#all the work has piled and is staring me in the face like a brick wall

[justabunchofdragons]

taking a tumblr break </3 mental health is tipping downwards FAST and i gotta take drastic measures folks

[mothdust23]

CW: Death, loss, extremely unhealthy coping mechanisms, identity issues, light blood, Emotions

A desperate witch. She's investigating the disappearance of dozens of entities, including her very own doll, Lilac. Usually, she's very reserved, but losing her only friend has sent her into a tizzy. She hasn't eaten, hasn't slept, she hasn't even been to her house in days.. it hurts, being inside without her faithful companion. Too quiet. She misses the doll's ticking, how it calms her. She looks at a picture of Lilac and her together, laughing at a joke with a few of their friends. She sighs and presses a doorbell with the tip of her parasol, staring up at an old brick and mortar mansion. This new lead has to work.

Tracking spells don't work, neither does old school investigation. The evidence is strange, very strange, and never leads anywhere, so she's trying a new path: observing another doll, one she's sure is the next target. Whoever's taking the entities is altering the world around them, subtly corrupting and twisting the environment. Objects becoming slightly different, the wallpaper changing to another hue, little details that don't matter until they pile up. It happened for her own doll, it happened for dozens of other entities, and now it's happening to this one.

Walnut reminded the witch of her own doll in a lot of uncomfortable ways. While her old doll was made of intricate clockwork, this one was roughly carved from scraps of wood, its face only half finished. It walks with a limp, and one of its arms was clearly a later addition, perhaps added by Walnut herself. Yet, like Lilac, Walnut lights up when talking about its interests, although in its case it ends with embarrassed reservedness. Walnut's witch died before it was ever finished, so it's lived alone, tending to a house without an owner. It refuses to say how long it's been, but, as the witch brushes her hand across glass older than she is, she feels a strange sense of.. pity.

"This one knew something was wrong when it saw Miss' third favorite lamp!" the doll says, gesturing to an ordinary lamp with an ornate base. The witch blinks, clearly not understanding.

"What's wrong with it?"

"It was rose gold, not bronze.." it whispers somberly. "At first, this one worried it was finally breaking down and... joining Miss, but.. it saw your advertisement, a-and.."

The witch nods, donning her monocle and staring at the lamp. As far as she can tell, it's always been this color.. She tuts, looking around the room, briefly seeing the telltale glow of the doll's core lit up by the enchanted eyepiece. A comforting sight.

"I don't know what to tell you, I'm sorry. Has anything else changed?"

"Well, not that it has noticed, ma'am. Do you want it to check?"

She shakes her head. "It's quite alright, Walnut. I trust you've heard about the other disappearances?"

"Yes, but this one cannot fathom why anyone would want to take it.. all it does is care for the house. For Miss. It's what she would have wanted."

They both quiet down as a groaning sound echoes through the house.

"...house settling?" the witch offers, trying not to betray any worry. The doll shakes, fiddling with its hands nervously.

"The house has never sounded like that, Mi- er, ma'am" it whispers.

"Any.. other dolls, live here?" she presses.

"Just this one.."

Another groan, closer. This time, they can hear a strange humming sound, getting louder and louder.

The witch slowly reaches towards her parasol. She grips it too tightly, something Walnut notices and decides not to comment on.

"Stay behind me, ok?"

"Y-yes Miss- oh, sorry!!"

"..We can discuss calling me that later, little doll."

The unfinished doll could only respond with a squeak, hiding its face in its hands. As the hum gets louder, a harsh glow appears under the room's door. The witch fumbles for her eyepiece and steps back in horror, staring through it past the door and at the monster behind it. She's never gotten this close before, and the whole time--

A desperate witch. He's spent the past few months preparing this spell, and he considers it a mercy to only choose entities people wouldn't miss. The buzzing is loud, so loud, and he needs only a few more souls to cure this ailment once and for all. It'll all be worth it.

..he regrets being so sloppy. A few humans and birdpeople who still had family, an angel working at a hospital, a doll who still had a witch. Every one a liability, someone who would be missed, and here he is, looking down the end of another witch's umbrella, looking like a deer in headlights.

"...Shit."

"..you're a witch. Like me." the woman manages to say, lowering her parasol slightly. Walnut doesn't say a word, fiddling with its hands. It looks into his eyes and clutches the first witch's coat in terror.

"I recognize you. You were that doll's witch, weren't you?" he says, clutching his hand in pain. Strangely, only the hand being held has a glove, the other covered in a red substance she dares not identify.

"...what do you MEAN, were?" she responds. The man finds the tip of her umbrella pressing against his nose.

"I- I- I'm sorry, it was the only way- I HAD to, I couldn't find anyone and I was- agh- running out of time.. like right now.. please, give me the doll." He looks like he's in pain. Blood and oil cover his once-regal clothes.

"Tell me where my doll is, or I swear to Selene I'll turn you into a grease stain."

He coughs, looking at the floor in guilt.

"..I'm sorry. I- I wish I didn't take someone who had a witch to come home to."

"Where.. where's Lilac? Tell me it's ok, please just.." she manages to sputter out, eyes filling with tears despite herself. "Please tell me my doll's still alive.."

"..."

"..please."

"I'm sorry.."

She chokes out a sob, dropping her parasol.

"It was the only way. I.. I never wanted to kill them, but- ACK-" He doubles over, seemingly in pain, and rips off the glove on his right hand. To the witch and Walnut's horror, it's jointed, like a doll's. "G-give.. give me the doll. I need it. Nobody.. w-will miss it. It'll be a clean kill.."

"I.. I don't know what you want with Walnut, but.. I'd miss it. Your murders end here."

She reaches down to grab her parasol. Surprisingly, he lets it happen, sitting against the wall.

"I.. I need sacrifices. Living souls, doesn't matter whose. It's.. the only way."

"Only way to WHAT?"

Porcelain crawls up his arm. "Delay it, until I can cure it. I know a spell that forces the changes to the world around me, but.."

She stares at him. "You killed so many people.. including my Lilac.. so you wouldn't become a doll? You.."

"I CAN'T, OK!? I REFUSE! I CAN'T BE SOME- SOME THING! I HAVE MY LIFE AHEAD OF ME! I- I have promise.. talent.. I can't be a doll. I don't want to be a doll."

"...They had their lives ahead of them, too. Come on, Walnut."

"W-what? Where are you going? DON'T JUST LEAVE ME, IT'S JUST A DOLL!!"

He tries to get up, but one of his legs gives out, ball joints clicking into place. She ignores him, escorting Walnut outside.

"..you ok?"

The doll hugs her, shivering. "This one has never, ever left the grounds."

She cradles its bad cheek. "Something tells me.. your witch would've wanted you to move on. You're a very old doll, aren't you?"

"..Y-yes, but-"

"..I can't stop you from staying, but.. if you ever want company.."

They share a look. The humming and light inside the house reaches a crescendo, a scream rings out, and everything goes dark. A doll stands up in the empty house and starts cleaning a stain off the floor.

"..This one thinks.. it would like your company very much, Miss."

"..Me too, Walnut. Me too."

Dedicated to my sister, Jacqueline. Love you sis!

Happy Halloween ^^

[eris-snow]

3. 𝐃𝐫𝐨𝐩 𝐈𝐭

Tags: bakugou x fem!reader, juxtaposition, angst, fluff, swearing, more swearing (It's Katsuki what do you expect)

Feeling his eyes on you is like discovering how to breathe again. Relearning how to inhale and exhale and reworking the smile on your face. 

“Come here, nerd. We need to talk.”

Katsuki is this close to losing it.

He doesn’t know how Izuku had developed selective amnesia in the span of hours, but Katsuki was considering hurling him into the nearest brick wall and see if it would work. He was rapidly running out of options at this rate. Percussive maintenance. How fitting.

This had been the 3rd consecutive day of him reintroducing you to Izuku, and no matter what question he asks, Mr I Fart Quirks Out Of My Ass just doesn’t remember you. What the hell?

You definitely know what’s up, because every time Izuku apologises for not remembering you, you simply smile and wave it of.

After the 5th day of this cycle, Katsuki comes to the hall alone.

“Oh,” You say, watching him calmly climb the stage by your stupid seat. “You’re here early. Where’s Midoriya—”

Katsuki pushes the heavy drapes aside and snarls.

“You’re fucked up, you know that?”

You look startled, but Katsuki doesn’t stop. “The nerd has been coming here every day, and you still go along with his ‘I don’t remember, I’m so sorry!’ bullshit. You have more problems than the water percentage in horse shit.”

Your face curls into a scowl. “Well hello to you too, Bakugou. Should I get up and offer you a chair and discuss your issues? Don’t worry about snacks, we have peanuts.”

The blond reels back at the sarcasm. Okay, you’re snippy.

“And let’s set the record straight. Your problems stack up so high, it makes Mount Everest look like an ant hill. You don’t get to say jack shit about me.”

Katsuki huffs. You’re really pissy today.

“Stop changing the subject. Tell me what you did to him before I punt you.”

You suddenly go very, very still. Eyes dull, lips pressed into a tight line like you’re recalling something unpleasant. Finally, you sigh.

“We’re not talking about this.”

“Uh, yes we are.”

You whirl to him, glare lethal. It feels like he’s staring at an angry Midoriya, because the way his skin crawls at your face can only be done by Izuku (and Auntie Inko, shh.).

“Drop it,” you hiss.

And he does, so that’s that.

—

Katsuki gives up on bringing Izuku back to the hall. There’s no point, anyway, since he won’t remember.

Schoolwork starts to pile up like a stake of due bills, so he stops going too. It doesn’t mean he stops thinking about you, though.

It’s just the little things that he’s now hyper-aware of. You’re nowhere. And by nowhere, he means not even in the halls, or at assembly. In that short span of time he kept coming to time without Izuku, Katsuki would find you in all sorts of positions.

Playing the piano terribly, leaning against the wall with your ears plugged as you hide away in the crevices of the curtains. Sometimes you’re doing homework, sprawled out on the light brown timber planks. Sometimes you’re revising.

However, every time he walks in, you smile up at him like he’s done no wrong and stop, putting aside your materials so that he could rant about how stupid it was to hide out in here.

On the country, whenever someone other than him walks in, they’d simply give him a raised eyebrow, before leaving without a word.

“Why don’t they ever say anything about you?”

“Maybe cause you’re the hero in training, and I’m not?”

A bullshit reason, but he doesn’t call you out on it.

Talking to you is like a refreshing vacation. Delightfully plucked out of time, away from the problems of rebranding and school work outside. Katsuki never dissociates. He doesn’t like to. But he appreciates the normalcy of his conversations with you.

You listen better than his therapist ever did.

It takes a second for him to realise that he’s been staring at the same diagram on his paper for 5 minutes, and he has to shake his head to snap out of it.

He tells his brain to kindly shut up, pushes the thought of you aside and refocuses on his assignment.

Something about triangles. And circles.

—

It has become common knowledge that Katsuki can cook as well as a Michelin star chef, and it has thus become common knowledge that U.A.’s kitchen was his.

Well, not all his. Sato owns half of it, but it’s mostly his. Clean, neat and organised, because so help the idiot that would mess up the his spice rack. Which is the only reason why he’s resisting the urge to dump this pot of curry onto said idiot’s head.

Seriously, fuck his life. Denki has decided that horror stories was going to be his new favourite past time, so he gets to hear a new stupid one every week.

Have you ever heard of the Women In Snow?

There was a wendigo spotted nearby! We have to go and see it!

We should go ghost hunting! I hear that there have been paranormal sightings—

“If I hear another mention of ‘hauntings’ or ‘ghosts’, I’m gonna boil you, throw you out on the carpet, and dance on your body.” Katsuki interrupts flatly, jabbing a ladle dangerously close to Denki’s face. “If you want to be here, make yourself useful!”

Denki dodges the attack, flying behind Eijiro who was standing beside Katsuki scooping rice. Coward.

“Kirishima, save me! Bakugou’s gonna murder me!”

Eijiro sighs with an exasperated look on his face. He’s always the peacemaker, and if Katsuki could find it in him to feel sorry for him, he wouldn’t be here.

“Bakugou—”

“Shut the hell up, Shitty Hair! Stay out of it.”

Denki pouts, peeking from behind Eijiro’s red hair. “If I become a ghost, I’m haunting you for the rest of your life.”

“Out!”

Denki grabs a stack of plates from the cabinets and places them on the counter. Dinner was about done, anyway.

“You’re being pissy!” The blond calls as a parting remark.

“You’re being insufferable,” Katsuki lashes back, taking the plate Eijiro had handed him. Eijiro gives him a concerned expression as Katsuki dumps the curry beside the rice.

He likes Denki’s first horror story best, though.

—

It’s a week until Speech Day and Katsuki feels like he’s going to pop a gasket.

He can handle it-the stress was nothing compared to his first year-but the war has changed him in ways he sometimes wished it didn’t.

Nightmares plague his slumber and between the wrapping up of syllabus and finals ending, he’s so close to degenerate into his old tendencies.

The yelling. The punching. The heat under his collar.

He’s pent up, and he needs someone that can listen. Izuku is there, he always is, but it’s an itch his best friend can’t scratch, because it’s something only you can do.

The quiet of the hall. The hushed conversations. You don’t have a clue what he’s going through, but you try to understand even if he just dropped into your life like a comet from outer space.

That…means a lot more to him than it should have.

He stares at the unnecessarily big doors in front of the hall, debates for a grand total of 5 seconds, decides he doesn’t give two shits about pride and yanks the doors open.

Katsuki manages one step into the hall, before he hears sniffling.

Shit, are you crying? You better not be crying. He doesn’t know what to do with crying people.

Should he go?

He pauses at that.

His shoes squeak on the smooth flooring as he hauls himself on the stage. You’re right where you usually are, splayed on the ground with a book in your hand and tissues strewn beside you.

Your nose is red.

He pulls the curtains away and steps back stage, cautiously approaching you. “Are you okay?”

You sniffle again, blowing your nose.

“Sinus,” you groan, throwing a tissue ball at him. “Been having it all morning. Life hates me.”

And for some reason, that makes him laugh. Low and raspy, genuine and soft. That feels nice.

“Throw that at me one more time.” He replies easily, relief evident. “I dare you.”

You close your book, grinning at him as you unplug your ears. Your eyes light up like a firework show.

“Is that a challenge?”

“It’s a warning.”

He says plainly, flinging the tissue paper back at you so he can create a spot to sit down.

“What brings you here? I thought you hero course students had to—oh.” You put two and two together quick. Katsuki watches you look back at him, and then to your book.

There’s silence for a quick second, before you settle. “Tell me about your patrols?”

And just like that, he’s off like a bullet.

You nod along and listen, balling the tissues in your hand that are wet with tears.

That was too close.

[jazzmynerule]

Possibility

this imagine is based off of the scene in twilight where edward left bella and she sits in her room looking outside.. you get what i mean??

prompt: vinnie and y/n broke up on bad terms and it’s taken a toll on y/n leaving her to stay in her room for weeks

warnings: intentional starvation, numbness to emotions, unhealthy breakup, isolation

(- this means time skip)

���………………………………………..

walking into my room just moments after vinnie and i broke up had me sobbing on the floor

the same floor we danced around till sunrise

the same floor he kissed me till i couldn’t breathe

i hated how much i love him and i also hated how much i hate him

our relationship was envied by everybody

they said me and vinnie where made specifically for one another and honestly i believed them

he was the love of my life until

3 hours before

vinnie and i were arguing in the kitchen over how distant he’s been

“vinnie why are you being like this? i love you!” i screamed at him as he was walking away from me

“why am i being like this? why!? because you never believe me when i say they are just friends! am i not allowed to have female friends y/n?” he screamed back practically in my face

i stood there with my heart in my hands watching as it slowly cracked each time he yelled at me

“not when you’re friendship with them is based on fucking flirting! vinnie watching you flirt with them while you ignore the fuck out of me breaks me!” i sobbed

“you know what fuck you we are done i’m fucking over your bullshit y/n, you wanna see me flirt with somebody? i’ll fucking flirt with somebody” he said walking up the stairs leaving me by myself for a split second

“hey nat, i was wondering if you wanted to catch up sometime this week?” i heard vinnie talk on the phone and that’s when my entire world crashed around me

“yeah no i’m not with her anymore she’s a fucking controlling insecure bitch” he chuckled

“fuck you vincent hacker! never in my life would i ever say something like that about you!” i yelled as i slammed the door and walked out of his life

-

“y/n honey, how are you doing?” my mum walked in and saw me hyperventilating on the floor

“mum i loved him” i cried so hard my chest was screaming in pain

“oh my love i’m so sorry baby” her heart broke into pieces seeing me cry over a boy like this and i know how much she wanted to protect me from this pain

“come on let’s get you to bed” she kissed my forehead lifting me up and carrying me to bed

“you’re my everything and more y/n remember that” she smiled pressing another kiss to my forehead

-

waking up the day after a break up was worse than the hour after

i sat up feeling like my chest was a pile of bricks

walking over to my dresser was a work out and even changing my clothes felt like it was a task

for hours on end i sat down on my desk chair staring out my window in complete silence, no tears and no emotion

mum and dad tried to pry me off the chair and eat something but the thought of food made my stomach churn

i just needed to be alone and having my parents worry so badly about me wasn’t helping

-

it’s been 2 weeks since the break up

vinnie has tried to call me multiple times a day talking about ‘i’m so sorry’ like that was going to change anything

i can’t look in the mirror anymore it’s like i can’t see the person i was before or during him i can only see the person after him and i hate myself for it

i haven’t spoken to anybody not even my friends i’ve isolated myself from the possibility of ever being myself again

i still haven’t eaten anything all i’ve had the past 2 weeks has been water and a watermelon smoothie mum makes me every morning because ‘it’s giving me the nutrients food should be giving me’

-

i can’t even find the motivation to go to my bed anymore it’s like i’ve permanently found my place on this desk chair

i was just about to fall asleep on the chair when a knock came from the door

“y/n love there’s somebody here for you” mum said as she opened the door

“y/n?” that exact voice was the reason i felt like this, the exact reason i’m not myself anymore

i fucking hate who that voice belongs to

“y/n baby i am so fucking sorry” vinnie stood in front of me practically wearing the same expression as me when i was standing in his kitchen, with his heart in his hands

“you did this to me” my voice was croaky as all i’ve been doing was crying

“i know and words can’t begin to express how fucking sorry i am for doing this to you”

“you need to leave, now” i finally looked at him, he looked like he hasn’t been eating and all he’s been doing was crying

like me

“i’m broken without you, you’re my everything and i hate myself for taking advantage of that, you are my soulmate y/n i need you” he fell to his knees in front of me gabbing onto my frail hands

“i wasn’t your everything when you called me insecure and controlling” tears welded up in my dull eyes just thinking about the conversation he had with that chick on the phone

“i’m a fucking dick baby i know but i’ll be better for you i promise, i can’t live without you” he broke down placing his head on my lap crying like his life depended on it

“i can’t forgive you for what you said and how you treated me vin but i’ll try” i slightly smiled feeling like my chest was finally being lifted out from under those bricks

“i love you so much y/n too much” he cried kissing my hands and placing my forehead on his

“tell me i won’t regret this” i sighed

“you won’t i promise you” he kissed my nose

-

that was 10 years ago

that awful break up was what we needed to finally be the couple we are today

2 kids and a house by the beach

having being married for 6 years and are as healthy as ever

yes our relationship isn’t all flowers and rainbows

but we will never give up on us as easy as we did back then

…

thank you so much for reading!!!

[xiaolin-show-hoe]

"Trouble Ages Like Wine" Prompt 2

There were days when the time hit him like a brick to the face.

He stared at the Xiaolin Dragons, grown for about a decade from when they first met, but to Chase, it was only a moment.

The monks had grown taller, stronger, faster, and smarter. They had become a real challenge to handle and when he watched from the sidelines as Wuya fought unvaliantly to get her hands on a new Wu…Chase felt his eyes freeze on the scene.

It was then that he wondered how fast time would keep going. 

He would forever be in its grasp and while he could act as though it was his weapon, it was nothing more than that, an act.

He was no greater than any other except he had time on his side.

It however did not play by rules which he could dictate. He was at its mercy just the same.

While the monks got stronger, the Heylin side grew weaker. Many of their allies had simply become passing figures.

It was then that Chase witnessed yet another defeat on their end. Wuya losing to the Xiaolin was no longer abnormal, in fact, it was becoming as common as Jack losing to them. It was something he would have to fix. 

--------

With Wuya's loss, they returned to the Citadel. 

"We are being made fools of Chase! This has to end! We need to get a leg up on those Xiaolin monks. Why not ask Hanni-"

"Wuya," He growled warningly and he enjoyed how quickly she went quiet.

"It seems you have misjudged your position here. Let me clarify it for you," Chase rumbled with a slam of his fist upon one of his pillars, his dragon form slipping under his reactionary anger.

She walked backward in fear as he rounded her, his form festering into existence on his skin like a plague.

"You have no power here witch and you'd do well to remember that I merely tolerate you."

His words got deeper as he shifted fully and hulled over her menacingly adding, "Do Not Test Me."

She simply nodded at him and excused herself as she should. With a painstaking shift back to human skin he sighed. Every day the monks became more powerful. Soon even Chase would have trouble taking them on alone. He knew this day would come, but he had blinked and the young ones were no longer young.

The were-dragon put his hands behind him and merely walked over to his large chair, his large cats walking with him.

<i> 'Master why do you seem anxious?' </i> one in particular asked and Chase found himself at a loss. Indeed, why was he? Was it because of the future yet to come or simply this feeling of displeasement with the idea of one day having to work beside his fellow Heylon just to keep the Xiaolin side in check.

When did he start to feel this way?

'I have many things on my mind. It seems the tide of good and evil have become rather unbalanced since….'

Chase paused mid step as he finished the thought with an aggravated sound, '...since that worm Jack Spicer stopped coming around.'

All his cat warriors seemed to feel similar to him as all their ears lowered.

<i> 'The screeching child that smells strongly of burning oils and pudding?' </i> 

'Indeed, the one and same foolish buffoon.' He finished and thought of when he last saw the irritating nuisance. How many years had it been? Surely it had been enough time to expect some more positive changes in his social skills?

Chase hardly doubted it, but he would check for the sake of evil. After all, he would rather check on him than that wretched vegetable.

He went to his seeing crystal and summoned the image of Spicer to make sure his visit would be at a good time. Ever since he had walked in on the worm dead asleep in a pile of garbage, he had found it less complicated to simply see where the other man was before teleporting over.

An visual was conjured in the crystal and Chase raised an eyebrow in shock.

Chase blinked before staring again at the image before him.

Well then, seems he should pay Spicer a visit.

Without another moment, he summoned his Heylin magic to transport him to Jack's location.

●●●●●●●○○○○○○○○●●●●●●●●○○○○○○○○●●

Jack banged his head, a resounding clang was all that greeted him back. With lifeless motion he did it again, "Come on Jim, you can't mess up my dinner schedule because of a little prank. Do your goddamn job."

All he heard was a snicker from the otherside. Goddammit, idiot wardens.

Fury rolled in him but his hunger made him weak enough to forget it. He turned instead to sit against the door. He began to kick his feet since his hands were wrapped around him in the straight jacket. A special detention center just for him. He felt honored.

He wondered if he should just go to sleep, try and pass the time that way.

He couldn't and he knew it. Still he hoped his mind would calm itself.

He closed his eyes and started thinking of food he used to have. He groaned and kicked his feet up like a kid. At least he could move them.

Suddenly Jack felt goosebumps prickle his body and the smell of burning leather hitting his nose.

It was familiar in a way that rolled in his stomach as he opened his eyes in shock to see…Chase Young in the flesh in his isolation unit.

Was this a hallucination? Had he been that far gone or was he already asleep?

Chase looked the absolute same with his smug face and handsome jawline that had Jack's heart racing everything. His jaw dropped, "C-Chase…What brings you uh here?" 

The red head cursed his stuttering and wondered if he was imagining it all. It was more likely than Chase Young appearing to him after so long.

The man silently looked around the padded cell with that smile still condescending. "Seems your living situation has changed since I last saw you. It seems much more…quaint." 

Jack rolled his eyes at the statement, smirking back nervously, "Yep, definitely not the same. So…What do you want?"

He watched those golden eyes scour him appraisingly. It made him get a shiver and nerves bubbled up as well as so many thoughts. He couldn't voice anything as the black haired man sit a mere 6 feet from him. 

"Good, I will make this quick."

That smug look was gone and something cold replaced it. His neck prickled at the words and Jack wondered if Chase was here to kill him…but why now? The look on his face became unreadable and Ah, that's what Jack was used to the most.

"How would you like to be on the Heylin side once more, Spicer?"

The redhead froze for a moment.

Then he started laughing hard. Almost damn near crying, now CONVINCED he was hallucinating. There was no way Chase Young, his evil idol from his teen years, was here to ask him of all people to help him in aiding evil. The prideful arrogant asshole of a powerful handsome god would never.

Which is why he wondered when they had drugged his food if he hadn't ate yet. The dragon man had simply looked at him calculating and cruel as always, Jack didn't even flinch at it.

"Chase Young asking, ME of all people, for help? I call bullshit."

The evil warlord stared down at him and emotion of mixed fury rolled in his stomach at the haughty look, like he was trash…

The eternal being repeated the question again, the threat never veiled in his voice.

Joke was on Chase because Jack literally could not care anymore about anything. His answer was obvious to himself alone it seemed.

"Fuck no."

Chase blinked and seemed to narrow his eyes, "No?"

That is the prompt number 2, 'Trouble Ages Like Wine'. This story is about Chase noticing how much stronger the Xiaolin grow while Heylin weaken. He decides to check on Jack and finds himself set on seeing how Jack is changed.

Except he is in prison and has changed in a way that Chase tolerates, enough so that he makes Jack become his apprentice... even against Jack's wishes.

[cocogrrrl]

off-week

part two to bandages: mysterion crashes in your apartment again, and some things start to be revealed.

mysterion!kenny x gn!reader cws: cuts and bruises wc: 1943

It’s been a week since your encounter with Mysterion.

You hadn’t really thought much about what happened, mostly because you couldn’t. You had friends that lived in South Park their whole lives, like Wendy and Kyle, but you were sure they would ask why you wanted to know who Kenny McCormick was if they knew him. What excuse do you have if that situation arose?

Still, despite that, you were a hopeless dreamer who put all their faith in his revisit once more. You weren’t sure why you were quite drawn to a man whose literal broken rib you helped restore, but the bottom line is that you might like him. He was the only thing you’ve been thinking of all week as well. Mysterion, Mysterion, Mysterion.

You didn’t want to be selfish or mean, but you hoped he got hurt again so he could come running back to your place for your nursing aid. 

It was almost as if your prayers were answered.

You were busy that night, finishing up some extra work given to you by your boss. You were completely immersed in your work that you were drowning yourself in it. You hadn’t showered, eaten, or even taken off your shoes—you headed straight to whatever you needed to do.

This was for the sole reason of reducing the number of things you needed to do, even if you were well aware that these types of things are never fully eliminated. They’re always something that is piled up on, at least in your experience.

A loud thump out your window pulled you from your work, though. Initially, you thought it was some stray cat, so you quickly fixed your attention back to where it was. Then, you heard some shuffling after that. You were confused by the noise. Now wasn’t a good time to be robbed.

As you made your way to where your fire exit was, the thought hit you like a brick—it was Mysterion, wasn’t it? To your delight, it was.

You opened the window, and you were greeted with a disheveled-looking Mysterion. His state wasn’t as bad as when you first saw him, but he still look like he just fought in the rain and got his ass totally beat again. You noted that some scratches littered across his upper half, biting through his clothes as his skin bleeding from sharp claw marks.

“Hello, YN.” There was that gruff voice you missed all throughout the week. His eyes were diverted away from you. You could tell he was embarrassed by the defeated look on his face.

“Bienvenida, Mysterion.” You nodded, opening the window wider for him to hop in. “Your off-day’s now an off-week?”

“Very funny,” he rolled his eyes giving you a dead stare after. “Unfortunately, you’re correct. I got my ass beat by the Coon again today.”

“Do you need me to clean you up?” You asked loudly, already heading into your bathroom to grab your med kit.

You heard a faint, “Yes. Thank you.” as you searched through your drawers. You found the kit and headed back to your living room, being greeted by Mysterion shirtless and sprawled over your couch. He supported his upper half up, but his legs were stretched out. He looked worse than you thought. He had cuts and bruises all over him.

“Jeez, what did he do to you?” You winced at the sight, setting your things on your coffee table as you settled by the foot of your couch to grab the things you needed.

“The fucker had brass knuckles and metal claws on. You think I’m gonna win a fight with a guy who has a great upper hand?” You delved into your kitchen for a split moment to grab an ice pack, throwing it to him—which he had caught with finesse.

“No, but that means you got to one-up him! Bring a gun, then shoot him in the stomach or something.” You said, dipping a towel in a soap-and-water solution and then wringing it out.

“Nah. I don’t wanna bring a gun to a fistfight. I’m not gonna stoop to his level.” He said, seemingly deep in thought. 

You motioned that you were going to sit on top of him, but he probably didn’t catch it. “May I?” You hummed, using your head to point over to his lap.

“Huh? Oh- uh, yeah. Totally.” He mumbled, clearing up his throat.

You situated yourself on top of his lap, embarrassment clear from the red blush on your cheeks. You pushed it aside, though, grabbing his arm as you cleaned his wound. “Ah, this is gonna hurt.” You warned, gently dabbing the cloth on his arm.

He knew what was about to happen, yet his teeth dug into each other you leaned his arms and chest. His eyes were tight shut, and his nails clung onto the ice pack he held against his body. Yikes, the cuts seemed to be a little deep.

After you cleaned his wounds, you set the towel aside, one hand cupping his cheek as the other massaged his shoulder. “You’re okay now.” You cooed.

“Thank you…” he grumbled, eyes opening once more, but turned away from you. You could see red forming on his cheeks.

“I’d stitch some of your cuts up, but my stomach’s a tad bit too weak to do that. Instead, I’m just gonna put some petroleum jelly then patch you up, okay?” He nodded in reply.

You reached over to grab a tube of petrolatum, squeezing a little onto your finger and then putting it on the cut. Repeat the process. “Seems like you’ve already made yourself at home, even if it’s just your second time here.” You said mindlessly, just wanting to make conversation with him.

“I guess so. I mean, you’ve seen me half-naked before, and I’ve already slept here—in your clothes, mind you.” 

“You think I’ve forgotten?” You chuckled, mostly for yourself.

“I’d hope not.”

“Oh, pretty boy, I promise you,” you paused briefly, eyes flickering to his. “I would never forget about you.”

“Uhuh?” His voice buzzed, a smug smirk on his face as he leaned closer to you.

“Yeah,” you whispered back, giving him a short peck on the lips before you pushed him back to focus on fixing him up like nothing happened.

From the corner of your eye, you could see him dart his eyes at you. Not in a bad way, not at all. You noticed a pink in his cheeks under his mask. Cute. “You look like you wanted more.” You giggled.

“Well-” He pouted, voice losing its deepness and raspiness for a split second. You whip your head back to him to give him a funny look. He quickly covered his mouth with his hand.

“Ha! I knew that wasn’t your actual voice.”

“Duh,” he said, his voice the higher-pitched one you heard just now. “You think I go to my regular day-to-day sounding like this?” He laughed.

“I just assumed.” You shrugged.

The two of you stayed like that, you on his lap as you tended to his wounds. A looming air of want was clouding over you two. You were sure he could feel it as much as you. He was the first one to cut the air.

“I’m sorry for not telling you earlier, but I think I have some bruises on my face.” He awkwardly said, hesitantly pulling down his mask and hood

You paused there for a second, entranced by what he actually looked like. It’s true, the bruises got his face as well, but you imagine him without it. He was awfully gorgeous both ways. His hair was a little long, split ends littering everywhere. He had the faintest freckles on his face. You only noticed it now, but he had a gap in his teeth, which you found adorable.

“Hellooo? YN?” He asked, waving his hand in your face.

“Oh, uh—” You shook your head, setting yourself out of your trance. “—Yeah, yeah. You do have a few bruises. Just put the ice pack over it.”

“It’s warm, though.” He pouted.

“Oh, let me change it then,” you said, grabbing the ice pack as you were about to get off of him. You didn’t, though, he pulled you down to him. You turned to look at him, giving him a confused look.

“I, uh, should get it.” He awkwardly muttered, getting up. “You’ve done a lot, and I don’t wanna tire you.”

You clicked your tongue, finding yourself giggling at him. “Mysterion—”

“Kenny.” He cut you off.

“Why Kenny?”

“It feels weird to be called Mysterion if I don’t have the mask on.”

“Oh, well, Kenny,” you corrected yourself. “It’s just an ice pack, a walk to the kitchen. It’s not a hassle.”

“Please, let me do it.”

“No,” You hummed, getting up. “You’re the one who’s injured, so it’s my duty to help you.”

“You’ve been helping out this whole time! It’s the least I can do.” He pouted.

“Fine, you go do that.” You rolled your eyes light-heartedly, getting up to head to your bedroom, though. “Do you need to change?”

“I, uh,” he said, taking a brief moment to think. “Yeah, thanks.” He gave you a toothy grin.

Immediately, you felt your heart skips a few beats at the sight, quickly heading into your room so that he wouldn’t see your red, red cheeks. You got clothes that were in a familiar fashion to what you got the last time he was here: a big shirt and some basketball shorts.

When you exited the room, you spotted Kenny sitting down on your couch as he was holding up a new ice pack against his face. You handed him your clothes.

“Hey, YN?” You hummed in reply. “Was I interrupting you or anything when I got here?”

Your mind flicked back to the work you had to get to. Well, you weren’t upset that you were disrupted. “Yeah, but I don’t mind. I mean, I’m happy to help you out anytime, Kenny.”

“Are you sure? I don’t wanna get in the way of anything important.”

“No, no. It’s fine.” You gave him a reassuring smile, patting his shoulders. After that, you headed to the dining area where your work sat. As Kenny changed, you quickly tidied your things up.

“Are you staying the night?” You asked as you headed back to the living room, deep down hoping he would.

“No, sadly. I think I have to head out now. I have to go do something.” He said, seemingly knowing you’d be disappointed at your answer.

“What? Poison the Coon in his sleep?” You joked.

“Great idea, but no.” He laughed, making his way to your window.

“Don’t forget your shirt!” You folded it up and placed it in a paper bag you had lying around. “When, uh, will I see you again? So you can return my clothes?” You half-joked, not forgetting the extra pair he still had with him.

“Hmm,” he paused, feigning a deep thought. “How does this Wednesday, 5 PM sound?”

“Why so specific?” You raised a brow, not quite getting where he’s at.

“Because I’m asking you out on a date, silly.” He chuckled at you, grabbing the paper bag with his clothes in it.

“Oh! Yeah, totally.” You beamed. Although you would probably be busy that night, you were busy all the time anyway. You were willing to sacrifice a shit ton of paperwork just for a night out with him.

“See you then. I’ll meet you right here, cutie.” He said, giving you a kiss on the cheek before he exited through your fire escape.

[transfemlogan]

And When The Moon is High

Chapter 1

Ao3 | chapter two

(Chapter) warning/s: hurt/comfort, pre-transformation mimicks sickness, talk about hurting others on accident

Words: 5,573

Fic summary: A bed squeaks along with cracking bones. A loud crash, followed by a thud and a bang. Fabric rips, metal clangs, and glass shatters.

The wind screams with a howl.

--

After 5 months of dating, Logan wants to share his full moon with Virgil. Virgil promises to do everything in his power to help him.

Then Logan makes a mistake. He didn't mean to.

He swears he didn't mean to.

AWMH masterlist | FANFICTION MASTERLIST

Gravel crunches together underneath thick black boots. A careful breeze pushes down on Virgil’s hood, slipping it off his head. He squints his eyes as the sun, peering through the leaves, hits his face.

Surrounded by tall trees, Virgil follows the very faint path towards his home. Plants have started to overgrow, covering some of the gravel, but as he steps, they all scuttle away from him like puppets on a string, and then return to their original spot. He fixes the bag hung over his shoulder.

