#also I love how initially her pupils go SO SMALL AND PANICKED and then she PLAYS IT OFF

[blorbologist]

yeah because that's something normal people need to be explicitly warned not to do. Vex'ahlia.

[rvmmm21]

. scent .

summary : sheltered omega wendy doesn’t heed the warnings she gets about wandering into secluded parts of the woods. so naturally, when alpha joy - who’s sitting out her rut in the exact same location - sniffs her out, she doesn’t stand a chance.

requested : yep, by rvmmm21 to rvmmm21.

[alpha(g!p)joy x omega!wendy]

tw : dubcon, overstimulation.

(my first proper a/b/o! good practice, i guess but idk why i decided to go down such a weirdly hard route when i could’ve just made them soft but uh. also it feels weird to write g!p as top? if you know what i mean? i like writing my g!p characters as bottoms or submissive... but oh well.)

...

Seungwan has walked right into the wolves’ den.

Stumbled, more like… but she doesn’t know it yet.

She should really enjoy these final moments of freedom she has while she still can. While she still has a clear head. Although how clear the head of an oblivious young omega – who has willingly – willingly – ­left the safety of her village to gather various kinds of herbs only found in the densest, most secluded area in the woodlands – must be, is questionable. Dangerously questionable. It’s not like she hasn’t grown up huddled round by the fire with her big sister, listening to their grandmother tell them stories about vicious monsters that lurked around in the shadows, just waiting to devour young children. Hell, it wasn’t like she hadn’t been warned prior to her departure that this wasn’t something she could just treat like a hop and a skip in the park. Oh no, no. There were real threats out there. Blood-sucking demons, perhaps not, but there were threats much realer than that. Threats who wouldn’t hesitate to make an absolute meal out of delicate little things like her.

Old wives’ tales are everywhere, Seungwan thinks now she’s older, just so kids won’t go out and play past dinner time. Monsters? Hah, as if there could ever be such things. She bids her family goodbye and sets off until she’s past their point of vision, nothing but stubbornness and idealism shielding her from any sort of danger. It’s still the afternoon, so she has plenty of time.

Plus, it isn’t like this route is ‘new’. Back when she was a child, her and the neighbourhood kids would often explore the ‘Forbidden Forest’, as they called it, on dares or out of morbid curiosity. Seungwan had her fair share of ‘I dare you’s’, and - once she had gotten over the initial excitement of going against everything her parents had ever told her - had found the woods to be rather serene. Somewhat of an escape, if you please.

So she knew her way there like the back of her hand. Every twist, every turn, every slope and every dip; memorised as well as the tune she hums to herself as she begins the tedious task of gathering. The shade of the trees is marvellous, and it puts Seungwan in an extra good mood. So surely when she’s exhausted from filling her basket with herbs and cooking flowers – surely when she feels the ache in her back from bending over so much – it isn’t totally unreasonable for her to lay back on the trunk of a tree and… rest her eyes? Just for a while?

It can’t hurt, can it?

Yes. As crimson pupils and a predatory snarl will soon tell her, it very much can.

Unbeknownst to the naïve, unconscious omega, her fate was sealed the minute she set foot into the woods she thought she knew so well. This was never hers. It’s hers. The greenery, the trees, and every shadow they casted belonged to her.  This is her territory; alpha territory. And this is where the cruellest one of them all intends to wait her rut out. It is nothing but a mild inconvenience to her, a sorry stroke of luck, that Park Sooyoung is no longer part of a pack. Then again, killing another in-pack alpha for no good reason will do that to you. She had left the group without a shred of remorse for their fallen member; it was survival of the fittest, anyway. And in Sooyoung’s case, a hard-hitting reminder that wherever she may go, raging jealousy will always follow. So here she is, secluded and alone, not having anything to take her frustrations out on.

Until now.

It’s her scent that sets the alpha off, all bright and innocent, and it has her suppressing a hungry growl as she pokes through the air with a heightened sense of smell. Finally, through a clearing, she finds her prize, propped up against the oak, eyes closed and dreaming. Dreaming sweet things, of course. There’s no way anything so fragile-looking, so peaceful – so delicious – could dream of anything other than rainbows and sunshine. What on earth is a human doing taking a –

Hang on, Sooyoung sniffs the air again… no. No way. A human omega? Oh. She drinks the sight of her; tiny hands, tiny feet, tiny everything. She’s so incredibly petite, Sooyoung wonders how she doesn’t have an alpha of her own yet. Either that, or she just can’t smell past the density of her own arousal to locate the lingering scent of any potential alpha. If she was really unbound, Sooyoung would love to change that, of course. But she’s not sure she has the space in her head right now for flirting and small talk. There’s a demand in her trousers that’s far too pulsing to ignore. A demand that soon has her creeping up to the blissfully oblivious girl.

…

Cinnamon eyes blink sleepily open at the particularly loud sound of a crushed leaf.

She sees Sooyoung. Then she sees the ravenous glint in her pupils.

Then it’s a struggle. Everything’s a struggle. From trying to kick free of the vice-like grip dragging her face down and backwards, to the panicked efforts of lungs expanding under the weight atop her, everything’s a bloody struggle. A good fight she’s putting up, too, Sooyoung has to admit. If only she weren’t so much taller and so much stronger, Seungwan might not be washing all her determination down the drain. It’s just too easy to flip her over and pin her down, and Sooyoung gladly lets the little omega writhe and wriggle until she’s too tired, too defeated to do anything other than meet her gaze with innocent, frightened eyes and ragged breaths. Park Sooyoung is alpha, undisputed.

God does she even know what she looks like right now?! Sooyoung’s mind goes berserk at the image of the omega trapped under her. Cheeks tinted a deep rose, caramel locks all tousled like she’s just woken up – which, I mean… – and the overwhelming smell of… just her. So soft, so warm, so vulnerable.

Sooyoung barely manages to snarl down at her with how much that lust cloud has expanded in her brain. “What are you doing here, omega?”

She sounds angry, but Seungwan can tell it’s much more than that. The hardness she feels pressed against her core is a pretty big giveaway, for starters.

“I was j-just resting… p-please don’t hurt me,” she whimpers, shivering under the alpha’s scrutiny but too terrified to look away. “Plea – please let me go!”

Though even Seungwan knows that was just a breath worth saving.

The response to her tearful pleas is a deep, throaty laugh and powerfully concentrated alpha pheromones that force their way up her nose, suffocating her. It’s overbearing, and it’s more than enough to trigger her instincts. Seungwan bares her neck, head lolling back onto the soil below them. Feeling those sharp incisors nudging the delicate skin of her throat has the helpless omega whining in submission, unconsciously tilting her chin further back so Sooyoung can clamp down on her throbbing pulse point.

After dutifully marking her, the alpha can take it no longer. She only needs one hand to hold Seungwan down while she unzips her trousers to free herself, hard and aching with the need to mate. It’s too much work to even think about stripping her, and Sooyoung simply pushes her skirt to her waist and yanks her panties to the side. Seungwan lets out a tiny gasp; the late evening mist is crisp and frigid against her thighs and it makes her feel slightly feverish.

Although she has no time to worry about a stupid draft when there’s a scorching heat now overtaking her. She doesn’t even realise how wet she is until she feels two fingers slide far too easily inside her, curling upwards and stimulating the spot that makes her cry out. A sinful grin tugs at the corners of Sooyoung’s mouth when she feels Seungwan try to push herself further onto her fingers, hips on autopilot, grinding down like she has no control over her own actions. Seems like little omega is a lot more worked up than she’d thought. She throbs with desire as she watches the smaller girl fuck herself on her fingers with her eyes rolled back in her head, but it’s so mesmerising that she almost forgets her own needs. She remembers just in time, though; just in time to tear Seungwan’s orgasm from her, laughing as she grabs her hips to hold her steady.

A small whine fills Sooyoung’s ears and she looks down. “Aw, what’s wrong? What do you need?”

It’s too adorable when she feels those trembling fingers paw weakly at her chest in a silent plea for more. Still, she leans forward, letting the girl grab onto the fabric of her shirt. “Voice up, little one,” she purrs seductively, “I have no idea what you want, and I’d never take advantage of a poor, defenceless omega.”

Seungwan tries to resist, but it’s hopeless. Her body needs it.

“Alpha,” she whispers, sending electricity up Sooyoung’s spine at the sound of her title, “plea – ah!”

