknowledge you. Head pounding, you ask outright, “Who… Who even are you? What is this place?”

He levels your stare before walking towards a long couch, dumping the duffle and raking his hair back in minted waves. “There’s a shower in every bedroom. Take your pick.” 

…Is that really his only response?

“That’s not what I asked,” you fire back, wondering what the hell his problem is so you can add more out of spite.

“But it’s what you need.”

“Say what now?” 

The fucking nerve? Even though you obviously, desperately need one, hearing him mention it makes you wanna re-use the chopsticks in your pocket. 

But Yoongi simply waves you off, grabbing a remote and flicking on a television so wide you would struggle to reach both ends. 

This is all too much. 

“You know what I need? To go home,” you huff out, leaving fire in your determined trek to the elevator. “Have a nice life, Yoongi. Or Agust. Whoever the fuck you are.” 

You get to the door and run into a dirt-slicked forearm, and the voice you hear courses through your ears, “The fuck are you doing?”

“Shouldn’t be that hard to figure out.”

“You serious?”

“Yes, I am. So move.”

Yoongi pauses, jaw working overtime before he steps aside wait he’s gonna let you go that easily? 

…Oh.

That was certainly not what you expected, but what else would you even think? This isn’t one of those stories that ends perfectly after trials and tribulations. Yoongi has proven more than once—in mere hours—that he’s no regular civilian. Nor man, for that matter.

But despite that, you blink before freezing at a terrible realization. 

No matter how you slice it, you’re much better off with him than you are by yourself right now. Even if he is a secretive criminal with a smoking gun. 

He did keep you alive that whole chase.

But there’s the smallest, tiniest chance that you aren’t quite safe with Yoongi, either. You don’t even know who he is anymore—maybe you never did.

So in a quick decision, you skim his side to slap the elevator button, chucking daggers at his brows until he leaves you to wait alone.

Good. You don’t need this. You can find your way back to your city block somehow and live the life you’ve chosen to lead again. 

Yes. You can do all of that by yourself. The chase is done. 

And so is your story with the man that will never buy your tangerines again. 

Grabbing your sleeve, a second fact stings your fingers. A jacket woven in Dragon teal. 

Shit. You need to ditch this, too. Either right now, or before you get the hell out of this grey zone because if you don’t, this is the biggest target you could ever have on your back. 

No good. No good no good you didn’t plan any of this well at all. Fucking pride blinding you to everything else logical. Is this how your story ends? Because of regret and resistance? 

You wait for the sliding doors, about to leave the biggest room you’ll ever see to occupy a box. How poetic. 

Your heart pounds as you close your eyes. Yoongi just cut you loose; it’s obvious he doesn’t care so why should you? No going back now. You’ll figure it out. The doors are finally opening. 

And someone’s inside?

Wait.

Your brain both whirrs and skids to a halt at the sight of the staff member occupying the elevator. When they give you a look, you find your hand drifting towards your back pocket.

Fucking hell, relax. You should be safe with a hotel employee, right? They wouldn’t be out to kill you. This is just your adrenaline on its haunches. 

However, one foot in the elevator and your senses go haywire. 

Because you can’t do this alone. You aren’t nearly as prepared to brave this foreign space as you need to be. With red in your hands and Dragon on your back? Absolutely not. 

You bow to the hotel staff before you face forward into the expanse. 

And as the doors start to close, you see Yoongi’s stare over his shoulder, storming with emotions and words you can’t name.

Yeah.

You fucked up.

Fuck.

-

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tbc. :))

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are we ready for the drop?! | join the taglist!

a/n: this is just the beginning!! who knowwwws what's gonna happen during the rest of the 9k+ lsdkfjdskl thank you all so much for hanging in there for me as i navigate multiple hobbies and endeavors. it means a lot to see your words of encouragement! always appreciated, and i hope you look forward to the real drop hehehe. more links: masterlist

[takitori67]

(Long talk)

I'd like to apologize first for being dead silent, unactive, muted and passive. I've come to realize I was and am losing a spark of using multiple medias at once to post my arts (like, being too obsessed with keeping a "comfort zone" that is Facebook). There were some times I forced myself without needing to, and looking back I was being pretty unnatural/awkward in communication...

But thanks everyone so much for liking/reblogging my works. For the past few months I have actually been happy being able to draw Arjuna, putting real efforts, successfully expressing myself well a few times through drawings, sharing works to other people and seeing many others loving him as well. I'm really grateful for the support.