The path disappears halfway along the trail, but Virgil’s footsteps never cease. He’s walked this path a million times before and will continue to walk it a million times after. He glances over his shoulder, scanning the area behind him.

Flies buzz past him. And before trotting away, a deer, off in the distance, pauses to stare at him. The sun sits high in the sky.

— —

A door clicks shut.

Virgil sighs, standing in the small entranceway of his home. He drops his bag with a thud and then immediately cringes, face scrunching up.

He needs to make a ward, or some sort of protection, for his guest room and then start dinner and then start the potion and his boyfriend is showing up somewhere in the midst of that– he chews on his thumbnail.

He rummages around his house, unzipping his boots and taking off his large cloak, pulling out everything for dinner and from his drawstring bag (which has accumulated a white pile at the bottom, from the now open bag of salt), before taking the rest of what he needs from his small garden in the back, barricaded with a large fence and a scarecrow in the middle.

He knows Logan is feeling nervous and feeling vulnerable sharing this with him, and he feels nervous, too (What if his ward ends up not working and something Happens? What if his potion doesn’t work and Logan’s transformation is torturous and what if Logan never wants to share this with him ever again and–)

Virgil lets out a few heavy breaths, shoving his hands into his face.

The clock reads noon.

(Logan grips Virgil's hands in his. They're uncharacteristically sweaty and shaky. Virgil stares at him as if he holds the answer to life itself— or as if he is the answer to life itself— and, god, it scares him as much as it makes his heart flutter.

"We've talked a lot about my transformation," Logan starts. Virgil interrupts him.

"You don't have to do anything you're uncomfortable with or— or unready for." Virgil almost sounds as nervous as Logan feels. 

Logan smiles. "I know..." he presses a kiss to Virgil's hand. "I am... very hesitant to share my werewolf heritage with most people. Not everyone is as accepting as you are... but you are not most people, as you have shown to me, and you've spoken so much about wanting to... help me and—"

"— I want to help you as much as I can, L." Virgil opens his mouth to keep speaking, but realises he spoke over Logan and trails off. Logan keeps smiling.

"I would... like to share the upcoming full moon with you.")

He changes out of his day clothes and wipes his hands on his sweatpants, throwing the jeans he was just wearing into a random pile on his bed.

Despite the boiling and heavy feeling in his stomach (he swears he had to have eaten a brick and forgotten about it), Virgil feels… fluttery. They’ve only been dating for 5 months and Logan has always chosen to spend his transformation alone— not that Virgil has ever been upset or offended— but then Logan asked if he could come over for this full moon. Because, despite all his fears, he trusts Virgil and wants to share this time with him.

(Virgil's eyebrows raise and his jaw drops. "Are— are you sure?" Logan looks away, biting his lip.

"Yes, I am very certain," Logan says, "if you'll let me."

Virgil gawks. "Yes, I absolutely would." He thinks he's smiling wider than Logan. "Of course I would, love." 

Logan presses a kiss to his cheek, grinning. "I trust you.")

Virgil wants to jump around his house and cheer and roll around on the floor, and grip Logan’s face in his hands and suffocate him with a million kisses, and maybe cry really really loud, but he doesn’t think that’s too appropriate.

Instead, he’ll start on the guest room’s ward.

— —

Various herbs hang from the ceiling and in small glass containers in racks aside hand-drawn diagrams pinned on the walls.

Virgil walks through the arched opening– he renovated this room himself, taking down the walls due to how stuffy and hot it got quickly because of his cauldron. He hums lowly to himself, tying up his long mullet-like hair into a ponytail, and walking towards his desk on the right side. Behind him, books start flying off the shelves. They spin rapidly through the air, almost having a purple outline, and float towards the witch.

He runs his finger along the spines of notebooks sitting on a shelf above his desk. The numbers on them count up and up, until he stops on the last one, and plucks it off. Glancing at the book midair by his side, he flicks his wrist; the rest of the books shoot back towards their respective spots. He flips through the pages, lethargically, blowing air past his lips. The page he stops on has a long list of healing correspondences and practices.

Virgil continues to hunt through his room. He waves his hands around like a conductor, looking through his herbs and writing in his grimoire.

He doesn’t specialise in healing Magick. Most of the resources in his craft room involve things like cemetery dirt, ashes, and animal bones (Virgil briefly wonders if Logan would enjoy a bone in wolf form, assuming wolves are anything like dogs, but he shakes his head at the thought), none of which are good for healing spells.

Werewolves are also a mystery to him. His bookshelves are filled with books on vampires, sirens, zombies, and dragons, but none of them mention werewolves in any capacity; and he doubts the library in the town closest to him has books on them, unless they want their library to be set on fire by hunters.

(Though, there is that half-reptilian librarian– he doesn’t trust that man in the slightest, but if anyone would have books hiding…)

Virgil sighs, tapping his quill against his lips. He doesn’t know where Logan’s pain gets him the most. If it was muscle pain, he could attempt some sort of ointment to apply, but if it was bone pain, he doesn’t think an ointment would work. This book talks about injections, but… neither of them would enjoy that very much.

“Lilac… Lovage… Honeysuckle…” He skims the page, “juniper berries?” He hums, holding his hand out. A jar floats to the open hand with a label.

“Despite their deceiving title, Juniper berries are not actually berries, but a cone with scales called galbulus.”

He skips a few lines, eyes focusing on the next paragraph.

“... are correlated with protection and cleansing. They are often used in healing rites…”

Virgil shakes the jar of berries. There’s only a few left, but he can make use of them.

The book also talks about apples, which have many different properties, but can be used in healing, along with lavender and chamomile, which don’t have any healing properties, but protection instead.

Virgil knows he has a few bags of chamomile and lavender tea in his cupboard (mainly because it’s Logan’s favourite), and a potion might be the best way to go about helping his were-partner.

He titles a fresh page in his grimoire: pain potion. His quill scribbles furiously, while around the corner, a tea bag, apple, and honey float into the room.

Virgil can already hear his mentor’s voice in his head scolding him for using his magick so carelessly.

He moves towards the front of the room, which rounds out, towards his cauldron; the round walls have large stained glass windows, shining rainbow light and patterns on the floor. The cauldron hangs from a chimney crane, attached to one of the small columns nearby, over logs.

Virgil sets both books on the small side table, before lighting the logs on fire, warming up the water that already sits inside.

He spends time making sure the room is cleansed by meditating, while the tea brews. Physical energy representing the cleanse is better for Virgil, as his anxiety is something he can look at and know the room is cleansed, but visualising it works just as well. 

And he’s on a time constraint.

He lights a green candle on the side table and closes his eyes.

“May this potion bring pain relief to its consumer,” he spoke loudly, vibrant blues and greens dancing behind his eyelids, “heal aches and broken bones.”

The room bursts into colour. 

Blues, greens, and teals jump out of the cauldron, dancing along the walls. The liquid turns from a golden brown to a deep blue as Virgil squeezes a lemon into the pot, the yellow drops rippling against the water. The candle melts wax onto the candlestick and the fire flickers, waving slowly. Smoke billows, smelling of lavender.

Three hesitant knocks rap against the front door down the hall. Virgil halts, startled. The candle glints with his lack of movements. A familiar aura is flickering with anxiety behind the door: indigo… with hints of orange. Well… That’s new... He doesn’t even leave his station to check the door before he lets it unlock, closing his eyes again and waving a hand over the water. The door swings open with hesitance. 

Virgil’s face is illuminated in a dark teal as he dips the cup into the almost shimmering tea. He sets it on a platter, beside a small plate of apples, "berries", and honey. 

The floorboards creak behind him. It stops at the threshold.

“It’s… very blue in here,” a voice says. Virgil’s lips quirk upwards all on their own.

“That’s what happens when you make potions, babe.”

Virgil turns around, crossing his arms and leaning against the table. He tries his best to hide the platter. “I mean…,” he continues, “most spells are colourful. Correspondences, and all.” He’s facing his boyfriend, Logan, who blinks at him behind thin, gold-framed glasses. Mocking the neatly tied-up hair into a small ponytail, a curl falls out and over his forehead. Why Logan ties up his hair at all, when he barely has any, will always be a mystery to Virgil. 

Logan runs a palm over his hair, smoothing it down. “Well, I don’t make potions, dear, I wouldn’t know.” His voice is high and fluttery, with a pout on his face. Virgil snorts.

“Yeah, that’s my job. Are you pouty that you don’t know witchcraft?”

The werewolf scoffs, continuing to pout. He turns his head away and laces his hands together in his lap.

Virgil laughs and takes long strides up to him, wrapping his arms around his waist and pressing his lips against Logan’s. Logan makes a very soft, surprised sound, before kissing back.

Virgil leans away an inch, blowing breath against Logan’s lips. “I made dinner, if you’re hungry,” he whispers.

Logan hums in response, staring at the other man through his eyelashes. His face is covered with various blues, greens, and teals, glasses catching light. His arms snake around Virgil’s middle and Virgil wonders if sweatpants are living up to its name right now, or if the room just got a million degrees hotter since Logan walked in, considering how warm he feels all over.

Virgil clears his throat, before pressing another kiss against Logan’s lips. “...Are you hungry?” 

"Yes, actually," Logan smiles softly, "more so than usual.” 

Virgil pulls away from his boyfriend to drag him towards the kitchen.

“From the, uh… full moon?”

“From my transformation, yes,” Logan adjusts his glasses, staring over the large pot of beef stew. “I prefer eating beforehand, anyway, so I’m not–” he hesitates, “... hungry in my form.”

Bowls and spoons clank together as Virgil sets them down on the counter. He decides not to comment. Logan fills their bowls as Virgil cuts them both slices of bread and hands them off. 

Logan gasps– the way he always does when Virgil bakes anything– and Virgil rolls his eyes. “It is not that amazing.”

“It absolutely is,” Logan frowns, “If I tried to bake, I’d burn the house down. Do not undermine your talents.”

Virgil grins. “I have told you a million times I’d teach you how to bake and you always have an excuse!”

“Well,” Logan starts, pulling out a chair from the small dining table, “If I learned how to bake, there’d be no reason for you.”

Virgil barks out a laugh, taking the seat across from Logan. “Oh, really? I have no other usefulness?”

Logan takes a bite out of the bread, tilting his head in pretend-thought. He taps his forefinger against his chin. “... No, I think it’s just being able to bake.” Virgil kicks his leg from under the table and Logan lets out a small laugh (just hearing his laughter makes Virgil’s stomach flip over itself a million times.) 

“This is delicious, V,” Logan says. It’s like he’s… vibrating in his seat, unable to sit still. His leg is bouncing, half shaking the entire table, and Virgil would assume he’s nervous, but Logan’s ears are light pink and he’s grinning widely. 

They continue to eat their dinner and Logan gets up for seconds (and then thirds) and Virgil’s very glad he pulled out his largest pot. 

Through the window, sunlight fills the room. The sun hovering a bit away from the trees on the horizon.

They finish dinner; Logan washes their bowls as Virgil puts away the leftovers. The entire time Logan is moving, almost like twisting his hips or torso back and forth, but not quite his hips and not quite his torso. Virgil stops and watches him, raising an eyebrow.

Virgil doesn't immediately lead him to the guest room after dinner, and Logan doesn't ask. They sit in the living room, curled up together, talking about everything and nothing. The curtains are closed. It leaves the room vaguely lit up with scattered candles doing most of the work as they flicker and wave back and forth. Logan shoves his head into Virgil's neck and tangles their legs, as if he can't get enough of the witch. Virgil scratches behind his ear absentmindedly and Logan literally melts against him, leaving him mumbling incoherent words and humming in response to everything Virgil says.

Virgil talks as if nothing is happening at all, worried Logan will get embarrassed and freak out, but with his heart beating against his ribcage and his chest pressed against Logan's— Logan has to feel it. 

He doesn't know how much time passes before they both begrudgingly stumble off the couch and out of each other's arms.

Virgil's hand is laced with Logan's, leading him down the hall to his guest room; he can't tell if the sweat in his palms is from his own nervousness or Logan's. 

Pushing open the door, it reveals a golden room with a large bed tucked in the corner with half opened and unopened boxes in the other.

Virgil kicks a box to the side. "Sorry about the mess," he says, "I kind of only ever used this room for storage."

Logan stands at the foot of the bed, adjusting his glasses. "It's really no issue, V."

"You, uh," Virgil gestures to the bed, stuttering, "you can sit down."

Logan turns to sit at the edge, folding his hands in his lap. Virgil joins him. They sit at each other's side, wordlessly.

"Once it gets closer to the sunset, I'll bring in the pain potion I made you." Virgil reaches over, lightly gripping the werewolf's wrist. "Unless, you need it now?"

Logan shakes his head. 

Virgil breathes out through his nose and licks his lips, pulling the bottom one in between his teeth.

He stares at Logan out of the corner of his eye. Logan has an expression Virgil has seen all too well, from when he confessed, expecting to be shunned, to after his parents' visit a few weeks ago: lips pursed, eyebrows crinkled, eyes glossy.

Virgil moves his hand to Logan's lower back and Logan's head snaps over to him. Their eyes meet.

“You…” Virgil speaks softly, “You don’t have to spend the night here with me, if you’re uncomfortable… I know, uh... You’ve been hesitant about sharing your wolf…ness with me.” He glances away, fingers rubbing the texture of his pants. Logan’s eyes soften and his Adam’s apple bobs in his neck as he swallows.

“I want to be here with you, Virgil,” Logan says. He takes Virgil’s hand in his own. “I’m just…,” he sighs, “nervous.”

“You? Nervous?” Virgil laughs awkwardly. Logan rolls his eyes. Their shoulders brush against each other.

“I’m…,” Logan stutters through his words. He opens his mouth and closes it a couple times, looking like a gasping fish out of water, before letting his mouth shut completely. The sound of his teeth clacking together is so loud in the quietness of the room. 

He doesn't attempt to speak anymore.

“You can’t remember things after transforming, right?” Virgil asks.

Logan shrugs and then gives a small nod. "It's very foggy... almost like... a very old memory from childhood." He knocks his knee with Virgil's. "I'll have the vaguest idea of what I might have done, but I can't... reach beyond that.

"I'll have the memory of running, but I won't have the context for why I'm running or where I'm running or who I'm with, if I somehow managed to be with anyone. I just—," Logan speaks through the rest of his words like he's choking on them, hissing them past his lips, "I just never know." His jaw is clenched tight, teeth grinding together. He's staring past Virgil, over his shoulder at the window.

Virgil moves his hand up Logan's back and cups Logan’s cheek in his palm, using his other hand to tilt Logan's head towards his own. He's holding Logan's cheeks in his hands. Their noses brush against each other. His thumb rubs underneath Logan’s eyes.

“It’s alright,” Virgil whispers. 

He doesn’t say more than that. 

He doesn’t think there’s much more he can say.

Logan swallows hard.

"I... hate not knowing," Logan whispers. His voice cracks when he talks and he cringes, refusing to make eye contact with his boyfriend. "And I hate not being in control."

Virgil purses his lips.

Logan continues. "I'm so scared, Virgil." He blinks his eyes rapidly. "What if I... do something?"

“Like what?”

“What if I hurt you?”

Virgil frowns. “L, you’re not going to hurt me.”  

“You don’t know that. What if,” Logan breathes in quick, “what if I can’t control myself, or–”

“Logan, you would never hurt me.” Virgil cuts him off, holding his face a little tighter. Logan’s pupils dilate. His tears catch light and glisten. 

He doesn't ask if Logan has ever hurt someone before in his form, because he knows it doesn't matter.

“I trust you.”

Logan's eyes slowly, hesitantly, meet with Virgil's. His bottom lip quivers and Virgil leans forward to kiss it. Logan pulls away only to shove his head into Virgil's neck, shoulders shaking. Wrapping his arms tightly around the other, Virgil kisses his temple.

He rocks back and forth with Logan, and he feels a hot, boiling anger fill his stomach.

He wants to hurt whoever hurt Logan, but there's no one here to blame— unless he's trying to figure out how to travel back in time and fight the witch that cursed people to be werewolves, but then Logan wouldn't be the man he is today. 

He shoves his head into Logan's hair and waits for Logan to pull away. Logan wipes his face. 

"Also," Virgil tugs on Logan's clothes, pushing past his anger and the original conversation, "I don't think this tie is very comfortable. Let's get you into some other clothes, baby." Virgil kisses his cheek, standing up and turning on his heel to the door, before Logan calls out.

"Thank you."

The stairs creak underneath Virgil's feet, hand gliding down the railing. He carries the clothes he had already set out for the other— an oversized, tattered shirt, that won't be so oversized on him as it is on Virgil, and a pair of shorts— making his way back to the guest room. Crows chitter faintly outside and—

A shot fires.

A loud, piercing sound that makes Virgil stop in his tracks. His heart rattles in his chest, thumping loudly, almost comparable to the gunshot. He breathes in quick and stares at the back door's tiny window. Like a deer in headlights. 

Gold light shimmers through the window, casting a ray of light. Dust floats within it and occasionally the light flickers as birds fly or the leaves shift over the sun.

It's nowhere near Virgil or his house (or Logan), but close enough. 

He rushes to the guest room.

"Logan?" Virgil asks, pushing the door before he turns the knob enough to open it. He swallows hard, attempting once more to get into the room. 

Logan sits, staring at the window's curtain, blinking once, but his eyes dance around.

"A... firework, perhaps." He's lying.

“I don’t think anyone’s shooting off fireworks in the middle of a forest at this time,” Virgil frowns. He walks up to the window, peering behind the curtain. 

The sun slowly sets behind the trees. 

Virgil turns around to face Logan again and lets out a quiet breath. Not quite a sigh. 

Logan laces his fingers together. "It's quite alright, dear."

"It's Alright?" Virgil asks. Logan’s eyes skitter away from him. Virgil licks his lips. 

"It sounded far away—" Logan tries.

"And that's too close," Virgil says.

"It doesn't have to be a hunter. You said that people in the town nearby often hunt for food here."

"Oh, yeah, people are just out hunting on a full moon. Just a coincidence!"

Logan's lips form a tight, thin line. Virgil's eyebrows knit together. Arguing is doing them no good.

Virgil drops the clothes off by Logan, folded neatly. "I'm sorry," he says, running a hand through his hair.

"You're alright," Logan mutters. He doesn't look at him, but he leans forward to press his forehead against Virgil's stomach.

Virgil's hands wrap around Logan's head. They tangle in his hair, with an iron tight grip, and pull Logan close to him.

He's going to be double, no, triple-checking his wards around the house before the sun sets and making sure he triple-checks the ward outside of the guest room.

He moves one of his hands to touch the necklace on his chest, wondering how much protection he can give Logan before it's excessive. 

One thing's for certain:

No one's getting into this fucking house or this room.

“You should change out of your clothes, L.”

When Logan starts undressing– loosening his tie, unbuttoning his vest and shirt– Virgil tilts his head, eyes never straying from the man.

“You’re not going to turn around and give me some privacy?” Logan asks, folding his clothes and setting them on the bed. He glances over his shoulder, the corners of his eyes crinkling with his smile.

Virgil smirks. “I did tell you I wasn’t going to take my eyes off of you before you came over, right?” Logan has freckles covering the back of his shoulders and a small mole on his lower back near his spine. Virgil has to restrain himself from reaching out and running his hands along his back before it disappears, covered by the shirt.

Stepping into shorts as he turns around, Logan rolls his eyes. He murmurs, ears tinted red, "I have a suspicion you didn't want me to wear your clothes simply for my comfort."

Virgil chuckles, wrapping his arms around Logan's waist and shoving his hands underneath the shirt he made Logan put on— Virgil's shirt. Logan squirms in his grasp, whining about how cold his hands were.

He kisses his partner's neck, trailing up to behind his ear and whispering, "Not my fault you look good in my clothes." Logan twirls around in his arms and Virgil steps back to look him up and down. Logan lifts up his chest, face bright red: a mixture of fluster and enjoying praise.

Virgil pulls away from Logan. “Let me go get that potion I made, I’ll be right bac–” He’s interrupted with a whine.

Virgil spins around, eyebrows raised to his hairline. Logan stares at him, eyebrows also raised, shocked at his own outburst.

“Did you just whine because I was going to leave–”

“Absolutely not,” Logan says, too fast for it to be true, “obviously. That’d be preposterous. Absurd, even.” Logan turns around and tidies up his already impeccably neat clothes. Virgil stands there with his mouth ajar, a small smile slowly widening.

“Well, go on now,” Logan says over his shoulder, “fetch that potion.” He clears his throat.

Virgil starts laughing, placing a palm over his mouth to muffle it (not that it does much). “Don’t tell me to fetch!” he says, walking towards the door, “you’re the dog here.”

Logan sputters behind him. “Wh– I am not a DOG, Virgil, I am a WOLF. They’re very different, I’ll have you know–”

He’s cut off by the door shutting with a click.

When Virgil comes back, Logan’s staring up at him with those big, beautiful, brown eyes of his, and pouting with his arms crossed. 

Virgil doesn't think he could ever get sick of looking into them. 

“Say sorry,” Logan says. Virgil laughs, carrying the cup of tea and plate of fruit. “Don’t laugh! I’m not a dog!”

“Wolves are just undomesticated dogs, Lo! I’m not wrong,” Virgil says, shoulders shaking with his laughter.

Logan doesn’t respond, continuing to pout. Virgil coos instantly, before he can stop himself, and Logan lets out another little whine.

“I’m sorry I called you a dog,” Virgil apologises. Logan lifts up his nose.

“Thank you.”

“A better comparison would’ve been a puppy.”

“Hey!”

Virgil bites his lip, failing to cover up his smile. He holds out the cup.

Logan eyes it, pursing his lips. He tilts his head back a small bit, glancing from the cup to Virgil and back to the cup and then back to Virgil and back to the cup and back to–

“Are you gonna take it?” Virgil shakes it, watching the tea slosh against the walls.

Logan very slowly accepts the cup. He holds it in his hands, warmth spreading through his palms. Lavender and chamomile waft from the cup. He tilts his head (like a confused puppy, Virgil notes).

“… This is just a cup of tea, Virgil,” Logan said, slowly, as if to sound out each syllable.

Virgil nodded. “It sure is.”

Logan blinks, sniffing the cup.

“You know…” Logan starts, “if this is all a healing potion is, I could’ve just done this myself. I have tea at home.”

Virgil rolls his eyes, the corners of his lips quirking up into a soft smile. “Uh-huh, I’m sure babe. I also cut you some apples and drizzled honey on them.”

He holds out the small plate of apples positioned into a circle with the “berries” in the middle.

“Are those juniper berries?” Logan asks. Virgil nods. Logan stares at them as if they’re whispering evil plans to each other.

“You just want me to drink tea and then eat apples?”

“Oh, my god. Babe, just–”

“Can I call myself a witch too because I can brew tea?”

“Just drink it, will you?” Virgil says, exasperated. Logan snickers, taking a sip of the tea. Virgil sits beside Logan on the bed, running one of his hands along the brown blanket.

“It’s all about intent,” he says, “besides… I did more than just brew you a cup of tea, obviously.”

“Oh, yes, you’re right,” Logan nodded seriously. He plucks an apple slice from the plate. “You also cut me apples.”

Virgil hits him softly on the shoulder.

They sit in silence while Logan finishes his potion. Virgil eyes the window, trying to gauge how close the sun is to setting now.

When he brings his attention back to Logan, he’s staring at the empty cup.

“Did…” Logan starts and then stops.

Virgil hums, resting a hand on Logan’s thigh.

“When I showed up… You were working in your craft room,” Logan says.

“Yeah…?”

Logan looks up from the cup to stare into Virgil’s eyes. “Did… you… brew… tea in your cauldron?”

Virgil opens his mouth and then looks away. “Well–”

Logan’s smiling. “You used that massive thing of yours to brew me a single cup of tea?”

“Okay, well–”

“You could’ve used the kettle! Did you just want an excuse to use your cauldron?”

Virgil feels his face heat up. “Be quiet!”

Logan laughs and Virgil joins him, resting his head on the man's shoulder. They sit silently as Logan munches on the apples and berries (he keeps trying to feed them to Virgil and pouting when Virgil refuses.

“I made it for you, babe.”

“You need to be protected, too, love. Please eat the fruit.”

“That’s not how that works!”)

— —

The guest room door swings open slowly. Hearing its hinges creak and groan, Virgil cringes, gritting his teeth. From inside the room, trapped underneath heavy blankets, he hears Logan let out a little whimper at the noise.

“Sorry, love,” Virgil whispers, pushing the door open with his shoulder and tip-toeing into the room. He makes sure the wet rag and cup of water in his hands don’t knock into the wall.

The room’s overhead light is turned off, leaving a couple candles flickering on the nightstand (Virgil has to remember to blow those out before the moon rises.) Pink, reddish light barely makes its way past the thick curtains.

Virgil sets the cup down on the nightstand, sitting down at the edge of the bed. Logan’s hair is ruffled and he can see the faintest outline of his eyes poking out from underneath the blanket–

He swears they’re almost… glowing.

He tugs the blanket down, revealing his partner’s face. Sweat rolls down the man’s forehead, eyebrows and corners of his eyes crinkling. His breathing comes out heavy and uneven. Virgil runs a hand through his damp hair.

“Is the potion helping, uh… at all?”

Logan nods slowly, squeezing his eyes tightly together. He shuffles over to rest his head in Virgil’s lap, gripping Virgil’s shirt tightly in between his fingers, grasping as if he’s falling off a cliff. He lets out a little noise in the back of his throat

Virgil’s face feels hot.

He presses the rag to Logan’s forehead, rubbing a palm in between Logan’s, very sweaty, shoulder blades.

The wind whistles, almost soundless, through the leaves outside. Virgil can’t help but keep staring at the window through his bangs.

“Is it almost time?” Virgil asks, petting his hair.

Logan nods, again, shoving his face into Virgil’s stomach. Virgil’s fingers clutch the rag, the smallest amount of water running down his fingers and onto his pants.

Logan’s voice is raspy as he talks. “I will make sure to undress… Before transforming. I don’t want to rip your clothes apart.”

Virgil snorts. “It’s okay, love, you don’t need to worry about it.”

Logan sounds like he’s on the verge of tears when he speaks up again. “But I don’t wanna ruin your clothes… I like this shirt…” Virgil squeezes his shoulder, smiling.

“I want you to be comfortable. I won’t be upset if you don’t take them off.”

Logan lets out another whine. He’s been doing that a lot, the closer to the sun setting it gets.

The flames catch light on Logan’s glasses, sitting on the nightstand.

“You should leave now,” Logan says.

Virgil sucks in a breath through his mouth. “Okay,” he says in a soft tone. “I’ll make sure the door is closed.”

“And locked.”

Virgil licks his lips. “And locked. I promise.”

Logan still clings to Virgil even as he tries to get up and leave.

“I love you,” Virgil says.

Logan doesn’t respond.

Before he steps out of the room, he blows out the candles, watching the room become almost pitch black.

Virgil runs a hand down the front of the locked door, staring at the sigil he stuck to the front. He puts a hand over it, closing his eyes.

Warmth erupts from it as red and purple dance behind his eyelids. His hand feels hot. Heat radiates from the room, and then it dissipates in a burst.

Then it’s dark once more.

Virgil blinks his eyes open.

The now burnt sigil turns to ash, crinkling onto the floor. He rubs soot in between his fingers. That’s going to be a bitch to get off, Virgil thinks to himself.

Virgil forces himself to walk away from the guest room. 

From Logan. 

Down the hall and into the living room.

— —

A bed squeaks along with cracking bones. A loud crash, followed by a thud and a bang. Fabric rips, metal clangs, and glass shatters.

The wind screams with a howl.

[builder051]

Don’t be scared of me; just take care of me

-——————————-

Chasing ghosts

Warnings for mental health talk, wartime situations, hospital situations, angst… that’s really it. Way more of a mental/internal fic than something action-packed

———————————-

James sits just under the traffic light, waiting for the police to reopen the intersection. A hint of anxiety weaves in and out of his thoughts. He technically can’t drive, but Steve’s willing to let James borrow his ride for quick errands. James keeps his years-expired license on him, but any trouble with the law is thoroughly unwelcome.

James pulls his sunshade down, but it does practically nothing to block the afternoon sunlight. The only way to look too keep his eyes from boiling right out of his skull is directly out his left side mirror. It’s the side where the police action is going down.

James generally tries not to stare at other people’s crices. He appreciates it when others return the favor. This sight, however, has a small factor of amusement. A man in workman’s orange and a neon safety vest runs back and forth along a chain link fence. Every so often, he bends and scoops up handfuls of dirt and gravel, then flings them at the officers, who stand at a distance on the other side of the fence.

The man and the two officers are shouting. James can’t hear the words, but the tone and the action give him the general idea of the standoff. James is used to the background rumbling that his hearing aids can’t quite cancel out. It’s not just traffic today, though.

It’s not the underlying tones of traffic or university students moving en mass. The angry tones and crunch of rocks create a different kind of buzzing in his ears.

The hairs on the back of James’s neck stand up. He’s been that guy, that public servant, exchanging in verbal conflict.

—

“Drop it!” He shouts at the kid at the other end of the alley. “Drop it now!”

The kid clutches his basketball to his chest.

“Put your hands up!”

The kid’s face is expressionless. He slowly raises his arms. They move over his head, extended to the max, but still holding the damn basketball. Did the kid lean forward? Is the thing a bomb? Is this a threat? Will it go off if James shoots? But… it’s a kid.

—

It’s just a guy. He finds a brick in the pile of rocky refuse behind him and lobs it toward the policemen. It’s a poor throw, and the brick lands at the very base of the fence. It bounces off and nearly hits the guy in his own ankles. The volume of the yelling increases. James’s anxiety ratches up a notch. His knowledge of police codes has slipped, but James watches the charges add up as he situationevolves. Public menace. Assault on an officer. Reaisting arrest. Mental health incident. And now the possibility of self-harm. The man goes for another handful, but stumbles and drops the rocks. A cloud of dry sand drifts around him, but it loses its gusto when it reaches the chain link.

The memories are hazy, and James works hard to keep them that way, he’s been that guy too. Losing his everloving shit at very inconvenient time and place. Before the PTSD diagnosis, before they took away his license, before even the first dose of Prozac, James had been a danger to himself as well as a danger to the public.

—

“James. James, try to calm down, sweetie.”

He doesn’t remember which doctor he’s seeing. He just hears her high floaty voice cutting through James’s ferocious growl of threats and swear words. The little dresser in the exam room is full of gauze and cotton balls, but eventually he wraps his hand around a set of bandage scissors. The doctor screams as James waved them in the air, then plunges them into his own abdomen. Like Samurai. Dishonorable. In need of ritual sacrifice.

—

James shudders. God, if he doesn’t do something, he’ll be in a memory rut all day. He might take some of Tasha’s pills. Maybe challenge Steve to some amateur MMA. James has to reset his thinking. He turns his head toward the afternoon sun and stares purposefully at the bright light. It’ll probably incite a migraine, but, well, there he goes again. Self harm is better than harming others. And the migraine is definitely the lesser of the evils.

A siren blares, and James jumps. No, please, no. No pulling over. But the car in front of him inches forward. One of the officers waves traffic onward as the other backs the cruiser out of the intersection. James glances toward the the fence, but it’s now abandoned. He concentrates on carefully rejoining traffic, but James can’t help himself. He looks through the police car’s windshield as he passes by, but he can’t see anything. The sun reflects against the glass, and there’s a divider separating the front seats from the back.

It’s not his business, James reminds himself. He has actual business. The pharmacy has his boatload of daily meds to pick up. Plus Tasha’s mild antidepressant. And Steve’s inhaler, though James hasn’t seen him use it in years. It’s all supposed to make them happy and healthy and normal. But it atill begs the question. What is normal, anyway?

James turns at the next light and adjusts his sunshade. Finally the sun is out of his face. He breathes deeply and flips on the radio. A heavily auto-tuned pop song is playing. Must be Tasha’s preferred station. Maybe she left it on to annoy him. But buggy little are normal. So are trips to the pharmacy for psych meds. And bad memories. And sun-induced headaches. And traffic jams. Perfectly, completely normal.

[unknownjpegs]

gold

The ear-ringingly loud cymbal crash is Benji’s fault. Sorta.

A new tech is filling in for somebody that Benji actually trusted with the kit. Except that somebody fucks up, gets Mouse blushing with shame when her bass pulls feedback hard during their encore number. Bad cable, user error. Not Mouse’s fault, but there are loud jeers from the crowd. Loud enough that she cries later. 

Benji doesn’t witness her cry. Nobody does. Mouse sets her face in a deadly, lax sort of expression and carries on as best she can for the remainder of the song. When he sees her next, she’s sitting on the couch backstage with her temple on Matilda’s arm, and it looks like she’d just gone for a smoke. 

But it’s not been a smoke, because it’s a cry, and Benji knows that because Matilda fucking rampages. She confronts the tech (loudly), she calls up her mum, she calls up Bunny, calls the label, she speaks to Happy in hushed, angry tones outside the bus before they pack up for the night, and then — 

Then the tech’s gone the next morning. Only tech who knew Benji’s kit as well as he did, which is unfortunate, yeah. But he’d made Mouse cry. So. 

Good fucking riddance.

The replacement is last minute. A friend of Matilda’s from some engineering group. Benji can’t remember the specifics or even her name, but Matilda trusts her and that is enough for him.

She’s nice and a bit shy, which is strange considering her shock of blue hair. But not slow whatsoever. Quick to jump where she is needed as they all scramble to adjust roles. She’s effective. Benji likes her.

Unfortunately, she just doesn’t know that the washer on that particular cymbal is loose the top. Had been, since he bought the set. 

She looks close to tears when it happens, frozen in place because so many people jump and turn to stare. The attention, Benji thinks, is what does it. 

The steps up to the kit, shadowing her from the harsh stage lights and prying eyes. He picks up the disc and waves it about. 

You’ve got to turn it like this to keep it tight. No worries, forgot to let you know. We’ll fix it up.

Can’t fault her for it.

The edge of the cymbal is bent, unplayable because he’s particular about sound. Bent, which fucking blows this far into a sound check, this close to a big city show and down one key tech, but it’s manageable. They can manage. They’ve done nothing but manage until recently, it feels like. Early years were full of this kind of shit and worse —  he or Lark scrambling to make something work just in the nick of time. 

They can get a replacement. 

What Benji feels, very strangely, like they can’t replace — 

So, the cymbal crashes to the ground. And he’s busy getting everything sorted, sending somebody off for a spare, but when he looks up…

When he looks up, as he often does, to find Xavier near the part of the stage that is Xavier’s, he’s not there. Neither perched on one of the stereos soon to be swatted off by Matilda or laying on the edge with his feet dangling off, listening to something in his headphones.

Benji frowns, and then glances at the red exit sign stage-left. 

*

He kinda seems a state when Benji locates him.

 You have to be one, to find a dank little alley behind a music venue a place nice enough to clear a head. There’s a pile of rubbish near the mouth of it, puddles in the silty, broken-up concrete beneath Benji’s boots. Xavier crouches on a cinderblock, half-shaded by the cut of a neighboring building. His hair looks insanely vibrant in the sunlight; ruddy, sun-gilded. Benji’s never seen that color before.

He hesitates on the approach, heart picking up. Rubs his palms on his thighs — stops when the security guard glances up, and tucks them into his pockets instead. Their eyes meet. Benji swallows. 

“Sorry. ‘Tilda sent me,” he lies. Fits himself on another block a foot away, jacket scraping against the brick as he settles back. 

“Dunno how you deal.” Benji says, shaking his head slightly and gesturing behind them. “With this.”

Xavier stiffens, and Benji has the distinct recognition is probably a dangerous movement from a guy like him. He drops his cheek to his shoulder and regards him. Slouched yet poised. His hand, the one with four blacked squares inked to the base of long fingers, is flexing and unfurling over his knee. 

“All this?” Xavier repeats slowly as Benji fights a fresh pack. It’s a soft one and he swears under his breath (embarrassed at fumbling?) then licks his thumb to get a better grip on the edge, tears it, and taps the bottom. One slips out onto the ground straight into a puddle. The next comes smoothly out into his palm.