Seungwan sucks in a breath, eyes screwing shut as the fingers suddenly enter again, teasing her where she aches to be filled completely.

“Alpha, please what, hm?” Sooyoung asks, a little sinister, a little playful. “Please stop? Is that it? I can do that.”

She removes her digits from her dripping heat, acting as though they were really done here.

“N-no! … please don’t leave!” Seungwan can’t help sounding as desperate as she looks, whiny and ridiculously needy, “… please… please fuck me…”

Oh, anything for you, baby.

In one fluid motion, Sooyoung sheathes her length right the way to the hilt. Tears well up in Seungwan’s eyes and cloud her vision with sheer pleasure when she finally gets what she needs. Sooyoung won’t lie either, she’s glad she did it when she did… who knows how much longer she could’ve looked at that pretty face just begging for her cock. Their combined fluid allows the alpha to build a steady, albeit punishing, rhythm, and Seungwan sobs at the arousal burning through, inner thighs coated with slick that continues to drip out of her.

“So tight, little one,” the alpha growls, nipping at a collarbone when she feels the omega’s walls clenching down on her every time she moves to pull out, greedily sucking her back in. Seungwan lets out a restricted sigh at the feeling; the girth stretching her open, the way the ridge of her head rubs mercilessly against her inner walls. It takes a few jerks for her to realise she isn’t being held down anymore. Well, not by Sooyoung, anyway. Her own burning desire still has her very much pinned in place.

For a good moment, Seungwan can only hear the wet noise whenever Sooyoung’s hips meet her butt as she decorates the silence with her own little moans and gasps. Not even the sounds of the surrounding nature registers in her foggy mind.

Sooyoung reaches down in between the omega’s legs, prodding around in search for her clit. She finds it with ease, and a keening whine erupts from Seungwan’s throat as the pad of her thumb rolls against the swollen thing with the perfect pressure. This alpha is immaculate at multi-tasking, she thinks, involuntarily bucking her hips up towards her, begging for more stimulation, begging her to never stop.

Sounding pathetic again is the absolute last thing she wants to do, but – “please, please alpha… I can’t take it, please let me cum…”

“Soo – young,” the alpha corrects her between thrusts, voice noticeably huskier as she gets closer herself.

Okay, okay, anything.

“… ple – ea – se… Soo – young,” she’s panting out now, unable to make a sound louder than a hoarse whisper, “… I’m – gonna…”

Sooyoung feels her tense up, and takes it as a cue to thrust deeper, if that was even possible. With a final gasp, Seungwan’s cumming. Hard. She’s sobs freely, shuddering and twitching at the sparks of heat ripping through her, entire body trembling. It’s immensely pleasurable… for a while.

And that’s when it all becomes too much.

“Ah! Sooyoung, Sooyoung… no, please… I – I came, it hurts,” she whimpers. She carelessly grasps at whatever is around her, trying to shift off the cock still pounding into her, and away from the pressure on her sensitive clit – but Sooyoung won’t let her.

“Don’t you dare…” she warns.

Her nails dig into her thighs, leaving pink crescent marks in the soft flesh, probably hard enough to bruise. She holds the squirming omega in place as she chases her own release, knowing she’s too drained and too spent to put up a fight. The teary omega can do little but lay there and take the overstimulation that’s driving her mad, shattering any other physical sensation she thought she had. She’s limp, but that goddamned tightness is slowly rising again, overwhelming and awful. Oh my god no, she can’t cum again, she can’t, it’s impossible. But apparently, so were the existence of vicious monsters lurking in the shadows of the woods, waiting for their chance to pounce on unsuspecting little things like her – so, she knows there are some lessons to be garnered from what she assumed was impossible and what was really not.

The thought of a second orgasm is terribly daunting, but Sooyoung’s cock and her thumb that never left her clit were pushing her closer and closer, giving her all the stimulation she needs and the heat is rising and she doesn’t think she can stop herself and she’s – she’s – oh god, she’s –

Seungwan’s vision goes stark white as she’s tipped over the edge again, falling apart with a raspy wail.

That does it for Sooyoung. The moaning, the shivering, the way velvet walls tighten around her shaft when she makes her cum a second time has her groaning as she gives a few final thrusts.

“Oh baby, yeah, I’m cumming,” she grunts, curling over Seungwan to lock her in her arms as she pumps into her, fucking her into the ground, the omega’s quivering heat milking every last drop from her.

They stay like that, both too tired to move. When Sooyoung eventually props herself up and pulls out, she’s rewarded with a feeling of satisfaction and the wonderful sight of the little omega who’s blinking wearily up at her, letting out a tiny yawn. Sooyoung wants to slap herself for mating one this adorable. Not for anything other than the fact that she can already see herself weak at the knees for this girl, and she can see herself tending to her every need, when she’s supposed to be the one in charge.

Still, now that she’s found her, she’s not letting go.

Seungwan’s fast asleep by the time Sooyoung gathers her up in her arms, mindful of the scrapes and cuts her poor little omega sustained from their first encounter. She’s so glad she got to her before anyone else did. She’s so tiny and warm and all hers.

...

i’m so sorry, i really don’t know what the heck ‘cooking flowers’ are i clearly just made that up it sounds so dumb lol.

also it’s hard to write smut when the words you hate typing are literally all the words you need to describe the scene??

[stylesvolume94]

Safeword

Same shit, different fucking day. 

Upon entering his apartment, Harry muttered this with an eye roll and huff. He drops his worn leather satchel and keys next to the small entry table, shoes and jacket following. He can smell the roast that Brayley prepared and tells himself to lighten up a bit, but his brows and full lips seem to be set in a permanent frown. 

After a long day at the office, Harry came home physically and mentally drained. He was a financial analyst since he graduated from college and was doing very well for himself, having only been there for four years. His job was demanding, and he often found himself coming back to his apartment in a foul mood. 

He'd walk through his creaky apartment door, shrug off his jacket, kick off his too-expensive work shoes, and stalk to the bedroom. He rarely stops to say hello to his girlfriend, Brayley, any more or asks how her day was, even when she prepares Harry's favorite meals and runs him a warm bath or shower. 

Today was one of those days, where Harry comes home already dreading his next workday and going over scenarios in his head about what he would say to his jackass coworkers (which makes him even angrier as the made-up storyline continues).

Harry continues through the small corridor, untucking his dress shirt with his right hand and tugging at his all too restricting tie with the left before tousling his newly cut hair with both hands to rid of his anger. Noted, he was entirely opposed to cutting his shoulder-length locks, but his boss deemed it "a bit unprofessional for the workspace, don't you think, kid?" He didn't.

Turning the corner, Harry spots Brayley setting the table, and, for some reason, he feels something deep within him that he can only guess is desire. As his gaze falls on his woman, now wiping the counters, he realizes how sexually frustrated he's been for so long, too long. He immediately starts daydreaming about how it would be should he take her right there in the kitchen; holding her up against the counter as he sucks on the delicate skin of her neck, taking her furiously from behind as she leans over the placed table, or spreading her out on the floor while she pulls his hair as viciously as she knows how. 

His visions come to an end when he hears Brayley's calm voice fill the small space. "H? Are you okay?" 

Harry could only stare at her blankly, attempting to rid the images in his worked up mind. She smiles at him. "You scared me; I didn't hear you come in. I made one of your favorites if you're hungry, and then mayb-"

"No." It came out as a grumble. A growl? He wasn't sure, and he hadn't meant to speak. Harry didn't even know he wanted to; it's as if the word just appeared. His next words, though, he thought of very carefully and with as much authority as he could gather. 

"I'm not hungry, and I know you were going to say 'maybe I could run you a bath,' but I'm not in the mood for that now. What I want,"

At this point, Harry was making his way to stand at his now-confused girlfriend's toes, leaning down so his warm breath ghosted her ear. 

"What I want is for you to get into the bedroom, strip down to nothing, and spread yourself out for me. I've had a seriously shit day, and I just really want to get inside of you tonight."

------

Any other night Brayley would find her boyfriend's dominance extremely arousing and somewhat dangerous but in the way they both like. The way that makes their relationship exciting and adventurous. Dangerous in a way that has led them to confess their desires and fantasies early on and act on them in various manners, each time going a bit further to explore their limits. 

Tonight wasn't like that. Their connection was dangerous, yes, but not in the explorative way Brayley had hoped. Tonight was seeming to turn legitimately dangerous, a kind of situation that she hadn't been in before with Harry but one that she wondered if she should stop. 