Because of meltdowns thanks to the pressure of personal life, I have also taken a month or two off F/GO. I actually have felt bad because I thought I was losing interest in Arjuna, which I wish not to be the truth. I skipped both Halloween events (sorry Liz) and barely finished Yamataikoku (I was bummed because the raid already ended before I could join in. I'm so in need of QP). I gained back some motivation though and came back for Ryouma and Oryou (successfully rolled one copy, although they almost ruined my savings for Arjuna next year ↓ Also, Okita almost pissed me off for coming 7 times 🙂 I already had her. Girl stop). Now my QP is back to 5mil.

Besides that, I still care for Arjuna but I really wish it was as flaming as how I felt towards him at the beginning of this year. I managed NP3 Arjuna (he always came at the last pull, like he wanted to give me a heart attack). I finished the Fou's footprint for Junao. I bought Fondant Au Chocolat (thank you Helena for that extra copy, which I burnt to have enough Rare Prisms...). I finally had the chance to order and will own a Junao doll (in next year), although it's not official product- but I'll take it nevertheless!

About the Junao doll... I actually made "deals" with my friend who lives in America. The problem with me being unable to have any official merchs is that I don't have an international paying site like Paypal and don't know how to handle overseas fees (tldr: I'm broke af), so in a moment of panic (I thought the order would end very soon), I asked my friend for help and I'll pay her back with my arts. It's... basically commission, but also trading (???). I think I'll probably open another account either on Twitter or Tumblr just to mainly post original and commission works...

Other thing, I have two cats now. My little sister wanted to own kittens and my mom indulged her. I actually don't have good experience with pets in general, but I'll do my best to take care of them. Here are some pictures of them both, the black fur's name is Juni and the greyish fur's name is Charan (My sister named them differently though, but we all don't mind). They are both female btw!

And lastly,

Convenience store-curry tastes awful (I was curious :( ).

[achillean-knight]

Nearing the end of Mettamay! Recap and thoughts :D (This is just for fun lol)

I think this is the part where I drop off of drawing for Mettamay AAAA But hey, I did really good though! (imo ofc!) The number of days I did and how much I drew MTT himself was insane 👀👀👀

In total I accomplished days: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 10, 12, 14, 15, 16, 18, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27! So in total, 21 days! Holy shit LMFAO VERY proud at my commitment yo, I kinda wanna do this again next year if it's on! >:D (just remind me bc I WILL forget probably)

I've mostly dropped off by now, just bc I can't think of what to draw, and my motivation has moved to updating oc's for Art Fight BAHA But the fact I made it so far--- bonkers, bro, absolutely bonkers. This was INCREDIBLY fun and got me through pretty bad burnout, so yah! It was honestly very relaxing to just draw Mettaton for 21 days JHSDGHSD

Also, shout out to Mettamay for getting me to experiment with art aswell! Notably, I've become more comfortable not fully rendering with a painterly style, rather, just using a single pen brush in my software and doing pretty decent cell shading(?), which is epic as bc painting takes... SOOOO long JHDF

And honestly, imo to end off Mettamay for MYSELF Imma rank my favourite pieces I've done for this month, just to look back on and just for funsies KEKEKE

VV - UNDER THE CUT! BC THIS POST IS LONG AS HELL - VV

TO RECAP FOR MYSELF, My favourite pieces were these:

FIRST:

Mostly bc I am so SO happy with the rendering and colours JKSDHGFSD

SECOND:

First siting of me doing decent rendering in the whole of this challenge 🫵 This one was specifically a blast. The pose- not too great, but for me who is pretty shit at poses, I'm VERYYYYY happy with it >:D Very epic to see I also accomplished kinda comic-like background graphics, dunno how I did it JKHJGHSFGSDJ

THIRD:

i'm kinda insane about my AU MTT. Salty I forgot the weird cape banner wing things but I love this piece nonetheless ;;w;;! I'm so happy with the design, and getting the chance to draw it for Mettamay was a blast.

LASTLY/SPECIAL MENTION The amount of ghost MTT's I drew have to get their own spotlight. I had so so much fun drawing his ghost form, and honestly? NEW COMFORT CHARACTER UNLOCKED KJSHJHFDG

Who knew a hot pink ghost of my design would become a comfort PFFT Very happy at his design development since the first one LMAO Bro got edgier hair JHGGFJS thanks to my AU ghost MTT also having edgy af hair KJHJHSDJKDDHSDSJ

BUT YEAH Overall, Metta May was a BLAST And now that I experimented with drawing Mettaton, I think I'm comfortable drawing more of him now >:3 Just--- when motivation hits me LOL

[tarabyte3]

No question, just wanted you to know that you're lovely and talented and I hope you're doing ok (hopefull better than ok, you deserve it). ❤️

This is so fucking sweet and I appreciate it so much that every time I look at it, I start crying. Thank you for checking up on me 💖😭 I am struggling to find words to express how much it means to me.