“Concerts. Loud as fuck, and all the bodies?” He lights the cigarette between his teeth, works it until it starts. He can’t look at Xavier for some reason, so he carefully assesses a peeling tear in the toe of his Docs while he takes a drag and lets out the smoke. 

Still not looking as he bends his elbow into Xavier’s space. Offering — handing it over. 

Xavier looks down at it, then back at Benji.

Takes it. 

“My best mate, Maran, he’s got this nasty scar on his back.” Benji twists at the waist and draws a similar line up his side with a thumb, still looking at the ground. “Nasty. And Maran’s been out, hm, ‘bout three years now? People always think it’s from that.” Benji peeks over at Xavier from the corner of his eye. Gauging. Continues: “From that. ‘Cuz, y’know. Maran is…” he gestures behind them again.

Similar. He doesn’t say. Like you. He also doesn’t, because Xavier is a stranger, still. He’s not gonna presume, even if the signs have been staked in the center of the road and are flashing neon.

 He’d fucking jump and run from the crash, too. Scared everybody, but I bet yours is a different sort than our little snap of shock, isn’t it? Ours fades real quick. Laugh after, like ha-ha. Aren’t we silly, getting scared by something that small? Bet it’s not small to you. 

Maran’s voice in his head: Feels like the whole fuckin’ worlds, right then. You’re just back in that one instead, and it is everything. All around. Yanks you away like somebody’s got a fist on this… this cable in your head. They yank it. Then you’re — back — however fuckin’ long later…and you don’t stop shaking for awhile after that, either.

Xavier, beside him, is rigid. Shoulders square and steady. Sometimes, when Benji watches him, he’d shift to hold his arms behind his back. Chest out, one wrist cupped in the fingers of his other hand.

Solider mode, Mar. Pat up his friend’s back.

Fuck. Thanks. A ruffle of his hair, fingers shaking.

“Anyway.”

After a space of silence: “What’s the scar from?” He sighs. “Sorry, if it’s personal.”

Benji snorts, drops his head back and stares up at the gray, cloudy sky. Gonna rain, maybe soon.

 “We snuck into this big warehouse out on the wharf. Midnight, maybe later. Well off curfew.” He wrinkles his nose. “Fuck’s sake, we musta been…oh, shit. Fourteen?” Benji lifts his hands, fingers spread: set the stage. “Junk everywhere. Needles, probably, y’know. Gross. And there’s this big pile of stuff up in the catwalk on some shelves, yeah? Maran goes — fuck, this pisser — he goes, Benj, think there’s weird shit? Bet there’s some fuckin’ wank mags in there.”

Xavier finishes off the cigarette and flicks it, chuckling. “Were there?”

“Dunno.” Benji drops his chin, turns towards him. Looks, looks away. “We, uh. Well. Uh, Maran tried to climb up. Fell, fuckin’ loon. Took a spill. And he landed on this bit of sheet metal, I s’pose. Rusty.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah. And he’s — he’s Maran, right, so he’s laughing. Lookin’ paler and paler, because he’s bleeding. But he’s laughing, too —  and I’m losing my head, mate, because it’s real disgusting. It is bad. Might have…” he shakes his head. “Gotten something vital. But he’s laughin’ and going Benji. Oh, shit. Bet this is gonna look sick.”

He will have that mental image of Maran laying in gritty, tide-soaked dirt in that warehouse forever. Blood mixing into silt, the most red he’s ever seen. Maran had not been the one sobbing. Benji’s hands had hovered over the jagged edge of flesh, shaking, because he hadn’t known what to do. 

Benj, mate, I love you, but fuckin’ call after ‘em now, yeah? Don’t wanna die a virgin. 

Sometimes, it is a very difficult story to tell. Sometimes he thinks of the color draining out of that freckled olive brown face, thinks about how pale and shadow-rimmed Maran’s eyes had been. Then, and later. Coming back with deeper thins than sheet metal could tear. Spills that made Benji’s hands shake to think about. Wounds that Benji didn’t know what to do with, either.

“I bet it does,” Xavier offers. “Plus he has a story to tell.” 

“He’s shit at telling stories,” Benji huffs out a laugh and sobers.

He thinks: that picture on Matilda’s phone. Three kids, same smiles, same eyes. The picture on her mum’s mantle that she couldn’t make eye contact with. A cherubic face, golden curls, pressed uniform, white hat. The urn next to it. Stories.

“Matilda gets it too, so. She — anyway. We get it. So if anybody doesn’t,” Benji lifts his brows, punctuating that. “You let either of us know. I know Lark’s your guy, but sometimes he���s nice and too soft.”

We’re not, is left unspoken.

And. And Benji wedges himself close until their shoulders touch, until Xavier goes stiff once more. Except this time, Benji can feel it. He gets an arm around Xavier’s (broad, defined) shoulders and squeezes. Not quite a hug, because it’s fast. Benji does it and immediately jumps to his feet.

“Might not look like it sometimes, but we take care of each other.” He shrugs. “And you’re Lark’s. So, ours too.” Benji backs away, gaze focused on the slice of sunlight across his head instead of his eyes — hard to look at. 

“Okay,” Xavier agrees, voice tight. Maybe with emotion. He can’t tell.

Benji slips back through the exist door. And he smacks his fists repeatedly, rhythmically together on the walk back to stage, starts stretching them out as he bounds the steps two at a time. 

Shouldn’t have done that, he chides. Opened your mouth. In the fucking guy’s space like that. Shouldn’t have fucking touched him.

The new cymbal is already on the kit. Washer’s tight, and the disc is shiny. New, brassy yellow instead of tarnished gold.

 Benji frowns, and he hits it a bit harder than usual during the next check. Gotta break it in.

[rcreveal]

Wasteland

Summary:

NanoMutt Prompt a Day Challenge Day 26: How you said I love you: Broken, as you clutch the sleeve of my jacket and beg me not to leave Sorry, it was a harsh prompt and brought out a harsh what-if story. This is also inspired by the Season 2 unused concept art where the Bookstore is the only structure still standing in a burned out London. https://64.media.tumblr.com/4303df11b63a05d8a29785bd0ed0ec19/aab3247c31088bc8-8d/s500x750/2db5926947409d03934bf1f950f9904c1ff85538.pnj Trigger warning -graphic radiation injury imagery   What if Aziraphale did complete the Second Coming from up in Heaven (nuclear annihilation of the whole world like in the S2 Armageddon slide deck that Gabriel rejected) and Crowley stayed on Earth the whole time? What would it take to break Crowley's love?

Work Text:

Aziraphale steps out of the portal to Heaven into the Soho Bookshop.  Inside is whole and secure, but outside…

Outside is a wasteland.

The Bookshop is the only building standing for miles.  Burned piles of brick, rubble, and twisted girders meet Aziraphale’s view under a sullen, red-orange sky.  He is already hurrying out of the Bookshop to where he knows he will find, can already feel the presence of,

“Crowley!”

The lean figure standing dressed in smoke and grime-darkened clothes seems chiseled now, all softness gone.  Crowley turns his head from looking out on the wasteland that was London, was the whole world, and Aziraphale sees a desolate, haunted look shadows his eyes.

“Angel,” Crowley replies in leaden tones, and goes back to staring at the husk of the world.

“Crowley, it’s over!  The Second Coming is over!  We can be together now…” Aziraphale says excitedly.

“Oh.  It’s over , alright.  Your Second Coming saw to that !” the venom in Crowley’s voice is like nothing he’s heard before.  The haunted eyes turned on Aziraphale are burning in the gaunt face.

Aziraphale tries to explain, “But we won!  And the good people got their just rewards, it’s all sorted now.  We don’t have to…”

“We?  What we , Angel?” Crowley rounded on Aziraphale, fists clenched, jaw tight, voice low and cutting, “Where were you when the bombs fell?  When the people cried out in terror and despair knowing there was no safe place to go?” Aziraphale hypnotized by the orange snake eyes can see the bombs and the flames reflected in them.

“Where were you when I dug through the rubble of the coffee shop and the record shop, the music shop, and the magic shop?” Crowley’s voice starting to rise, “Look what happened to your neighbors, Angel!  People, families, you’ve known for generations! ”

“WHERE WERE YOU!  when I found Nina and Maggie, burned unrecognizable from the bombs, their ragged lungs still drawing breath in desperate, wet, rattling gasps, unable to see or speak, but still screaming ?”

Crowley points an accusing finger at Aziraphale, voice hissing, “Where were you when I tried to lift them from the rubble and their burned flesh came away in my hands, Aziraphale!?” 

Arms thrown wide, taking in the neighborhood, the city, the whole world,  “WHERE WERE YOU WHEN MY MIRACLES COULDN’T PROTECT THEM, COULDN'T HEAL THEM AND ALL I COULD DO WAS GIVE THEM MERCIFUL DEATH!!?”  Crowley’s jaw muscles tense and he swallows down bile, and now Aziraphale realizes what he has been smelling: the burned bodies and putrification of the dead.

Aziraphale, hands out placatingly, pleads, “But Crowley, that was just brief suffering.  It all makes sense when you look at it sensibly!  The good got eternal bliss in heaven, the bad died forever.  Trust me, it’s sorted.  Now, finally, there’s time for us ,” he’s begging now.  Begging for understanding, for the easy acceptance they once shared with one another.

Crowley snarled at him, “I thought you were supposed to be the Guardian Angel!  What have you been guarding?  A tally sheet?  How good was good enough, huh?  100% good, 90%?  A breath over 50%?  The few I could save, I brought to the Bookshop to shelter.  I cared for them while the radiation poisoning killed them one, by one, by one.  You cared for your precious poll numbers !” Crowley spat.

“But it was important to know whether Good or Evil triumphed in the end!” replies Aziraphale, stung.

“Good or Evil? What bloody difference does it make when THERE’S NOT A BLESSED LIVING THING LEFT ON THIS BLIGHTED PLANET!” Crowley staring fiercely into Aziraphale’s eyes sweeps an arm in a full arc behind him before letting it fall to his side.  

Turning away he says, “I’m off. There’s no one left I can help or protect, what little good my protection ever did, but at least I tried.”

Aziraphale sees that he means it, means to leave, and never come back.  Desperately, he grabs Crowley’s tattered sleeve, “Crowley, I love you! Stay with me!”

And cowers back from the look the demon levels on him now,  “You’ve taken EVERYTHING I’VE EVER CARED ABOUT!” Crowley grips Aziraphale’s grasping arm painfully,  “And if you think I’d EVER love one of the butchers that did this…” he wrenches his sleeve out of the angel’s grasp and shoves him away with both hands, to sprawl in the dust.  “Then you’ve never known me.”  Standing over Aziraphale, Crowley’s wings spring open and he leaps towards the dull reddish sky.  But now Crowley’s wings are not merely black, they hold the cold blackness of the depths of space.  He has become like Azrael, the angel of death.  The last look he gives Aziraphale is through a face turned into a death’s mask and the clap of his wings brings the darkness of utter despair.

And in the darkness, Aziraphale doesn’t know, can’t remember, is this a nightmare or a memory?

[kxllerblond]

He hated theatrics. LOATHED them even. And what were these old, ancient, whatever the FUCK these types were? Why, the likely could have coined the term itself. The smile was sickening and Clark matched its vibrancy with his own bleak indifference. Whatever strange little tango he'd stumbled upon was one he wanted to get away from as soon as possible. ❝ I wish I cared to ask just how he picked up such an obsessive little tick. ❞ knowing how things usually worked with humans and bastards like this, it wasn't hard to pick guesses out of a pile of likely possibilities. All of which he didn't have much interest in confirming or not.

He reached forward with little care to almost politely take the coffee cup, plucked it away and set it off to the side before lacing his hands once more. ❝ Your words, not mine. ❞ if he'd truly been smart, he thought, he wouldn't have landed himself here across from this Azathoth figure. His expression clearly conveyed his doubt though. ❝ I'm sorry, let me clarify-—you sorts are never helpful in the ways that count or are generally wanted. ❞ but at least he knew what to expect, as grating as it was....at least it was typically a constant. 

There was a careful balance between existing as Clark. There was an ego that needed to be kept in check but also flaunted to an extent. An indifference put up to safeguard against the outside, but not one strong enough to entirely hinder. It was a complicated song and dance and, admittedly, he stumbled over his own feet sometimes. As the smile faded abruptly, as the entire vibe of the entity across from him shifted, and its words sank in...an annoyed sort of smile crossed his own face, a rare show of teeth and all. It was that sort of grin you gave yourself when you'd done something so incredibly stupid, all you really could do was smile. He'd slipped up on his wording, left things too vague. He'd committed one of the biggest mistakes a demon, or anything, could when making a formal sort of deal. He should have expected to be GOTCHA'd by such an entity but he hadn't and now that he had....god, he was ANNOYED.

He sucked at his teeth, glanced elsewhere just briefly. A brick from his wall of indifference offered little but to reveal a fiery annoyance, an agitation. An inhale and exhale of a sigh seemed enough to replace the brick and he just met unwavering stare with his own, ❝ You're so. incredibly. dull. ❞ but, he was a man of his word unfortunately whether it was binding or not and he'd satisfy the terms one way or another.

The verbal threat had him parting his lips to reply, shadowed over by the agonized screaming of the barista. Clark fought the instinctual urge to look, satiated it by quickly feeding himself the fact that clearly this was his conversation partner's doing. Shuffling of chairs, bodies aiming to help, more burns-—a cacophony of brief and sudden chaos. In the face of it, he rolled his eyes and made the move to be the one to sit back and reclaim his own personal space. He crossed his arms like a pouting child and merely shook his head as a shocked looking Lance seemed to return almost as quickly as he'd gone.

❝ I don't know who your keeper has dealt with before, but can I just say I am receptive to words. This isn't necessary. Like, I get it. Pinky swear. No need to be a fucking thespian about it. ❞ and he was already moving to get up from his seat, fixing at his suit jacket as if the settling chaos about them was just your typical, ordinary diner buzz. 

❝ C'mon then. What Lance wants, Lance gets. But, ideally, somewhere quieter. ❞

"Hung up?" it asked, eyebrows lifted, grin still on Lance's face, until it stopped grinning somewhat abruptly. Turned inward, thinking it through. Only to start laughing all over again, beaming at Clark with a 10,000 Watt smile.

"I did get hung up in them. Just like them. Just like him" it realized, dragging the fingers of Lance's right hand across both his cheeks to rub at his face for a moment. "Rubbing off on me already. Just like I am on him. Oh I'm loving this" Azathoth chirped, utterly delighted by its sudden realization. "It's so very perfect. And to think that it was almost wasted. Oh boy..." it went rambling right on, chuckling to itself with an amused shake of Lance's head.

It kept playing with the now empty cup of coffee with his left hand through it all, pointer finger drawing ever so soft circles along the inner rim of the cup. Over and over again. Sometimes faster, sometimes slower, sometimes forwards and sometimes backwards. Nonsensical patterns to keep the barely there trace of the coffee in the air, spin it up and down like an invisible miniature tornado of cheap half burned aroma.

It did not fail to notice the subtleties of Clark's reactions to everything that it was doing and saying. The wrinkled nose. The stiff posture. The barely visible twitch of the other's eyebrows as he tried not to roll his eyes again. Tired and exasperated. A brick wall of passive indifference - waiting to be dismantled brick by brick. Just like Lance, Azathoth was more than interested to sneak a peek at what might be behind that wall. Even if for entirely different, far more twisted reasons than just genuine curiosity. Naturally though, that was no easy feat. Seemed impossible almost, but wasn't that even more of a nice challenge?

"Oh, on the contrary. You'll find that I'm very helpful. Dear Lance is starting to make sense of that, too" it went on, giving the other a wink and a click of his tongue. "And I don't doubt for a second that you'll get on the same page very soon. Too smart for your own good, are you not?"

The second Clark requested for it to leave, its entire demeanor suddenly changed. Slowed down, became more intent, serious. With the smile and fun, relaxed attitude wiped right off the host's face. It made him lean forward again, slowly, eyes never leaving Clark's, not even blinking again.

"Sure. But there are things in this book that he's not going to like. Things that he shouldn't hear. Things that might hurt him" it explained, making his voice sound almost as monotone as Clark's now. "I've asked you to give him whatever he wants. He does not want the truth. He does not want plain text. He wants subtext. He wants to find something that helps in there. So good luck finding whatever that is." For a short moment, it was there again, that devilish smirk and glint in the eyes, but it didn't last quite so long this time. Instead, the look on Lance's face became dead serious again. Leaning in closer and closer, almost as if it was going all in for a slow and romantic kiss, stopping only a couple of inches away from the other's face so it could keep them eye to eye.

"And let it be known that if you hurt him, touch him, even look at him the wrong way...I'll be right here, looking back at you."

And that, it did.

Look right back at Clark. For an uncomfortably long time. And it kept looking still didn't flinch or blink - even when one of the coffee shop's barista's suddenly started screaming in the background. Louder and louder, more agonized by the second. Boiling hot coffee was dousing his entire body head to toe - all thanks to a malfunctioning coffee machine. Turning most of the skin on his face, hands, neck and chest into a blistering red mess within seconds. Others were frantically trying to help the man, getting burned in the process too, the machine continuing to spew the brew like a sprinkler all over the place, even as they attempted to shut off the valves. It never turned Lance's head to look at the mess it was making, just kept looking at Clark, no longer smirking or grinning. Just staring. Trying to decipher, study his reaction. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

"You're right. Their coffee is a disgrace. Don't think we'll be coming back here, will we now" it said after a long time, and that fountain the background only stopped spewing its hot black liquid when Lance's demeanour visibly changed again, reverted to whatever it was that made him him. Looking shocked, soon horrified by what just happened. @kxllerblond

[loveshotzz]

I see that your requests are open. I am a suckered for angst and Eddie Munson. And I have this idea for Eddie dies in the upside down from the bats and his girl can't ger over it. She is seriously depressed, stopped eating and sleeping, her friends and family are worried about her. She starts taking drugs to ease her pain. She is slowly killing herself from heartache. But Eddie didn't really die and has been trying to get back to her. He finally does but he is too late. She has died. Now he has to live his life without her. If you could this would be amazing. I thank you in advance.

I know you put this request in forever ago, I’m sorry it took me so long! I felt inspired by the song/music video for 11 Minutes following the five stages of grief. I kinda gave it a more ambiguous ending in case someone wants to believe it’s not too late. STILL NOT A HAPPY ENDING. I hope you don’t mind! It’s hard to hurt Eddie!

Thank you @myobmaya and @sweetsweetjellybean for reading this dark blurb over and over again, you’re the real MVP’s.

Warnings: Pure angst. Very dark themes under the cut read at your own risk. Mentions of Eddie’s death, severe depression, heavy drug and drinking use, talks of suicide, attempted suicide. Everything will be under the cut as to not trigger anyone. No smut but my blog is strictly 18 plus.

There’s still days where you wake up forgetting it ever happened. A sleepy hand reaching over searching for his warmth on the other side of a the bed, but when the coolness of the sheets hits your finger tips the harsh reality that he’ll never be there again rips through your chest hollowing out the heart that’s some how still there. A heart that you swore only beat because of him, his laughter making the blood course through your veins. If you close your eyes sometimes you can still remember it, the deep baritone of it. The way his chocolate eyes lit up, lips spreading over the expanse of his teeth. You hate that he’s getting harder to remember, that your have to really focus to see and hear the details of your favorite things about him. Clinging desperately to whatever you had left of him. Anything to remind you that the love of your life was real.

Denial:

You still remember when Dustin told you, with tears falling like waterfalls from his eyes the words leaving his mouth were jumbled with so much emotion you couldn’t understand anything he was saying. It was when he stuck his bloody hand in front of your face, Eddie’s guitar pick necklace dangling from his clench fist. It took you a minute to comprehend what was happening, staring from the sobbing boy to the necklace. Eyes flashing to the sullen faces of Steve, Robin, and Nancy it all starts to click but you still can’t stop yourself from asking.

Where’s Eddie?

The next few weeks are spent sitting on the metal picnic table in the middle of the trailer park. Eyes fixated on the rubble of what used to be the Munson’s trailer. The place that had become your home away from home. Another thing that was ripped away from you, the place that was was filled with almost all of your favorite memories. The place where all of your first’s happened, it was where you and Eddie could just be. Late nights left alone while Uncle Wayne was at work, the two of you got to know each other in a way that was deeper then anything you had ever felt. You two just understood each other, he was the only person that made you feel like you didn’t have to hide any parts of yourself. Even the parts you didn’t like, because he loved those too.

The wind catches and the corner of his handmade corroded coffin tapestry peaks from underneath the piles of bricks and glass. The deep crack in the earth only becoming worse with each passing day.

This can’t be real, he has to come back.

Every day you stare at the jagged edges of the ground hoping you’ll see those ringed hands come crawling their way back out of there. Maybe they were wrong. How could they know for sure? They just left him down there.

Anger:

It was all of their faults. Every single one of them. He didn’t need to go down there, he didn’t need to help be a distraction. They could have figured it out just like they always had before he got dragged into all of this. You needed someone to hate, someone to direct all of you anger at. Someone to blame for losing your soul mate before you even got to start your lives together. 86’ was suppose to be the year that changed it all for the both of you, saving up every penny to finally leave this shitty town behind. The resentment manifests itself so much you can feel it radiating from the furtherest parts of your body, rage burying itself so deep inside of you that you couldn’t see your way out. You didn’t have a choice but to cut them off. All they were to you was just a constant reminder of the fact that he was dead and they were alive.

Bargaining:

All you can think about is all the stupid little fights you two got in. The desperation to go to the past and take it all back, to treasure the short time you didn’t know you had with him. To hold him instead of yell at him, to tell him you didn’t care if he lost himself in a DND campaign that made him 40 minutes late to a movie you both had already seen. Maybe if you’d pushed him harder to study more he would have graduated a year earlier and you both would have been long gone before any of this could have happened. You could have had that studio apartment in the city, you could have watched him follow his dreams that were so much bigger then what he was born into.

Depression:

It had been two months since Eddie died, and yet it still hurts like the night you found out. A sadness so dark consuming you, it was becoming too much to be alive. You needed to forget. You needed to feel numb. It started off with liquor, drinking yourself till you blacked out every night. Sometimes it would back fire, the alcohol only intensifying the grief so much it left you crumpled on the floor before you’d slip into the darkness just to wake up in the same pain you were in before anything even hit your blood stream. It wasn’t enough. You needed something stronger. It started with K, it was a drug Eddie sold but it was never something you’d ever tried before. Eddie would never let you. At first doing it somehow made you feel closer to him and if you snorted enough of it you felt exactly what you wanted to feel, nothing. Eventually your tolerance became too much so you needed something even stronger. Scouring your mom’s medicine cabinet for her anti depressants, you started mixing the two. The combination enough to make your brain feel empty, the pain slowly fading away. Mixing the three of them had become your magic concoction.

The empty expanse of nothing became your safe space and this is where you decided you belonged now.

Maybe if you died, he’d be waiting. Maybe he’s been waiting this whole time.

Acceptance:

When you finally decid to kill yourself, it feels like a giant weight has finally been lifted off of your shoulders. You didn’t need to pretend to be a person anymore. You didn’t need to try to numb the pain, there wouldn’t be anything to run from anymore. No more new memories with out him, no more planning a life that wasn’t made for the two of you.

He’d be waiting, he had to be. The lights flickering on and off in your room the night you decide only encouraged you more. It was a sign, he was begging you to meet him. He missed you too. With a handful of pills and a belly full of rum, you snorted the last line off your dresser before you laid on the rough carpet of you room. The glossiness of the Polaroid in your hand catches your attention with your vision starting to blur you bring the picture up to your eyes, the smile on Eddie’s face still gives you butterflies.

The kind of peace that washes over your body when you feel your heart rate starts to slow down isn’t something you’ve felt since he died. When the room starts fading you swear you can hear his voice, a slow smile spreading lazily over your face at the sound. He’s calling your name and it’s clear as day, it’s almost like Eddie’s right next to you. It’s only when you see his big brown eyes hover over yours think you think you’ve made it to heaven.

He screams your name one more time before your vision goes black.

[jamaisjoons]

erised ⤑ pjm | m.

⟶ 𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦:〝 the last thing jimin had anticipated when he’d followed you into the room of requirement was to find you, the demure little head-girl, in front of the mirror of erised. moaning his name. 〞hogwarts au. pwp au.

❥ 𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: slytherin head-boy!jimin x hufflepuff head-girl!reader

❥ 𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒: mild angst ⋆ fluff ⋆ smut

❥ 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 29k 🥴

⟶ 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: hard dom!jimin, big cock!jimin, possessive!jimin, sub!reader, virgin!reader, female masturbation, mirror sex, voyeurism, exhibitionism, teasing, minor thigh spanking, fingering, degradation, humiliation, dirty talk, corruption kink, biting, orgasm denial, orgasm control, begging, pussy slapping, marking, object play? he teases her with a vibrating wand, praise, object insertion, clit spanking, crying, begging, overstimulation, clit torture, forced orgasms, multiple orgasms, squirting, manhandling, spanking, minor anal play/teasing, power play/dnyamics, virgin sex, wet & mess sex, unprotected sex, once again jimin has a ᵖʰᵃᵗ cock, kneeling doggy style (kind of oath sex position), mild pain kink, rough sex, hair pulling, creampie, brief cum play

➵ 𝑎/𝑛: sol writing a jimin au? truly, it must be a miracle,,,,, this really was supposed to only be a 5k commission,,, but i thot if i need to suffer and write for jimin,,,, perhaps i should suffer and write him an entire au with plot,, just like he deserves 😌

⏤ commissioned by @opaljm​​ in exchange for a blm donation // beta read the these lovely people: @yeoldontknow​, @luffles424​, @peekaboongi​, @sunshinekims​, @inthecrescentmoonight​, @tricethecharm​, @jjungkooksthighs​, @dontaskshhhhh​ and @nervouskiwi​!!

⏤ disclaimer: in order to ensure all characters are 18+, i’ve tweaked the hogwarts curriculum to include ‘apprenticeships’ and ‘masterships’, essentially wizarding equivalent of graduates/post-grad, and as a result, yn is 21 and jimin is 22!! // additional disclaimer: i know absolutely fuck all about tarot cards and readings and therefore thank you to the lovely @yeoldontknow​ for picking which cards to use as well as giving me the explanations/details of the reading!

⇥ this ones for all my kinky virgins out there, hope y’all stay freaks 😤

Hidden in the private dorms of the Potions Apprentice Quarters, you sit on the floor in the common room. Large, arched windows litter one side of the room, charmed - just like the Great Hall’s ceiling - to reflect the weather outside of the castle. Though, unlike the Great Hall, the charm could be turned off at will - allowing a magnificent, if not eerie, view of the underwaters of the Black Lake and all of its creatures. Currently, the charm is off, and the lake’s murky waters cast a dark hue to the room, bathing everything with a dark-teal tinge. Dark, crushed-velvet curtains drape down from the ceiling, the velour fabric only adding to the ominous scene of the Black Lake.

Despite the dismally grim sight of the lake, the rest of the common room is pleasant, and homely - if a little cold. With the space shared by all Potion’s Apprentices, from years eight to ten, regardless of the house, the interior is decorated in shades of black and grey rather than Hogwarts House colours. Dark, almost black, wenge wood furniture litters the room: from the large beams that run across the ceiling - holding onto the chandeliers, to the towering bookcases that fringe one wall of the room - brimming with rare potion tomes; as well as the glass-lined cabinets that cluster one corner of the room - teeming with vials and flasks of all sorts of potioneering ingredients.

The carpet that lines the flooring, however, is a light shade of mottled grey - the material piled and shaggy, and oh so soft under bare feet. Lavish leather sofas and armchairs of smoke-grey sit in one corner of the room, right beside the ornate brick fireplace; and a large frame of white gold hangs above the mantelpiece, containing the portrait of Gunhilda de Gorsemoor: a gifted potioneer who had developed the cure for Dragon Pox in the sixteenth century. Potions tables occupy the far corner, right beside the ingredients cabinets; each surface littered with a series of flasks and beakers, as well as glass phials, a pestle and mortar, various ingredient prepping tools; and, of course, a cauldron.

A sudden chill runs through the air, causing a shudder to run down your spine. It’s the middle of November, and yet, somehow the air feels colder in the common room. Though, you have a feeling that’s more to do with the fact that the dormitory is located in a far corner of the Hogwarts Dungeons, as well as being surrounded by the cold waters of the Black Lake. You don’t know why, perhaps it was just an oversight, but the temperature of the dungeons had always been bitterly biting. As a result, you nestled further into the warmth of the furry blanket laid over your lap - a gracious comfort from the brisk chill in the air. You’ve been living in the Apprentice Quarters for almost three years now, and yet, you’re still not used to the frigid temperatures of your dorms. To be honest, you don’t think you ever will.

Of course, being a Hufflepuff, you’d spent seven years on the floor just above - the common room located in the basement of Hogwarts. Alas, contrary to the dungeons, the basement is warm, in particular the Hufflepuff Common Room, and so, these past three years, you’ve struggled with the cold. Part of you wishes you were still within the comfort of the dorms you’d spent the better part of your Hogwarts Career in. However, after graduating from seventh year, you’d immediately applied for an apprenticeship in Potions. Upon having succeeded in your application, it had meant you’d had to move into the Dungeons, and from the Hufflepuff Dorms to the Potions Apprentice Quarters - a living space you currently share with Park Jimin.

Speaking of Jimin, he sits beside you and, unlike you, the cold doesn’t seem to bother him one bit. In fact, on the contrary to your body huddled into the shaggy comforter, the Slytherin Head Boy is casually pouring over the table: his back bent as his dark eyes skim across the parchment paper. His cloak rests casually on the sofa’s armrest, his sleeves rolled to his elbows and hair dangling in front of his eyes. You don’t know how he does it; how he so easily braces himself against the cold. Though, it could be because he’s spent ten years in the dungeons now - having acclimated to the cold over the decade.

From the corner of your peripheral vision, you take in the Head Boy. Naturally, you and Jimin had grown up together throughout your time at Hogwarts. And so, you’ve seen him change from the pudgy little eleven-year-old boy he was, to the man he is now. At twenty-two, Park Jimin is every bit the Pureblood Aristocrat he was born and bred to be: with dark pine-green hair that falls like silk around his face and sharp, cunning eyes - nestled between soft lids - that could stare into your soul and discover your deepest, darkest secrets (without the use of Legilimency).

Eyes scanning over his form, you watch as his lips quirk in concentration, his own gaze skimming across the large potions textbook as he jots down his notes. Against your will, your stare is pulled toward his hands. One is splayed onto the textbook, his pointer finger marking his current space on the page. The other glides across the parchment in front of him, his Eagle Quill scrawling over the paper in balletic movements as he jots down his notes. The gracefulness of the motions immediately captures your attention. His hands always surprise you, no matter what they’re doing. They’re somewhat small, and on the thick side - and a lot of the time they look incredibly cute. However, sometimes - like now - you’re surprised by how… attractive they are.

His fingers loosely grip the quill, the flexion of his knuckles practically mesmerising you as they protrude through his smooth, creamy skin. The bony features of his digits, and knuckles, are only emphasised by the thick rhodium ring he wears on his middle finger: the palatial band studded with gems of dark lilac and ebony. You have no doubt that it’d cost a fortune. Though, it’s probably closer to priceless; and most likely an antique, Park family heirloom. The backs of his hands are vascularised, and with each movement, you note the way the prominent vein bulges. You don’t know what he’s writing, but whatever it is, you know it’s probably incredibly advanced. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise you if he were scribbling different ingredients and their uses down, so he could create his own concoctions.

When you’d first moved in with Jimin, three years ago at the start of your apprenticeship, you’d been surprised by how often he’d actually studied. Particularly because Jimin was naturally gifted in Potions, and on his way to being one of the most skillful Potioneers the Wizarding World had ever seen. Thus, it was no surprise when you’d found out he was the other chosen Potions Apprentice for your year. Soft sigh drawing from your lips, you turn your attention back to your task at hand. Or well, tasks.

Juxtaposingly to Jimin, you were by no means a Potions Genius. Of course, you loved the subject, it’s just that you had to work a little harder in order to keep your grades up. Hence, the sight that greets you. Three pewter cauldrons sit on the table in front of you; the corners of your lips quirked into a frown as you inspect them. One of the pots contains a deep burgundy liquid, the potion rippling blood-red under the lighting of the torch sconces; signifying its completion. As a result, it’s the only one that’s set to the side. The other two still bubble over the bunsen burner: the left shimmers a pale, pearlescent lilac, while the right is a strange, putrid puce colouring that has you worried.

With a glance down to the potion tome beside you, your frown deepens. At this stage in the potion’s brewing, it should be a soft orange shade, not fetid-green. A low hum of distress emanates from your throat while you skim down the recipe - wondering just where you’d gone wrong. No matter how much you scour the textbook, you simply can’t seem to find it, and slowly, you grow more desperate. Especially as the potion’s critical stage approaches. You need to add minced Puffer-Fish soon, but if you add it now, when something is clearly wrong, you don’t know what will happen. Though, you doknow it will result in a useless potion.

Without warning, “You didn’t powder the Bone fine enough,” comes a husky voice. The sound vibrates right beside your ear, a warm breath simultaneously fanning across the outer shell of your ear. Abruptly, you jump in your seat, almost knocking the brass scales holding your meticulously measured Puffer-Fish mince to the floor.

Almost as if he’d anticipated your movement, Jimin’s hand shoots out to steady the apparatus. Although, even as his arm moves, he stays unbelievably close to you, and the proximity of his pillowy mouth next to your ears has goosebumps pricking at your skin. Angling your head, you come face to face with him, your eyes going wide. Directly adjacent to yours, his lips are just a hair’s breadth from yours - so close, in fact, that they virtually graze against yours. Heat creeps up: from the base of your throat, all the way up to the tips of your ears; and not expecting him to be so near, you jolt away.

The motion causes Jimin to quirk a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at you, and his reaction only has the flush to your cheeks deepening. Ducking your head down, you tuck a stray hair behind your ear, and, “Oh… I didn’t realise,” you mutter under your breath.

The instant the words fall from your lips you blanch, internally kicking yourself. I didn’t realise. What a joke. You’d fucked up your entire potion and all you could say was I didn’t realise. By Morgana, you wish the ground would open up and swallow you whole. Here you are, a Potions Apprentice, and you hadn’t realised the bone wasn’t powdered fine enough. How had you even made it here? Especially since the potion you’d managed to botch was the Skele-Gro potion; one taught to second years. Meanwhile, your Blood-Replenishing potion, an expert recipe, is completely perfect and complete.

If Jimin cares about your response, he doesn’t say anything. Rather, he gestures towards your cauldron. “Why are you brewing three potions at once? Even brewing onerequires all your attention and concentration,” he states plainly, causing you to wince imperceptibly. He doesn’t mean to, but inadvertently, he’s rubbed salt into your wound.

“Madam Pomfrey’s running out of certain potions and I offered to help replenish them,” you reply, your voice coming out quieter than you’d intended to. Jimin simply hums.

“I guess that explains the potions you’re making. I was almost worried,” he says, his soft lips pulling tight as a lop-sided smirk crawls onto his mouth.

Not understanding, your eyebrows knit together. “Worried?” you frown. Jimin’s smirk only deepens, before he lounges back on the cream sofa. The movement draws attention to his strong body, his toned muscles bulging under his shirt, while his thighs strain against the tight material of his slacks.

“I mean, you’re brewing Blood-Replenishing, Skele-Gro and Wound-Cleaning potions out of the blue, any sensible person would be worried about their safety. I was starting to fear that you’d hex me, and then heal me before I could report you,” he jokes.

Swiftly, your jaw drops, and hastily shaking your head, “I would never-” you begin retorting, only for Jimin to hold up a hand and halt you.

“Yes, yes, you would never hurt me. Or anyone for that matter. I know, ____. It was just a joke,” Jimin cuts you off with a chuckle. “Besides, you’re too much of a Hufflepuff to think of anything so cunning,” he continues. His words have you blushing harder, your bottom lip protruding in a slight pout. After a brief pause, he nods to your cauldrons once again. “Anyway, that doesn’t explain why you’re brewing three at a time,” he says, his sentence phrased more like a question. With a sigh, you feel your shoulders deflate with weariness and lifting up a hand, you rub the bridge of your nose.