After her lover's instruction passed his lips, Brayley knew Harry was in a foul mood. His authority usually took over when he was upset or jealous, and she knew it was the former, but she couldn't get out a questioning before Harry put his hand over her mouth to silence her. I don't want to hear your fucking voice tonight unless it's screaming my name. Now go. 

Though his words were harsh, Brayley knew he was only trying to show his dominance and figured her boyfriend of three years would take care of his needs while also caring for hers. But, as the minutes progressed, she could her warning sounds going off in her head. She took note of every move Harry made that seemed just off enough for her to question his true intentions of the night. 

------

It began with his words in the kitchen, then continued when he forced her to strip in front of him, his stance threatening and features hard, arms crossed over his naked chest and feet firmly planted. She was a bit hesitant then but not enough to stop. If she were honest, she was rather wound up herself, initially. She understood his slightly exaggerated control resulted from another bad workday, thought that tonight would be a dip into pushing their limits. 

As Harry gripped her throat just tight enough for her to audibly gasp, Brayley wondered if he would take care of her needs alongside his. When he proceeded to drag her to her knees, take a rough fistful of her hair, and practically spit the single demand of Suck, she thought the answer was maybe. Thought he wanted to be more authoritative than usual, and who was she to deny his needs when he always allowed the experimenting of hers. 

It wasn't until Harry threw her onto the bed, held her hands above her head with one of his own, and roughly thrust inside that Brayley knew the 'maybe' was a definite 'no.' 

When the pair first began exploring one another's sexual desires, Harry had three rules. He would always take his time to prep her and ask if she was okay and ready before starting, and when they finished, no matter how rough the two were, Harry wouldn't let either of them fall asleep until he heard her say she was satisfied and loved him. And he was rough most of the time, yes, but he knew when care was necessary. He needed the reassurance that he hadn't gone too far. 

His third rule, Brayley feared, was about to come into play; their safeword. "No matter what we're doing or how far either of us wants to go, we use it if there's even the slightest bit of uncertainty or fear to continue. Promise me you'll use it if it ever gets to that point, and I'll promise the same. But I also promise to do everything in my power not to lose control enough for you to have to."

Harry kept his promise for two years, but when his right hand rubbing her over-stimulated nerves came up to wrap around her throat a second time, Brayley knew she had to use it. 

They both knew it had to be something utterly random so as to interrupt the mood entirely. The pair decided on 'blue.' Brayley didn't think it was very unusual, but Harry argued that 'I can't think of a single reason you would shout a color at me while I fuck you, but if you have a reason, you can change it.' She didn't have a valid reason on the spot, so they agreed on 'blue.' 

A particularly sharp thrust sent an unusual shock through her body that made Brayley grasp Harry's right forearm with both of her shaking hands after he'd released them to take hold of the headboard's thick metal bar with his left. She began panicking because not only was he not letting up after a very audible whimper of pain left her lips, but she couldn't catch her breath to tell him to stop. It took a few painful minutes for her to summon the strength to talk. 

"Hurts...s-stop...stop." Her words came out pathetically. Tears began to fall down the sides of her face, mixing with the sweat that'd formed. "Stop...blue...blue Har-"

"What'd I say 'bout talking, huh? What did I fucking say?" Harry tightened his grip on the girl underneath him as well as on the bar. His pupils blown and hair a mess as it began matting to his forehead; Harry didn't comprehend the words that he heard. He knew she spoke, but he didn't hear his name, so he figured he'd get a bit rougher. She's taking me so well right now. Maybe the limit is further than I thought. 

He choked on his next words, eyes tightly shut, and teeth bared. "I told you I don't - fuck - wanna hear you unless it's my name." He could feel the build-up at the bottom of his spine for a second time that night, could feel his girl tighten around him. 

Brayley tried desperately to calm herself, and when she felt air enter her lungs after yet another deep gasp, she shouted as loudly as she could, which wasn't very loud at all considering it was quite tearful.

"Blue, Harry! Blue!" 

------

Harry is a fragile man, a romantic one, but only towards certain people and only occasionally. To anyone else, he would come off as a hard-ass, mysterious, and somewhat intimidating person. Brayley loved that about him, though, how he was smart in choosing who to trust and when to let his guard down. 

Harry has always been affectionate towards his woman. When they became friends, he knew he could immediately trust her, and by the time they started dating, he had become a full-on softie. So when he hears her cry or finds her upset in any way, Harry instantly turns to mush. To listen to his baby in pain, of the heart or body, physically hurts him, and he turns into someone nobody but her sees. 

When his mind registered that his girlfriend, his Brayley, used their safeword for the very first time, he wasn't sure what to do. Harry stilled and stared at his lover's pain-stricken face while his right hand remained limp on her neck, and his left slid down by her head to hold himself up. 

When his eyes caught sight of faint purple prints, he felt he was going to be sick. How could you do this? How could you hurt her? Harry only looked at her as he took deep full breaths. Brayley's own hand slipped from his forearm and came to rest by her sides. 

Fisting the sheets weakly, she tried to get a sense of where she was, trying to bring herself back from what had occurred. Her eyes shut peacefully, and she was able to calm her breathing, but too often was interrupted by throbs of pain pulsing throughout her whole body. 

Admittedly, she was afraid to open her eyes and have to face the unmoving man above her. She knew he felt terrible and would apologize profusely, but she didn't want to hear any of that then, she only wanted to try and relax. Her growing tranquillity was interrupted by a shaky whimper and sudden cold on her neck from an absent hand.  

"Bray," The courage it took for Harry to open his mouth was immense, and as soon as his voice reached his ears, tears clouded his vision. 

"Bray, m'so sorry. So sorry, baby, please look at me." He was panicking, they both knew it, but this wasn't about him. 

His voice dropped to a feeble whisper. "Please open your eyes. Have to know you're okay, have to make it better, please." 

When a thick tear dropped on her face, Brayley slowly peeled her eyes open. They had met a very sad, very bright green staring at her with the utmost concern. It was her turn to whisper. 

"Haz..."

"Baby, m'sorry."

"I know...s'okay." Her voice was gentle. 

Harry began shaking his head, curls swaying, and tears still falling. 

"No! No, s'not okay, it's not. I hurt you; I hurt my girl, I-"

"Harry. I'm all right. J-just sore and...cold."

Brayley knew it wasn't all right, what he'd done, but she wouldn't admit that until later when they both had calmed entirely. If she freaked then, Harry would only become more anxious, and what she needed was someone to help her off the bed and into the bath. She was undeniably cold as sweat began to settling on her reddened skin, and she felt incredibly dirty. 

After a moment, Harry understood what Brayley needed. He had hurt and scared her, but what she needed were attention and care. He needed to make things right. 

----- 

That's how Harry found himself on the floor next to the tub, holding his woman's hand limply as he leaned his left cheek on the side. Brayley assured him he could step in with her, but he felt so guilty and was glad he was even allowed in their washroom. 

After carefully getting off the bed and into his boxers, Harry had taken Brayley to the bathroom, bridal style. She found it quite awkward, being completely naked and clammy, but Harry didn't seem phased in the slightest. He'd put her in the tub and turned on the warm water, allowing himself time to change the bedsheets, and gather up clean clothes and a towel for later. 

Upon reentry, Harry found Brayley half-submerged and resting her head on the side of the tub. When their eyes met, he immediately looked to the floor. He didn't know how he'd let himself get so angry at the outside world that he took it out on his whole world at home. She trusted him, but he was afraid she never would again.    

Harry was brought out of his head when he heard the sloshing of water and Brayley's hands come up to take hold of his face. 

"H, I know you're upset, I am too. I also know we need to talk about this, but m'too tired to have that conversation tonight." Harry's breath picked up at this, fearing she wanted to leave. 

"So," she continued, "m'gonna step out and get dressed, and I want us to sleep in our bed together, wake up together, and figure out why tonight happened, together. Because Harry, what happened happened, we can't take it back. But we can try to get through it, yeah?" 

Harry could only nod at the idea. He was so grateful in that moment, and the fear that coursed through him at the notion of discussing the night's events dissipated upon hearing her say 'together.' She spoke to him almost child-like, but he didn't care. Harry lifted his hands to lay them atop of Brayley's. 