So I am going to use this answer to post an update for everyone.

Short answer: I'm not doing great.

BUT I believe that anyone who is able and willing to share their mental health journey should. Both to normalize the struggle AND so that anyone else quietly going through the same thing doesn't feel so alone or as though it's their fault. Because it isn't our fault! We don't deserve this, and it's cruel our own brains tell us we do.

Also getting it out is just therapeutic sometimes!

Therefore the long answer under the cut.

CW: discussion of mental health and depression

I want to preface this with: I'm safe. I have no intrusive or physically harmful thoughts. 💖

But I'm really struggling. I feel like shit most of the time. Mentally, emotionally, and physically.

The winter blues have me in a chokehold and are preventing me from doing things that I enjoy doing to help me feel better.

When you're depressed, it can be difficult to do basic tasks. It can feel impossible to do things like self-care, exercise, or to work on creative projects.

I thrive on creative projects. I need enrichment in my enclosure!! When I don't have them or can't do them, it makes me feel actively worse.

I haven't been able to work on my fic because right now my brain is an undercooked scrambled egg in a mesh colander. I get about 100 words out (I'm at ~2.5k words for this next chapter, which is about half done, I would guess) and then I just stare blankly at my screen. Which sucks because I have the vision for what I want to write in my head (😏), but no way to get it to come out of my brain.

(Side note: thank god for gif making and Andy content because it's the one thread keeping me from bolting into the woods, never to return)

I also have a few home decor, painting, and craft projects I could work on, but I lack motivation due to depression.

It's just an ouroboros of "depressed so I can't be creative" and "need to be creative so I'm not depressed." 🙃

We're getting wave after wave of winter weather here (right now we're in a massive ice storm), which is keeping me indoors. Being cooped up is rough on me. I need to be active. I'm just a complicated houseplant—probably a calathea as we are both drama queens.

I'm also finding it difficult to exercise due to: you guessed it! The sads. My beloved rowing machine, stationary bike, treadmill, and yoga mat sit neglected.

I am also eating far too much bread. Which, while immediately satisfying, is unfortunately not a long term solution because it's actively contributing to me feeling worse 😂

I reached out to try and find a personal trainer to help with the lack of motivation, get me out of the house, have a routine, AND get some workout endorphins to kickstart my healthy habits back into gear, but I haven't heard a single thing back from any of them. Which is disheartening.

Especially since another fun symptom of depression is feeling completely fucking alone and ignored. Which is rude AF, btw.

I'm going to keep making Andy gifs and crossing my fingers that the weather lets up so I can leave the house. Maybe go to some thrift and antique stores or a plant store. That always makes me feel better!

So other than some far more personal struggles with having a chronically ill teenager, there you have it!

I appreciate all of you for helping keep me sane and connected, even though I haven't been logging on as much as I had been due to being too busy staring at a wall and contemplating whether or not I should eat more bread. (I should NOT. …or should I?)

Truly. Thank you. 💕🥹🥺

[hyuckmov]

I fuckinv love your rockstar haechan fic cuz shit, it made me feel sooo much. Like I am in love about how you portrayed them in a way that both characters are seriously flawed af. I wouldn't say that Haevhan likes the reader, but he feels there is something but he reallt can't express it cuz he has been used to his shit ways of slipping away from girls once he had gotten what he wanted and reader on the other hand, is very much well-aware of how shitty haechan is treating her but she really can't bring her herself to runaway from him cuz he has her wrapped around his fingers. Basocally they are both inescapable from their own bad habits and I am wondering about the thought of why reader didn't showed up. Like, every time Haechan asks her to go somewhere, she would literally accommodate with it one way or another so I find it intriguing that she wasn't able or didn't show up to their fan show on purpose.

And btw, the time when Jeno said to her that Haechan isn't even his name had me brokennnn. Like that phrase just says a lot about Haechan and their set-up itself and I kinda felt bad for her, but what can I say people tend to be stupid omce lulled by someone (which I understand at the same time). But anyways, I am excited and very much intrigued to the next part and can't wait to read it 💗

hiii!!! 'inescapable from their own bad habits' YES yes yes something like that ~ i'll definitely expand more on haechan's motives/emotions in the second half, so do wait for me !!! i'm glad the name thing could have an impact on you :) this is my second time using the haechan/hyuck name thing in a fic (the first was demon hyuck) and this fic will definitely go deeper into that like a public/private persona. thank you so much for sending me your thoughts and reading and reviewing, it motivates me so much !!!