“She needs them as soon as possible. Quidditch games are going to start soon, and she’ll need all her potions restocked by then. If I don’t get them out of the way today, I won’t have any time to do them between Head Girl Duties and the Apprenticeship,” you answer

“Hmm… Still though… three potions at once is a lot. More than that, if they’re healing potions, you need to be even more careful. One wrong step and it could mean the difference between life and death,” he lectures. You know he means it well, and he doesn’t mean to upset you, but you can’t help the way your stomach sinks at his words.

He’s completely right - potion making, at its heart, is both a science and an artform. Of course, most magic requires careful consideration, however, potions even more so. Namely because, as he’d said, the slightest error could change the entire nature of the potion. That exact reason is why you’re here, as a Potion’s Apprentice. You see, your life’s dream is to qualify as a Healer, and in order to be a Healer, you now need to have some sort of post-N.E.W.T qualifications in either Potions, Charms, Transfiguration, Defence Against the Dark Arts or Herbology. Of course, it hadn’t always been like this. Before the Second Wizarding War, once a student had graduated from Hogwarts, they would be required to enter into a Healer’s program, or any job really, straight away.

However, once Voldemort had been defeated, the entire Wizarding World had needed to rebuild itself - having lost too much in the aftermath of the Final Battle. In a way, it had been somewhat of a - morbid - blessing; mainly because, it had meant that the stagnating magical community had grown and bolstered itself into the twenty-first century. One of the consequenting changes, had been the reintroduction of Apprenticeships and Masterships, meaning that students now had an option to gain an extra qualification or two that would better prepare them for the future jobs - kind of similar to the muggle equivalent of university. Though, of course, these apprenticeships continued through Hogwarts, rather than a separate magical institute.

Naturally, with your dream job being a healer, you’d taken up the Potion’s Apprenticeship. Mostly due to the fact that you want to work in the Cures and Remedies Department of St. Mungo’s: a department dedicated to brewing potions, as well as creating new ones for the ever-developing medical needs in the Wizarding Community. Which is also why Jimin’s lecture hits you harder. If you were already making such silly mistakes, you’ll sooner fail your dream than achieve it - and probably kill or harm a few people while you’re at it.

Realising that Jimin had stopped talking, a tense silence befalling the two of you while you wallow in self-pity, “I’m sorry,” you mutter under your breath. As soon as he hears the despondent tone to your voice, Jimin’s face softens.

“No need to apologise, you didn’t do it maliciously,” Jimin says. Then, nudging your knee with his foot, “Scoot over,” he says.

Eyebrows creasing, curiosity colours your face as you watch him close his book, before waving his wand and muttering a couple spells under his breath. Immediately, his parchment rolls up into a scroll, before flying through the air and into his bedroom; along with the rest of his things. Once he’s cleared his stuff, he scuttles off of the sofa, and onto the floor beside you. In your confusion, you hadn’t moved quick enough, and as a result, Jimin’s crossed knee falls onto your lap. With a blank stare, you glance down at his thick thigh, and feeling the weight of his limb onto yours, you quickly kick yourself into motion.

Shuffling to the side, you make space for Jimin, the Head Boy slotting into the space next to you and under your blanket - the cover draping over his own lap. In your new position, he’s now level with you, your pantyhose-clad knee brushing against his while your shoulders practically touch. He’s close enough that the scent of his expensive cologne is more prominent: notes of sandalwood and bergamot dancing in the air and through your senses. The woodsy-sweet aroma virtually entrances you, your head swimming with the beguiling fragrances and beckoning you to sink deep into them. For a moment, you take a deep, albeit subtle, breath - wanting to breathe it in even more. Nonetheless, Jimin’s voice is swiftly breaking you out of your trance.

“You need to add minced Puffer-Fish to this, right?” he asks as he peers at the Skele-Gro potion, the rancid-green liquid still bubbling under the high heat of your bunsen burner. Abruptly coming to your senses, you nod, trying to ignore the fuzzy warmth that settles in the pits of your stomach. “If you add it now, it’s most likely going to result in Skele-Gro,” Jimin mumbles, and hearing him, you immediately perk up. Perhaps all wasn’t lost yet. That is, until you hear him continue. “Except… it will probably result in the bones continuously growing without stopping - even once they’ve fixed themselves.”

“Oh. So I need to start over?” you ask as you pull your bottom teeth between your lips. Did you even have time for that? Or ingredients? If you go down to Slughorn’s Office in order to get a fresh supply, he’ll most likely question why and you’d rather notexplain that it’s because you’d been incompetent enough to mess up a second year level potion.

Jimin hums in thought. “No, I don’t think so. You’re also brewing Wound-Cleaning Potion, yes? That means you have Dittany Essence?” he asks, causing you to nod and pass him the dark-blue vial. “Adding three drops should counteract the effects and bring it back to what it’s supposed to be,” he continues, and you watch as he uncaps the glass bottle, before carefully pipetting exactly three drops of the solution into the cauldron. After placing the Dittany Essence back down, he stirs the potion anticlockwise five-times, and you observe in complete awe as the potion returns to a pale orange - the exact colour it's supposed to be.

“How did you…?” you breathe out, astonishment heavily lacing your voice. Beside you, Jimin simply shrugs.

“It’s a common mistake second years make when brewing Skele-Gro… not powdering the bone finely enough, I mean. Adding three drops of Dittany Essence and then stirring anticlockwise five times brings it back,” he replies casually. Despite his nonchalant tone, though, you find your body slackening with defeat.

“I can’t believe I made such a stupid mistake…” you mumble under your breath. The self-deprecating tone to your voice has Jimin clicking his tongue at you in a tut as he nudges your knee with his.

“Don’t beat yourself up over it. You’re brewing three potions at once - and two of them are advanced potions. Both of which you’ve brewed perfectly so far. You probably didn’t notice that the powdered bone wasn’t fine enough because you didn’t expect to mess up a simple potion,” Jimin immediately says - in a bid to comfort you. It works, because swiftly, you feel your stomach flip: butterflies blooming in the pits of your abdomen at his praise.

Against your will, a smile creeps onto your face - the corners of your lips tugging, and, “Thank you,” you mutter under your breath. A tinkling laugh slips through Jimin’s lips, and he bumps his shoulder into yours.

“You’re a perfectionist and a hard worker, ____. Both of those traits make a good Potioneer, ____. Which you are. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be here. You need to stop beating yourself up over small things,” he continues. His face is twisted into a bright smile, his plump lips stretched thin and displaying his teeth, as the apples of his cheeks bunch under his eyes - causing his eyelids to slit into thin, crescent-moons. Your own lips tug into a sheepish smile, and you look at him gratefully.

“I know… it’s just such a silly mistake,” you respond.

Jimin snorts at your answer, and, “Everyone makes silly mistakes. Even a Potions Master or Mistress. It’s inevitable with the amount of potions we brew,” he scoffs. His words placate you even further, and you feel your earlier upset fade to nothingness - replaced by ease. Sensing the fact that you’ve perked up, Jimin grabs the rest of the prepared ingredients for the Skele-Gro potion. You look at him in surprise, Jimin simply smiling kindly in response.

“Why don’t you focus on the Wound-Cleaning potion? I’ll finish up the Skele-Gro,” he suggests. Swiftly, you shake your head.

“No, no. It’s okay! I’ll be more careful! You don’t need to help if you’re busy,” you quickly refuse - not wanting to be a burden - as you reach for the ingredients once again. Jimin simply scowls, and holding out his arms, he uses his strength to bar your hands from touching the tray.

“I’m not busy - I was just doing some light research on Phoenix Tears. Now be a goodgirl and let me help you,” he hisses. The instant the command falls from his lips, you feel your stomach twist, and your eyes widen slightly at the command. For a moment you still, not expecting them. There’s a playful lilt to his voice, and you know he doesn’t mean anything by it; yet, you still find your arms obediently dropping to your side.

Head ducking down, you turn your gaze to the surface of the table in front of you, in an attempt to hide your face from Jimin’s view. It would not do well for him to see the barest hint of a blush on your face. Especially since he hadn’t meant it in that way in the first place. Nodding your head, you acquiesce to him, and begin working on your potion once again; Jimin taking over for the second one.

The two of you work in near silence - the quiet broken up by the sounds of the bubbling potion, and the hissing of the fire. Intermittently, the blunt sound of chopping or the sound of the pestle grinding into the mortar echoes through the air: the two of you continuously prepping your ingredients as you brew your potion. With how close you are to each other, you practically invade each other’s space, and yet, as if by magic, neither of you get into each other’s way. While you concoct your respective draughts, every now and then, you find your attention wandering towards Jimin.

In the midst of brewing, Jimin is fascinatingly exquisite. That’s the only way you could describe it. Warm honey-kissed skin glows under the saffron lights of your dorms, the high arcs of his cheekbones glistening with every movement. The button of his nose is slightly scrunched, and similarly, his lips are pulled into a tight purse: his entire visage an epitome of concentration. The potion is easy, and an elixir he could very well brew in his sleep. Nevertheless, he focuses on each and every one of his actions, working meticulously and methodically as he concocts his potion.

Deft hands move expertly, alternating from preparing the different ingredients and adding them to the mixture, to carefully stirring the potion. Umber eyes scrupulously watch the simmering cauldron, his keenly trained gaze observing the elixir for even the slightest changes. You have no doubt that under his ever watchful eyes, the potion will be of the highest quality, even with how relatively easy it is to create. At some point, you finish your potion, and turning off of your bunsen burner, you turn your attention to Jimin. Unable to help yourself, you find yourself completely lost in how he effortlessly works; each movement, each gesture, completely second nature to him. It’s an artform. It has to be. At least, with the way he works it is.

You don’t know how long you watch him - but with each second that passes, you note something more about Jimin. You notice the way his eyes light up every time he successfully completes a stage, and the way the soft skin of his eyelids flutter, thick eyelashes kissing his cheeks, every time he blinks. You notice the slight sheen of perspiration that coats the back of his neck, most likely from the heat of the bunsen burner, rather than tenseness. Mesmerised by the movement, you follow a single drop of sweat - watching the way it trails down the thick curve of his neck and over the subtle bulge of his Adam’s apple, before percolating into the collar of his shirt.

Out of the blue, Jimin lets out a deep sigh, and with how intensely you observe him, you notice the way his shoulders ease - the movement so faint your eyes essentially strain to spot the movement. The motion is surprising, because the potion is easy, and yet, he still felt some level of tension. Though, that only leads you to appreciate him and his love for potions even more. Potion Making is easy for Jimin, and for the greatest part of it, it comes instinctually to him - but still, he takes the utmost care with each brew - no matter what the difficulty.

A strained groan resonates through the air, Jimin’s throat rumbling as he stretches out the kinks in his muscles. Thoughtlessly, he lifts his arms above his head, the muscles of his biceps pulling taut against the material of his shirt, and the motion causes the hem of his shirt to rise above the waistband of his black slacks. Against your will, your gaze finds itself drawn towards his waist, your eyes honing in on the sliver of his smooth skin of his hips that peeks through the gap. You don’t eye it for long, however, because as soon as it comes it's gone, Jimin’s hands drop down to his sides; the shirt’s hem consequently falling back into place.

“Are you all done?” his voice suddenly tears through the silence, and abruptly, your eyes snap back up to his - watching as he flicks off the flame under his cauldron.

“W-What?” you stutter, prompting Jimin to arch a strong eyebrow.

“Are you done with the Wound-Cleaning potion?” Jimin reiterates, purposely enunciating each of his words. Owlishly, you blink at him, your stare completely blank. At the same time, your brain slowly processes his words, your mind still slightly spellbound by his previous beguile, and eventually, you process his words.

Jerking slightly, “Yes!” you practically yelp, only to wince at the loudness of your own voice. Swiftly, you compose yourself, and clearing your throat, “Sorry… yes. I’m done,” you mumble. A look of concern flashes across Jimin’s face, and carefully he sweeps his gaze over you.

“Are you okay?” he asks, and the clear worry etched into his voice has your heart fluttering.

“Y-Yes,” you squeak out, wanting nothing more than to bury yourself into the blanket over your laps. For a fleeting instant, Jimin watches you carefully, and momentarily, you fear he’s going to press you further. Nonetheless, a couple of seconds later, he’s shrugging you off.

Glancing at the grandfather clock nestled in one unassuming corner of your shared common room, “Oh wow. Has it really been that long? It’s almost dinner time,” he murmurs, an astonished inflexion lacing his voice. Following his gaze, your own eyebrows widen when you spot the ornate clock, the baroque hands reading six-thirty. “I’m going to go shower and then head down,” Jimin begins as he gets up from his space beside you. His movement causes the blanket to partially fall off of your lap, exposing your right leg to the air, and involuntarily, you shudder at the cold.

“Go on then, I’ll wait for you,” you readily respond as you pull the blanket back over your lap. Drawn up to his full height, Jimin looks down at you curiously.

“Are you sure? I may be a while,” he replies, causing you to shrug and wave him off.

Waving your wand, you mutter an ‘Accio’ and summon a book from the shelves that line one wall of the common room. “Take as long as you need. I’m not hungry right now anyway. We can go down together when you’re done,” comes your own response.

Spinning on the heels of his Dragonhide boots, “Alright then. Thanks, ____,” he calls out as he walks back towards the bathroom. Your only response in a noncommittal hum, your attention already drawn to the book.

It’s almost half an hour later, when you hear Jimin return from the shower. Automatically peering up from your book, you move to close it - now more than hungry and ready to go down to dinner. Nonetheless, the moment you spot Jimin, you find yourself freezing. The door to the bathroom is wide open, clouds of steam gently drifting through the threshold and dancing around his frame as he steps into the common room. However, it’s not the water vapour that has your attention. No. it’s Jimin.

The very Jimin who is dressed in nothing but a thick towel wrapped around his waist.

Park Jimin is by no means short. Of course, compared to some of the other wizards that inhabit the castle, he’s not considered tall either. Nonetheless, he stands imposingly - a raw, powerful swagger that rolls off of his demeanour with every movement. It’s no wonder he’s considered the Slytherin Prince, and as he practically saunters out of the bathroom, with just a towel hanging off of his otherwise naked frame, you can’t help but feel that domineering aura. Droplets of water bead his skin, forming little rivulets as they run down his body and towards the hem of his towel.

The sheen of water that glazes his flesh catches the torchlight that surrounds you, causing his skin to glisten as he’s encased in a halo of gold. His hair is slightly damp, the deep green shade blackening to onyx; the wet tips sticking to his face. Helpless under his charm, your eyes trail down his body: from the corded muscles of his shoulders, down the smooth expanse of his torso - stopping briefly to take in the dusky-mauve nipples that grace his pectorals - and along the faint outline of his abs. When you get to the hem of the towel, your eyes coast over the definition of his hips: your heated stare charting the prominent ‘v’ that carves itself into his pelvis.

Trailing your gaze further down, you level it at his covered crotch. The terry cloth material of his towel is bulky, and effectively hides the rest off his body from your gaze - the bottom edge grazing just past his knees. Still, as he walks, you spot the barest hint of his muscular thigh - the limb peeking through the slit of the towel as he walks towards his bedroom. With each movement, heat flashes across your skin, your spine tingling as you find your stare honed in on his pelvis.

Then, all of a sudden, he’s stopping.

“See something you like, Sweetheart?” Jimin drawls, his voice cutting the terse silence that enwraps the room. Abruptly, you break from your trance, your gaze snapping up to his face.

His arms are crossed across his chest: the sinewy muscles of his biceps bulging under the movement; and his hip is cocked to the side, his knee sticking out through the fabric of his towel as he gazes at you. Wry, but voluptuous, lips are twisted: the thick petals of his mouth pulled in a lop-sided smirk, his teeth poking between the seam - almost predatorily; and taupe-brown eyes twinkle with mischief: a playful light dancing in the onyx depths. From the knowing glint to them, you know he’s spotted you brazenly devouring him with your gaze.

Heat immediately crawls over your cheeks, and you audible swallow, your throat suddenly tight. “N-No,” you squeak out, your head ducking further under the cover of your book. Though, even as you do that, your eyes peek over the edge - an action Jimin easily catches.

Smirk widening into a wolfish grin, “Are you sure, Princess?” he purrs and, hearing the nickname, you can’t help the way your stomach knots in the pit of your abdomen.

“Y-Yes,” you stammer, your body curling further into the side of the sofa - in a bid to make yourself seem smaller. Jimin hums in response. The deep tremors reverberate through the air, echoing through the quiet common room and causing your breath to hitch.

Jimin’s tongue pokes out through the seam of his pouty mouth, and after swiping it across the plush bottom lip, he pulls the petal between his teeth. The act is incredibly enticing: the plush flesh slowly slipping from under his incisors before plumping out once more. Entranced by the movement, your eyes narrow onto his lips, and you suddenly feel your throat run dry. Spotting the way your attention focuses onto his mouth, Jimin lets out a low chuckle, and hearing the rich sound vibrate through the air, you inhale a sharp audible breath.

The sound resonates through the common room, heightened by the quiet - and swiftly, you feel the heat that stains your skin intensify. Body burning under your own embarrassment, you practically curl into the foetal position: your knees pulling towards your chest, a small squeak emanating through your mouth. Hearing the sound, Jimin simply chuckles again, and this time, taking pity on your form, he drops the subject and walks towards his bedroom.

“Cute,” he laughs you off as he shuts the door to his private room. The moment you hear that word, you can’t help the pout that forms onto your face, nor the way you blush ever harder.

Cute.

God you hated when he teased you like that. Partly because of the way a fuzzy warmth settles into your stomach, and partly because you know that’s all you’ll ever be to Park Jimin.

Cute.

Having lived with Jimin for three years, you think you know him pretty well. You know him well enough to know that he keeps Sugar Quills hidden around the dorm, practically addicted to the confectionery; and that he writes letters to his mother once a week, usually on Saturday, in his free time. You know that when he’s had a particularly hard week, he unwinds by reading his prized, first edition copy of ‘The Twelve Uses of Dragon’s Blood’ - a tome he’s had to have read thousands of times by now. You know that despite him being the heir to the Park name - an age old, aristocratic pureblood line that dates back centuries - he doesn’t care about status, or power, and rather judges people on their own merits and hardwork.

You also know that Park Jimin, as sweet as he is, is the biggest playboy the school has ever seen - actively flirting with any and all the other apprentices from the other subjects. It’s not like he could help it. In fact, you’re sure that it’s practically ingrained in his nature. Though, when he looks like that - a frightening middle between incredibly adorable and devastatingly sexy - you sort of understand it. Because if you looked like that, you’d take any and every opportunity to use it as best as you could. And Park Jimin definitely used his allure

A terrifying mix of cunning, ambitious, sweet and distressingly handsome, Park Jimin has probably broken more hearts than you can count; and is most likely the sole reason for every Apprentice’s wet dreams. Girls flocked to him, and boys wanted to be him - so it’s no surprise that Jimin was highly sought after - nor that he was the biggest flirt you’ve ever met. Hence why you hated when he flirted with you. Mostly because, you know he never does it seriously. And also because the last thing any of the girls he actually flirts with are, is cute.

You would know.

You’ve seen them sneak out of your dorms on the off chance he brings them over. Though, more often than not, he tends to sneak into their private quarters. That is, of course, if they aren’t one of the Potions Apprentices from the lower years. You and Jimin being in your third year of the Apprentice program, and your tenth and final year of Hogwarts. That is, of course, unless either of you choose to do your Mastership - which would be another five years.

If you’re being honest, you don’t really have anything against being cute - mainly because when he says it, he says it with a sweet smile. What you do have against it, however, is that he says it almost as if you’re a child, and not a grown, twenty-one-year-old woman. Though, that may be more to do with your own shyness and inexperience; especially in terms of the opposite sex. But still, you couldn’t deny that it hurts sharing a dorm with Jimin, and being in such close proximity, and yet still having him not be attracted to you.

Sure, he flirts with you - using any opportunity he can get to tease the ever-loving hell out of you. But it’s not like he means it, or that he ever takes it any further than his flirtatious banter. Not like he does with most other girls. No. When Jimin flirts with you, there’s always an air of jest, and restraint around him. He doesn’t stare at you with his smouldering gaze - as if he could devour you whole with just his eyes. He doesn’t lower his voice to that raspy husk of his - the one that is filled with a promise of sin. And he definitely doesn’t exude that same aura of raw dominance - the one that has most girls’ cores trembling with an ache that only he can satiate.

Of course, what you do have, in comparison to those other girls, is Jimin’s friendship - which is more than you can say for most of them. Particularly because most of Jimin’s friends tend to be the other guys on the Apprentice Program. After all, it’s hard to befriend the people you’re constantly trying to sleep with, or have slept with. You think. You don’t really know… You know, considering your own sexual inexperience with other men. Yes, Jimin has never shown any interest in you, and he’s never really flirted with you seriously, but at least you can say that you’re actual friends, and that you get on with each other beyond wanting to tear each other’s clothes off.

Although, needless to say, you doubt he’s ever thought of tearing your clothes off.

Which is… not something you can say about yourself.

Lost in your own thoughts, you don’t notice Jimin return - now fully dressed. At least, not until you feel his plush lips ghost against your ear. “Are you ready to go?” comes the low, sultry purr of his voice. Not expecting the sound, you immediately jump in your seat, your head whipping to the side as you stare at him wide eyed. Once again, you come face to face with him - the proximity making you jerk back with a strangled cry.

“Jimin!” you shriek in surprise, and your choked yelp has the Head Boy bursting into a peal of laughter. Heart thundering within the confines of your chest, and the ever-present flush of embarrassment painting your cheeks once again, “Stop doing that!” you chastise, your face twisting into a sulk as you glare at him. Entire body wracked with laughter, Jimin heaves for air as he tries to catch his breath - short gasps breaking through his howling.

When he continues to laugh, your lips twist into a deeper pout, and your glare intensifies; and sensing your rising ire, Jimin swiftly holds up his hands in a motion of surrender. “Sorry, Sorry. You were just so lost in thought, I couldn’t help it,” he chuckles while wiping his teary eyes. “What were you thinking about that had you so enraptured?” he asks, an impudent smile etched onto his lips. Remembering just whatyou’d been thinking about, your blush deepens, and you swiftly shake your head.

“Nothing!” you quickly interject. The abruptness of your answer has Jimin cocking his eyebrow, and eyes narrowing playfully, he looks at you - mischief dancing in his dark eyes.

“Oh? Doesn’t sound like nothing,” he purrs. Then, eyes widening in thought, a smirk creeps onto his face, “Hmmm. Were you thinking about me? Maybe something along the lines about how you’d seen me in just a towel a little earlier?” he croons, and you suck in a sharp breath at the low huskiness to his voice. That’s a first.

Pulling your lip between your teeth, you swiftly shake your head while throwing the blanket off of you. “N-No. I was thinking a-about how h-hungry I am,” you quickly snap, wincing slightly at the shakiness to your voice. It’s a brazen lie. Even you don’t believe you. And there’s no way in hell that Jimin does, at least not from the sly smirk curled onto his lips.

“Are you now? Hungry for food, or something else?” he teasingly quips, causing you to huff.

“S-Shut up. Let’s just go,” you mutter under your breath, your head angled to the ground as to try to hide your own mortification.

Jimin simply laughs at you, his shoulders shaking with mirth, “Whatever you say, Princess.”

On the seventh floor of the North Tower, the next day, you sit in the Divination classroom. Warped shelves frame the circular room, cluttered with various odd curios. Fading tarot cards, argentate scrying mirrors and lustrous crystal balls fill half of the shelves; china teacups, dust-lined feathers, and candle stubs filling the other half. Wooden furniture crams the room, the walnut timber long since scratched, chipped and faded: ravaged with time as some edges collect dust. The classroom is dim, with a few shafts of mellowed sunlight filtering through the greyed, heavy velvet curtains that hang from the tops of the arched windows.

Chandeliers dangled by wrought iron chains - and sheer, red scarves cover the lamps, bathing the room in an eerie crimson glow. A fireplace sits in the front of the room - right by Professor Trelawney’s table - the amber fire flickering behind cast iron grating. Though, rather than illuminating the space in its light, the dancing flames only add to the arcane feel surrounding the room. A brass kettle swings over the hearth as the tea leaves steep; and a sweet, woody scent wafts through the room. Sat at one of the many round tables nestled inside the room, you sink further into the paisley upholstered armchair, watching as the girl opposite you shuffles the Tarot deck effortlessly.

“Do you want a specific reading?” Eve, the eighth year prefect, asks.

Shrugging noncommittally, “Just whatever,” you reply. Eve huffs for a second time, blowing a thick black curl out of her eyes before glaring at you.

“You could at least attempt to take Divination seriously you know, even if you don’t believe in it,” she scolds.

Sending her an apologetic smile, “You know I’m only here to help you with your Divination homework.” Once again, Eve huffs. Nonetheless, with the way her shoulders relax, you know she doesn’t take offence by your words.

“Alright fine,” she sighs in defeat. Then, sending you a grateful look, “Thank you for this by the way. I know you’re busy, being Head Girl and in the last year of your Apprenticeship and all,” she continues, her nose wrinkling in the slightest.

Gracing Eve with a kind smile, you casually wave her off, “It’s alright. I owe you for helping us out anyway,” you respond. From behind you, you hear a low chuckle, causing the hair at the back of your neck to stand on edge as you hear the rich sound.

“You mean we owe her one, Princess.” Breath catching in your throat, you swallow imperceptibly, willing yourself to calm down. “Well, more specifically, I owe her one,” he continues as an afterthought.

His words cause your stomach to flip, butterflies flurrying through and leaving a fuzzy feeling in the pit of your abdomen. Angling your body in the chair, you turn, only to be met face to face with Jimin. With how cramped the Divination classroom is, there’s usually barely any space between the side edges of the various chairs. However, currently, the classroom is mostly empty, less than ten of you occupying it. And yet, somehow, you still find yourself impossibly close to him.

Eyes blowing out marginally, your mouth forms a surprised ‘o’ at the distance, or lack thereof, between the two of you. With how close you are, you can smell his sickeningly sweet breath - the scent of Sugar Quills so strong you can practically taste them on your taste buds. Swiftly realising your position, you back away in an abrupt movement - your chair scraping against the hardwood flooring. The screeching noise draws the attention of the other students, the muted, ambient murmurs coming to a halt as they turn to you.

Your cheeks immediately flush, the heat of embarrassment crawling from your throat to the tips of your ears. Ducking your head down, you sheepishly smile at the class and mumble out a ‘sorry’. At your apology, the rest of the students quickly turn back to their divinations, causing you to let out a breath of relief. Only for it to hitch when you hear the light tremors of Jimin’s tinkling laugh.

Turning back around, you flick your gaze over Jimin’s face. Dark hair - the colour of blackened pine - frames his face, the strands falling like silk over his head. His locks are parted in the middle today, rather than hanging loosely in front of his forehead, and the front-most tresses bear a slight wave; revealing soft lids and sharp brown eyes. Dressed in his white oxford shirt - his Slytherin robes hung loosely over the backrest - and his sleeves rolled up to the elbow, he looks the epitome of sin. It doesn’t help that his tie is loose around his neck either, the top button of his collar undone and revealing the thick arc of his throat, and the barest hint of his defined collarbones.

He’s lounging in his chair, his ankles crossed as he stretches them under the table. One of his elbows is pressed to the armrest, leaning his chin on the base of his palm, while his other arm is stretched out, long fingers drumming casually on the table. As your gaze roves over him, you can’t help the fuzzy feeling that settles in your stomach as he stares at you - obsidian eyes practically staring into your soul. Easily, he spots the fact that you’re staring at him, and immediately, a teasing smirk pulls at generous lips, his strong eyebrow quirking playfully.

“See something you like, Sweetheart?” he purrs, his sweet voice a few octaves lower as he mimics the sentiment from last night. The memory him dressed in nothing but a towel flashes in your mind: the sight of his muscular, wet body ingrained so deeply in your mind that just the recollection of it manifests itself as something incredibly tangible. A shiver runs down your spine at memory, as well as the deep tremors of his voice, and as the hairs at the back of your neck stand on edge, you duck your head - in a bid to hide your flushing cheeks.

“N-No,” you stutter out, and with the way your voice croaks, your blush deepens. Hearing your stammer, Jimin’s grin widens - his heated gaze roving over you almost predatorily. Responsively, you feel yourself shying from his eyes, your body curling into itself protectively.

Noting your reaction, Jimin lets out an airy laugh. God, you were such a Hufflepuff. He wasn’t one to often believe in the whole ‘students embodied their house traits’ bullshit - after all, people weren’t set into specific personality moulds. But when it came to you? It couldn’t be more true. A Hufflepuff through and through, you’re as hardworking as you are kind - and downright humble about it. It had been an incredible surprise when you’d been chosen as the Head-Girl beside him, most people expecting it to go to Penelope Graham. However, to everyone’s utter shock, it had gone to you instead, your scores in the Apprenticeship second only to himself. A fact that you’d kept to yourself, despite Penelope being one of the brightest Ravenclaws Hogwarts had ever seen, and a stellar Herbology Apprentice.

Thus, your grades, paired with your hard work throughout the years; not to mention your kindness, and willingness to help anyone, had landed you the Head Girl position. A choice that was still a sore subject for Penelope, who would lament about it to anyone and everyone. Nevertheless, if Jimin was being completely honest about it, however, he much preferred you to Penelope. And not just because Penelope didn’t know how to shut her mouth. Even when it was full of his cock. Though, he’d also be lying if he said it wasn’t partially because of that. Really, he didn’t know how she managed to prattle off constantly while still managing to breathe, and sucking his dick. It was almost magic. Pardon the pun.

No, you were a much better fit to him. Your patience was known through the school, and paired with your strong sense of fairness, it meant that most pupils, if not all, would more often approach you for help with their problems. And as a happy result, they’d leave him alone to get on with the more important duties. In fact, that’s exactly how you’d split your workload: you’d handle the student-body and prefects and anything pertaining to people in general, and he’d work on the other more mundane tasks; such as patrol duties, ensuring Prefect rosters for Hogsmeade weekends were sorted and all those odd bits and bobs.

Needless to say, it’s not like Jimin didn’t want to help the students. He doesn’t mindhelping them, and as Head Boy, he’d be duty bound to sort out whatever petty problems they have. He’d just do it begrudgingly, because the last thing he cares about are the frivolous issues of the student body. Really, who cared if Jonah Robins sat at the table Amber Cowen and her friends usually sat at in the library? A problem he knew you’d dealt with just a little over a week ago. Somehow, you’d managed to convince Jonah to leave the girls alone and all balance between the third years had settled. Something which caused Jimin to scoff. See, if it had been him dealing with it, he’d just tell the girls to find another table. Because it’s a table and it didn’t matter where they sat, as long as they did their work.

But that’s just him.

You, on the other hand, had a better sense of justice - and finding out that Jonah had purposely sat at the table to annoy the girls - you’d gotten him to move. Of course, most of the problems presented by the students were of similar nature - and Jimin didn’t understand how you had the tolerance to deal with them day in and day out without going insane. Though, that was just another one of the classic Hufflepuff traits manifesting in your personality. Honestly, he doesn’t think he’s ever met someone more Hufflepuff in his life.

“Uhh… Jimin?” you quietly call out to him, and his eyes widen slightly as he’s broken out of his contemplative reverie. Facial expression relaxing, Jimin realises he must have been intensely scrutinising you for the past couple of minutes - completely lost in his own thoughts.

Eyes casting over your face, he observes you for a moment. You refuse to look at him, your eyes skimming over the room as you actively avoid his gaze. Incessantly, you cross and uncross your legs, your body fidgeting under his heavy stare, and sensing the thick waves of nervousness that exude off of your being, Jimin’s lips twist into a mischievous smirk. And there it was. The one trait of yours that had piqued his attention when he’d first been officially introduced to you three years ago. Your timidness.

“Is something the matter, Princess?” he drawls, a perfectly trimmed eyebrow cocking. Immediately, you freeze, your cheeks heating even further as you pull your bottom lip between your teeth; only to gnaw at it. God, Jimin groans internally, you were so easy to provoke.

“N-No,” you stammer once again.

Lolling his head to the side, and resting his cheek in his palm, Jimin graces you with a sly smile. “Really? You look like you have something on your mind?” Then, flashing his teeth almost devilishly, “Maybe something from last night?” he hums. There’s clear innuendo in his voice, and unintentionally, you let out a little squeak. The sound is high-pitched, and just barely audible as it’s forced from the back of your throat.

“Last night?” Eve asks, her voice curious as she glances between the two of you. The heat of your mortification burns even brighter, so inflamed now that it starts sweltering your skin. Breath caught in your throat, you gnaw even harder on your lips - almost breaking the skin from how much you chew it. What are you going to even tell her? Nonetheless, before you can come up with an excuse, Jimin is already opening up his mouth.

“Just a small mishap in the Potions Apprentice Common Room. It’s none of your business. Shouldn’t you get on with your reading, anyway? I’d like to go back as soon as possible,” he interrupts, drawing Eve’s attention back to her homework. Face scrunching in distaste, she glowers at him.

With a huff, “You’re clearly lying to me. But fine, if you don’t want to tell me that’s your business,” she mutters, a scowl curled on her lips. Then after a short pause, “Also, if you don’t want to be here you don’t have to be. Feel free to leave,” she bites. Jimin discernibly bristles, and sensing his rising indignation - most likely from Eve’s snapping at him - you quickly hold up a hand.

“Why don’t we all just calm down?” you calmly say, smiling gently at both of them. Both Eve and Jimin open their mouths to argue, before closing them; Jimin shrugging his shoulders offhandedly while Eve lets out a deep, conceding breath. Turning to Jimin, your earlier embarrassment slowly ebbs away and you clear your throat, “You don’t have to be here you know. I was the one who offered to help.”

Jimin scoffs in response before waving you off dismissively. “The only reason you offered to help was so that Eve would take up setting up the Yule ball in my place,” he begins.

“Yes, because you have that Wizarding Chess competition you want to go to,” you butt in, causing Jimin to nod.

“Yeah. A competition I could have skipped. But you asked Eve to help you instead, so I could basically shirk my Head Boy duties, and it’s now more work for you,” he explains. Once again, you shake your head.

“It’s not that much work. Besides, I don’t mind. You’ve been talking about this tournament since last year, I know you’ve been looking forward to it,” you cut him off once again. Jimin halts for a moment, simply looking at you, a picture perfect expression of stoicism painted across his face.

Honestly, who were you trying to kid? He knows how much work the Yule ball is, and that while third-year Apprentice’s tend to have more free time (and hence why they now have the Head Boy or Girl position in comparison to seventh year N.E.W.T students), you’ve taken up a few more of the Prefect’s duties, since the seventh year Winter Exams are coming up soon. More than that, with how often students come up to you for help, your official duties tend to get pushed on the backburner even further. Hence why you’d had to brew three potions last night. Once again, he has no idea how you do it. Or why you do it. You’re way too courteous, and far too kind - even to the people you don’t know.

Letting out a sigh, “It is more work. Which is why I’m here. Even if I’m not really helping, I’m going to see it through with you,” Jimin says. Involuntarily, you feel your chest tighten, that telltale warmth flurrying through your stomach as your heart flutters within your chest. Before you can thank him, however, Eve bangs her tarot deck on the table.

“Maybe you’ll let me do a reading for you then?” she asks, her top lip curling shrewdly as she smirks at Jimin. The Slytherin Head Boy simply sneers in response.

Turning his attention back to his open textbook, “Yeah sure. When Merlin rises from the dead,” he snickers under his breath. Then, “Just get on with the reading,” he mutters. Eve’s mouth curls into a snarl, but before the eighth-year Gryffindor can respond, you draw her attention.

“Should we start?” you say, an encouraging smile on your face. Eve’s gaze flicks to behind you, and for a moment, you think she’s going to say something. However, she simply takes a deep breath and calms herself down.

“Alright, yeah,” she says, returning her own apologetic smile. “You don’t want any particular reading, do you?” she asks, and when you shake your head, she smiles. “Then, it’s okay if I pick one?” she questions. This time you nod, and Eve’s smile brightens. “Alright, wonderful! Then… I’m going to do one on love and sex,” she continues. Immediately, you choke on your own spit.