"M'so sorry, Brayley. Truly. Never meant to harm you, swear it. I love you so much." His voice cracked, and fresh tears spilled. "You are everything to me, my whole world. Can't lose you. I promise what happened tonight won't ever happen again. I promise. I promise, Brayley. I love you. I love you." 

The last three words came out as a breath before Harry cautiously pressed his lips to his girlfriend's. Harry had a lot of apologizing ahead of him, but he respected his woman's wishes and took her to bed. Cuddling her to his chest, he thanked the heavens that Brayley was by his side, even after what he'd done. Harry had never meant for the night to turn out the way it did, and he would be damned if it ever happened again. 

[rae-is-typing]

Universal Language

Description: You, music and the Avengers

Characters: You, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Thor, Bruce Banner, Sam Wilson, Bucky Barnes, Wanda Maximoff, Peter Parker and Pepper Potts because I love her

Warnings: Mentions of PTSD, mentions of little Stevie getting beat up, and mild language. If there is something I missed, please let me know.

Disclaimer: Some are longer than others, some have dialogue, and I couldn’t think of anything for Rhodey (I’m so sorry!) Tell me what you think, I was trying something new for this one. If you want something more in-depth, lemme know :)

Word count: ~ 2.5k

Tony took you in when you were a toddler. He knew jack shit about raising a child, and enlisted the help of a nanny,. That is until Pepper made him realize how much he was missing of his daughter’s life. He didn’t even know you started crawling. However, he knew the only thing that got you to stop crying was music. He also knew that banging on things rhythmically was your favorite pastime. From then on, he knew that he was going to have a little musician on his hands.

Tony

In Tony’s opinion, the only good things your mother gave you were life and your knack for the arts, especially music. Rhodey and Pepper saw it, too. You took to music the way Tony took to mechanics. He loved your adorable pout when you were figuring the notes out, and the way your face brightened the room when you finally played it right.

The first thing he got you was a toy xylophone when you were three. He would watch you try and replicate the music he was playing over his speakers. You’d look up at him with tearful eyes when you couldn’t get it. He would gently take the mallet from your hands and copy the music, then he’d give it back to you so could copy him. Your giggles of glee when he played were something he’d never forget. He used his knowledge of the piano to help you learn music.

You were six when he got back from Afghanistan. Even at that young age, you knew things would be different. Your father had been gone for months. His arm as in a sling and he looked sick. He pushed you away for a few weeks after that, only staying in the lab, not even letting you stay in the child-proof area he had set up all those years ago. You didn’t understand why he was different, you only understand that he was different.

One night, you were playing in the main room. Pepper was done for the day, and Obadiah was far away and wouldn’t be back for a really long time; you were all alone with only JARVIS looking after you. You were trying, and failing, to play Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy. You kept hitting the wrong keys and messing up the rhythms. Frustrated, you huffed and crossed your arms.

Unbeknownst to you, your dad was behind you. He smiled softly, walked closer to you, picked you up, set you on his lap and played the phrase you were trying to. You demanded he play the rest. Soon enough, he had a sleeping kid in his lap.

You were eight when you had your first performance with an audience. It was a piano recital in a small auditorium at your school. He sat in the front, unashamedly cheering for you and loving you. He was there whenever you had solos, and he cried for a lot of them, not that he would ever admit that to anyone but you or Pepper. He records all of your performance, e even has videos of your progress from a four-year-old you playing Mary Had a Little Lamb to sixteen-year-old you busting out Beethoven like its nothing.

Now, he asks FRIDAY to play back recordings of you singing or playing. It helps him calm down, knowing he’ll always have a piece of what matters most to him with him at all times.

Steve

You met Steve when you were ten years old. It was the aftermath of the Battle of New York. Steve and the rest of the team, excluding Thor, had moved into the tower. While you were thrilled to see Natalie-Natasha again, you were a shy kid, opting to stay with Pepper or your dad and away from the others. The larger-than-life Captain America intimidated the shit out of you.

It wasn’t until you saw him sketching in the common are you began to consider him an actual human and not a walking action figure. You had been trying your hand at drawing for months, and while you had made considerable progress, your work always looked off for some reason. After watching him draw for weeks, you managed to snatch his sketchbook, flip through it when left to go get something from another room. He cleared his throat, startling you into dropping the book. You picked it up, heat in your cheeks, and sheepishly handed it back to him with a small, almost scared, “Sorry,”

He only smiled at you, ten-year-olds weren’t all that subtle when it came to spying. He sat you down on the couch, and began showing you all of the drawings he felt were appropriate. Some of them were memories of war-ravaged battle fields, and he didn’t want to give you nightmares. There were lots of old-timey Brooklyn, a man named Bucky, a vaguely familiar, but very beautiful woman named Peggy and Steve’s Ma, Sarah.

You pouted and explained that whenever you tried to draw, it never came out right. He nodded, then smiled. “I’ll tell you what, you help me learn Piano, I’ll help you learn to draw.”

Clint

Clint is a vent-dweller and, much like everyone else on the team, he struggles with PTSD. He uses the vents as a safe space, a way to escape the nightmares and the heartache from the past. However, he doesn’t like to feel alone. He often says above the lab to hear Tony’s loud music, snarky banter with his AI’s, and his empty threats to the ‘bots. Other times he’ll stay above the gym if he knows that Steve or Natasha are doing late night workouts. The soft grunts and the sounds of the equipment are sufficient to keep the loneliness at bay. On very rare occasions, he stays above the kitchen to hear Vision mutter to himself while attempting, and generally failing at cooking food.

Soon enough, he found the music room. Well, art floor.

You were up late, practicing a solo that you couldn’t quite get, but weren’t ready to give up on. He paused, getting clear tone with his hearing aids in. He soon found himself up above the floor whenever you were playing late. The music was a nice distraction, and he could feel himself become happy with your progress, small feelings of pride swelling in his chest at your success. One night, he even left a note on the piano asking you to learn and play Clair de Lune for him. The next week, you told him to be there at midnight, and sure enough, the beautiful piano tune floated up to the vents.

Natasha

You’ve known Natasha since she was Natalie. You mostly kept your distance until one day. You were struggling to play something. You fumbled with your instrument, while penciling something onto the sheet music. She watched you for a couple minutes before asking if you  needed help. You huffed out a petulant “No,” before proceeding to struggle for another five minutes. Defeated, you asked for help. She managed to help you figure out the fingerings and the accidentals.

You took up dancing a little later on, and she began helping you after your regular class. With her guidance, you quickly became one of the best dancers in your classes, always rising to the challenge with the work-ethic she helped instill in you.

Even later on, you became her pupil once more when learning to fight. She knocked you on your ass more times than you can count, and still does all the time. But, with her help, you’ve learned how to kick some serious ass.

Thor

It’s no secret that Thor is a big guy. He doesn’t know his own strength,and often breaks things when he wasn’t careful. Out of all the original Avengers, he intimidated you the most.

One day, you saw him holding your violin, examining it like a specimen under a microscope. You panicked, dropped everything and ran to him.  

You demanded he stop, resorting to pulling the bow from his hands. He was confused at the tiny child pulling the interesting midgardian play thing away from him.

“Let it go, Thor! You’ll break it!”

Thor frowned, still holding the violin.

“My apologies, young Stark. I do not know what it is, I was merely trying to find its function.” He says, handing it back to.

You relaxed a little, the initial panic wearing off. “It’s a violin, it makes music.”

“How?”

You got into position, put the bow to the strings and drug across the strings. A note rung put, and everything seemed to click in Thor’s mind.

The next time Thor came to visit, he brought Asgardian instruments for you to learn, try and play. You may or may not have cried out of joy.

Bruce

Bruce is a ball of stress, and that is evident to anyone that’s spent any amount of time with him. He uses music as an outlet, letting the sounds wash over him and makes some amount of stress go away. But there are days that things get too overwhelming, there are days where the headphones and opera don’t work, there are days where he needs something more.

Bruce knows that you play, he knows about your talent, and he’s even gone with Tony to watch you perform. There was a day when he shyly asked if he could watch you practice. You were all for it. You practiced in front of him, and he calmed don a lot more.

It became a routine of sorts, you playing, him offering some constructive criticism when he could and you even taught him a few songs on the piano.

Sam

You took the initiative of catching Steve up with modern music. One day, he sheepishly handed you The List, Working your way down, you finally landed on Marvin Gaye. Steve called his friend Sam in so you both could gush about the icon.