“Eve!” you splutter, causing her to look at you, her eyes glinting mischievously.

“What? I’m almost nineteen, I’m allowed to do them,” she says, her voice laced with faux innocence. Scowling slightly, you send her a pointed look.

“That’s not the point!” you try to argue.

Swiftly, a coy smile creeps onto Eve’s lips, “Oh? Does the prim and proper Head Girl have something to hide?” she sing-songs. Feeling an intense stare on the back of your head, the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. You don’t even need to turn around. You already know Jimin’s attention is on you both once again.

“N-No! It’s just-” you begin, only to deflate. What could you even say? Sensing your defeat, Eve snickers.

“Well, if you don’t, then there’s nothing wrong with me doing one, is there?” she asks. With no way out of the situation, your shoulders fall and you let out a muted noise of concession. “Perfect! Then, I’ll begin,” Eve continues.

With her mind made up, Eve begins to work. She starts by setting up her reading space: placing three candles onto the table. A pink one sits at the top of the table, right in front of you, while a white one sits in the left corner on her side, a purple one on the other. The candles form a large triangle, her tarot deck placed right in front of her, and an incense burner sitting right in the middle of the table. After the candles, she begins by placing her crystals down: rose-quartz and garnet are placed on the corners beside the pink candle on your side, and then an onyx on her side - in another triangular shape. Once she’s set up, she waves her wand - four bottles flying from one of the shelves that lines the classroom and into her hand. From the inky scrawl on the labels, you read them as ‘dried cherries, ‘saffron sprigs’, ‘steeped deer musk’ and ‘jasmine-infused oil’.

Meticulously, she adds the ingredients to her incense pot: exactly four teaspoons of dried cherries, half a sprig of saffron and three drops of the steeped deer musk. Once she’s done, she adds two tablespoons of the jasmine oil, before crushing it all together using a pestle. Once the mixture has formed a smooth paste, she inspects the concoction, before nodding in satisfaction - happy with her handy work. Carefully, you watch her. The eighth year Gryffindor is sly, and witty, and more often than not a handful to deal with. Still, she’s kind, and helpful; and when practising Divination - her favourite subject - there is no one who’s more reverent than her.

Fully prepared to begin her reading, Eve finally closes her eyes, and levelling her breathing, she takes in deep inhale before exhaling shallowly. From your divination class in fourth year, you know that she’s trying to find the centre of her magic. It only takes her a few moments, and then, she opens her eyes. Muttering a few spells under her breath, she points her wand towards the candles, slowly bringing them to life. She starts with the white candle, and then the purple, and finally the pink; and when she’s done, she taps her wand onto the incense burner.

Immediately, the mixture is enkindled, visible puffs of smoke wafting from the paste and into the air. The scent is rich, and fragrant - the notes of jasmine and cherry entwining together in a sweet aroma that has you entranced. The light perfume is deepened by the scent of the saffron and musk; the two heavier notes cutting the floral essence with a darker, more sensuous odour. The incense is inebriating, and calming at the same time, and you find yourself readily wanting to dive deeper into it’s intoxicating hold - let the scent consume you and lull you deep into its grasp.

With her ritual completed, she places her wand down onto the table beside and after a quick shuffle of her deck, she closes her eyes once again. Lips moving subtly, you hear her lowly mutter another spell, and then, she begins pulling the cards. Enraptured by her movements, you watch as she draws exactly five cards, placing them in a pentacle shape around the burner, and in the middle of the triangles of crystals and candles. Her eyes remain closed until she draws the fifth card, and then, eyebrows cinching slightly, she mutters another spell before finally opening her eyes.

Glancing down at the spread, she cocks her eyebrow, a small frown marring her face. The slight perturbation etched on her face has you intrigued, and practically on the edge of your seat, you wait for her to say something. You don’t have to wait long, however, because letting out a surprised whistle, “Well, this is certainly unexpected,” she breathes out.

“It is?” you ask, shuffling to the edge of your seat as you look at the cards closer. Eve hums in response.

“Yeah. The first card - The Hanged Man. You’re in need of urgent release. You’ve become rigid and careful, and there’s a strong need to release your inhibitions,” she begins. Only to pause, “But… you’re indecisive about what you want, and this suspension of your feelings is causing a sense of unhappiness. You need to open yourself emotionally, and more physically,” Eve begins explaining, her manicured nail tapping at the card as she speaks. Hearing her words, you immediately freeze, your muscles locking as Jimin’s face suddenly flashes in the back of your mind.

Oblivious to your shock, Eve continues, her finger moving to the next card, “The Devil. Usually, this card is ominous, and bears a sinister edge; one that most fear. However, in this reading, it’s a symbol of intense hedonism and fervent passion. It’s a card full of lust, an indicator for an intense yearning for a person. There’s a desire to submit; an overwhelming physical urge.” Her voice hangs heavy in the air, and with each word she utters, you feel yourself growing hotter and hotter; your collar suddenly tight. However, you refuse to move. You can’t move. Because you can feel Jimin’s heavy stare behind you, his presence magnified by the sudden silence of the room.

The dull sear of mortification settles in the pit of your stomach, and suddenly, you can feel all the students’ gaze on you. None of them, however, are as intense as Jimin’s; his eyes practically boring into the back of your skull. You want to open your mouth, to tell Eve to stop, lest you embarrass yourself any further. Nonetheless, you simply can’t bring yourself to do it. You don’t know why. Perhaps, it’s because your mouth is suddenly dry, almost as if you’ve swallowed cotton. Perchance it’s because your throat is tight, the muscles suddenly constricting - stifling any words that form in the back of your pharynx.

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because a small, masochistic part of you is curious: intrigued by what else Eve will say, what else she will reveal… and perhaps even Jimin’s reaction.

“When The Lovers follow The Devil, that’s usually a sign of not only balanced, emotional love, but also physical desire. There’s a need to be touched, to be claimed, and consumed; and an even greater sexual hunger that covets your partner, or the object of your desires. You want to truly submit, with implicit trust and consent, to this person,” Eve’s deep, yet distant, voice continues. Again, however, she pauses - almost as if in thought, and staring intensely at the card, she bites her lips. “This could also be a sign that the person you desire, desires you back,” she mutters.

That has you audibly snorting. Yeah, right. You highly doubt that. For a moment, Eve flicks her gaze to you, her eyebrow quirking in intrigue, and swiftly, you send her an apologetic smile. Shifting in your seat, you sheepishly gesture for her to continue. Eve’s stare falls back to her cards, her hand moving to the fourth, and penultimate card.

“The Tower. The fear that giving into these lustful urges will be your undoing. To give into your desires will be to bring about a change that you aren’t necessarily ready for - or maybe that you think you’re not ready for - since it’ll lead to a significant change in your life. Still, this card is one of extreme surrender to chaos, a surrender that you are refusing, or resisting,” she begins once again.

Then, circling her nail around the card, and tapping - two audible thuds resounding through the air, “Nevertheless, the liberation that comes from giving in is an extraordinary release, even if the act of giving in is terrifying. The Tower is an important card. It is one that cannot and will not be avoided. The major life change must happen. It must be experienced for you to progress in life,” she foretells, her voice almost foreboding.

“Which brings us to the last, and final card. The Ace of Pentacles. This is usually a symbol about fresh career starts. However, in a reading about love, it tends to read as an egg wanting to be fertilised. The ten of pentacles is a family oriented card, but this one is the act of conception; the desire to engage in sex. However, it’s more than just carnal hunger. You want this person; truly and utterly. More than you probably even realise,” and with that last declaration, Eve finishes her reading.

A strong silence befalls the classroom, her last words lingering in the air and echoing in your mind over and over again. For long, drawn out moments, neither of you say anything - you: because you’re caught between mortified and speechless, and Eve: to let you truly grasp and process her words. The few students that straggle about are equally quiet, more than fascinated by the surprising divination. None, however, are more surprised than Jimin.

Unable to tear his eyes from the back of your head, he simply gawks at you. Truth be told, like you, he doesn’t believe in Divination; even with its roots nestled deep within magic, it’s still considered an imprecise school of wizardry. That being said, he can’t help the way your taromency has piqued his interest - especially, considering the fact that it’s a reading based on your love and sexual feelings. At first, he’d been ready to ignore both you and Eve, and happily sink into ‘Moste Potente Potions’ - a book he’d managed to liberate from the Restricted Section, thanks to not only his Head Boy status, but also his Apprenticeship.

However, the moment he’d heard Eve explain the first card, he’d been ensnared by your divination. With each word that had slipped out of Eve’s mouth, he’d grown more and more curious, not to mention shocked - because really, there was no way that that was your reading. Jimin has lived with you for three years now, and he likes to think he knows you well enough.

He knows you well enough to know that, no matter what, you refuse to drink pumpkin juice - finding the drink sickening - and yet, you adore pumpkin pasties; a treat you frequently buy on your trips to Hogsmeade. He knows that you can’t fall asleep at night without reading a book - and that you often read ‘The Tales of Beedle the Bard’, having read them so frequently, in fact, that you could probably recite each story word for word. He knows that you aren’t a huge fan of chocolate, but that every month, for one week, you will inhale it like your life depends on it.

He knows you well enough to know that though friendly by nature, your actual friends are few and far between: choosing to give your trust to a select few individuals. You don’t call people your friends lightly, and it gives him immense joy, and pride, that he’s one of the few people you’ve granted that title. Most importantly, however, Jimin knows that you’re completely, and utterly, inexperienced with men. In the decade you’ve been at Hogwarts, not once have you ever had a boyfriend. He knows because he’s asked around. Purely out of curiosity, of course.

With how much time people spent at Hogwarts, rumours tended to be rampant and everyonehad at one point, had a rumour about them and someone else. Everyone, that is, except for you. At first, Jimin had worried that the two of you wouldn’t get along - that your inherent natures would be the complete opposite and that he’d hate you. After all, he didn’t want to spend his Apprenticeship years hating the only other Apprentice in his year. However, after meeting you in his eighth year for the first time, he’d finally understood why you’d never had any rumours. And that was simply because you spent most, if not all, your time studying.

By all means, it was only exacerbated by your incredibly shy, and timid, nature - especially when boys were concerned; but it was primarily because, you just didn’t seem to think about romance or sex. Which was precisely why he had never really given you a second-thought when it came to spending time with you. Of course, he flirted with you, but it was more playful than anything. Mostly because he enjoyed watching the way you’d get flustered, and how you’d stutter to respond to him. It was incredibly cute, and dare he say, endearing.

Yet, even then, he’d never considered actually pursuing you, and even now, he doesn’t know if he would. You’re complete opposites, and he doubts that you’d even wantanything to do with him - especially since you very clearly knew his reputation. His reputation being that his stable, steady girlfriends are few, and far between. More than that, he’d always dismissed you as someone who’d be into vanilla, missionary sex day in day out; and granted, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that if that’s what you liked. But the last thing he, Park Jimin, ever would be, is vanilla. Hence, his reasons for dismissing you as a partner early on.

However, that was before today. Now, he’s not so sure. And not being sure is driving him completely wild. Because now, now he wants to know just what you really are like. Just what really makes you tick in bed.

“So, ____, who’s the object of your desires,” Eve’s voice suddenly breaks the silence, her eyebrows wiggling at you. Breaking from his reverie, Jimin immediately hones his attention on the two of you once again. This, he has to know. He doesn’t know why, but he’s suddenly filled with the burning need to know just who you so carnally want to submit to.

“N-No one,” comes your choked reply, and even though he can’t see you, Jimin already knows that your face is flushed with heat. “I-It must be a wrong reading,” you quickly continue, Eve’s eyebrows shooting into her hairline.

Humming in thought, “Hmmm. It’s all open to interpretation ____, so perhaps,” she ponders out loud. A coquettish smile curls onto her face, and levelling you with her impish stare, “Would you like another reading to be sure?” she asks. Swiftly, you shake your head.

“No, it’s pretty late. And Jimin wanted it to be done as soon as possible,” you quickly interject. Ears perking at the sound of his name, Jimin lets out an airy life.

“Oh no, by all means, do continue if you need to. I remembered I have nowhere to be,” he purrs. Despair floods your stomach at his words, and internally you scowl. He had to choose now to be genial? Really?

“See, Jimin doesn’t mind,” Eve snickers. Letting out a little huff, you quickly get up from your chair and begin gathering your things.

“Still, it is late - almost curfew in fact. You should all start getting to your dorms,” you reply, your voice louder so the rest of the students hanging in the class could hear. A chorus of groans resonate through the air, but nevertheless, they begin packing up their own divination items.

“Spoil sport,” Eve mutters under her breath, however, there’s no real heat to her words; and like everyone else, she too begins clearing the table. As she waves her wand, the bottles, candles and crystals flying back to their original places, “Are you sure you can’t let me do another reading? It would really help,” she asks.

With a sigh, you shake your head, “I’m sorry, I have Head Girl patrol duties tonight, and I still need to get back to the dorms and shower,” you respond.

Behind you, Jimin immediately freezes, his book partially in his bag as he himself gets ready to leave. Now, that’s interesting. Glancing at you from the corner of his eye, he casts his gaze over your body. A lie. A very clear lie - but a good one - because only he would have known it’s a lie. You don’t have Head Girl patrol duties tonight, you know that, and he knows that. Why? Well, because he’s the one who comes up with the patrolling schedules - and you definitely don’t have any tonight. Which begs the question, why are you lying?

Naturally, it could be because you don’t want a second reading, but Jimin has known you three years now, and it’s not often that you refuse to help. Moreover, it’s also not often that you lie - which only has his intrigue growing. Just what were you up to? Not that you do have to be up to something, you really could just not want to have a second reading, and usually, Jimin would happily accept that reading. If it weren’t for the niggling feeling in his gut that it’s something more, and if there’s one thing Park Jimin does, it’s trust his gut feeling.

Hearing your explanation, Eve swiftly deflates. “Alright, that’s fair enough. Still, thank you though. I’m sure Trelawney is going to love this,” she grins. Though, that only has sheer mortification rippling through you. Because really, the last thing you want, is Trelawney hearing about your deepest, darkest feelings. A part of you wants to ask Eve not to use it, however, she’s promised to leave your name out of it, and knowing Trelawney, she’ll barely even pay any attention to it - both facts quickly settling your embarrassment.

“You’re welcome,” you respond with a nod as you gather your bag. Then, turning to Jimin, you tersely smile at him, and, “Ready to go?” you ask - your eyes flicking from his to the space behind him, as if you’re avoiding his gaze.

Momentarily, he looks at you, but no matter how long he stares, you refuse to maintain eye contact. The peculiarity of your actions only has his curiosity growing more aroused. Internally making up his mind to get to the bottom of your behaviour, “Yeah, let’s go,” he simply responds.

It’s later that very same night, when Jimin finds himself up well past moonrise. Usually, by now, he’d long since be in the comfort of his bed, enjoying the privacy of his own dorm. Or he’d be sneaking into the room of another apprentice. Today, however, he finds himself waiting in the Potions Apprentice common room; nestled on one of the plush velvet armchairs that makes its home by the hearth. Weak flames lick at the scorched wood, the fire waning as it slowly dies out. It bathes the darkened room in a dim light, and despite his position right beside the fireplace, the shadows hide his body well enough.

Internally, he wonders how long he has to wait for you to make a move, for you to sneak outside the common room and towards wherever it was that you wanted to disappear for the night. Really, he doesn’t know why he cares so much, and normally, he wouldn’t; you’re a grown woman after all, and you’re more than welcome to your secrets. Which is what he’d say if you were anyone else. But you’re not. You’re ____ Graves. The same ____ Graves he’s lived with for the past three years, and the last thing you have are secrets. Realistically speaking, he should probably give up and head to bed, because really, why did it matter what you got up to late into the night. However, ever since hearing you so easily lie to Eve, he simply can’t get out the incessant need to find out what you were hiding.

That is, if you are hiding anything. Because really, the later it gets, the more he finds himself wondering if he’s deluded himself into believing that you had secrets in the first place.

Mentally, he wonders if he should just head up to bed. It’s way past curfew, and you don’t seem to have emerged outside of your private bedroom; the rest of the Potions Apprentices having all retired for the night long ago. As he sits in the armchair, he contemplates his decision. It’s nearing midnight now, and you still haven’t so much as moved, and he’s really starting to believe that perhaps you’ve already retired for the night. Just as he shifts, however, he hears a door creak causing him to freeze immediately.

Head snapping to the stairs that lead towards the bedrooms, he watches as you slowly creep out of your bedroom and down the stairs. The common room is dark: the only light source the dwindling flames of the fireplace, and the faint, overcast shafts of moonlight that filter through the still waters of the Black Lake; and as a result, your wand is lit up - the eerie blue-tinted light of the ‘Lumos’ spell guiding your way through the space. Hidden by the shadows of the corner he finds himself in, Jimin’s breath hitches as you carefully tiptoe past him.

To his absolute luck, however, you don’t notice him. Instead, you simply slip out of the portrait that guards the Potions Apprentice Quarters. Jimin waits a couple moments for you to get far enough from the entrance before swiftly following you out. As soon as he slips through the portrait, he sees your frame disappear behind one of the corners, and hastily, he casts a disillusionment charm onto himself, followed by a ‘Muffliato’, before he begins tailing you.

It’s late after curfew, and as a result, the corridors are completely deserted. Iron sconces hang high up the beige brick walls and the flickering amber light illuminates the large, arched halls of the castle. Expertly, you navigate through the maze-like hallways, and with how purposely you move - your feet directing you down a specific route - Jimin knows you’re not out for Head Girl patrol duties. Albeit, he’d already known that. Though, this simply confirms his suspicions.

The entire journey, Jimin keeps a steady distance from you - close enough to keep you in his line of view, yet far enough that you won’t feel his presence. You lead him down twisting and turning corridors, and up towards the Grand Staircase. Realising that you’re planning on moving to a different floor, Jimin quickly moves closer towards you, still staying far enough for him to remain undetected, while keeping up with you as you navigate the ever-changing staircases. He doesn’t know how long he follows you, but around ten minutes later, you slow down your pace.

A look of surprise flits across Jimin’s face as he looks around. From the looks of it, you’re both on the seventh floor, in the left corridor. Though, he has no idea whyyou’ve come here. This area of Hogwarts is barely used. There are no classrooms in this corridor - it’s essentially a large stretch of hallway. Despite this obvious fact, however, Jimin watches as you walk down the passage, stopping when you get to a large tapestry. Quietly coming up beside you, he looks at the moving depiction in confusion.

Trolls dressed in ballet tutus are illustrated on the large curtain, their green-skinned body fanned out in various positions as they dance about with large clubs held in their giant hands. In the middle of the cluster, is a man, dressed in medieval-esque clothing, two of the trolls hitting him with their weapons intermittently. Suddenly, recognition dawns within him. It’s the attempt of Barnabas the Barmy to teach the trolls ballet. Enraptured by the odd, mobile tapestry, Jimin doesn’t notice you move - not until he watches a large, ornate wooden door manifest itself into the castle’s wall.

Eyes widening, he takes a step back - the sudden appearance of the entrance surprising him. He doesn’t have long to collect himself, however, because without a moment’s hesitation, you’re opening the door and entering it. Not wanting to waste the opportunity, Jimin hastily slips into the room after you - the door shutting behind him with a quiet thud. As soon as he steps inside, however, he pauses - not expecting the sight to greet him.

The room is large, yet completely barren. Marble arches and pillars line the perimeter of the room; plush carpet, the colour of beige, lines the entire floor - and even through the soles of his Dragonhide boots, he can feel how soft it is. There’s only one piece of furniture that sits inside the odd space - a large mirror. With clawed feet, and an ornate frame that has faded into a dull, metallic shade of gold with time, it looks ancient; and wholly mysterious. There’s even a strange inscription in the framework, in a language he can’t quite decipher, but one that seems familiar at the same time.

Nonetheless, Jimin doesn’t have much time to contemplate the peculiarity of it all, because all of a sudden, you’re moving. Drawing his attention once again, he watches you step up to the mirror, looking into the reflective glass intensely. The entire occurrence is strange, because it’s just a mirror, and yet you watch it so curiously, so intensively, that he wonders just what you’re looking at. And then, for a second time that day, he has an epiphany. He knows this mirror. Or well, more specifically he’s read of it.

It’s the Mirror of Erised - the one that shows you what your heart desires the most.

Now even more curious, Jimin’s head tilts to the side as he looks at you, his face a picture of curiosity. Soon, however, it morphs into shock. Because, completely out of the blue, you start stripping.

Febrile skin flushed with desire, you stare into the Mirror of Erised. The sight that greets you is no surprise to you, at least not anymore. You see, the first time you’d stumbled upon the Room of Requirement, had been this summer, towards the end of your ninth year. Back then, you’d just been a prefect, and on one of your nightly patrols, you’d stumbled across strange noises coming from one of the abandoned classrooms on the seventh floor; and being the principled prefect you were, you’d instantly investigated. The sight that had greeted you, had shocked you to the core.

You had expected lots of things behind the classroom door. Perhaps it was Peeves, causing a ruckus as he usually does. Or perchance Filch doing his own rounds. Or maybe, just maybe, it was two students out past curfew. However, the last thing you’d expected was to see Penelope Graham, the second-year herbology Apprentice, bent over a table as Park Jimin thrust into her from behind. Her uniform had been in a state of dishevelment, her shirt wide open and her bra pulled under to reveal her breasts. The most surprising thing, however, had been the fact that her hands were tied up, and her panties stuffed into her mouth as Jimin harshly moved behind her.

Suffice to say, the entire scene had been such a shock, and way more than you’d expected to find behind the classroom door. More than that, you couldn’t bring yourself to break them up, your own timidness getting the better of you. As a result, you’d quickly turned around and ran away - racing to the opposite end of the seventh floor - only to find yourself in the empty left corridor, right by the large tapestry that depicted Barnabas the Barmy and the trolls. You can still remember your embarrassment, the sight of Jimin roughly fucking Penelope burned into the back of your mind. As you contemplated what you’d stumbled across; pacing back and forth in front of the tapestry, you’d accidentally come across the Room of Requirement.

The randomly-appearing door had surprised you. You’d heard of its existence of course, from your cousin, Sybil Lovegood, but you’d never gone looking for it. Curious about what the room had manifested for you, and needing to recuperate from what you’d just witnessed, you’d entered - just to discover the empty room, and the Mirror of Erised. What you’d spotted in the reflection, your heart’s greatest desire, a few months ago had completely shocked you.

Because depicted in the magic glass, is you - your body naked and bound - as Jimin fucks you, just as roughly as he did Penelope. Or perhaps, even rougher.

Shaken by the discovery, you’d swiftly left the room. Only to return the next day. And the weekend after. And then the week after. However, then you’d broken up for holidays, and in your tenth year so far, you’d been too busy with head duties to return. By all means, you’ve spent many nights laying in bed, with fantasies of Jimin sweeping through your head as you lose yourself in your own pleasure. However, your fantasies could never compare to what the mirror showed. Though, the real deal probably couldn’t compare to this either, but what could you do? You doubt Jimin would actually ever fuck you; that is, if his adversity to flirting with you was any indication.

Tonight is the first night you’ve returned in a while, prompted by Eve’s tarot reading, and eyes darkening with hunger, you watch your reflection’s face twist with lewd pleasure; Jimin’s intense, domineering gaze levelled on you. Molten lust pools between your thighs, your stomach twisting with the desirous heat of hunger as your core trembles. Your gaze trails down the body of your mirror-image, settling on your core, and almost as if he knew, mirror-Jimin lifts your reflection’s leg up - allowing you a better view of her swollen, sodden cunt.

A low whimper resounds through the still room, your voice breaking the quiet. All of a sudden, the heat that sears your body is too much, causing you to grip your wand tighter, and vanish almost all your clothes with a simple spell - purposely leaving your skirt on. Cool air brushes against your heated sex, and a low mewl falls from your lips at the sensation, your thighs spreading a little further. Without wasting a single moment, you slip your hand between the apex of your legs, merely to cry out in pleasure when your fingers brush your throbbing bud.

Knees buckling at the pleasure, you tentatively stroke your clit, your breath turning laboured as ripples of ecstasy course through you. Nonetheless, it’s not enough, and you have no doubt that this position is soon going to get uncomfortable. Thus, without wasting another moment, you carefully drop to your knees before sitting on your ass. Bending your knees, you draw your thighs closer to your body, before spreading them wide open. Able to access your bare folds more freely, one of your hand dips between your legs: a single finger trailing through your dewy slit.

You run the digit through your sex a couple of times, and once the pad of your finger is coated in a thin film of your own wetness, you press it to your clit once again; slicking the bud under your ministrations. In the mirror-reflection, Jimin mumbles something indiscernible into your mirror-self, and you watch as her cheeks tinge with heat, but as usual, does as he says. Her hand winds down towards her spread thighs, only to splay her cunt wide open. Then, in one smooth motion, Jimin spears his cock into her - impaling the entire length into her dripping pussy.

Sucking in a sharp breath, you responsively dip a finger into your own honeyed entrance. The rings of muscle are tight, and firm, but slippery with your arousal, you manage to slip a single digit into yourself. Steadily, you push your finger into you. It’s fairly short, and girthy, and yet, there’s still a pleasurable ache to the intrusion - your inner walls rippling around the digit. You push it in as far as you can before crooking it at the knuckle. Promptly, you feel your body shake - your nail inadvertently dragging against your sweet-spot.

For a moment, your eyes blur at the euphoria, your eyes threatening to shut. Nonetheless, you forcibly keep them open - your gaze focused on the way mirror-Jimin begins surging into your reflection, your entire body bouncing from his rough thrusts. Imitating his actions, you begin plunging your finger into your silken depths - the movement causing the pad of your digit to drag against the erogenous spot inside of you repetitively. With each stroke, you feel the pleasure inside your stomach intensify, morphing from a dull ache into a maddening burn.

Nestled in the shadows, Jimin’s jaw drops at the lewd sight of you. When he’d decided to follow you tonight, this was the last thing he had expected. At first, he’d meant to announce his presence - question just what you’d been staring at. However, before he could say anything, your clothes had suddenly been divested off of your body - flying into the air before folding neatly onto a pile on the floor. Tongue-tied by the action, his jaw had dropped, and he’d been rendered speechless - because really, why would he have expected you to suddenly strip to just your skirt?

Nonetheless, his astonishment set aside, Jimin can’t help but feel his skin heat as he watches you - his cock twitching to life in the confines of his trousers. He still has no idea what it is you’re seeing, but still, the sight of your legs spread wide, and your hands buried between your thighs is incredibly hot. From his position, he can’t see you in full - your skirt partially covering your sex - and with only his imagination to go off of, his mind runs wild. He wonders just what your cunt looks like as you pleasure yourself: does your clit throb? Are you soaked beyond belief - strings of your arousal leaking down your ass? Does that little cunt of yours tremble around your fingers?

Each question has waves of hunger washing through him, and with each thought, hot lust bubbles through his veins. Desperately he wishes to find out the answers - to remove your hand and push your skirt up - only to bury his face between your thighs. He wonders how you look amidst an orgasm, and the type of sounds you make; the type of sounds your cunt makes. Even so, even with his urgent desire overtaking him, he knows he can’t. He enjoys being your friend - a hard title to come by - and this would cross a boundary he’d initially been hesitant to cross; especially since you’d never shown interest in him, or any other boy for that matter. More than that, however, he figures he should leave you to your own privacy - having voyeuristically watched you for long enough.

However, just as he’s about to turn on his heel and exit, a sudden cry of pleasure tears from your throat - louder than any other that has spilled from your mouth. All of a sudden, you jerk, and your free hand darts out behind you: the palm dragging against the ground as you brace your entire body. Your back twists, the motion pushing your chest further into the air - drawing his attention to them - just for it to move to the way your thighs begin trembling. Holy fuck. Were you about to cum? Merlin, he reallyneeds to get out of here.

“J-Jimin,” you suddenly whimper and Jimin stops short - the muscles of his entire body locking. Did you… had you just…?

Breath catching in his throat, Jimin strains his ears; focusing his entire attention on you. It couldn’t be. There was no way you’d just said his name. His mind was obviously playing tricks on him. Swiftly, he dismisses the sound. Until, “Oh… Jimin,” you moan. It’s louder this time, and clearly - so discernible, in fact, that it resonates through Jimin’s ears.

Turbulent eyes roving over you, and once he’s confirmed that it is indeed his name, a smirk curls onto Jimin’s plump lips. His cock strains inside his boxers, the hardened member straining against the tightness of his trousers as it begs to bury itself inside of you. A surprising reaction, considering he’d never seen you in that way before - then again, how was he not supposed to want you, after learning that your heart’s desire, is him. Suddenly, Eve’s voice echoes through his mind, and recognition dawns inside of him. He’s the man from the divination - the one you truly want to submit to; the one you so desperately yearn for. Immediately, the smirk on Jimin’s face twists further, pulling into a large, predatory grin.

Well, who was he to deny you your deepest wish?

Stalking closer towards you, Jimin waves his wand discreetly - ending both the charms that hide him from your view. However, so lost in your own pleasure, your focus concentrated on whatever it is you see in the mirror, you don’t notice him. Closer to you now, your soft mewls and whimpers are louder - the sounds practically music to his ear - and this time, when you call out his name, “Need something, Princess?” he purrs in answer.

Instantaneously, you freeze. Every single one of your muscles locks at the sound, your lust dissipating as dread settles in your stomach. Head snapping up, you finally notice Jimin’s reflection in the mirror, and blinking blankly, you slowly realise it’s the real Jimin. Swiftly, you shut your legs, the movement locking your hands between, as you stare at him wide eyed.

Mortification surging through you, “J-Jimin,” you stammer out.

“Oh, Sweetheart, don’t stop on my account. I was quite enjoying the show.” His eyes flash with mischief, his gaze dropping towards your legs perceptibly, before locking back onto yours.

“I-I can e-explain,” you stammer out.

Jimin simply hums in response. “Oh? I think I have a pretty good grasp of the situation, Kitten,” comes his rumbling voice - the husky warbles reverberating through the air and directly to your core. Inhaling sharply, your eyes widen imperceptibly. Kitten. That’s a new one. More than that, the pet name drips from his lips like viscous honey, laced with a promise of lust-filled sin.

Deliberately, he stalks around you, your eyes following him - as if transfixed - until he’s directly in front of you, just beside the mirror. With your positioning - his broad body towering over you - your face to crotch with him, and quickly, you spot the prominent bulge of his cock. Throat tightening, you swallow thickly - your mouth suddenly dry. Jimin spots your gaze easily, causing him to chuckle.

“Eyes up on me, Kitten,” Jimin purrs, and almost as if you’re trained to obey, you follow his command; albeit, reluctantly.

Forcibly tearing your eyes from his covered manhood, you level your gaze onto him once again. He stands above you, fully clothed; waves of powerful dominance seeping off of his entire demeanour. Meanwhile you’re next to naked - with your hand still buried into your cunt - and as a result, you can’t help the ripples of humiliation that strum through you; your core reflexively clenching. Against your will, a wanton whimper escapes your mouth, your cheeks tinging darker with the heat of embarrassment. From the way Jimin’s eyes twinkle, you know he’s heard you.

“It looks to me like you’ve been playing with that little cunt of yours to thoughts of me, am I right?” he teases, and pulling your bottom lip between your teeth, you tentatively nod. Jimin hums once again, his head cocking to the side as he regards you coolly. Under his intense gaze, you feel completely exposed - his heavy stare roving over your entire body as he scrutinises you.

Then, his eyes landing on your skirt, Jimin lets out a low, taunting coo. “Is that pretty pussy wet, Princess? Does your cunt ache to be filled by my cock?” he asks. The vulgarity of his words doesn’t surprise you, you always had a feeling Jimin had a filthy tongue on him, and reflexively, you nod once again. Under his teasing words, you feel yourself grow wet, your lust-filled desire mingling with the humiliation that flutters through you.

Surreptitiously, your hand begins moving, the digit still buried inside you flexing as you slowly plunge it into you. The movement is imperceptible, and near non-existent, but somehow, Jimin still spots it. With a chuckle, “Is this turning you on, Sweetheart?” he coos. Mouth still dry, it’s all you can do to nod. However, Jimin’s eyes simply narrow into slits, and, “Articulate,” he hisses.

“Y-Yes,” you force out obediently, your finger moving even faster. Jimin coos tenderly, his lips curling into a wry sneer.

“Of course it is, Kitten,” he coos. Then, gesturing his head towards your hand, “But is your hand enough? Wouldn’t you like the real thing? Wouldn’t you rather have my cock?” he asks, a playful lilt to his voice.

You don’t even have to contemplate your answer, because immediately, “Please,” you whimper.

“Please what?” he hisses, and realising he’s going to force you to say it, you inhale a deep, steadying breath.

“J-Jimin,” you stutter out in an attempted protest.

“I want to hear you say it. I want you to beg with that pretty, innocent little mouth of yours,” Jimin purrs, his eyes darkening with dominance as he watches you.

Brushing your humiliation to the side, you take in a deep, steadying breath. “P-Please g-g-give me y-your cock,” you stutter out whilst imploringly staring at him through the thick of your lashes.

Immediately, a roguish grin crawls onto Jimin’s lips, and chest purring in approval, he walks around you - the heels of his expensive Dragonhide shoes clicking against the ground - before he settles behind your body. His long legs splay on either side of you, the limbs bent at the knee: effectively caging you between his figure. The strong muscles of his chest press flat against your naked back, and involuntarily, you shiver - his warmth seeping into your skin.

Hands moving to loosely rest on either of your thighs, the cold metal of his ring making you gasp as it presses against your febrile flesh, “Spread your legs,” he orders. The sound rumbles against your back, and for a moment you hesitate - the tips of your ears burning in humiliation. Nonetheless, you do as he says: tentatively splaying your legs open once again. Jimin watches your reflection in the glass, his eyes dropping to the apex of your spread thighs. Material of your skirt falling between, it obstructs his view of your cunt, causing him to let out a low tremor of disapproval.

Angling his head to the side, he brushes his lips against the outer shell of your ear, before taking the topmost part between his teeth and biting down softly. The sudden action causes you to let out a soft whimper, and you both see, and feel, Jimin’s lips twist into a sardonic smile. Lightly nibbling on the cartilage, his hands indolently trail further up your thighs, causing your eyes to flutter at the sensation. Just when he gets to the soft flesh of the top of your inner thighs, however, Jimin suddenly stops.

“Lift up your skirt, Princess. Show me the way that cunt drips for me,” comes his command. The intonation of his voice is low, a slight rasp underlying it, and reflexively, goosebumps prickle at your skin.

You suck in a sharp breath, and with shaky hands, do as he says. Gripping the hem of your skirt, you hesitantly lift it up - both your eyes glued onto the mirror - where you watch the way you slowly expose your sodden cunt. The moment your bare sex meets his gaze, Jimin lets out a pained groan. Swollen with need, the flesh of your sex is puffy - your clit visibly throbbing as a thick sheen of your wetness coats your skin. Pools of arousal gather around your entrance, the ring of muscles trembling under his heavy gaze, causing thin rivulets of slick to trail down the seam of your ass.

“Oh? You’re fucking drenched. What is it that you see in the mirror, that has you leaking like this? You’re practically creating a puddle,” he chuckles, a dark, taunting inflexion cutting his sweet voice.

A near inaudible whimper falls from your lips, and when you don’t respond, Jimin bites your ear harshly. Soft stings of pain strum through you, and, “Y-You,” you cry out in response, your cunt clenching visibly.

Watching the way the ringed muscles contract, “Oh? Just me?” Jimin chuckles darkly. You shake your head in response.

“N-No… us,” you reply. Fingers flexing, he begins softly massaging your thighs: kneading the supple flesh under his deft digits.

“Tell me.”

“W-What?” you ask, shock evident in your eyes. Tongue flicking out, Jimin licks the outline of your ear, only to brush his lips against the shell.

“Tell me what you see,” he elaborates. Thick waves of hesitation exude off of you at the command. There was no way - absolute none - that you could describe the vulgar scene, born from your deepest fantasies, and depicted in the magical surface.

Sensing your trepidation, Jimin’s face softens, and he buries his face into the side of your head. Lips pursing, he places a tender kiss to your hair. “We can stop if you want, or if it’s too much,” he mumbles; his hands soothingly rubbing your thighs. Your heart flutters at his concern, and you shake your head quickly.

“I-I’ve just… never done something like this,” you begin, your voice coming out as a whisper. Internally, you cringe at the timidness of it. It’s not that you don’t want to fuck Jimin. You do. Desperately. It’s just, you’re not used to it - to having someone see this side of you - and the idea of revealing it to Jimin, the object of most of your lascivious fantasies, is more than just a little daunting.

Awareness crossing his face, Jimin nods, and you watch in despair as his eyes turn tender - a stark contrast from the heavy dominance that had just twinkled within them. “We can go slow… I’ll be gentle,” he offers.

“No!” you instantly object, Jimin’s eyes widening at the sudden protest. Realising how loud you’d been, you quickly curl into yourself and avert your gaze. Throat tight, you swallow thickly; and gathering your courage, “I- I don’t want gentle. I- I want you to be rough. I want you to fuck me,” you confess, A few pauses break your sentences as you force yourself to be honest with him, however, once the words are out, you feel a sense of relief flood through you.

Jimin sucks in a sharp breath, and against the curve of your ass, you feel his hardened cock throb. “Are you sure?” he asks, his eyes searching yours. This time, when you nod, there’s not a semblance of hesitancy.

Bolstered by your sudden courage, “I want you to fuck me as hard as you can. I want you to dominate me, and make me cry,” comes your sudden declaration. The hands on your thighs flex, Jimin gripping the flesh almost painfully.

“Fuck.” He takes a deep breath, and then exhales just as deep. “Are you sure that’s what you want?” he asks once again.

Unwavering, “Yes.” Then, “Please,” you add - practically begging him now.

“Pick a safe word.”

Surprised by his words, “W-what?” you dumbly ask, causing him to smile at you genially.

“You’re a virgin aren’t you?” he asks; his tone is passive, almost kind, and not mocking at all; yet, you still find yourself growing embarrassed as you nod in response. Pressing another kiss to your head, “Then pick a safe word you can use if things are getting too intense and you need to stop,” he continues.

“Oh. Um… Mallowsweet,” you blurt out after a short deliberation.

The instant the word slips from your mouth, Jimin lets out an amused exhale, and you feel his lips curl in bemusement. “Mallowsweet? Really? The first thing you thought of was a potion ingredient?” he asks, causing you to pout.

“Safe words have to be something you won’t normally say during sex,” you mumble, and once again, Jimin laughs.

“You’ve got me there. Alright, Mallowsweet it is,” he nods. Then, after a short pause, “Don’t hesitate to use it, okay?” he continues. You don’t say anything, simply nodding firmly. Happy with your assurance, “Good girl. Now, tell me what you see,” he praises, only to follow the sentiment with a command.

A ripple of excitement courses through you at the heavy authority that laces his voice once again; his eyes dark with domineering hunger as he practically scrutinises you. Attention returning to the mirror, your breath catches in your throat at the sight that greets you. Your reflection selves have changed positions, now almost perfectly imitating the two of you. Cradled in mirror-Jimin’s embrace, your counterpart has her legs spread wide, and her lips spread even more lewdly - her own digits splaying them apart - as Jimin fucks his thick fingers into her drenched heat.

When you don’t say anything, your attention instead focused on the erotic scene depicted in the magical surface, you suddenly hear a loud slap echo through the air. All of a sudden, a sharp sting of pain flares across your thigh, and you hiss when you feel Jimin spank your flesh.

“I gave you an order, Princess. I expect you to obey,” Jimin spits, his voice hissing against your ear.

“Ah- I’m- I’m spreading my own…” you begin, only for your own mortification to pause.

“Your own?” Jimin prompts, a smirk curling onto his face at your clear embarrassment.

Letting out a whine, “V-vagina,” you choke out with a stammer. Immediately, Jimin brings his hand down onto your thigh, a sharp slap resounding through the air.

A low cry slips through your lips and, “Cunt,” Jimin hisses.

“W-What?”

“Cunt. You’ll call it your cunt, or your pussy. Do you understand?” he responds, causing you to nod your head. “Good girl. Now, continue,” he urges, his hand delicately massaging your thigh as he soothes the flesh he’d spanked.

Cheeks burning, “I-I’m spreading my own c-cunt,” you whisper. A jolt of ravenous hunger sparks through Jimin as he hears the vulgar word slip from your lips and he lets out a low, pained groan. He’d ordered you to say it, and yet, it somehow sounded even sweeter, even more sinful as it drips from your mouth.

“Are you now? Show me how,” comes his next order. Shuddering at his breathy voice, and thick ripples of pleasure coursing through you, you do as he says.

One of your hands uncurls itself from the material of your skirt, the other hiking the fabric higher up your body. Next, using your now free hand, you press two of your trembling fingers on either side of your cunt, before spreading them in a ‘V’ shape. Under the ministration, you both feel, and watch, as your slick folds are pulled apart - revealing even more of your bare sex to Jimin’s gaze. Seeing the way your flesh peels open, Jimin lets out a strained groan.

“Fuck. Look at you. Dirty fucking slut,” he spits, and hearing his words, the walls of your cunt automatically clench. With the way your pussy is bared for Jimin, he easily spots the movement, causing him to chuckle. With another spank on your thigh, “Do you like that, Princess? Do you like the way I call you a slut?” he taunts. Fist curling tighter into the cotton fabric of your skirt, you nod shyly. Jimin’s hand splays further down your thigh before he begins drawing slow, teasing shapes into your flesh.

A shudder runs down your spine at his actions. In their new position, his fingers are impossibly close to your cunt - so close, in fact, that you’re sure he can feel the intense heat radiating from your sex. Deliberately, however, he keeps them away from where you need them most, and under his ministrations, you slowly feel your body temperature rise; the ache in your pussy intensifying tenfold. One finger moves awfully close to the flesh of your nether lips, and each time he draws an indiscernible shape, the bone of his knuckle grazes your clit.

“Do you want me to keep calling you a slut?” he taunts, and eagerly, you nod your head, a wanton whine slipping through your throat. “Then beg,” he hisses.

With a whimper, “P-Please degrade me,” you moan.

“Merlin, you’re such a fucking whore. Who would have thought that the innocent, shy Head Girl was such a desperate, needy little slut?” Jimin questions, and hearing the blatant derision in his voice, your stomach flips with humiliation. Then, pressing his lips to your ear, Jimin moves his hand to purposely graze your cunt. “I’m going to fucking ruin you,” he groans, his eyes swirling with dark lust. Then, he gestures back to the mirror.

Already knowing what he wants, you take in another breath. “Y-You’re f-fingering my p-pussy as I s-spread my c-cunt,” you stutter out, your ears burning at the crude words.

“Like this?” he teasingly asks. Inhaling sharply, your eyes flutter as you feel his middle finger teasingly caress your dewy folds: the pad of the digit tracing down your swollen lips. You nod your head.

“Y-You’ve got t-two fingers in me. T-Thrusting them as you f-fuck my cunt,” you continue. Finger moving further down, Jimin runs the tip of his nail around the quivering, ringed outline of your cunt.

“Fuck. Such a pretty, needy, pussy. See how it trembles for me?” he asks. It’s rhetorical. You know it is, because the next thing he’s doing, is plunging his finger into you.

A high-pitched moan spills from your lips, your back arching as your head falls onto his muscular shoulder. He stops once he’s knuckle deep, and curling his finger, “I’m going to fuck this tight, unused little cunt, Princess,” he continues. The cold metal and cut gemstones of his heirloom ring presses against the sodden, heated flesh of your cunt. The band is incredibly thick, the maddening girth threatening to plunge into you as it presses against your entrance.

Nonetheless, Jimin stops. Instead, he languidly pulls his finger out, before abruptly plunging it back inside. Heavy moans elicited from your throat, your cunt spasms as you feel his ring press against your ringed muscles once again. Thrusting the crooked finger in and out of you, he indolently tests the pliance of your inner walls; relishing in the resistance he feels. “By Morgana, you’re so fucking tight. Such a tiny, little hole…” In a deliberate motion, he pulls his finger out - so slow, that you can feel every ridge of his knuckles as it retreats out of you.

As he holds up his finger, your eyes widen at the sight. The entire length of his digit is coated in a thick sheen of your wetness; filmy strings trickling towards his palm. The glint of his ring catches the low lighting, the shine only highlighted by your arousal. Jimin lets out a baritone chuckle, “So fucking wet too. You drip like such a slut.” His hand moves back down to your cunt, and stroking up the slit, you whimper the pad of his finger brushes your throbbing clit, the wet bud slickening under his ministrations.

“I’m going to make you cum so much that all you can think about is the way my fingers, or tongue, or cock feel inside of you,” he murmurs. The intonation of his voice is heavy, with an intentional husk to it, that has you whining in need. With each word, he tantalisingly circles your engorged bundle of nerves. His touch is feathery, virtually non-existent, and the tormenting motions has your core burning with need; the muscles of your thighs twitching intermittently.

“Mmmm, yes. By the time I’m done with you, you’re going to be a cock-hungry little bitch, begging me to fuck you like the cumslut you are.” All of a sudden, he presses his digit down onto your clit before rolling it in hard, tight circles.

Abruptly, “Ah- Please,” you cry, your thighs beginning to tremble on either side of Jimin’s. Between his filthy words, his purposeful taunting ministrations, and your own, previous ministrations, you swiftly feel the telltale fog of euphoria cloud your mind.

Jimin dips his head into the crook of your neck, and watching your body through the glass of the mirror, he stares darkly at your figure. You’re completely wired: eyes-half lidded and clouded with lust while your mouth is parted - breathless shallow gasps slipping from your throat. With each stroke of his finger against your clit, he watches your entrance responsively clench - forcing thick streams of your essence out of your honeyed hole and down your ass.

“Are you close, Kitten? Are you going to cum from just having me tease this needy clit?” he taunts, his breath fanning across the flesh of your neck. Throat tight with desire, it’s all you can do to nod your head. Pleasure burns in your abdomen, your skin flushing with heat. Still, Jimin continues his ministrations - pulling you closer and closer towards the brink of your orgasm. “Fuck, yeah you are. Merlin, you’re so sensitive... Tell me something Princess, no one’s played with you like this, have they?” he asks.

Pulling your lip between your teeth, you shake your head once again - too tongue-tied by pleasure to speak. Plump lips wrap around your flesh, and flicking out his tongue, Jimin begins peppering hot, open-mouths kisses along the column of your throat. Teeth grazing against your sensitive skin, “No. They haven’t. I’m the first to see you like this, aren’t I? The first to touch this pretty cunt, and watch you drip for me,” he murmurs. The reverberations of his voice thrum along your throat, causing you to buck into his hand.

“I’m the first person who’s going to make you cum, Princess,” he whispers. Then, without a warning, he takes your clit between the knuckle of his forefinger and his thumb, and twisting, he pinches the bud. Simultaneously, Jimin sucks your flesh into his mouth, before biting down harshly. The abrupt pain has you crying out, your thighs shaking harder as you feel yourself teeter over the precipice of your climax. Before it can come, however, “But not yet,” Jimin growls before pulling away.

“N-No,” you cry out, tears misting your eyes as you feel your impending orgasm begin to fade. Thoughtlessly, you pull your hand away from where it’s spreading your cunt, and instead, you grab Jimin’s wrist; attempting to pull it back.

Swiftly, Jimin brings his hand down onto your cunt - harshly. A sharp, wet, smack resounds through the air as his fingers impact your swollen flesh. Under the ministration, you feel your clit smart: ripples of pain and pleasure thrumming along your nerves and setting your veins afire. Biting down on your flesh once again, “You’ll cum when I want you to cum, slut. Until then, be patient,” he hisses. A whimper slips from your throat, and you nod before letting go of his hand. Purring in approval at your obedience, Jimin’s tongue roves over your throat, soothing the tender flesh he’d harshly bitten down on.

“Spread your cunt for me again, Princess,” he orders, causing your fingers to fall back to your lips as you pull them apart. Jimin rewards your actions with soft kisses, his plush lips teasing the flesh of your throat. Lightly, he begins suckling and nipping: the skin blooming with bruises under his ministrations.

As he litters your throat with his marks, he retrieves his wand from beside him, and holding the long piece of elm he drags the tip through your slit. You gasp in surprise, your eyes widening as you watch him tease your folds with his wand. Against your throat, Jimin whispers a spell, the words inaudible. Out of the blue, however, his wand comes to life - the entire length vibrating as the point presses to your clit.

“J-Jimin,” you howl, your legs snapping shut as you feel the intense reverberations of his wand against your aching bud.

Immediately, Jimin increases the vibrations, and, “Keep your legs open, slut,” he orders. Sucking in a sharp breath, you forcibly part your thighs again, even as they tremble violently from the mind-numbing pleasure that wracks through your body from his wand. “Good girl,” he praises, his wand indolently circling the outline of your clit.

“J-Jimin- P-please,” you choke out, the muscles of your throat straining to spew out the words. Delirious with overwhelming ecstasy, your eyelids flutter with every motion, causing Jimin to chuckle.

“Do you want to cum, Sweetheart?” he asks, his voice dark, and taunting. Hastily, you nod your head. With how intensely his wand vibrates - the pleasure concentrated onto your clit, where the tip of the wood incessantly presses against the bud - you can feel your stomach twist and knot with each second that passes.

“Yes,” you gasp out. At the same time, your hips start rocking as you grind your clit into his wand - relishing in the powerful reverberations of the vibrating charm that strums through your clit. Again, the telltale sear of euphoria burns through your bloodstream.

Wanton hunger skims through you, and feeling how close you are to your orgasm, you begin wildly thrusting your hips. In the reflection of the glass, Jimin simply watches with a smirk as you ride his wand. With each roll of your hips, your clit drags against the vibrating wood - your cunt rippling over and over as you chase your high. A smirk crawling on his hips, Jimin mumbles something indiscernible, and you cry out when the vibrations increase tenfold. Screwing your eyes shut, you cry out in pleasure. However, for a second time that day, just as you’re about to sink into the mind-numbing ecstasy of your orgasm, Jimin is pulling away.

“NO! P-Please no. N-No, please. Please,” you cry - the words spilling from your words over and over again. With your orgasm cruelly ripped away from you for a second time, you can barely think. Behind you, Jimin lifts his head up, and presses a soft, soothing kiss against your head, and feeling the tender action, you whimper. Through the mirror, you look at him with teary, pleading eyes, and “P-Please,” you sob. Jimin simply lets out a sardonic smirk.

“If you want to cum, keep telling me what you see,” he coos, his eyes flashing with barely concealed dominance.

Eyes blurred with pleasure, and so caught up in the ecstasy Jimin reaps upon your body, you’d completely forgotten about the mirror. Blinking the tears from your eyes, you focus your attention onto the magical glass once again, only for a wanton moan to fall from your lips at the sight. Your reflections have swapped positions now - your body riding Jimin reverse-cowgirl. Even in the mirror, your legs are spread wide - giving you a lewd view of the way Jimin’s thick girth spears your tiny cunt wide open.

“Y-You’ve got me on your lap… my legs spread a-as you fuck me,” you begin once again. Jimin hums underneath you, his lips once again peppering hot, open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat.

He rewards your compliance by pressing his wand to your clit once more, before he runs it down your dripping slit, and towards your cunt. Feeling the thin wood trace the ringed muscles of your honeyed hole, you clench involuntarily - the action threatening to swallow the tip of his wand. Jimin spots the motion, and laughing lowly, he begins pressing it against your cunt. With how wet you are, you easily take the slim piece of wood into you, your eyes rolling at the thin intrusion. Unlike Jimin’s, or your own, fingers, the wood is unrelentingly hard, and you feel it slowly open up the soft flesh of your inner walls.

As he continues pushing the length into you, soft pangs of pain flutter through your velvet depths - the untouched walls slowly widening. Still, the pain is next to non-existent, and with the vibrating charm accompanying the invasion, even that subtle ache is drowned out by pleasure. Once half the wand is inside you, Jimin stops, and instead, he begins fucking you with the wood.

“Like this?” he asks. You pull your lower lip between your teeth, and biting down hard, you nod in response. “How am I fucking you?”

Automatically, “H-Hard. You’re f-fucking m-me hard,” you respond.

Jimin’s free arm moves to wrap around your body, and your breath hitches when you see him inch his left hands towards your cunt. He moves deliberately, your eyes dilating with desire as you watch it in the reflection of the mirror. Even with your gaze trained on the appendage however, you’re not ready for the way his fingers feel as they stroke your clit. The moment you feel the calloused pads of his fingers caress your throbbing bud, you let out a keening mew - your thighs trembling on either side of his legs.

Simultaneously, Jimin picks up the pace; fucking his wand into you even faster as he begins toying with your swollen clit. A shudder of pleasure races down your spine at the foreign pleasure. Despite his wand being slim, your untouched inner depths are unaccustomed to the intrusion, and as such, intense waves of ecstasy flourish through your body. Hot, voluptuous lips trail down the arc of your throat, and getting to the flesh of your shoulder, he bites down - hard enough to indent the shape of his teeth into your skin - and causing you to gasp.

“Be explicit. Tell me what you see,” comes his next order.

“Y-Your thick co-cock is spreading my c-cunt as you fuck me h-hard. I-I can see the way you c-cock opens my pussy,” you describe. Jimin lets out a strangled groan under you.

“Is that right?” he grunts. “Does my cock look good in your cunt, Princess?” Jimin begins taunting. ��Do you like the way that pretty little virgin pussy stretches around my fat cock?” His warm breath fans over your naked shoulder, Jimin suckling his marks into your flesh between his sinful words. “Are you imagining how it would feel? How I’d fill you up - stretch you out - and carve the shape of my cock into you? So that you know who that precious cunt belongs to?” The intonation of his voice is incredibly deep, and turbulent with salacious desire. It tremors through the air, cutting the sounds of your wet cunt and erotic moans.

“F-Fuck,” you whimper at his words, your cunt involuntarily quivering around his wand; sucking it even deeper.

Feeling the movement, his wand slipping further from his grip, “Oh? You like that don’t you? Of course you do. Filthy little cockslut. Look at the way you swallow my wand. The way you drip and coat it in your cunt juices. You’re practically gagging for it. Begging me to defile this tight, sweet cunt,” he taunts. His words elicit a high-pitched, breathless whimper from your throat, and eagerly, you nod your head.

“Please fuck my cunt,” you beg, your eyes wide and imploring as you stare at him through the reflection. For a moment, Jimin stills. Your words are unprompted, and as such, completely unexpected. Yet, hearing the words drip from your mouth, laced with wanton ardor, has his entire body thrumming with exhilteration.

“Fuck. You’re a sin. My sin,” he groans in response. Then, he mumbles something unintelligible. You barely have time to comprehend what he says, because out of the blue, you feel your inner walls begin to stretch. Crying out at the sudden change, your eyes widen as you feel the girth of Jimin’s slender wand get thicker. The girth sluggishly increases, yet, with each second that passes, you feel your smarting walls stretch around the unyielding invasion.

Jimin doesn’t say anything. Rather, he begins fucking his wand into you ever quicker, simultaneously increasing the pace of his fingers against your clit. Pleasure and pain intermingle together, your eyes rolling back as your thighs begin to tremble. The sensations Jimin lavishes on your body are far too much to comprehend, and swiftly, you find yourself drowning in the fog of euphoria. Stomach twisting with the knot of your incoming orgasm, your breath turns laboured as you begin fucking back onto Jimin’s wand.

With each plunge of his wand into you, you feel your walls pull apart just a little more, and the vibrations of the wood only has your veins searing with desire. Soon, the wand swells past the size of what feels like two fingers, and you cry out when the burn of the stretch begins rippling through your inner walls. The pleasure is too much to handle, but you never want it to end. In fact, you wish it’d last forever: the sensations wholly addicting. In spite of that, however, “M-Mallowsweet,” you whimper.

Immediately, Jimin stills, and halting the spell, he slowly pulls his soaked wand out of you. Sitting up straight behind you, the hand playing with your clit moves, and he wraps his arm around your waist in comfort. He looks at you in concern - worry painted across his delicate features. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?” he swiftly asks, his gaze roving over your body. A surge of timidness floods through you, and biting your lip, you simply shake your head.

“I-I’m okay. I-I just,” you begin stammering, only to stop when you feel your embarrassment amplify tenfold. Jimin’s strong eyes knit together, and pressing his lips to your head, he presses an encouraging kiss to your flesh. Taking a deep breath, you gather all your courage, and, “I want your cock to be the first thing that stretches me out,” you whisper. At the sound of your steady voice, you internally cheer. At least you’d managed to get the words out without being a stuttering mess this time.

Sharply, Jimin sucks in a breath. Then, “Fuck,” comes his strained grunt.

In an abrupt flash, he moves. Grasping his wand, he plunges the wand into you once again. The sudden intrusion has your spine contorting, your head digging into Jimin’s shoulder as you cry out in pleasure. Expertly, Jimin angles the wooden rod inside of you and begins thrusting it in and out of your core with rough movements. At the same time, he mumbles under his breath, and your thighs shake as you feel the girth increase twofold as the wand begins vibrating inside of you once more.

“Ah- Jimin,” you cry, your eyes screwing shut as pleasure blinds your senses.

The hand around your waist pushes back between your thighs before he slaps your pussy once again. With the angle of his hand, the impact is concentrated on your clit, and feeling the sharp sting, a wail of ecstasy tears from your throat. Vehemently, Jimin begins spanking your cunt - focusing the slaps directly onto your hardened bundle of nerves. His punishing motions are only intensified by the way your fingers faithfully splay apart your folds: exposing the entirety of your throbbing bud to his actions.

“F-Fuck- Jimin,” you cry, tears beginning to mist at your eyes from the overwhelming mix of pain and pleasure that courses through you.

Pressing his lips to the shell of your ear, “Desperate little slut. You’re such a fucking cocktease. Do you have any idea what you do to me? Hmm, Kitten? Do you know how hot it is when you practically beg me to ruin that tiny cunt of yours? Hmmm?” Jimin growls out. You whimper at his voice. The usual sweet intonation is long gone. Rather, it’s filled with a mix of pure, carnalistic need, and dark dominance. Each sentence that spills from his lips is emphasised by a harsh thrust, and when you feel the tip of the vibrating wand drag against the sweet spot inside you, you cry out.

“Ah- Fuck- Jimin, please,” you sob. Between Jimin’s harsh spanks on your clit, and the vehement way he plunges his wand into you, you find your orgasm quickly building up. Heat prickles at your spine, your skin pricking with goosebumps as the white-hot pokers of euphoria sting at your flesh.

“Look at me,” Jimin hisses, and through the fog of deliriousness that clouds your mind, you hear the command. Opening your eyes, and briefly wondering when they’d shut, you come face to face with your reflection: Jimin’s intense gaze capturing your own. The sight that greets your eyes has you whimpering.

Your pussy is swollen, and so sodden that you can see thick strings of your arousal cling to the side of Jimin’s palm: the hilt of his hand grazing your cunt with each piston of his wand into your welcoming depths. Wetness leaks out of you in droves, and you don’t know how you haven’t noticed it, but you’re sitting in a puddle of your own wetness - the juices of your entrance soaking into the fabric of the back of your skirt. The lewd sight of your body has your breath turning shallow, and inhaling quick, sharp breaths, you feel your thighs begin to shake.

Spotting the telltale signs of your approaching climax, “Are you going to cum?” Jimin asks, and you swiftly nod your head. “Beg me,” he grits out.

Instantly, your mouth parts, however, your mouth is suddenly dry, and so lost in your incoming orgasm, you can barely find it in yourself to string together a coherent set of words. Still, you force out a few words; though, they come out garbled and incoherent. Lips curling into a sneer, Jimin snarls at you, and immediately rips his wand out of you. The sudden emptiness has you shaking your head, a loud howl of displeasure ripping from your throat. Wildly, your hips thrash, and you attempt to follow his wand as you feel your orgasm begin to subside.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Jimin brings down his hand onto your cunt - hard - and feeling the intense spank, your entire body jerks. “If you want to cum, you’re going to have to beg,” Jimin spits out.

Screwing your eyes shut, the tears finally begin falling down your eyes and you let out a dry sob. “W-Wanna cum. P-Please, J-Jimin, wanna cum. Please. Please. Please,” you wail.

With another spank to your clit, “Good girl,” Jimin praises. Then, he plunges his wand back into you.

The gesture is abrupt, and completely unexpected, and instantly, you’re forced over the edge of your own orgasm - the knot in your stomach suddenly unravelling. Shallow sobs ripping from the midst of your throat, the back of your head digs into Jimin’s shoulder almost painfully, and your body arcs as you begin cumming. Thighs quaking on either side of Jimin’s, your cunt clenches painfully around the wood inside of you, as blinding euphoria ricochets through your body.

With how much Jimin has already edged you, the force of your orgasm is threefold, incredibly overwhelming; and like nothing you’d ever experienced before. Toes curling with pleasure, you howl out his name, the sound coming out inarticulate, and close to inhuman. Waves of rapturous ecstasy surge through your body, your blood boiling with searing heat as your orgasm overtakes you. Momentarily, you feel yourself drift from reality - floating through the thick haze of elation - as you relish in the intoxicating sensation that floods through you.

Nevertheless, almost abruptly, you’re crashing down to reality. A dull, stinging ache shoots through your sensitive walls, the pain of overstimulation overtaking your mind-altering pleasure. Even with your entire body trembling from the force of your orgasm, Jimin continues plunging the vibrating length into you; though, his hand has moved from spanking your clit to rolling it in tight, vicious circles.

Hands jerking, you unclench your fist from your skirt, the other moving from your splayed cunt, and instead, you grip at his thick thighs. “H-Hurts- T-Too much,” you weep, the tears flowing freely as you blubber out a slew of strained moans.

Still, Jimin pays no mind to your cries, and instead, “Again. Cum for me again,” he urges. Twisting his wand inside of you, he shifts the angle to the tip of it, and presses it flush against the soft bundle of tissues that make up your sweet spot, before increasing the vibration to the highest setting.

A strangled howl tears through your lips: the intense reverberations against your g-spot causing you to careen straight off of the precipice of your climax. Second orgasm rolling in directly after the first one, your body violently quakes over him, and you wail out Jimin’s name - the muscles of your throat straining at the sound. This time, your cunt clamps vigorously - almost painfully - and you sob at the fervent heat of euphoria that consumes your entire being. The power of your contracting walls abruptly forces Jimin’s wand out of you, his eyes widening as you practically shoot out the long piece of wood.

“Fucking hell,” Jimin breathes out - his attention glued onto your cunt.

Gush after gush of wetness erupts out of your cunt; the jets of your cum pelting against the glass and dousing it in your essence. Jimin watches you squirt with wide eyes, the action completely unexpected. It only takes him a few moments to recover, however, and rapidly, he presses his fingers to your clit: strumming the viciously pulsating bud in quick, back and forth movements. His ministrations have your orgasm drawing out even further, and thick tears roll down your cheeks at the overpowering sensations that flood through you.

Brazenly, Jimin’s eyes stick to your swollen pussy, watching the way your drenched entrance contracts around nothing as you leak all over yourself, the mirror and the ground. Everything is drenched in your cum, from your own thighs, to parts of his trousers, all the way towards the mirror: rivers of your essence trailing down the magical glass and onto the floor. The heady scent of sex is heavy in the air, and taking a deep breath, Jimin’s chest purrs at the intoxicating smell of your cum.

Body erratically quivering from the aftershocks of your orgasm, your cunt continuously clamps around nothing - and with Jimin’s wand no longer pistoning into you - the sudden emptiness is only exaggerated by the involuntary movement of your walls. Coming down from your high, the ache between your thighs grows to be too much for you, and, “C-Cock- I n-need your c-cock. F-Fuck me. Please, fuck me,” you stammer out, the words coming out slurred; your tongue loose from your orgasms.

For a moment, Jimin falters, and looking at your fucked out form in the reflection, “Are you sure-” he begins.

Hearing the trepidation in his voice, you focus your glassy gaze onto him through the mirror, and, “Ruin me,” you breathe out. Despite the breathlessness in your voice, there’s not a single shred of hesitance in your eyes. Just ravenous hunger.

The corner of Jimin’s jaw flexes as he grits his teeth. Promptly, his apprehension ebbs - giving way to unbridled dominance as his gaze turns dark with lust. A low growl resonates through the air, “As you wish.”

In one smooth motion, Jimin’s hands move to your hips, and then easily, using all his strength, he lifts you and throws you up against the mirror. Eyes widening, you yelp at the sudden movement, your knees scraping against the smooth floor while your clammy hands press against the cold glass. You don’t get a moment to process the change. Without a moment’s hesitation, Jimin’s hands are curling between the soft flesh of your thighs, and forcing them apart, he spreads your legs further. The roughness of his actions cause you to groan, and willingly, you splay your knees further; pushing your ass out towards him.

Jimin’s chest tremors in approval at your gesture, and roughly pushing your skirt up your ass, he spanks the plump flesh. “Good little slut,” he praises. The sudden, acute impact on your lower cheeks has you squealing, the sound morphing into a garbled groan of pleasure. Emboldened by your reaction, and the way your ass ripples under the ministration, Jimin repeats his action.

A harsh slapping sound echoes through the air, pain flaring along your ass cheeks, and responsively, your head drops onto the mirror. The glass is cold, and refreshing against your sweat-soaked forehead. Jimin barely pays you any mind, and instead, he spanks you once more - as hard as he can. This time, you howl in ecstatic pain. Between the thick band of his ring, and his bulging biceps, this particular spank strikes your ass in the most enticing way possible. Cunt clamping down around nothing, you let out a low whimper at the incessant ache in your core, your breath fogging against the mirrored surface.

“J-Jimin- fuck me, please,” you beg.

One last time, Jimin brings his hand onto the plump cheek, before gripping the fleshy globes with both hands and pulling them apart. Under his action, you find your cheeks tinging with heat with mortification: Jimin exposing the entirety of your cunt and asshole towards his gaze. Seeing the way the puckered rim twitches, Jimin groans, and keeping one of your ass cheeks parted, he moves the other hand to brush your tight entrance.

A single finger indolently traces the ringed muscles of your ass, and you let out a breathy whine, your muscles locking at the sensation. “Such a pretty little asshole,” Jimin casually mutters. With how turned on you are, not to mention cumming so hard you’d squirted, the back entrance is completely slicked with your own juices. Grazing the blunt tip of his finger against your asshole, Jimin begins tracing teasing circles around the rim. “I bet it’s nice and tight in there. I bet you’d look so fucking hot struggling to fit my cock in that tiny little hole,” he mumbles. His voice is breathier, and filled with hunger, and you can’t help but whimper at the sound.

Suddenly, Jimin presses his finger against the rim of your ass, and your eyes widen as you feel the pressure: his finger threatening to enter your virgin ass. Nonetheless, before the digit can dip inside, he’s pulling away. “But that’s for another day,” he murmurs. “Right now, the only hole I’m interested in, is this one.” Abruptly, he forces two fingers into your cunt.

“AH-” you gasp, your eyes fluttering when he begins thrusting his thick digits in and out of your sodden entrance. Instinctively, your hips begin writhing, and pushing them back in slow movements, you fuck yourself onto his fingers: in a bid to take them deeper into you.

The silken walls of your cunt ripple around his fingers, and with each surreptitious contraction, your velvet cavern threatens to swallow his fingers further. “Such a needy cunt,” Jimin hums, his lips ghosting over the length of your shoulder as he presses chaste kisses to your skin. Parting his fingers in a ‘V’ shape, Jimin groans when he feels the tight resistance of your walls, “And so tight too.”

Driven near insane by the filth he spews, and the way he plunges his thick digits into your pussy, a soft mew slips from your lips. Nonetheless, it’s not enough. “D-Don’t t-tease m-me. W-Want your c-cock,” you beg with a stammer; your voice coming out higher pitched, and more desperate, than you’d intended.

“Insatiable whore,” he purrs, and despite the clear derision to his words, his tone is sweet. Almost affectionate. Still, Jimin pulls his fingers out of you, and instead, his hands move back to your ass. Cupping the cheeks, he pushes the plump flesh up and outwards, bearing the entirety of your dripping cunt to his gaze once more. He mumbles another spell under his breath, and to your utter surprise, a loud tearing sound fills the air.

You watch in shock as your skirt falls to tatters on the floor below you, but before you can say anything, Jimin is pressing his naked hardness flush against your bare sex. A shallow gasp slips through your lips, only for it to morph into a low groan when he begins grinding the velvet shaft into you. Hands still pressed flat against the mirror, you watch Jimin through the reflection. He’s still fully dressed in his uniform. The top few buttons of his white oxford are unfastened: exposing the defined peaks of his collarbone, and a few inches of his chest.

Meanwhile, his leather belt is undone, the two long pieces hanging on either side. Similarly, the button of his trousers and his zipper are open, his thick cock standing proudly through the opening. Attention dropping to the throbbing member, your eyes dilate with lust. He’s thick - incredibly thick. So thick, in fact, that a tremor of fear flutters through you, because there’s no possible way it’s going to fit inside of you. And yet, mixed with the fear is overwhelming anticipation, because you can’t help but want to feel his cock stretch you out. Even in the most painfully pleasurable way.

Jimin grips the base of his shaft with one hand, and angling it towards your entrance, he smacks the head against it. A loud, wet smack resonates through the air, and feeling the heavy weight of his cockhead against your wet cunt, you whine in need. Flexing his hips, Jimin slips his cock between your thighs before he begins thrusting it against your folds. Your slick lips spread on either side of his thick girth, and with each thrust, the prominent seam of his cockhead drags against your hardened clit.

Losing yourself in the pleasure, you let out a slew of breathless groans - your breath condensing on the glass - as you undulate your hips back onto him. Chest purring, Jimin lowers his head and presses an open-mouthed kiss onto the flesh just below the nape of your neck. At the same time, one of his hands grip your ass tighter, the other still holding onto his cock; and staring at you through the reflection, “That’s a good slut. Wet my cock with your cum,” he urges. Your body shudders at the sound.

Even as he kneels behind you, almost eye-level with your own gaze, he’s somehow still incredibly imposing. Noticing your gaze on him, Jimin smirks predatorily: his teeth peeking through the seam of his lips. Dark eyes, tumultuous with desire, lock onto your own, and while holding your stare, Jimin drags his cock through your folds in one long stroke, before pressing the head at your fluttering entrance. As the crown of his bulbuous cockhead pushes against your ringed entrance, you both moan.

Turning his attention down to your drenched folds, Jimin hisses when he spots the way your honeyed hole ripples. “Such a small, wet, little cunt,” Jimin groans. Then, gripping his cock tighter, he circles the head around your entrance, “Merlin, look at how tiny your cunt is compared to my cock. I don’t think it’s going to fit,” he chuckles.

Despite the clear taunt to his voice, you shake your head. “It’ll fit,” you whine, your hips thrusting back to take him into you.

Humming, “Hmmm, are you sure, Kitten?” he asks, and furiously you nod your head.

“I can take it. I can. Please. Please fuck me open. Please,” comes your soughed pleas, your eyes swirling with unbridled hunger. Behind you, Jimin exhales deeply at the clear neediness to your voice.

Jaw flexing, “Then take it,” he hisses through gritted teeth. That’s all he says, because the next thing you know, he’s pressing the crown of his cock against your cunt. A dull pressure builds up against your entrance, and your eyes widen at the sensation, a stifled whimper slipping through your lips.

You’re soaked, your entrance positively dripping, and as such, he should easily slip into you. In spite of that, however, he struggles to enter you: his absurd girth causing the taut muscles of your pussy to protest the stretch. For a moment your eyes flutter shut, causing Jimin to release your ass, only to spank it instead. “Look at me. I want you to watch as I fuck this tight, unused little cunt open for the first time,” he hisses.

Whimpering, your eyes snap open, your attention catching his. And it’s at that exact moment, that Jimin thrusts harshly. The force of his movement causes the mushroom-tip of his cockhead to squeeze into you with a sudden pop. Spine twisting, your back arches as a dry sob tears from your throat. Your eyes mist with tears once more, pleasure and pain surging through your body.