You and Sam ended up screeching singing Ain’t No Mountain High Enough for him, and managed not to scare him off. You called it a successful day.

After that, you had put together a playlist for him, and had your dad create a portable sound system for his wings so he could fly listening to his fave.

Bucky

Bucky came to the tower after his time in Wakanda. Tony was wary, anyone in his situation would be. He wanted you to stay away from the ex-assassin indefinitely, and you didn’t blame him. You knew what Bucky did. However, you tried not to blame Bucky either. Steve explained the situation as best he could to you, and you understood that Bucky had been taken advantage of, used and manipulated.

Now that he was in the tower, Bucky wandered around the tower when he couldn’t sleep which happened to be most nights. One night, he heard something familiar, something that tugged at his chest in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time.

“Somewhere over the rainbow,”

He remembers a warm breezy day, the alley he pulled Stevie out the night before, reaming him for fighting more than usual because of the big day they had coming up. He cleaned him up. He remembers holding a washcloth to a small blond Steve as he tried not to hurt him too bad while he berated him for fighting again that week.

“There’s a land that I heard of once in a lullaby,”

He remembers walking with Stevie to the theater, paying too much for the tickets and sitting beside his best friend watching color appear on a screen for the first time. Bucky smiles, letting the feeling of nostalgia and the longing for a simpler time linger for a moment longer before heading to another area of the labyrinth to explore.

Wanda

Wanda moved in when you were 13. You were so happy that you had another female in the tower to bond with. When she expressed interest in music, you jumped at the chance to teach her something, anything really. You tried a few things. You started with woodwinds, she couldn’t figure out the embouchure. You moved onto brass, she didn’t like the sounds. You settled on stringed instruments. Her choice was the acoustic guitar, and she was good. She picked it up almost immediately, easily learning the fingerings and chords.  Her favorite thing were duets with you, and you often played together whenever you two had time.

Peter

You saw how good Peter was for your dad. He finally had a mentee to teach. Tony really tried to get you into science, he really did. It didn’t work the way he thought it would, and damaged your relationship for awhile until he back off, letting you do you.

You were jealous, admittedly. You weren’t used to sharing your father’s attention with another person your age.

Then you got to know him. You found out through your dad that he was in marching band, and you needed to know more. You began spending a little time together, swapping band stories and laughing at memes. Soon enough, Peter hung out with you before going to working with Tony in the lab for a few hours. It was fun.

You learned the Mii Theme, the Kahoot theme and even put together a duet of meme music to annoy your dad with together.

Pepper

Pepper is your mother. No, she didn’t birth you, and you didn’t call her mom, but she has been there for you through everything. Through your father’s time in Afghanistan, the battle with Obadiah, your first day of middle school, whenever your dad was busy and you were upset, your first period. It didn’t matter, she was with you. She listened to you when you worked hard on a piece. Hell, she even helped you pick out your first professional grade instrument, despite knowing very little about them.

She encouraged you when were feeling less than, she helped pick you up when you were down, she taught how to act around the business assholes in Galas and events.

Pepper loved you and you loved her.

When the proposal happened, Pepper asked you to sing at the wedding. You took this role very seriously, singing ‘A Thousand years’ by Christina Perri and ‘Future Looks Good’ by OneRepublic.

When Morgan was born, you sang to her whenever you could. When she was old enough, you’d sit her on your lap and let her smash the piano keys like Tony did with you.

Pepper couldn’t think of a better older sister for her baby; she couldn’t think of any better daughters.

[te-amozevris]

Whumptober 2020 Ravishing Fenris!

 #prompt 9 Memory Loss  

#prompt 18 Panic at disco

A Quiet Night, just the two of them in Fen’s mansion

“Let’s see how well you handle this, my Wolf lover.” Zev says huskily, kissing the warrior passionately. Both their ears prick and Fenris gasps at first, his green eyes wide then he moans. The smaller elf pushes him against the wall and his fingers glide expertly over the pale hair and the scars at his neck. The other lets his hands explore Zev’s hips. When they feel the mutual heat, pupils dilate Fenris starts unbuckling Zev’s belt.

“Oh I’ve not done this for a very long time.” His voice is just above a whisper and the tattoos illuminate with the stimulation. Each piece of armor comes off, dropping unceremoniously around them. Zev is more tanned naked, dark trails of Crow marks from his chest circling around his abdomen. The other elf responds by kissing down his throat. “Don’t worry, you’re doing well in this.”

With a deep breath, Fenris leans back to control the lyrium. Zev gazes at him in concern, stroking down his chest which is beaded with sweat. Fenris closes his eyes and motions to the couch, somehow without letting go of each other, he tumbles with Zev below him. He smiles ferally and initiates the next bout of hot kisses. The tattoos flare again causing Fen to wince but he doesn’t want to stop.

“Wait, I don’t want you to hurt, querida. Is it too much?” Although reluctant and heady with desire, Zev sits up slowly, as Fenris lies down, arms hugging himself protectively.The lyrium warrior has never spoken about the trauma of his past, though Zevran can see him trembling and rubbing his temples.

He waits quietly, giving him time politely looking askance at the candle on the side.

“No. It’s some flashbacks, my past with.... some people , that ritual, blurred faces. I’m sorry.” Fenris urges him to lie down beside him and recalls internally the other pleasant flashbacks—how Hawke and him had sex, their fights in tandem. But those memories aren’t ready to be shared, because Hawke was his alone. He rides the wave of thrill, joy, then sorrow when she collapsed lifeless. His hands glowing, had he ripped her heart out? No blood, or wound only that she had suffered after effects of the flaring lyrium song. Fenris was screaming and shaking her, then the whiteness overtook the rest. Day of the wake, his friends questioned why didn’t he attend it? Didn’t he care for her to pay final respects?

How can he face them? No one suspected he caused her death, thought it had just been the exhaustion of the final battle and a cardiac arrest.  Zev sees the other’s beautiful eyes fill with crystalline tears, his heart aches.

The tightness around Fen’s chest loosens as he gives in to his raw emotions. He had wanted to confess, especially to Aveline who had been especially kind to him. Fenris just lost his voice and willpower as each year passed. It’s my burden to carry, and I will atone for that. How many times had I contemplated killing myself, to join her? But Varric, Donnic and all of them got  so worried for me. Yes they never left him alone, scared that he’d self harm and do some rash act. Being a mercenary, then asked to be a regular soldier in the barracks eased the agony somewhat. But he didn’t want to date or be with others- women or men. At least he could be vigilant in her memory.

Fenris emerges from his reverie, also remembering he did blurt it out to the precious girl, under his wing. Because Sabriel had been confident his powers wouldn’t hurt friends, her fervent belief that he is a hero and defender of the weak. Guilty of that unspoken demise, or murder? His worry of them letting down their guard, of accidents happening, if the Fade were to possess his Will.  I have to warn them, I may become a danger. That vishante man’s legacy condemning me to a ruthless existence of slaying—

Disobeying, sojourn and being stuck in the Dark hate swirling. But they pale off --- forming smiles, jokes and her small hand touching me assuring me not to worry, it won’t happen. My ledgers are run red and soaked, those can’t be redeemed, not what I did to the Fog Warriors and my dear Hawke. I can’t possibly let these remaining people down. Not when they continue to take care of and have faith in me. So I miss her badly, but I won’t take my life! 

She would have wanted me to live on happily....and his inner turmoil gradually stops churning, becomes a soft simmer. 

Spent and dry of tears, Fenris rubs his face and sniffs. The other elf softly brushes his tears with a silk handkerchief.

They cuddle and kiss. “It’s alright. I am here.” He strokes his trembling companion and waits for him to calm down. What happened inside?

The lyrium elf heaves a sigh, looking up. Although his green eyes have a fatigue sheen, Zevran can tell that he is not disoriented and panicked anymore. Fenris murmurs, “Thank you. I can’t really talk about it, but they were not all nightmares. Had good memories....”

Fenris doesn’t finish the sentence and drifts off to sleep against Zev’s shoulder. Ah, I really did want to hear him, but--- perhaps another time, the Antivan muses. 

The night is getting cold, and they are undressed. Gingerly, Zev unfolds a blanket to cover them both. Fenris flinches from the fabric brushing his sensitive skin, but does not awaken. "Don't worry my love, it's to keep us both warm ok? Relax." He whispers, lying down to admire his slumbering companion. Zevran had his own ritual tattoos as well, but they did not cause lingering chronic pain. He fights a great desire to touch his lover's tatuaje * , but does not want to shatter the delicate trust between them.

It had taken almost a year and more for the shy warrior to feel comfortable disrobing in front of him, and each time, Fenris expressed that others had forced themselves on him so he had deep concerns about sex. So they had just lain in the same bed, exchanging stories until they fell asleep. And in a few hours, Fenris would go back to his own room. Now the Antivan's heart swells with joy. Fenris murmurs in Tevene, rolling back closer to him. Zevran smiles and plants a kiss to his lips.

[jemkook-blog]

the reason why

word count: 5318 pairing: yoonmin playlist: the reason why by halcyosu (me)

warning! mentions of alcohol

the first time that yoongi meets jimin, it’s more like a dream than a conversation, colors whirling brightly as jungkook tugs on his hand and insists that it can’t just be the two of them and namjoon, that yoongi needs someone to talk to in case namjoon and jungkook get too caught up in each other.

“are you setting me up on a double date?” yoongi asks dryly, but he can’t find it in himself to even be a little angry when there are cheers and laughter and when the amusement park all around them is filled with life. besides, he knows that his best friend doesn’t mean anything by it. yoongi, jungkook, and namjoon had always been the power trio, but things had been a little off since two of them fell in love. it was nice to have them looking out for him as they always did, and he secretly hoped that whoever this person was, they would be relaxed enough to join their group.

he wasn’t expecting someone whose height is equal to his own with a face that looks as though it’s been touched by an angel. he’s all smiles as he introduces himself, and yoongi relies on his usual quiet demeanor to cover up the fact that he’s astounded by the galaxies that seemed to reside within park jimin.

love at first sight might be a stretch, but there’s an immediate attraction that he can feel tugging deep in the pit of his stomach.

the day passes all too soon, even though it’s been eight hours since jungkook had dragged yoongi into the park, but yoongi spends all of it trying not to betray the new feeling that he feels blossoming in his chest and spreading pink petals across his cheeks. when namjoon asks, a hint of wry knowing in his voice, he blames it on the cheap bottle of soju that they had picked up after dinner.

“i didn’t take you for a lightweight,” jimin says, his tone teasing, and yoongi reassures him that he’s anything but - he had picked up another bottle on the sly and had it all to himself. this isn’t a lie; the desperate, vaguely panicked look that he had spent so much of the day had come out when talking to the cashier, and she kindly offered him another bottle half off.

“is it the one with the sunrise hair?” she asked curiously, and she took the bitter curve of his grin as assent. she gave him a genuine smile of her own. “the two of you would look cute together, i think. if you have any more friends, though, please bring them my way. all of you are gorgeous.”

startled, he let out a bark of laughter, and the cashier looked pleased, as though that had been her intention the entire time. she passed him the two bottles and watched with vague amusement as he slipped one into the inside pocket of his loose black hoodie.

“damn selfish bastard,” namjoon says, and they dissolve into tipsy laughter. “i hate it when you pull this kind of shit on us.” he turns to jimin. “don’t be friends with him. he’s a fucking piece of shit, and i would know. i’ve known him since we were young.”

jimin flashes a smile that could outshine the sun, and it causes yoongi’s heart to pound in his chest erratically. “i think you’re selling him a little short, don’t you think? he’s quiet on roller coasters, unlike your bitch ass.”

and yoongi falls into something that tastes like love and a bottle of soju with one small comment. he’s not sure he even wants to get out.

the second time that yoongi meets jimin finally feels like reality. he’s had his morning cup of coffee, and seeing jimin in his recording studio is startling, but he doesn’t wonder if his drink had been laced with adderall like he might have if he had been seven cups deeper into his creative process.

“hi,” jimin says, looking nervous but somehow still holding himself with an alluring natural confidence. “jungkookie said that you run this studio with namjoon, and since he’s sick today, i was wondering if you would listen to a kind of impromptu audition?”

if your singing is half as angelic as your expression, i’ll beg you to join. this is what yoongi might have said in another life in which his hair is dyed mint green and he could make a girl faint with a smile, but instead he is a ceo of an unknown recording studio and he’s up to his ears in bullshit and he could really use another cup of coffee right about now. instead, he says, “what the hell do you think we are? a fucking straight to tv movie?”

jimin’s face falls and yoongi instantly begins to retract what he said, heart squeezing in undesired sympathy. if he’s looking for a studio, then he probably isn’t used to the way people bicker in this business. if he had been talking to someone else, a singer and wannabe rapper by the name of kim taehyung, he would have spat an insult right back, but this is jimin and he might not be used to this. he’s a fucking idiot.

“shit, sorry,” yoongi apologizes. “yeah, go ahead and let me hear what you have, kid. i’m excited. just know that in this business, most of us are running on minutes of sleep and gallons of stimulants. we’re asses to relieve the stress.”

and just like that, jimin is smiling brightly again, and it unconsciously brings an upward tilt to yoongi’s lips. he’s cute, he decides. he doesn’t go for cute, though, especially not when it wants to be in his studio. cute can find another cutie to date and fall in love with. he doesn’t have the time or patience for the picture perfect lifestyle that cute deserves.

the panda memory stick that he plugs into his computer makes him want to bark out a laugh, as if to reinforce the conclusion that he had just come to. “which file?” he asks, and as the younger man leans over to point it out to him, he can practically taste the scent of iris and wood. bois d’argent smells a hell of a lot better on jimin than it did on tuesday’s one night stand.

ridding himself of those thoughts, he clicks on the file entitled lie and finds it amusing that the first twenty seconds are mostly just the sound of deep breathing accompanied by a foot tapping on a wooden surface. the rosy burn on jimin’s face also indicates that he hadn’t checked the file closely beforehand. it’s unprofessional, but then the singing begins, and yoongi finds himself shaken.

jimin’s voice is so rich that it could practically be a sonata, a clarinet piece accompanied by the melodic beat that he’s unconsciously drumming out next to the microphone. in an instant, yoongi picks out the timbre of his voice, matching it and comparing it to the assortment of instruments he has on file. a full symphony blooms into existence within the confines of his information, a thrilling opera that barely has time to finish before the curtains close unsatisfyingly.

“where’s the rest of the song?” he asks, disgruntled after being thrown from his thoughts.

jimin has the decency to look embarrassed as he explains, saying, “today was the only day that i would be able to come to the studio for a week or so, and i really wanted to show it to you before i lost my nerve. i know that it’s not great, or even finished, but i thought that you might be able to salvage it.”

a frown curves across yoongi’s face. “not good? fuck, if that’s not good, then half the singers we have in this shithole are worse than dirt.” he softens as he looks at the boy (that’s really what he is in this moment, a boy with his heart and his dreams on the line and hadn’t that been yoongi once?) and, unable to resist the urge, claps his hand against the other’s back reassuringly. “you did well, jimin. i’d love to have you with us. we’re not exactly big or formal, but we’re like a family. i hope you like it with us.”

“i have a punch card to the coffee shop across the street. i was practically a member anyway.” the joke comes out easily, but there’s relief in the crescent moons of his eyes and joy lifting his features and yoongi wonders how an honest opinion can mean so much to someone brimming with talent.

but because he is min yoongi, full time ceo and full time trainwreck, he doesn’t voice those thoughts. instead, he says, with a smile bordering on fondness, “well, i’m glad we made it official.”

the fifth time that yoongi meets jimin is more like a hallucination than any of the pleasantness that had been evident in their previous visits. jimin had come to the studio twice since the initial meeting, and each time, yoongi had been more and more tired. he covered it well with coffee and five hour energy, however, so an unsuspecting jimin hadn’t noticed the massive bags under his eyes.

today, though, he’s running on six hours of sleep in the last two weeks and about seven cups of coffee today alone, and he feels certain that if a cop were to pull him over, they’d arrest him for drunk driving.

he stumbles into a convenience store at one in the morning, and the cashier makes no assumptions, because she’s seen enough of his early morning runs to know that he doesn’t overindulge in drink; work is his vice. she moves away from the counter and begins gathering things that she knows he’ll be looking for. he has a slight suspicion that she has a crush on him, and it causes a distant laugh to echo from a mouth that doesn’t feel like his. how anyone could harbor feelings for a man that walks around like a half-dead scavenger is beyond him.

he rounds the corner, looking for some ramyun, and collides with someone who smells like faded myrrh and crushed iris.