“J-Jimin,” you whine with a wince. A searing ache burns ripples through your tight cunt, the ringed muscles smarting as they strain around Jimin’s dense shaft. But, it’s not all pain. No, even through the agonising burn, there are intoxicating undercurrents of pleasure - the ecstasy cutting your discomfort.

Hands moving to rest on your hips, Jimin skims them over the swell before rubbing soothing circles into your soft curves. Arcing his neck down, he buries his face into your neck and presses a soft kiss to the column. “Shhh, Princess. You can take it, can’t you?” he cajoles. Regardless of his soothing gestures, however, Jimin continues pushing his unrelenting hardness into you.

Nodding your head, you force the entrance of your cunt to relax further, and feeling the muscles ease slightly, Jimin presses the rest of his cockhead into you - right up to where it meets the shaft. Once sufficiently inside of you, Jimin’s fingers flex, and digging the pads into the flesh of your hips, he begins pulling you onto his cock. Inch by heavy, agonising inch, his unyielding hardness spears into you. Gradually, the thick girth of his cock stretches out your walls: pulling your virgin passage apart around his heavy intrusion.

When he’s around half way into you, you let out a strangled cry, “F-Fuck, y-you’re h-huge,” you whimper. Jimin chuckles wrly.

“Are you sure you can take it, Sweetheart? Hmmm? Can your sweet, little, virgin pussy take my fat cock?” he taunts, slipping another two inches into you.

Nails scraping against the smooth glass, you drag your hands down the surface and hastily nod your head. “I-I c-can,” you respond.

Plump lips pressing to the roots of your scalp, “That’s my good girl,” he praises with a kiss. His warm breath fans across your scalp, and you shiver involuntarily.

Without a warning, his hips flex, and Jimin roughly thrusts the final few inches of his cock into you, the length bottoming out to the hilt. The sudden movement has you howling, your head falling onto the mirror once again. Against your will, your cunt ripples around his cock, your inner muscles contracting and clenching around his unrelenting shaft as it tries to force out the thick intrusion. Nonetheless, with Jimin’s hips pressing firmly against your ass, the clamping only massages his cock. Cock completely buried inside you now, his balls pressing flush against your wet sex, Jimin halts.

In the reflection of the mirror, Jimin watches as your face contorts in a mix of pain and pleasure. Your eyes are hooded: the lids fluttering with every passing impalement of his cock; and your mouth is parted: your breathing laboured as you struggle to take his cock. Regarding you with his dark, lust-filled eyes, he trails his gaze down your body - stopping briefly at your throat and shoulders - where he admires the love bites he’s littered onto your skin. Trailing his attention further down, he passes by your heaving chest: your breasts rising and falling with the movement, and your stomach, before stopping at the apex of your thighs.

In your current position, he can’t see the way his girth pulls apart your walls. What he can see, however, is the way your thighs tremble: the inner flesh covered in a thin sheen of your own arousal; and the way your nether lips drip with your wetness: filmy strings of your essence dangling in the air, some clinging to the skin of your thighs. Involuntarily, his cock twitches at the sight, and feeling the movement inside of you, you whimper out.

You have no idea how long you both stay like that - Jimin’s hands tenderly massaging your hips as he impales you on his cock. In fact, it feels like forever: time passing by slowly as you swim in the pain of his cock splaying your innermost depths. Gradually, however, the ache begins to ebb, and before you know it, you're left with just the delicious feel of Jimin’s immense girth splitting your cunt open. Perking up, you lift your head off of the glass, and taking a shuddering breath, you experimentally clench around his cock.

At the voluntary movement, Jimin’s shaft is emphasised inside of you, and you could swear that he hadn’t been kidding when he’d said he’d fuck the shape of his cock into you. Twin sounds of pleasure cut through the air: your low moan intertwining with Jimin’s strangled groan. Dropping his head down to your shoulder, Jimin bites down onto your flesh, and feeling the pain of his teeth sinking into your skin, you cry out in pleasure.

“Don’t do that unless you’re ready for me to fuck you,” Jimin warns. Deep inflexion of his voice resonating through your ear, you exhale deeply and repeat the motion. Except this time, you clench even harder.

“Fuck me,” you implore.

Mouth twisting into a derisive, lop-sided grin, “Hold on there, Kitten,” he purrs. That’s the only warning you get.

In one smooth motion, Jimin is retreating his cock out of you, until only the head is nestled inside of your cunt; only to thrust back in quickly. With one, swooping surge, he bottoms out of you, and the force of the movement has your entire body jerking. Grounding his knees onto the floor, Jimin uses the leverage to begin fucking you roughly. Hands braced up against the mirror, you attempt to find some form of purchase as your entire body jerks from his rough thrusts. However, with how smooth the glass is, you find none. Rather, your clammy palms slowly slide down the surface.

Sobs of pain and pleasure wrack your body with each drive of his hips, your toes curling as pleasure burns through your veins. Each plunge of his cock into your silken depths has you feeling every inch, every ridge of his cock. His immense girth pulls apart your walls deliciously, filling you up to your absolute limits. As the velvet shaft drags across your inner walls with each plunge, you feel him stimulate nerves you didn’t even know existed - the motions setting your entire body afire.

Jimin grips your hips tighter, and somehow, you feel his pace increase as he begins practically jackhammering into you. Your body jerks from the force of his thrusts, and consequently, you bounce harder onto his cock. Spreading your knees to brace yourself a little more, Jimin seizes the opportunity, and he angles his hips before he ruts into you even harder. The motion forces his cock to enter deeper into you, and you wail as you feel the blunt tip of his cockhead kiss the soft walls of your cervix with each thrust. Nonetheless, he pays you no mind, and instead, begins pulling your hips - forcing you to fuck back onto his cock.

His rough actions draw out feverish groans and slurred moans from your lips. The change in angle means that with each plunge of his cock, the head of his cock drags against the sweet-spot inside you, before it batters the back of your cunt. Soon, a dull ache begins settling deep within your stomach, and with each vehement pump of his cock, the discomfort slowly intensifies. “A-Ah, J-Jimin. T-Too d-deep,” you croak out with a stammer.

Dipping his head down, Jimin drags his lips against the shell of your ear. He takes the tip of it within his mouth, and biting down hard, “Isn’t this what you wanted, Sweetheart? Didn’t you want me to ruin your cunt?” he growls out. Then, with one deep thrust, he forces as much of his cock into you, before suddenly coming to a halt. “But if you want, I can stop.” The low tremor of his voice has your cunt clenching.

“N-No. Please d-don’t stop,” you whine, a mix of neediness and displeasure lacing your voice. Delirious with lust, you buck your hips onto his cock, and Jimin swiftly spanks your ass.

“That’s what I thought,” he hisses.

Out of the blue, one of Jimin’s hands moves from your hips, and instead, he hooks the arm under your knee. Hiking your leg up, he exposes your entrance to the both of you, and in the new position, nothing is left to your imagination.

The entirety of your sex is swollen with need, your clit visibly throbbing as it begs for attention. Slick with arousal, your entire cunt glistens in the low lighting of the room, and with how wet you are, thin rivulets of your arousal drip down your folds and onto Jimin’s balls. Dropping your gaze a little lower, you whimper at the sight. Your cunt is completely stretched, the ringed muscles pulled thin as they struggle to accommodate Jimin’s thick length. Like the rest of your pussy, your honeyed entrance is equally swollen; undoubtedly from Jimin’s brutal thrusts.

“Fuck. Look at you.” Jimin’s voice suddenly cuts the silence of the room. “See the way that unused little cunt has stretched? Mmmm. So fucking hot,” he hums.

Pulling out his cock, the both of you watch as your cunt grips his length, the ringed muscles being pulled with the movement. Once he’s only got his cockhead buried inside of you, Jimin thrusts in roughly once again. The sudden intrusion has you crying out in pleasure. “Fuck. How are you still so tight, Princess?” he grunts, his voice coming out strained. “Merlin, I’m not going to last long,” he mumbles, more to himself than anything.

“P-Please cum in m-me,” you whimper in response.

Jimin takes in a deep, steadying breath and then eyes flashing mischievously, “Oh, don’t worry, Princess. I’m going to ruin this cunt for anyone else. I’m going to fuck you so good that the only cock you want, the only cock you crave is mine. And then, I’m going to cum deep inside you, and dirty up your desperate - wet - pussy even more. So that you know, it’s all mine,” he growls.

“Now watch me fuck this sweet little hole open,” he orders. The next one of Jimin’s thrust causes your vision to blur, white spots blinding you.

Keeping your leg propped up with one of his arms, he moves the other from its position on your hips. Fingers tenderly stroking your hair, you shudder at the affectionate touch, only to cry out when he grips your hair and yanks your head back. The movement exposes your neck and using the opportunity, Jimin buries his face into the crook as he bruises it with more of his marks. At the same time, he begins riding you furiously - enjoying the way your inner walls ripple around his cock in the most enticing way possible.

Each thrust has his hips smacking against your ass and the sound of skin slapping is only broken by both your moans of pleasure, as well as the wet squelching of his cock fucking into your sopping wet cunt. Taking the flesh of your throat between his teeth, he nips and nibbles, causing the skin to turn tender under his ministrations. Then, releasing it, his tongue flicks out, he licks one broad line up your neck.

Getting to the spot just under your ear, he bites down on the soft flesh of your earlobe. “You like this don’t you, Kitten? You love the way this fat cock stretches you out. The way I ride your pussy hard and fast,” he taunts. The words shoot straight through your ear and down to your core, your cunt clenching responsively around his cock. You let out a garbled moan of affirmation, and Jimin lets out a throaty laugh.

“Merlin. Who knew the sweet little Head Girl was such a whore? Everyone thinks you’re so innocent. How do you think they’d react to seeing you like this? Your legs spread as you take my cock?” he questions and the teasing lilt to his voice has your thighs shaking.

Fog of euphoria nipping at the edges of your being, you feel the dull ache inside your stomach slowly intensify with every one of his thrusts. The muscles of your throat tighten at the pleasure, and in a bid to lubricate them, you swallow thickly. Behind you, Jimin continues plunging his cock into you, over and over again. Each thrust has his thick shaft dragging against every erogenous zone inside of you, and soon, you find yourself climbing higher and higher towards your peak.

Teetering on the brink of your orgasm, your stomach knots and twists. But it’s not enough. Between the apex of your thighs, your neglected clit viciously throbs - practically weeping as it begs for attention. Dry sob falling from your lips, “M-More. W-Wanna cum,” you croak out. Consumed by the pleasure Jimin reaps onto your body, electric ecstasy courses through your veins - your blood boiling with desire as you feel your end drawing nearer once again.

Swiftly, Jimin releases your hair. Instead, he thrusts his hand between your thighs and finding your clit, he presses the pulsating bud between his fingers. Toying with it gently, “Is that right, Princess? Do you wanna cum? Hmmm? You wanna cum all over this cock?” he ask, an apparent purr to his voice.

Driven mad with lust, it’s all you can do to gasp out your response. “Y-Yes. Please,” you slur. Skin prickling with goosebumps, your body flashes with heat. With each moment that passes, you can feel your orgasm slowly building up, your entire sanity dangling by a single thread.

Hearing your jumbled response, Jimin suddenly takes your hardened clit between his knuckles, and twists. “Then cum,” he orders with a hiss.

Instantly, a strangled wail of pleasure rips from your throat, the muscles of your oesophagus straining under the sound. The additional stimulation causes you to hurtle off of the precipice of your orgasm, and for a third time that night, you drive head first into bliss. Fingers scratching at the glass, you howl out Jimin’s name. Wave after wave of unadulterated bliss sweeps through you, the tide of your climax flooding into every fibre of your being as you sink into euphoria.

Eyes stinging with tears, white-spots blind your vision. Intense tremors wrack throughout your body, but even with the way your muscles tremble under him, Jimin continues thrusting his cock into you. His ministrations intensify your pleasure, and letting out a series of strangled sobs, you screw your eyes shut. Abruptly, the walls of your cunt clamp around his cock in a vice-like grip, and Jimin feels you grow wet once again. With your inner walls clenching and unclenching uncontrollably around Jimin’s thick cock, the Slytherin Head Boy lets out a carnalistic snarl.

“Fuck. That’s it, Princess. Cum around my cock. Fuck,” he urges with a groan. Nevertheless, your euphoria-addled mind barely registers his words. Instead, you fall forward, your body turning limp as you lose all semblance of your sanity as you revel in the waves of rapture that rocket through you. “Oh fuck. I’m cumming,” comes his strained groan.

Underlying ripples of pain begin fluttering through you as Jimin continues surging his cock in and out of your erratically contracting entrance; his fingers still mercilessly toying with your pulsating clit. Overstimulation gripping at you, “Please,” you weep.

Pace faltering, the hand playing with your clit moves to wind around your waist, and Jimin pulls you flush against his chest. Burying his cock as deep into your silken depths as he can, his thick shaft drives through your blissfully beaten cunt and you feel his blunt cockhead ram against the soft walls of your cervix. Instantaneously, your toes curl in pleasure, and your eyes roll into the back of your skull. Tears streaming down your cheeks, you let out a shuddering wail as your walls clamp down around him - almost painfully.

Without warning, Jimin’s pulsating cock swells inside of you, and with a deep roar, he begins cumming. Spurt after spurt of hot cum spills deep inside of your inner walls; Jimin painting your inner walls white with his essence. His cum is thick, and incredibly warm, and as you come down from your elated high, you relish in the feel of it flooding your stomach. Slowly, his cock turns flaccid, and you whine when the bulging thickness begins shrinking inside of you. Once he’s fully spent, he slowly begins pulling out of you.

The movement causes you to flinch, your raw cunt spasming with overstimulation as you feel his cock drag out of you. As soon as his cockhead pops out of your entrance, Jimin runs his nose against the back of your shoulder, and pressing a kiss to it, “Open your eyes and look at your cunt, Sweetheart,” he orders. Sluggishly, your eyes slip open before you lower your gaze to the juncture of your thighs.

Breath hitching in your throat, your eyes dilate at the sight. The previously taut muscles of your entrance are slightly parted open; the ringed flesh intermittently clamping around nothing. Thick trails of his gooey cum run out of your cunt and down onto the floor. Jimin’s teeth suddenly graze against your shoulder and, “See that? See how that tight little hole gapes? How you leak my cum? Such a pretty, ruined, cum-filled cunt,” he taunts.

Lazily, the hand on your clit dips further down your folds and towards your open entrance. A whine emanates from the back of your throat as you both watch, and feel, him press two fingers into you, the digits easily slipping into your battered entrance as he plays with his cum. Flinching at the intrusion, you weakly bat at his hand, an inarticulate sound of protest slipping from your mouth. Chuckling, Jimin pulls his hand away, and wiping his cum across your folds, he kisses the back of your neck.

Carefully, he brings your propped up leg back down, and you flinch at the stiffness in your muscles. So consumed by pleasure, you hadn’t even noticed the muscles begin to turn sore. The moment your knee is back down on the floor, your body slumps. In fact, you’re sure the only reason you don’t fall to the ground is thanks to Jimin’s body propping you up. Jimin lets out another throaty laugh, and wrapping his arms around your body, he pulls you flush against his chest.

“Are you okay?” he asks, and despite the concern in his voice, you can’t help but notice the faintest inkling of amusement.

For a moment, you simply heave for air - in an attempt to satisfy the burn in your throat - and once you’ve caught your breath, you nod. Swallowing thickly, you lubricate the dry muscles of your throat, and, “G-Good,” you verbalise. Another chuckle resounds through the air.

“Are you sure? It doesn’t look like you are,” he teases. Lips curling into a slight pout, you meekly smack his thigh. Though, still weakened from your orgasm, you’re sure he barely feels it.

“You’d be like this too if you’d been fucked as hard as I was,” comes your response, your cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

“You’ve got me there,” Jimin responds with a laugh. “Are you even going to be able to make it back to the dorms?” he asks, a teasing smile on his face.

You pause hearing his words. Then, pulling your lower lip between your teeth, “Oh… we can sleep here… if you want,” you whisper, your eyes dropping to stare at the floor.

Jimin raises an eyebrow at your sudden timidness, and for a moment, he can’t help but think how cute you are. Really, he’d just fucked you to kingdom come, and yet here you were, getting all embarrassed with asking him to share a bed with you. Nonetheless, he ignores your shyness. Instead, “There’s no bed here,” he deadpans.

Suddenly perking up, “Oh! This is the Room of Requirement. We can just ask for a bed. See,” you respond, gesturing your head to the side of the room. Tilting his head, Jimin watches in surprise as a bed suddenly materialises out of nothing. For a moment, he wants to question it, however, after a few short seconds, he simply brushes it off.

Instead, his arms tighten around your body, and carefully, using all his strength, he picks you up. He carries your limp body towards the bed, and with each step, you find your heart beating faster and faster. Eyes transfixed onto his face, you chew on your lip once again. His flesh is covered in a thin coating of perspiration, and the ends of his dark-pine locks are soaked with sweat. Still, however, he looks beautiful: his skin glistening under the low lighting of the room.

Getting to the bed, you feel Jimin lower your naked body onto the mattress. The instant you feel the heavy weight of the cotton sheets, your spine shudders. Not wasting a single moment, you quickly shuffle your body under the covers, your shoulders relaxing when your bare figure is once again hidden. Beside the bed, Jimin strips down to his boxers. Deft fingers undo the buttons of his white oxford, and once all are unfasted, you watch as he peels the sweat-soaked material off of his body, his toned muscles rippling under taut, honey-kissed skin.

Once his shirt is off, Jimin swiftly shimmies out of his slacks - the fabric pooling around his ankles. Unable to tear your eyes from him, you watch as he steps out of the article, his thick thighs bulging within the confines of his boxers. Which, speaking of, once again hides his cock. You have no idea when he’d tucked it away, but you can’t help but feel disappointed. Nonetheless, your displeasure doesn’t last long, because the moment he’s done stripping, Jimin walks to the other side of the bed, and crawls into the covers beside you.

Feeling the bed dip with his weight, you turn to him, and nervously smile at him. Jimin easily notices your bashfulness and freezing for a moment, he looks at you in concern. “If it’s too awkward to share a bed, we don’t have to,” he says. Quickly, you shake your head.

“No! It’s not that… it’s just… this is the first time I’ve shared a bed with someone,” you mumble out, your head ducking under the covers in embarrassment. A deep-bellied laugh resonates through the air, and you feel Jimin tug the covers down.

Squealing at the sudden movement, you attempt to hide once again. However, Jimin’s arms swiftly wrap around your bare waist, and in one smooth motion, he pulls you into his embrace. “I’ve already taken your first time. It’s only right that I take this first time too, then,” he jokes. Despite the lighthearted tone to his voice, you find your chest tightening.

The feel of Jimin’s warm skin pressing against your back has your shyness quickly fading, and instead, your body melts into his. Head pressed to his bare chest, you hear the steady beat of his heart. The rhythmic pulsing soothes your nerves, and involuntarily, a soft smile curls onto your lips. Thoughtlessly, you snuggle further into him, and reflexively, Jimin’s arm tightens around your waist; allowing you to search for a comfortable position. Once you find it, you still, before revelling in the tenderness of your actions.

Silence befalls the room, and for long, drawn out moments, you simply relish in them. That is, until you really process the intimacy of it all. In your current position, your naked chest is flush against Jimin’s, the soft swells of your breasts pressing against his own, muscular ones. One of Jimin’s hands lazily traces shapes onto the flesh of your hips, the other tucked under the pillow. Your face presses into the crook of his shoulder, the deep notes of sandalwood and bergamot intertwining with Jimin’s own natural scent.

Stiffening in his arms once again, butterflies flurry through your stomach. You’re not stupid. You know that realistically, just sleeping with each other, doesn’t mean that you’re together. If that was the case, Jimin was probably dating every single apprentice, not to mention a few mastership students, in Hogwarts. No, you have no real fantasies that this means anything to Jimin. And yet, as he holds you in his arms, you can’t help but let your mind wander.

Sensing your nervousness, Jimin flexes his arms. He bends his head, and brushes plump lips against your forehead. “What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice deep, and baritone.

“Nothing,” you quickly respond. Jimin simply lets out a deep exhale of amusement.

“Doesn’t sound like nothing,” he replies. Then, nudging your head with his nose, “Go on, tell me what’s on your mind,” he urges. Sucking in a sharp breath, you contemplate his words. For a few moments, you simply deliberate on whether or not you should say it. Or well really, ask him. You have no idea how he’ll react, and you know there’s a good chance he’ll simply laugh and wave you off. Nevertheless, this could be your only chance.

So, taking a deep, steadying breath, you gather all your courage, and, “Will you go to Hogsmeade with me?” you ask. The words rush out of your mouth in one single breath, and pulling away, Jimin regards you in surprise.

“Like… a date?” he clarifies, and bashfully, you nod your head. He doesn’t answer straight away. Instead, he simply watches you carefully, his features carefully passive. With each second that passes, you feel your courage and hope dwindle; mortification once again settling in your bones. Then, to your utter surprise, Jimin speaks.

“Sure,” he agrees. Eyes widening, your face shoots up as you gawk at him.

“Wait, really?” you stupidly ask. At your question, Jimin snorts.

“What? Did you not really want to go?” he asks, and despite the evident playfulness of his voice, you quickly shake your head.

“N-No. I just… didn’t expect you to agree,” you reply lamely. Jimin nods.

“Well, if I’m being honest, I’ve never really thought about it. Or you… like that,” he begins, and swiftly, you find yourself deflating. Sensing your upset, Jimin bends his head down and presses a kiss to your shoulder, “But, that was only because I didn’t really think we would be compatible… but after tonight… you’ve definitely piqued my interest, _____,” he continues.

Hope blooms through you once again, and against your will, you find a smile curling onto your lips, “Really?” you ask. Hearing the happy inflexion to your voice, Jimin can’t help but chuckle.

“Yes, really,” he replies. Then, a grinning wolfishly, he teasing grazes his teeth against your shoulder before biting down softly. The action causes you to gasp, and Jimin lets out a low growl. “Besides, I can’t wait to learn what else you saw in the mirror.” Instantly, your cheeks flush, and you let out a little whine.

“Stop teasing me,” you grumble.

Humming, “Nope,” Jimin replies, popping the ‘p’. “You’re too cute when you’re embarrassed for me to do that,” he explains.

You let out a little huff, and open your mouth to retort. Only to pause. Suddenly, a thought crosses your mind, and responsively, your eyebrows knit together. Curious as to what the mirror showed him, “What did you see?” you ask. A wicked smile curls onto Jimin’s face, his dark-pine hair hanging loosely in the air as he grins at you.

“Nothing,” comes his simple answer. Eyebrows creasing in confusion, you look at him in scepticism.

“Nothing?” you repeat, disbelief clearly laced in your voice. Jimin only hums in response. Bending his head down, he brushes his voluptuous lips against yours.

“The mirror shows you what your heart desires most. And in that moment, I had exactly what I desired,” comes his simple response. Instantaneously, a warm fuzziness flurries through your stomach; but as soon as it comes, it goes. Because, the next moment, Jimin is pulling you in for a deep kiss.

a/n: i hope y’all jimin fans are well fed, i know i’ve been starving y’all sjfjsjjfjdf anyway. this was super hard to write because i don’t see jimin sexually nor romantically so i struggled with it A LOT but 😭i hope i did it justice 😭 please don’t forget to lmk what you thought 🥺👉🏼👈🏼

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[xjoonchildx]

greedy | myg x reader | chapter five: do we look like recruiters to you?

summary: being a loner has never bothered yoongi until now.  until you.

pairing: yoongi x reader

genre: mafia AU, pining, eventual smut

rating: 18+

word count: 6.7K

notes:  thank you all so much for rolling with the changes to my posting schedule. it’s been a while since i posted an update and i really wanted to give you guys a chapter. plus it makes more sense, in my mind to break it out like this.  in this chapter, you’ll notice that ko starts calling OC “jagiya.” thank you to the korean reader who brought to my attention that my previous nickname for her didn’t fit as well as this one! 

anyway, you guys make me endlessly happy with your feedback on this story. i’d love to hear what you think of this chapter.  beta read by @hobi-gif​ because i would wither away without her analysis. also beta’d by the awesome @btsarmy9593​ who has been so awesome to give me her feedback. thank you to @augustbutwinter​ for the words of encouragement. and of course, the boos @ladyartemesia​ and @untaemedqueen​ pitched in to help me in this journey as well.

Chapter 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | EPILOGUE

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Min Yoongi wakes up with a problem.  Well a few problems, actually.

The first is that he has to pee.

The second is the head-to-toe pain that starts to register the moment his sluggish brain kicks into gear.  He starts from the bottom -- gingerly wiggling his toes, carefully stretching his legs -- and slowly works his way up, taking mental inventory of what hurts and what doesn’t.

A lot of shit is landing on the hurts list right now.

The third problem -- and perhaps the most pressing -- is the problem pressing into his side right now.

Your hair is still damp.

Yoongi noses into it and lies in the quiet for a while, breathing you in while you sleep.  You smell like his shampoo and his soap.  You’re wearing his t-shirt and basketball shorts.  You are covered in him; fitted to him.  Solid and warm and real.

Which brings him to his next problem.  

This is the kind of feeling that’s way too easy to become addicted to.  The kind of feeling that makes you do stupid shit.  Take away the mangled body and the looming safety concerns and this is easily the best morning of his life.

That’s why when you stir and burrow a bit deeper into his side, Yoongi ignores the pain radiating from his sore ribs.  He ignores the way his arm has fallen asleep under you, ignores the intermittent buzzing of his phone from the nightstand warning of missed texts.

He ignores the tiny voice in his head that says don’t get attached to this feeling.

Yoongi ignores everything but you and this because right now, it’s the only thing he wants to think about.

And then he’s drifting off again.

***************************

This time, Yoongi wakes up alone.

The deep steadying breath he takes while he’s trying to work up the nerve to get out of bed hurts like hell.

Everything hurts like hell, actually -- the back of his head where he can feel scrapes left behind by the brick wall, his jaw from where he took that driller to the face.  His knee from where he jammed it into that fucking goon’s stomach.  

But his shoulder is what’s really fucking everything up right now.

He can’t remember telling you where to find the sling or how you got it on.  Can’t remember you positioning his pillows around his injured arm or slipping into bed beside him.  He’d been so fucked up by the pain and the adrenaline withdrawal that he’s pretty sure he blacked out at some point.  

So Yoongi lies there for a minute, trying to piece together what he can remember of last night.  

The memories come back to him blurred and disjointed, out of order.

He remembers feeling like he might vomit when you shoved his shoulder back into place.  Awkwardly accepting your help taking off his jeans so he could shower.  Nearly falling to his knees under the hot water.  Pulling himself together long enough to stash his gun in a drawer when you’d stepped away.

And it’s that last memory that makes his chest go tight.

Last night, hiding his gun seemed like the right thing to do.  A way to keep you separate from the ugliness he normalized a long time ago.  But this morning the half-assed lie of omission makes him feel guilty as hell.  A pathetic attempt to delay the inevitable.  Chewing gum jammed into the crack of a dam.

He has to tell you about that gun.

So he gets to work on dragging his ass out of bed.  It takes him way too damned long to sit upright, way too damned long to slide himself off the edge of the mattress.  Longer than that to slowly limp his way into the bathroom where he pees for what feels like a solid ten minutes.

He’s still rubbing the sleep from his eyes when he spots the bright red toothbrush sitting in the cup on his sink.  

It’s just some cheap throwaway he brought home after his last visit to the dentist -- a long-forgotten backup that’s been stashed in the cabinet under the bathroom counter for months.  But now it’s sitting out in the open, in that cup. Right next to his own blue one.

Yoongi stares at it and scrubs a hand over his face.

And that tiny voice in his head gets a bit louder.

************************

He finds you seated at his piano, bare-faced and hair tousled.  Fingers tracing light patterns across the keys of his custom instrument, gaze taking in all of the tiny details he paid a small fortune for.

He could have stayed there for a while, just appreciating the view had you not caught him staring.

Your dark eyes flick up to find his and Yoongi’s pulse quickens at the warmth in them.  At the soft, shy smile that comes over you just before you clear your throat and lower your eyes back to the keys.

“Beautiful,” you sigh.  

No kidding, Yoongi thinks.

He crosses the room slowly.  Tries his hardest not to limp but the throb in his knee makes that nearly impossible.  Sadness flashes across your face as you watch him sink heavily onto the bench beside you.  

“I can help you, you know,” you admonish softly.

Yoongi shrugs, motioning to the sling.  “You already have.”

He stills when you reach one hand out to brush your fingertips across the redness on his jaw.  You stroke your thumb across his aching cheek and Yoongi leans into the touch, savoring the feeling of your skin against his.

“Yoongi,” you whisper, “I’m so sorry you’re hurt, and -- ” you pause to shake your head sadly,  “-- and I’m so sorry it’s because I put you in this position.”

Yoongi sucks in a deep breath.

He can’t bring himself to tell you that he can’t think straight when he imagines what could have happened if that fucking goon had gotten you alone.  Can’t bring himself to admit out loud that he could have pulled his gun and ended that piece of shit without losing a second of sleep.  

Would have, had you not been there.

“Better me than you, Doc,” he says thickly.  “You made the right call.”

You press a gentle kiss to his throbbing jaw.

“You still mad at me?”

You whisper the words into the shell of Yoongi’s ear and a slow heat builds in his gut.  

“Yeah,” he lies, dropping a kiss on the delicate skin below your jaw.  He ghosts the tip of his nose against the curve of your neck and you shudder under his touch. He’s forced to check himself, leaning back for a few inches of badly-needed space.  

On the bright side, at least his dick isn’t broken, too.

He clears his throat.  “If that guy had brought backup -- ”

“ -- If that guy had brought backup, he’d have been out of the car long before you left his buddy in a pile on the floor,” you interrupt gently.

Yoongi chuckles.  “Just admit you’re terrible at following directions.”

“You happen to have your MRI results around here anywhere? I’d be interested to see what they say about that shoulder.”  

You raise one brow when Yoongi narrows his eyes at you in response.  “No? Well, then I guess I’m not the only one who’s bad at following directions.”

“Guess not,” Yoongi admits with a smile.  

Your turn your attention back to his piano, touch reverent as you slide one hand across the rich black lacquer.  

“When you first walked in, I was going to say something really dumb like do you play?” you admit with a laugh.  “But no one owns something this magnificent unless they have a passion for it.”

“Yeah, I play,” Yoongi murmurs.  “When I have two functioning arms.”

He’d intended to earn a laugh with that tease, but the joke falls flat.  Sadness creeps back into your features.

“Yoongi,” you say quietly, gaze dropping into your lap.  “I honestly don’t know what would have happened to me last night without you.  And all I can think about this morning is why?  Why did you do this for me?”

Fuck, that’s a loaded question.  

If Yoongi had the balls, he’d tell you straight up that he fell for you the moment he laid eyes on you at Songdo .  That you feel like his chance at something more.  But Yoongi doesn’t say any of that.  

Instead, he coughs up a weak white lie.

“We’re both out here flying solo Doc.  We have to look out for each other.  Besides -- ” he tips your chin up with a gentle press of his fingers and finds your dark eyes glassy with unshed tears.  “ -- I have a thing for that smart mouth of yours.”

He earns a tiny smile from you then, just the slightest curve of your lips.  And he’s this close to kissing the soft, sad expression right off your face when that voice in his mind fucks everything up again.

Tell her about the gun.  

The thought is like a bucket of cold water over his head, jarring him from the intimacy of this moment.  Yoongi swallows thickly before opening his mouth to tell you the truth.  But before he can speak, you do.

“I have something of yours,” you say, reaching into the pocket of your borrowed basketball shorts.  Yoongi watches you produce a worn handmade bracelet and holds his palm open to accept it.  “It fell out of your jacket last night,” you explain.

He rubs his thumb over the smooth metal corners of the cross that dangles from aged leather.  It brings back the memory of his baptism -- of the day Mrs. Bak proudly gifted it to him while he was still damp from the ceremony.  It also brings back the memory of last night -- when he’d clutched it between his fingers and sent a silent plea for protection skyward.

It’s been a long time since he’s prayed.  It’s been a long time since he had anything to pray for.

“Are you religious?” you ask softly.

Yoongi shakes his head.  “Honestly? I don’t know.”  A self-conscious heat creeps up his neck.  “Just makes me feel better, I guess.  Is that dumb?”

“No,” you reassure quietly, bringing one warm hand up to cup his cheek.  Yoongi covers your hand with his, laces his fingers in between yours.  “Not dumb at all.”

Tell her about the gun.

“Doc,” Yoongi whispers thickly, “We need to talk about something.”

Your hand falls away from his face and your spine goes stiff with tension and Yoongi almost loses his nerve.

Almost.

“Okay, so I was, uh -- carrying a gun last night,” he starts, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck,  “I carry a gun all the time, actually.  I hid it because I didn’t want to freak you out.”

You say nothing, expression unreadable.  And Yoongi keeps talking.

“But I don’t want to keep things from you,” he says quietly.  “I want you to know exactly who I am. No half-truths.”

Your eyes drop back down to the piano.  You pluck at one of the keys and a somber note rings out, lingers in the air between you before you speak.

“You have a gunshot wound in your back, Yoongi,” you murmur.  “It’s not exactly a leap of logic.  Besides, I already saw your gun.  It was in your drawer last night when I got you a change of clothes.”

Yoongi nods slowly, processing the fact that you’d discovered the gleaming silver piece and hadn’t written him off right away.  You’d still slept in the crook of his arm last night.  You’re still here right now.

“And yeah, maybe it does freak me out a bit,” you admit.  “But after what I saw last night, maybe I can understand a bit, too.”

Yoongi lets go of the breath he’s been holding and takes your hand in his.  Maybe is as good as he could have hoped for at this point.  Maybe is not a dead end.  

“I have something to tell you, too,” you admit after a moment.  “I’m due at the hospital in a few hours.”

“Doc,” Yoongi groans, hand tightening reflexively around yours.  “You can’t go back there.”

“I don’t have a choice,” you insist, pulling away.  “This isn’t just some job I fell into, Yoongi.  This is years of my life.”

Yoongi is quiet for a few seconds, willing his rising agitation to subside.  He’s careful to check his tone before he speaks.

“You’re not safe there.”

“I have to go back.  I don’t have a choice,” you repeat.  “I can’t afford to get blacklisted and Lee is still my boss. And if he’s already got wind of what happened last night, he’s going to be gunning for me even harder than he already has been.  I have to tread carefully.”

Yoongi shoves a hand through his hair.

“You have to meet me in the middle here, Doc,” he exhales.  “There’s got to be something halfway between you walking right back into that hellhole and you losing your job.  Take a couple of sick days.  Give me some time to figure out who your boss is working with and what I can do about it.  Can you do that?”

You’re quiet for a moment as you consider his proposal.

“Yeah,” you concede softly.  “I can do that.”  

You lift a hand to brush a lock of hair out of his face and press your mouth to his.

Every cell in Yoongi’s body stands at attention.  He cards his fingers into the soft mass of your hair and kisses you slowly -- carefully -- all too aware of the way he’d manhandled you last night.  

Not even the pain in his jaw could take away from how good it feels to touch you like this.  Not even the ache in his ribs could stop him from leaning into you. He slips his tongue past your lips and you whimper, fingers curling into his sore knee.  

He could not give a shit.

Yoongi leaves your mouth to trail kisses down your jaw, and you tip your head back, offering him the soft expanse of your neck.  He accepts it gladly, mouth hot and open on your skin, savoring your scent and taste -- enjoying the way he can feel your pulse fluttering wildly under his lips.

He’s enjoying it all so much that he gets careless.  The elbow of his injured arm connects with the sharp edge of the piano and he recoils instantly.

“Dammit,” he groans. “Fuck.”

“Oh, shit,” you gasp, clapping a hand over your mouth.

The pain is so potent it seems to radiate all the way from his arm to his temples. Yoongi squeezes his eyes shut as he waits for the ringing in his ears to subside.

“Yoongi, your shoulder, it's -- it’s really bad,” you admonish quietly.  “If you keep going like this, the damage is going to be permanent.”

“Trust me, I know,” he sighs.  “I’m going to get this looked at, I just haven’t.”