“yoongi? it��s one in the morning. what are you doing?”

and with pupils blown wide and a manic smile on his face, he supposes that he does look a little crazed, especially to someone who is as unfamiliar with his habits as jimin is. “i could ask the same of you, sunshine.”

the cashier brushes against him as she passes him, the choking scent of vanilla and honey replacing jimin’s for a moment as she grabs his usual relaxing tea from the shelf. she flashes him a ruby red smile, and yoongi wonders why she’s so dressed up to sell to drunkards. the moment she’s not looking, he wrinkles his nose.

jimin giggles, and it’s only then that yoongi can make out the smudge of eyeliner around his eyes and the tight leather of his pants. his heart seizes, and it’s all he can do to take a deep breath and resist the urge to push past the other man and rush the cashier into checking him out. “sometimes i go out and have fun, but something tells me you don’t have time for that.”

“don’t give me that fucking sass,” he responds, but the way that he sways from side to side and the listless tone of his voice drains all the bite from his words. “i used to club when i had the time. namjoon and i go when we aren’t swamped, although that’s practically never. where do you think i built up my alcohol tolerance?”

“drinking yourself into a stupor so you can sleep?” but the flirtatious (flirtatious?) tilt of jimin’s mouth and the teasing lilt to his voice says that he doesn’t mean it, or, at least, he doesn’t mean it enough to hurt. yoongi decides that he likes the night version of jimin just as much as he likes the day version. the harsh convenience store lights turn his hair into fire, and there’s a hunger to him that’s concealed in the daytime.

it’s a familiar hunger. he too longs for greatness, proof that he is better than anyone could have imagined. occasionally, it’s nice to have a reminder that he’s not alone.

maybe that’s what compels him to invite jimin to his apartment, or maybe it’s the lack of sleep convincing him that this could be a good idea, but either way, their stuff is bought together, with small bickering about who should pay for what (yoongi wanted to pay for all of his stuff, and jimin wanted to split it in half.).  in the end, they both stumble into the shithole that’s yoongi’s apartment laughing about something that he can’t remember.

“eat your ramyun before it gets cold,” jimin says, and it sounds so caring and so concerned that he shoots the other boy a glare.

he does eats the ramyun, though, because it would be stupid to let it go to waste just to prove a point to the younger man.

he’s halfway through the tteokbokki when he begins to feel tired, the food combination finally lulling him to a more restful state. jimin is in the middle of a story, though, and he finds that he likes the sound of the other’s voice. it’s lively in a way that he’s not used to, and he discovers that he wants to hear it more and more with each syllable that his sunrise boy utters.

but since when did he become his sunrise boy, instead of the boy at the carnival with the pretty smile and the bright laughter?

and then his head is resting on jimin’s lap, and this is not what friends do, especially not a friend he’s only known for a month, tops, but does it matter? not to yoongi, who feels like heaven is somewhere between sleep and wakefulness and the hand that strokes through his hair. not to jimin, who has such a look of serenity on his face that the black haired man feels as though if he breathes too deeply, the whole thing will shatter. not to anyone else in this world, because this is a moment made for the two of them and the only thing that’s real is the warmth that surrounds him.

“good night, yoongi,” jimin says, and he shifts yoongi’s head so that he can lie down beside him. he curls into the other’s side, and it’s the most restful night yoongi has had in ages.

the sixth meeting comes the following morning, when yoongi opens his eyes languidly and finds pink hair tucked under his chin and resting against his chin. jimin’s voice is muffled against the shirt that yoongi was wearing yesterday, but yoongi can still hear his cheerful, sleep laced good morning.

“you stayed over? what a fucking idiot.”

“i’ll make breakfast while you shower.”

“that’s what the gamdongran is for,” yoongi grumbles, but he disentangles himself from jimin and shuffles over to the bathroom and showers in what, for him, is record time. fifteen minutes later, he’s pulling on a black sweater to complement his ripped jeans as he enters the kitchen, marginally more awake than he had been. five hours of sleep feels good, and he smugly tallies his hours of sleep to eleven in two weeks. almost an hour per night; namjoon will be jealous.

“the way you live is unhealthy,” jimin chastises, as though he’s known yoongi for long enough to tell him how to live his life. “i could barely find a vegetable in your refrigerator. how do you expect to live a full life when you have no nutrients and no restorative sleep?”

“as a wise man once said, live fast, die young, bad girls do it well.” the tone of yoongi’s voice is flat as he repeats the lyrics, and something about the absurdity of the situation, of this whole morning, causes them both to laugh uncontrollably. yoongi is starting his morning with the sunrise, and the colors are so pretty that he can’t do anything but laugh and laugh.

when they sober, jimin barely saves the bacon he had cooked from burning and grabs the gamdongran. it’s a more nutritious breakfast than yoongi has had in a month, and he finds himself devouring it hungrily.

“you should come finish the song today,” he says through a mouthful of egg, and chokes on laughter as jimin wrinkles his nose. “we can finish it if we work hard.”

“and by hard, you mean until three in the morning.”

the corner of his mouth twitches. “hey, hard work takes time. don’t be such a bitch about it, or you’ll never get anywhere even if your voice sounds like sunlight.”

“i found you playing online go fish last time i came in.” but there’s something softer about his demeanor now, and yoongi realizes that his compliment had sent jimin reeling.

so he smiles and smiles and smiles, wider than he ever has before, because jimin deserves to know that he is incredible. “fuck off. i was taking a break, and anyway, taehyung bet that i couldn’t beat him, so i had to put him in his place.”

“is go fish even a skill based game?”

“you have to smell the scent of a four of a kind, jimin. any pro go fish player knows that.”

the ridiculousness of this statement sets them off again, and this time, jimin laughs so hard that he has to rest his forehead on the cool countertop, shoulders heaving wildly as he tries to contain himself. “you’re-” he’s cut off by another burst of laughter, tears streaming down his face. “you’re so fucking dumb.”

only for you, he wants to say, or maybe it would be what he would say in a different timeline, an alternate universe, but instead, he sticks to what he knows. “get your ass into my closet and pick out something to wear, you little shit. we’re going to the studio whether you like it or not.” there’s still a trace of a smile on his face.

he doesn’t expect to be so incredibly affected by seeing jimin in one of his sweatshirts, a cute kumamon piece that he had found in some thrift store. it looks good on him, but it looks positively angelic with jimin’s bright smile. there are still leftover smudges of eyeliner around his eyes, but he looks better with it than anyone had any right to.

but, of course, he doesn’t vocalize any of that. “are those my jordans you’re wearing, you bastard?”

jimin shrugs, causing yoongi to stick out his tongue childishly, and it’s in this manner that they begin the walk toward the studio. birds call around them, and a child they walk past idly wonders if it’s a starling. yoongi almost tells him that there’s no way it could be one, as they prefer the open countryside. it’s more likely a carrion crow, but the day is nice, and he doesn’t feel like ruining it for someone.

jimin stops at a flower shop that yoongi has passed a thousand times, but never bothered going into. “what’s your favorite flower?” he asks, and yoongi struggles for a moment before claiming iris as his favorite.

”mine too,” jimin says, and yoongi feels as though some secret that he wasn’t even aware of has been revealed.

his sunrise boy goes into the flower shop, seokjin’s sprouts, and comes out a minute later with a bouquet of irises. “for you,” he says, and yoongi takes them with cautious gratitude. jimin turns around and begins walking again, and, shaking himself out of his stupor, yoongi hurries his stride until he’s caught up.

he steals glances at the other as they walk, often timed when the breeze lifted the scent of the flowers to his nose. it’s driving him batshit, all of this waiting and wishing and wanting for someone he doesn’t even know, but somehow, this morning feels like a release of the tension that’s been building in him.

“tell him,” namjoon had said without even being informed of the situation. he had a way of knowing more about yoongi than he himself did, but he supposes that those are the perks of knowing someone for so long. what he hadn’t told namjoon was that it didn’t feel like a casual thing, something where he could ignore the sting of rejection and go about his daily life as per usual. he hadn’t said that because he knew how it sounded, and how it sounds even now. six meetings is not a lifetime, not a true indicator of what forever could be, yet yoongi wants tomorrow with jimin.

he’s a fucking idiot, and he would willingly admit that to just about anyone.