“I want you to see a friend of mine at Asan today,” you urge.  “He’s a good doctor.  He can get you some pain relief.  Get you back to working condition.”

Yoongi nods weakly, pain still ebbing from his arm.

“But it’s not a substitute for an MRI and it’s not a substitute for surgery,” you warn.  “This is just a temporary fix.  You have to be careful.  Whatever you’re planning, just please be careful.”

Yoongi skates the pad of his thumb over your lips before kissing you just one more time.

“Don’t worry about me, Doc,” he murmurs.  “I’m going to have some help.”

**************************

It’s amazing what a pair of high-powered steroid shots and a bottle of industrial-strength painkillers can do for a guy.  

Yoongi pulls into the parking lot at Maekju feeling almost human again.

If the text messages that have been blowing up his phone all afternoon are any indication, everyone is here tonight.  Everyone with the exception of Namjoon, of course.  He doesn’t drink anymore and even when he did, he always preferred to drink alone.

Jungkook is the first person Yoongi spots, leaned up against a pool table, beer in hand.  He’s watching Jimin and Taehyung face off at billiards while Seokjin and Hoseok sit side-by-side at the bar, deep in conversation.

The maknae’s eyes go a bit wide when he takes in Yoongi’s unusual gait and immobilized arm.

“Holy shit, hyung,” he breathes as Yoongi approaches.  “What the hell happened to you?”

Seokjin whips around in his barstool at the sound of Jungkook’s greeting, but Hoseok doesn’t take the bait.  He stiffens in his seat but refuses to turn around. Stubborn bastard.

“Yoga accident,” Yoongi mutters, stepping up to the bar next to Seokjin.  The older man smirks as he takes a long pull of his beer.

“How’d you drive with that thing on?” Seokjin asks, motioning to Yoongi’s sling.

“Carefully,” Yoongi says dryly.  “Listen, can you give me a minute with Jung here?”

Seokjin’s critical gaze bounces back and forth between Yoongi and Hoseok, who is still resolutely pretending not to notice the conversation taking place just inches from his face.  He stares into a television mounted high above the bar and sips his whiskey with feigned indifference.

“You two need couple’s counseling, I swear,” Seokjin groans, rolling his eyes. He stands to his feet to relinquish his barstool and claps a hand over Yoongi’s good shoulder.  “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

Hoseok, the fucking infant, grabs a newspaper abandoned on the bartop and proceeds to pretend to read it.  Yoongi slides into the stool next to him anyway.

“Miss me?”

Hoseok doesn’t answer.

“You’re not gonna say hello?  Not gonna ask me why it looks like I spent all night falling off a cliff?”

“Nope.”

Yoongi waves off the bartender who starts walking in his direction.  The last thing he needs is a drink.  He’s got so many painkillers in his system right now that one sip of booze would probably have him under the bar in seconds.

“Come on Hoseok,” Yoongi sighs.  “Don’t be a dick.  I’ve literally never seen you read a newspaper.”

“I like to stay informed,” Hoseok shrugs.

“Well, I’m trying to talk to you.”

“Oh, so you talk to me now?” Hoseok snickers.  “That’s new.”

Hoseok’s probably earned the right to his petulance, but that doesn’t make it any less annoying.  Yoongi starts to reconsider that drink.

“Jung,” he groans.  “I’m trying to apologize here.”

“So apologize then.”

“Fine,” Yoongi mutters.  “I’m sorry I’ve been an asshole lately.  I’ve been twisted up over some shit that has nothing to do with you or family business.”

Hoseok grabs his whiskey off the bar and finally -- finally -- pivots to face him.

“A giant asshole,” he corrects dryly.  

“Yes. A giant asshole,” Yoongi repeats.  “We good now?”

Hoseok sips his whiskey slowly, eyes narrowed at Yoongi over the lip of his glass.

“Buy me a drink.”

“Fine,” Yoongi hisses, flagging the bartender.  

Hoseok leans back in his barstool, looking a bit smug.

“Now this shit you’ve been twisted up about,” he starts, brow cocked.  “Would this have anything to do with your secret doctor friend?”

“Maybe,” Yoongi admits, scratching at the back of his neck.  His injured shoulder is tired from carrying the extra weight of the sling.  He rolls it gingerly as Hoseok looks on.

“Would this have anything to do with why you look like you got jumped on your way in here tonight?”

Yoongi’s cheeks warm at his partner’s blunt observation.  “Maybe.”

Hoseok drains his whiskey just as the bartender arrives with a fresh one.  He takes a long drink before setting his glass back down on the bar.  His lips purse thoughtfully as he levels Yoongi with a long, assessing look.

“Okay,” he says calmly. “So who do we have to go fuck up?”

**************************

Dr. Lee Geon just looks like a fucking weasel.

Yoongi glares at the man as he strolls into the coffee shop a few blocks from Songdo with just minutes to spare to his shift.  

Lee bears little resemblance to his photos on the hospital website.

He’s thin -- just this side of gaunt -- hollow cheeks prominent below dark under eyes beneath a sparse dusting of greasy hair.  Were he not dressed in a rumpled lab coat and equally creased scrubs, Yoongi might have missed him entirely.

Across the room, Hoseok peers at Yoongi over the top of yet another borrowed newspaper -- is this the guy? -- and Yoongi answers with a furtive nod.  

He goes over the plan they’d worked out in the car in his head.  They’d find the guy -- make sure he was the guy -- and then follow him out of the shop.  Catch him just before he got into his car.  Shake him up a bit before shaking him down for information.

There’s one thing Yoongi still hasn’t worked out, though.

Just how much he’s going to allow himself to hurt this asshole before sending him on his way.  Lee slowly shuffles his way to the front of the line as Yoongi imagines jamming his fist into the man’s stupid fucking face.  Imagines doing it over and over again until the piece of shit is unrecognizable.

Yoongi watches Lee order his drink as he kneads at the tender muscles of his shoulder.

Ditching the sling was probably a bad idea -- definitely against doctor’s orders -- but it was a risk he was more than willing to take.  He’d downed a couple of painkillers and shoved his shoulder into a brace and decided he could deal with the dull throb just for the night.  

No way in hell he was going to confront this scumbag looking like some kid who just fell off his skateboard.  

It doesn’t take long for the barista to put together Lee’s drink.  He grabs his coffee and Yoongi tenses in anticipation of his next move.  But instead of heading for the exit, Lee heads for the bathroom instead.

Yoongi locks eyes with Hoseok across the room and Hoseok raises one brow.

Change of plans?

Yoongi nods.

*****************************

Lee’s coffee sits abandoned atop the sink ledge.

Yoongi and Hoseok slip silently into the bathroom and get right to work.  Hoseok blocks the door as Yoongi quietly creeps past the stalls, ducking his head to peer beneath each one.  Lee’s scuffed sneakers are the only pair of shoes he spots.

His ears pick up on a faint sound coming from inside the locked stall.

It’s a kind of soft, intermittent rasping.  Yoongi concentrates on the noise, isolates it until he comes to the realization that it’s sniffling he’s hearing.  He turns to Hoseok and taps his finger against the side of his nose and Hoseok nods his agreement.

Yoongi shakes his head in disgust.  Is there a single substance this idiot isn’t addicted to?

It takes a moment for the sniffling to subside.  It’s followed by a few seconds of quiet rustling in which Yoongi can picture Lee carefully pocketing whatever’s left of his coke.  The noises from behind the brushed steel barrier finally stop and the next thing Yoongi hears is the distinct clink of the latch coming apart.

Lee swings the door wide -- gets one look at what’s waiting for him on the other side -- and nearly jumps out of his skin.  

He startles so hard that he almost falls backward into the toilet.  But he catches himself, regaining his balance and staring back at Yoongi with wide, worried eyes.

Yoongi stands there and says nothing.

“Excuse me,” Lee mumbles, eyeing him wearily as he tries to slide past.  He takes two steps forward then stops in his tracks when he spots Hoseok.  Lee swallows thickly, eyes darting back and forth between both men.

“Is there a problem gentlemen?” he croaks.

Yoongi takes a step towards Lee.  He shrinks back when Yoongi reaches for his badge, yanking the retractable cord as he pulls it close to examine it.  Yoongi runs his thumb over the raised lettering on the laminated card, letting the taut silence linger for dramatic effect.

Then he lets go of the badge without warning, fighting a smile when Lee flinches as it snaps back into place.

“Yes, we have a problem,” Yoongi confirms pleasantly.  “And yes, it’s you.”

The little color left in Lee’s face immediately drains out.

“Look, I don’t know who you guys are, but you don’t w-want to mess with me,” he stammers, voice cracking comically halfway through his flimsy threat.  “I know people.”

“Oh shit,” Yoongi’s eyes go wide with feigned concern, “You hear that, Jung?  This guy knows people.”

“Sounds scary,” Hoseok chuckles.

Lee starts to breathe harder, chest rising and falling faster.  Pupils blown with fear and coke.

“Now, here’s the difference between you and us, Dr. Lee,” Yoongi explains calmly.  “You know people.  But we -- ” he motions to himself and then to Hoseok, “ -- are people . Do you understand what I’m trying to say here?”

Yoongi punctuates his point by brushing the edge of his open leather jacket aside, allowing his pistol to peek out from underneath.  Lee’s eyes lock on it as he nods slowly, pulling deep, noisy breaths through his nose.

“Great.  Now we don’t have to play the game where you pretend not to know about the bullshit you’ve been pulling over at the hospital, right?”

Lee shakes his head slowly.

“So that means we also don’t have to play the game where you pretend you didn’t send some fucking street goon to rough up a little old lady, either. Right?”

The man’s mouth drops open like his first instinct is to deny that accusation. But he steals another look at Hoseok and shuts it instead.

“And then -- ” Yoongi jabs Lee in the chest with one finger and the man jumps back, “-- you tried to send that same goon after your own resident.  But here’s the thing, Doctor Lee.  She knows people, too.”

Lee’s body goes rigid.  Yoongi watches him process the information with his drug-addled brain, a flare of recognition finally sparking in his dull eyes.

“I saw you at the hospital,” Lee whispers.  “You know her.”

“Don’t worry about who I know,” Yoongi shrugs.  “Worry about what you’re going to say in your resignation letter.”

He advances on the man again, closing the space between them.  Lee tries to back away, but he runs out of room.  He tilts against the stall door.

“Resignation letter?” he echoes weakly.

“The one you’re turning in tonight,” Yoongi explains coolly.  “Before you get the fuck out of Songdo and then get the fuck out of Seoul.”

Lee sputters for a moment, grasping for his next words.  

“Well, where am I supposed to go?” he bleats.

“Do we look like recruiters to you, man?” Hoseok cuts in sharply.  “We don’t give a shit where you go -- you just have to go.  You sure this guy is a doctor, Min?  He seems way too dumb to be a doctor.”

“Nah.  This guy’s a junkie pretending to be a doctor,” Yoongi accuses, dropping any pretense of good humor.  “Pretending to be a tough guy, too.  But all of that ends tonight.”

Yoongi grabs Lee by the chin, jerking his head into place and forcing the trembling man to look him in the eye.

“In ten minutes, you’re going to walk your ass into that hospital.  You’re going to tell them you are leaving.  You are going to take that piece of shit pharmacist and anyone else who’s involved with you.  And then you are never going to step foot in this city again.”

He pauses to enjoy the way Lee’s pupils dilate even wider with fear.

“You’re not too high to understand what I’m saying to you right now, right?”

Lee shakes his head weakly, jaw still pinned in Yoongi’s vice grip.

“Great. Now just one more thing before you go on your merry way,” Yoongi says, voice low with menace.  “Give us the name of your street guys.”

Lee panics.  “I can’t,” he whines from between compressed cheeks.  “They’ll kill me.”

Yoongi grips his face tighter, crushing the man’s jaw and using it to push his body flush against the stall.  His fingers and knuckles turn white with the force of his grasp and Lee groans weakly at the pain.  

“I will kill you,” Yoongi seethes. “Me.�� Right fucking now with my bare fucking hands if you don’t give me that name.”

Lee is sweating so profusely that Yoongi wonders briefly if he’s having a heart attack.  He’s probably got enough coke in his system for that to be an actual concern.  But the pathetic little shit manages to pull himself together long enough to follow directions.

“Kkangpae,” he wheezes.

Yoongi’s iron grip stays in place, even as he turns to Hoseok, even as both men exchange a look.  That is something he did not see coming.  Perhaps his recent personal issues are family business, after all.

He finally releases Lee’s jaw and the man rears back, breathing hard.

“You have exactly one day to get the fuck out of this city,” Yoongi instructs quietly.  “And that is not an offer I’m prepared to make twice.”

Lee licks his dry lips, nodding his head slowly like he’s just come out of a trance.  “Okay.”

“Great chat,” Yoongi smiles, patting Lee’s cheek.

Hoseok leaves his post at the door to cross the cramped bathroom and reach for the coffee Lee abandoned minutes ago.  Both men watch in silence as he turns it up over the sink, pours it out, and then tosses it in the trash.

He heads back to the door and holds it open.

“Damn Hoseok,” Yoongi murmurs as he brushes past.  “That was cold.”

*********************************

YOU

There’s buzzing.  Of that, you’re sure.

But in those first few moments that you’re rousing, you can’t be sure if you’re hearing it or dreaming it.  You’re disoriented.  It’s the second time in as many days you’ve woken up in an unfamiliar bed.

Shafts of sunlight pour through the blinds and you squint at them, trying to get a sense of the time of day.  If the amber tinge is any indication, it’s late into the afternoon.

The buzzing sounds again.

You roll to your side to grab your cell phone off the nightstand and blink at a long list of waiting texts.

ko: wake up sleeping beauty [ 11:36 AM ]

ko: i have news [ 11:45 AM ]

ko: big news [ 12:22 PM ]

ko: and gaeran tost-u [ 1:02 PM ]

ko: ready for you to wake up now [ 1:43 PM ]

ko: don’t mind me just gonna bang a few pots and pans [ 2:11 PM ]

Any curiosity over Ko’s big news is overshadowed by the way your heart drops when none of those messages is from Yoongi.  

Before you’d left his apartment, he’d asked you to stay.  He’d cleared his throat and looked down at his hands and explained that he’d feel better if you weren’t alone until this entire mess was settled.  But the way he looked at you in those last few minutes together made you feel like his proposition was about much more than just your protection.

It made you want to say yes.

Never mind that it’s insane to feel so at home in his personal space -- or that coming to that realization might have sent you into a mild panic.  In the end, you’d had to say no because you couldn’t bring yourself to leave Ko on her own while this madness played out.

You rub the sleep out of your eyes and fire off two quick texts.

you: i hope you’re okay. please be careful [ 2:33 PM ]

you: up now. be down in five [ 2:34 PM ]

**************************

Ko makes good on her promise of gaeran tost-u.

You’re greeted by the pleasant smell of the sugared egg dish as you walk down the stairs.  Ko sits at her kitchen table, eyes shining with excitement, and pushes a plate at you when you slide into the chair across from hers.

“Eat,” she orders sweetly.  Your stomach rumbles on cue and you waste no time digging in.

“This is really good,” you declare around a mouthful of bread and eggs.  “I might have to live with you forever.”

Ko smiles wide and the expression makes you feel warm from the inside out. The bruising on her face is barely visible now, easily hidden with a little makeup. Her eyes crinkle with happiness as she watches you eat without saying a word.

“Alright,” you sigh, loathe to stop eating even for as long as it takes to speak.  “Spill it. You look fit to burst.”

“Thought you’d never ask,” she complains cheerfully.  “Dr. Lee is gone.  Walked into Songdo last night and walked out forever.”

You gasp halfway through your next bite, sputtering as you try to catch your breath around a mouthful of toasted bread.  Ko stands to grab you a glass of water which you gratefully accept.

“Well, don’t die on me now,” she teases, “Because there’s more.  Nang left, too.  And Tuan and Beom from pathology.  All four of them quit without even so much as a notice, Jagi.  Isn’t that wild?”

You sip your water slowly and Ko’s eyes flash as she watches you.

“Yoo called me early this morning and said the entire hospital is talking about it. There’s a bunch of crazy theories going around.  And here I am, drinking my tea.  Thinking about how you took a few sick days and showed up here. Thinking about how healthy and rested you look right now.  Isn’t that interesting?”

You nod, jamming the sandwich back in your mouth for an obnoxiously large bite.

“And I can’t help but wonder if there’s some connection between this very convenient development and my very sweet, secretive friend.”

Ko’s mouth twists into a teasing smile as you chew your food absurdly slow.

“That sandwich isn’t going to last forever, Jagi,” she says dryly.  She lifts her teacup to her mouth and takes a dainty sip.  “And trust me, I have nothing but time.”

She leans back, cup in hand.

“Okay, so I might know something about it,” you admit after a while.  “But there’s still a lot I don’t know.  And I’m not sure how much of this you want to hear.”

Ko tuts under her breath.

“I want to hear it all.  I’ve got quite a few years on you and trust me, very little shocks me anymore.  So now you spill it.”

You take another sip of water and clear your throat.

“Okay,” you exhale.  “So there’s this guy -- ”

“ -- Oh, I love it when stories start like this,” Ko interrupts.  She props her chin up with her hands like you’re telling a bedtime story and you shake your head with a wry smile.

“He’s been kind of… helping me, I guess.”

“Helping you,” Ko echoes.  “As in helping you out of your clothes?”

“No,” you deny hotly, cheeks warming.  “He’s a friend.”

Ko doesn’t bother to call you out on the weak lie.  But her face says what her mouth doesn’t when one skeptical brow raises high.

“Go on.”

“I told him about what was going on at the hospital and he said he could help me,” you explain slowly.  “So I’m pretty sure he figured out a way to run off Lee and Nang.”

Ko taps her finger against the side of her teacup.

“So let me see if I have this right,” she muses.  “You tell this friend -- who you’ve never once mentioned, by the way -- that you’ve been having this very dangerous trouble at work.  And then your friend somehow manages to convince two grown men who’ve worked at Songdo for years to give up their high-paying jobs and up-front access to IV drugs overnight.”

You shift uncomfortably in your chair.

“And just like that -- ” Ko snaps her fingers for emphasis, “ -- they’re gone without so much as a fuss.”

You nod weakly.

“Jagi,” Ko’s voice drops low.  “I take it your friend’s not a mailman, is he?”

“No,” you mumble.  “Definitely not.”

Ko hums under her breath.  She carefully lifts her teacup to drink, eyes trained on you over the rim.  Her quiet scrutiny makes you anxious.

“Can I ask you a question?” she asks after a long pause.

“If I said no would that stop you?”

“Not a chance,” Ko laughs.  “Would this friend happen to be the mysterious, handsome man who asked for you in the ER a few weeks back?”

Mind like a steel trap, this woman.  You should have known Ko would make that connection and fast.  There’s no point in denying it, so you don’t.

“Yes,” you whisper thickly. “He is.”

It’s hard to get a read on Ko’s reaction.  Over the years, you’ve come to rely on her sweetness and wisdom and warmth.  But now, as you stare into her dark eyes and try to interpret her careful expression, you realize there’s something else you need from her.

Her approval.

“Ko, I think I -- ” you pause to choose your words carefully, “ -- I think I might be in really deep with this guy.”

Ko snorts.

“Oh, I think you might be right about that, Jagiya .  And if he’s helping you with something like this?  Chances are, you’re not alone.”

“Yeah,” you exhale, wringing your hands together beneath the table.  “Thing is -- I need you to tell me I’m not making a mistake here.”

The corners of Ko’s mouth lift into a soft expression of surprise.

“Oh, Jagi,” she chides sweetly.  “You know I can’t tell you that. I don’t know anything about this man.”  She reaches across the table to cover your hand with her own.  “But you do.  You’re the only one who knows how you feel about him.  And you’re the only one who knows if he’s a good man underneath it all.”

Ko squeezes your hand and you turn your head before she can see the tears that threaten in your eyes.  The amber sunlight outside her kitchen window is shifting orange now, flares of light reflecting off the glass.  

You stare at them and think about Yoongi.

Until now, it’s like you’ve been splitting him into two different men -- the bruised, bloody con artist from the exam room and the quiet, teasing flirt from the coffee shop.  Until now, it’s been the only way to reconcile your complicated feelings.

But it's well past time you accepted the truth.

The same Yoongi whose cheeks had pinked when he’d asked you to stay is the same Yoongi you watched beat the shit out of a hired thug.  The Yoongi who carries a cross is the Yoongi who carries a gun.  They’re two halves of one whole.  

And you can’t pine for one and reject the other.

Your cell phone buzzes from the pocket of your pajama pants.  You reach for it, relief coursing through you when you spot Yoongi’s name on the screen.

yoongi: one more thing to do before we can talk [ 3:01 PM ]

yoongi: it’s cold outside, be sure to bundle up [ 3:01 PM ]

Yoongi’s random mention of the weather confuses you.  You stare at the texts and Ko stares at you, concerned by the baffled expression on your face.

“Is something wrong?”

“No, no,” you insist, shaking your head.  “Just, um -- ”

Bundle up.   A tingle runs up the length of your spine as realization slowly creeps over you.  

“Excuse me for a moment,” you murmur, slipping out of your seat.

Ko watches you dash up the stairs, slack-jawed.

You make a beeline for your borrowed room, throwing open the closet doors to find the coat you’d left hanging there on arrival.  The coat you’d worn to and from Yoongi’s.  You hurriedly dig into the pockets, fingers immediately making contact with something hard and jagged.  

You pull it out.

The shiny silver key in your palm looks like it’s never been used, sharp edges gleaming in the waning sunlight streaming into this room.

You don’t have to guess what it’s for.

You just close your fingers around it and hold it tight.

*****************

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[delirious-lycan]

to build a home pt 2 - the kitchen

Zack lets himself into Sephiroth’s apartment Saturday morning with the key that the First had given him the day after they’d finished remodeling the living room, and he casts his eyes around until he spots the man curled up on the couch, snoozing. The sight brings a grin to his face, and he walks over to him and settles crosslegged on the floor, content to wait for his friend to wake up.

“What do you want?” The sleepy mumble rumbles out of the pile of hair and muscle.

“Well, someone told me that they wanted to get a start in on the kitchen today, but it looks like they decided it was naptime instead,” Zack says, smiling as Sephiroth gives a languid, almost felid stretch, baring his fangs and all. He props his head up on one hand, looking at Zack with a fond, if not tired, expression.

“I suppose I did say that, didn’t I?” He says, and Zack gives an enthusiastic nod.

“Yup! That means we get to commit acts of demolition to your poor sink!”

“Charming.” With that, Sephiroth pulls himself to his feet and gives yet another stretch, this time drawing his arms high above his head and reveling in the pops of his spine and neck. Zack does his very best not to ogle, he really does, but when Sephiroth puts all his muscles on display like that, well.

Zack finds himself a weak man from time to time. If Sephiroth notices Zack staring at his biceps, he has the good grace to not comment on it.

“Well, let’s get started, shall we?” Sephiroth says, flashing a sharp-toothed grin at his best friend.

Together, they wreak havoc on the simple, bland minimalist kitchen. Zack wonders if Genesis is in the apartment next door, and if he is, what he thinks of the sounds of beating and banging as they tear down the ugly mass produced particleboard cabinets and accidentally shatter the kitchen sink-- a good thing they were planning on replacing that today anyways. 

With their demolition derby done for the moment, they each take turns taking a shower to knock off the dust and grit from the exploding particle board fragments. Sephiroth throws on a black t-shirt and some black denim jeans, held together with-- to no one’s surprise-- a black leather belt.

“One of these days I’ll get some color in that wardrobe of yours,” Zack says, and Sephiroth smirks.

“Sure you will,” he says, pulling his rapidly drying hair over his shoulder and quickly twisting it into a rope braid and then securing it with hairties in four different intervals. It’s really the only way to keep his hair both contained and clean when doing work like this, but ShinRa’s PR team always hates it when he contains his hair. Never mind that it’s more convenient for him to have it up.

“To the hardware store?” Sephiroth asks.

“To the hardware store!” Zack exclaims.

“We should totally go, like, retro, you know? That classic homey vibe, but like, old school. What do you think?” Zack asks, showing Sephiroth pictures of his visionary thoughts on his PHS.

"It is... Appealing, though I'm not sure I'm quite so fond of how... Round it looks. Or how bold the colors are," Sephiroth says, and Zack tilts his head in thought.

"Yeah, I guess I can see that! You'd probably dig a more classical, Victorian look then. Let's see what we can make happen," Zack says, tappinn a few more buttons. "Does this suit your fancy a bit more?"

"It does."

"Alright, so we gotta make it harmonize with the living room too, since you've got an open concept apartment. I'm thinking black appliances, red oak cabinets with a nice dark finish, ivory brick-tile walls. Marble flooring and black granite countertops for sure, to add to that elegant look. Gold accents? Nah, that's too much. Hm, we could do black accenting though. It would make the floors pop out more too."

Sephiroth listens to Zack ramble, thinking about a possible different world where neither of them are SOLDIER. Perhaps Zack has a life as an interior designer, and Sephiroth... Sephiroth doesn't know what he would be if he wasn't SOLDIER. Maybe a farmer, with little tiny chickens. He's content to just listen to his friend, though, and as they walk through the store picking and choosing items to decorate the kitchen with, he wonders at the strange feeling that sometimes tickles at his belly when he's around Zack. It's nothing he's ever felt before, though the closest he can compare it to is anxiety. It's different than anxiety, though. It feels... Warm.

It magnifies everytime their arms brush up against each other, and listening to Zack and focusing on the shorter SOLDIER fully allows him to ignore the stares from the people around them. He's not here as Sephiroth of ShinRa, he owes these people nothing. He's here as Zack's friend, and that's all he needs.

It's hours and hours and once more hours later that they finally begin assembling the poor kitchen, though the countertops and flooring will have to be done via installation with a third party. This means, tragically, that there are no countertops or floors down at the moment. It's a survivable tragedy, however, as in true ADHD fashion they both pile whatever happens to be in their hands onto the exposed cabinet drawers and promptly forget about them forever.

The two of them head into the living room together after a long day of hard work, and Sephiroth makes for the bean bag in the cozy corner. Following him over, Zack plops down next to him on it and then immediately squawks when the beanbag shifts underneath him and slams him into Sephiroth's side. The other man let's out a surprised off, but after a moment of shuffling and a strong enough blush to be starkly visible against Zack's brown skin, they settle together on the beanbag pressed against each other, side by side. Zack's heart is jack rabbiting in his chest, and he's certain Sephiroth can hear it.

Sephiroth can hear it, but his own heart rate is elevated to an unusual degree. He's not sure what's causing it, but he doesn't mind it. Cuddled together close like this with Zack, it feels right.

He's not sure what they're moving towards, but he knows he wants more of whatever this feeling is.

[esamastation]

Breath of the Wild snippet

Link is bored. It's a little startling how easy it's to see – how easy he's to read these days. Where before, hundred years ago, he'd been as unreadable as a brick wall, a look of serious determination as though permanently etched to his face, now he's an open book, covers flung wide. The serious frown still makes an appearance, of course, it's his default expression, Link's face simply rests in a way that makes him seem as though he's almost scowling, but now, should an emotion cross his mind… he does nothing to hide it. 

Like now, as his attention strays and his eyes wander and every so often he smothers a sigh or a yawn or a longing look directed at the door. It's in part painfully and in part endearingly clear how little attention he's paying to their meeting, and how much he wishes he could be elsewhere.

Zelda smothers a smile and then realises she's allowed herself to be distracted, and quickly turns her attention back to the meeting taking place in Impa's house.

"... a little difficult to test," Purah is saying. She's sitting cross legged in the middle of the floor, her seat cushion abandoned and papers flung about her – most of them about her anti-aging rune. "I can't even promise the test subject will survive the process, never mind that it will work even fifty percent of the time... so finding people to volunteer has been an issue."

"What, no old folks interested in regaining their misspent youth?" Robbie asks with a slight snort, adjusting his goggles. "I'd happily test it, if my work wasn't too important to risk!"

Purah gives him a look. "Well, duh. Most folk are the same," she says and shakes her head. "And besides, the population and age statistics don't exactly trend towards the elderly these days. The average life expectancy of both Hylians and Sheikah both trend about forty years younger than it used to be pre-Calamity. And the only way for people to reliably grow old these days –"

"Is to have a family or other support network, helping them," Impa muses, rubbing at her chin. "Which means they have things too dear to lose, for an uncertain chance."

"Just so," Purah says and folds her little arms, adorable in her seriousness. "I did post queries around Hateno village, of course, but I only had a couple of takers, and they all turned tail when I explained the risks. And we can't improve the chances without further testing. And we can't do further testing without candidates. And we're not likely to get more candidates with the chances being what they are - it's a vicious circle." 

By the door, Link looks ready to nod off. 

Zelda hums, looking at the papers Purah had brought, conflicted. It's incredible work, just as a concept, and Purah hadn't just left it at theory – and the results certainly speak for themselves! Purah is now, what, hundred and twenty, hundred and thirty years old? And she looks as though she is a girl of six, with all that time ahead of her and not behind. If the technology could be made reliable, it would no doubt change the future in ways Zelda can scarcely imagine… for the better, she hopes, for all the people of Hyrule.

But right now, she has more selfish reasons to make enquiries into the rune.

Zelda looks at Impa, sitting on top of a pile of pillows, her weathered, aged face thoughtful. Their eyes meet and Zelda steels her resolve. "Might there be any potential candidates in Kakariko village, Impa?" she asks.

"Hmm. I doubt it. Young Zain, maybe?" Impa muses. "Well, he's not so young. He's in his seventies, he has bad knees and no surviving relatives to support or be supported by. Bit of a sour grape, that one, though. Sceptic. Hard to convince."

"I'm sure if the Lost Princess and the Hero who stopped Ganon ask for it, anyone would be happy to give it a go!" Robbie says, slapping his folded knees. "Especially if they learn what it's all for!"

Zelda smiles, wincing, and looks down. Using her standing for such a thing… sure she'd done things of that nature before, pleading people to join their cause, ages ago… but never with the risks so high, and potential results so uncertain. She'd never liked asking people to risk their lives, for her or otherwise. Even with a cause so important...

"It would be a somewhat awkward thing to ask, though," she muses and looks down. "It is an awkward thing to ask. I'm… I'm sorry to have to ask it of you."

After all this time, all these years, all the service they'd already put in, to ask for so much more of them… but she had to. No one woman could rebuild a kingdom by herself. She needed help, she needed allies – she needed Impa and Robbie and Purah. With such a foundation, Hyrule might yet rise, better than ever, but for that to ever happen… Impa and Robbie needed to go through what Purah already had, and extend their already prodigiously long lives even further. They all deserved their quiet retirement, after all the effort they'd put in, but for Hyrule, Zelda would make this cruel request.

"Ha!" Robbie says, striking a pose. "Like I wouldn't do this without being asked! As soon as Purah can improve the odds – no, as soon as we can improve the odds –"

"What's that, you old coot, what do you mean by we?" Purah depends, bouncing to her feet. "If you think I will let you ever into my lab, mister, you're sorely mistaken –!"

"If we work together, combine the efforts of Akkala and Hateno tech labs, we're sure to succeed! With Cherry's incredible computing power and your Stone –"

"Your creepy ancient furnace is getting nowhere near my Guidance Stone!"

Link startles awake at the noise they're making and Zelda smothers a giggle while Impa sighs.

"I will ask Paya to check in on Zain, maybe he will be interested," Impa says and shakes her head. "But it's still a small test study, with only two subjects. I'm sorry, Zelda – as much as I wish to do this, I am with Robbie on this. The chances are too low and I have too much to lose, right now. Paya is nowhere near ready to take over for me here. There needs to be more candidate's, first, and I don't know where we can get them. But," she hums and looks away. "There might be someone who does."

Link yawns and then freezes, finding all of them staring at him. Then, clearly baffled, he points at himself quizzically, and Zelda offers him a smile.

Impa chuckles. "You've been all over Hyrule now, Link – you've traveled farther than probably anyone has in a hundred years. Better than anyone, you know the state of her people. Do you think there is anyone out there who might be interested in Purah's study – in regaining their youth, even at a risk?"

Link scratches the back of his neck thoughtfully and then takes out the Sheikah Slate, opening the map with an easy, well practiced wipe of his fingers over the screen. Zelda leans in, once more amazed – and a little jealous – of how far he'd gotten with it, how full of markers the map is. Hundred years ago, she'd estimated that there might be as many as a dozen sites of ancient Sheikah technology all over Hyrule. Link had discovered over a hundred. They now glow on his map, like glittering blue gems, the Towers and Shrines he'd seen and mastered.

Link zooms in on the map and then puts down three other markers. One in Zora's domain, one in Gerudo Town and last in Lurelin Village. Turning the slate around, he shows the map to everyone.

"Of course," Zelda breathes in realisation. "The Guardians never reached so far, so their populations were never so scattered or scarred. In Zora's domain, in Gerudo Town and in Lurelin, people can grow old peacefully, without fear of attack."

Link makes a face and a wobbling gesture with his hand and then shrugs. Zelda smiles, sadly. "Aside from monsters and other disasters and misfortunes, of course," she agrees. "But without fear of attacks by Guardians, they were allowed to prosper."

"Not the Rito, though?" Robbie asks, his goggles whirting and shifting like the eyes of a gecko as he looks between the map, Link and Zelda. "Or the Gorons?"

Link shrugs, rubbing at his neck.

"Gorons age like rocks, Daruk always said," Zelda muses. "And I suppose with Rito it can be difficult to tell their ages. If we send out invitations to the study, we should include them as well – assuming that the treatment by the rune isn't Sheikah exclusive…?"

Purah rocks back and forth on her feet thoughtfully, almost as though she's about to dance. "I… don't know? I calibrated the first version based on my own physiology, so it might be best to stick to Sheikah and Hylians for a start – but I can't see why it couldn't be adjusted. Gerudo are closer in structure to us than Rito and Gorons, or Zora for that matter. Might be best we start there, when we begin making modifications to include everyone."

"So, begin with Lurelin," Robbie says and nods. "How do we do that?"

"We'll make some posters and Link can zip in and out of Lurelin Village to post them," Purah says and strikes a pose. "It's just a snap for the Sheikah Slate."

Impa hums in agreement. "Best we make advertisements for Kakariko and Hateno as well, and perhaps some of the stables," she muses. "You never know who might take us up on it, and getting this technology to work at hundred percent will be a benefit to everyone."

"You're right," Zelda agrees, nodding. "Purah and Robbie, I suppose you two know best what should go on the poster. Can you make it?"

"It'll work much better, with your name under it," Robbie points out.

"We'll write a draft and you can copy it and put your royal touch and seal to it," Purah says and does an excited little dance. "This is so exciting! We'll get so many applicants and my little Guidance Stone will get to do it's thing!"

Zelda offers her a smile, all the while wondering, not for the first time… how much of a royal she even is, at this point. With the castle in ruins and the Kingdom in shambles, with no one to rule it for a hundred years… all that Zelda is now... is a story. The Princess that went to fight Calamity Ganon as the Kingdom fell asunder all around her. Not many even believe it. That might change with this meeting and the following cooperation, especially when they'd begin reaching out further, but right now… 

Princess of nothing indeed.

"So much was lost," Zelda murmurs, carefully resting her hands in her lap to keep herself from wringing them. She shouldn't concentrate on the losses. Not when there's so much to do. "It will be good to build something for a change. To improve things."

"Indeed," Impa says, nodding her head, her heavy hat tilting. "But if Calamity Ganon taught us anything, it is that we should take all due caution."

"Yes. And speaking of which," Zelda says and lifts her eyes to Robbie. "Your research in Akkala – I would very much like to hear more about it. Link showed me the armour and weaponry you made, they're very impressive – how did you manage it?"

Robbie all but launches himself into the story of Akkala Ancient Tech Lab, the research he'd done there, the progress he'd made, enthusiastically recounting the creation of his Ancient Furnace, Cherry. Zelda leans in, allowing herself to be drawn in, and by the door Link settles down with a sigh and begins nodding off again.

-

Hmm hmm. Took me 3 years, but I finally finished botw.

I might continue this one and it might end up a Stargate crossover. Who knows.