“she’s cute.” these words snap yoongi out of his reverie, and he follows jimin’s gaze to an attractive woman exiting the tea and coffee shop across from the studio. she has long brown hair that cascades to her waist, and even from this distance, he can tell that she looks quite stylish. once upon a time, yoongi might have asked her for a drink and his approximation of a dance.

he makes a noncommittal noise instead and brushes by the younger man into the studio, feeling a deep breath swell his abdomen as he loosens the fist that’s clenched around the iris stems.

he doesn’t check to see if jimin is behind him. he slams the door to his shared office with namjoon open and finds the other sitting at his desk.

“bad morning?” namjoon asks, eyeing the flowers pointedly.

“it was a great morning,” yoongi spits bitterly. “and the newbie bought me these flowers while we walked here, so you can stop looking scandalized.”

“he doesn’t live in your direction. what was he doing by you?”

“he stayed the night.” namjoon starts wiggling his eyebrows, and it’s his turn to look affronted. “christ, not like that, and even if it were, i don’t inquire about you and kook’s probably disgusting sex life, so you can stay out of mine.”

“at least i have a sex life.”

“real fucking mature, joonie.” yoongi rolls his eyes, but the familiar banter has him back on level ground. “so glad to know that i run this shithole with an eleven year old.”

jimin enters, then, a pout on his face as he looks at the two of them. “you left me outside, yoongi.”

“you’re inside now, aren’t you? i thought i would do you a favor and let you look at that girl a little longer. did you get her number? creep her out?” too late, yoongi realizes that namjoon has directed a smug gaze his way. he curses himself for letting the reason for his irritation slip.

namjoon spins in his chair, a satisfied smile stretching the corners of his mouth. “i told you that he’s a piece of shit, jiminie. you should have listened to me.”

yoongi waves him off with a disgruntled look, but the others can tell that he doesn’t mean it. “shut that goddamn mouth of yours unless you’re going to do something productive with it.”

“sorry, yoongi, but i’m not sucking you off. i’m dedicated to jungkook and jungkook only.”

this time, he doesn’t bother to respond to namjoon, instead logging into his computer to access the variations of lie that he had crafted on days when jimin hadn’t been there to give his opinion or add to it. he reaches his hand out, and, like a practiced routine, jimin places the panda memory stick in his hand so he can add the files and then move into a different room where they can focus.

he downloads them quickly, and as he gets up to leave, namjoon clears his throat. “you have taehyung at two thirty today. he wants to ask about spoken lines on stigma.”

“can’t you help him?”

“he wants you. he says i’m too by the book, or some shit like that.”

“well shit, i guess he’s not wrong.”

but this is counter to what his plans are for the day, and he finds that he’s irritated by the disruption of his schedule. today would not be the day after all.

it is not the next meeting that’s memorable to yoongi, but rather what happens in between, seven shots of vodka warming his cheeks and the lingering beat of music thrumming in his veins. this time, yoongi wears the leather pants and the thick rings of eyeliner, and his head lies in jungkook’s lap, the younger boy’s hand brushing across his sweaty forehead.

clubbing with namjoon, jungkook, and taehyung usually meant complete exhaustion, and this time had been no exception. it had been nice to forget about jimin for a few hours, even if the overly bright guy on the dance floor swung his hips like jimin does sometimes, when he’s really feeling the beat of the music and is lost in the melody. even if he saw jimin around every corner and between every couple.

taehyung, world’s most social butterfly, sent people his way all night in the hopes of providing even a small distraction, but yoongi lost interest in each one quickly. it wasn’t their fault; he was too distant from the start, and, at any rate, they were more of tae’s type anyway.

by the fifth shot and second beer, he had already been off balance, so by the seventh shot, he was supported by taehyung as they exited the bar.

a tear slips out of his eye before he even realizes what’s happening, and jungkook swipes it away with one finger, almost as if it didn’t happen. namjoon won’t let him off that easily, however, and he sits down next to his boyfriend and leans over to meet yoongi’s vacant gaze.

“min yoongi,” he begins, and yoongi has to laugh at that, because his friend is so serious and nothing in his life is serious, nothing is permanent except for this room and the people in it.

so he responds with a giggle and a response of “kim namjoon”, and namjoon glares at him, and yoongi really wishes that he was a lot more drunk than he already was, because he knows what’s coming now,

“fucking say something, man. you never back down. you never give up on anything. a bystander could tell that you’re head over heels for park jimin, and yet you won’t say anything.”

“does it even matter if he turns you down?” but taehyung has said the wrong thing, and namjoon practically burns a hole in him from the aggressive stare he gives.

yoongi smiles, but it’s beyond bitter, the mixture of the vodka and the self induced stress causing him to dig his nails into his palms. “yes, it does, in fact, matter very much, asshole, so i would appreciate it if you could fuck off.”

he stands up, wobbling on his feet as the alcohol hits him, and stumbles to his room, crashing onto his full twin bed petulantly.

it’s jungkook who comes after him, and though it should be namjoon, his oldest friend, he finds himself soothed by the younger man’s presence.

because it’s jungkook, there’s no snarky comment or making light of the situation. there is only the honest truth, and that’s something that yoongi appreciates more than anything else.

“if he’s messing with you this badly, i think you’d be stupid to not explore the possibility of being with him, yoongi. it’s not like you can even look at anyone else.”

“we work together, jungkook.”

“and you’re supposed to be a mature, responsible adult. if you can’t continue to work with him despite personal matters, then i’ll say that jimin would be right to reject your sorry ass. this is not who you are. you are min fucking yoongi, and you’ve faced a lifetime of mistakes and mess ups. you are ready for anything, so do yourself a damn favor and just tell him how you feel.”

“i know,” he says, and he cringes at how pathetic it sounds. “i know, and i’m really trying. i’m tired of hiding my feelings over uncertainty and fear.”

“and that, more than anything, is the reason why you are worth so much.”

lucky number seven feels like a mistake, but it’s something that’s become unavoidable, and yoongi has decided that he’s sick of dodging feelings and making a game out of things. he is min yoongi, and he doesn’t run from things, no matter how much he might want to. he settles into a table at a cute coffee shop and begs his stomach to stop churning.

it’s just jimin, he thinks, but that doesn’t help at all, so he gives up on that train of thought. he looks more professional than he ever has in the studio, and he nervously adjusts his glasses, wondering if it’s too much. his turtleneck is too warm, and everything feels as though it’s spinning around him. he’s not ready for this; he has to be ready.

“yoongi!” the voice alone sends a shock through his body, and he finds himself tensing. jimin is a vision, cotton candy hair messy and a rumpled, oversized dress shirt tugging at his heartstrings.

he’s whipped, and they aren’t even dating.

but they have to keep up some pretense of normalcy, or yoongi does, at the very least, so he waves at the boy and notes the appreciative glances being shot toward jimin.

“it’s good to see you too, jimin,” he says, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, desperate to be released.

there’s a lingering air of awkwardness between the two of them, and yoongi knows that it’s entirely his own fault. beneath the table, his nails carve little crescent moons into the skin of his palms.

“i’m glad you invited me here,” jimin says, and yoongi silently thanks him for covering up for his complete lack of social skills. “it’s a nice place to be on a pretty day, and i like my company.”

unbidden, a gentle warmth spreads across yoongi’s face, and he has to look away in order to steel himself.

“there’s actually a reason that i wanted you to eat with me today.”

“dodging exes?”

before he can think about it, he throws jimin a baleful glare. it’s relaxing, the normalcy of the response, and it soothes him a little.

“no, dumbass.” he ducks his head and curses under his breath. what a charmer he is. “i just-”

“yes.”

yoongi’s head snaps up. “what- are you sure you know what i was going to ask?”

jimin looks so innocent, lips turned up in an excited smile. “you’re asking me to stay full time at the studio, aren’t you?”

and because this is not what he was planning to say at all, he snaps. his hand pushes roughly through his hair and his foot taps harshly against the tile floor.

it’s now or never. “jimin, i like you, dammit.”

the look on the sunset boy’s face is a lot more devilish now, and he rises out of his seat. yoongi watches with widened eyes as he sits down on the black haired boy’s lap and pulls himself closer.

“i know,” jimin says, and presses his lips against yoongi’s.

the world has fucking exploded around yoongi, and he can’t handle it, so he crushes jimin against him. faintly, he can hear mocking cheers from the group of frat boys at the table by the door, so he kisses him harder. someone coos over how adorable they are, so yoongi kisses him harder.

then they have to part for air, and jimin is more beautiful than he ever could have imagined, and he knows the reason why.