#also obligatory mention of calling you old

[aggressiveanon]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE BEST LITTLE SIBLING FUCKING EVER 💥💥💥

i tried my best because you actually mean a LOT to me, yknow?

youre incredibly kind and caring, and the fact that you actively go out of your way to check up on people is incredible.

keep on doing you, kitty. im rooting for you no matter what you do. love ya lots /p

send them so many birthday wishes cuz theyre the best -> @kittykittyanon

[jhuzen]

do you have any thirst hcs for grandpapi neuvi? if you do pls share i’m so hungry 🤲

hydro dragonussy [m.reader]

hello hello, guess who’s back to writing again? this is a warmup because i struggled hard in continuing my kaveh request wip and a buncha scenarios for sick reader w genshin men and jing yuan all at once. on second thought… i think i really shouldn’t have written everything all at once. not to mention i’m trying out quotev to publish my yandere oc/m.reader stuff for fun. + yes that is the title. it’s either that or crybaby old man dragon thirsts. you pick.

𖦹 nsfw, neuvi is a virgin old man, underlying mentions of reader being an attorney (we all know i have a bias for them anyway, have you seen my workload series? lmao), switch male reader, switch neuvi, though we’re heavily leaning on bottom neuvi for this one, honorable mentions of cockwarming and thigh fucking, brief mention of double penetration (reader receiving), gentle and rough sex, implied dacryphilia (you), breeding, fontaine rains whether or not he’s sad, his tears are the rain and i will drink them like a hungry eremite in the sumeru desert.

Let’s face it, Neuvillette has no time outside of his work as the Iudex of Fontaine, he’s constantly buried underneath those paperworks, and on top of that, when he’s not tackling mountains of cases, he’s out in the opera, presiding trial after trial when the Oratrice can already do the same thing for him.

So when you appeared in his life all of a sudden, he was new to all sorts of things. In his long life as a dragon, he has had little experience in what you can offer to him. He’s awkward for the first few moments of your relationship.

It’s the same to sex — you’d have to take initiative in every single little thing, show him the ropes like the good commander you are, and he obeys with no complaints. He sees that you enjoy it, and if you’re good at it and you’re willing to teach him, he is an obedient patient.

Old man’s heads are very clumsy at first, teeth scraping against your length while he slowly but surely bobbed his head. He’s slow, but he treats your little guy with so much care. Looking up at you with tears pricking at the ends of his eyes as he tried to please you as best as he could. Obligatory weather report — it’s a light drizzle in Fontaine.

But when you give him head, Neuvillette squirms, it doesn’t matter where he is, he could not keep himself still. It’s always obvious that even you cannot bring yourself to blow him semi-public in his office, just because you’re afraid a poor innocent little Melusine would come inside and see their beloved leader squirming around traumatize them. It would also be bad for his image if you guys get caught, so… sexy times are inside the comfort of his possibly huge home as much as possible.

Sex with him is slow and intimate, very romantic. What did you expect? He’s from Fontaine and they apparently love to romanticize things. Whether or not who’s on top when you guys are doing it, they are a lot more languid in style, like a moment of relaxation between the two of you.

A switch, though preferably a bottom. Yes, that’s right, old man Neuvillette likes to be serviced. He likes it when you’re the one filling him up so good. It’s hot and heavy, just the way he likes it.

He’s a tired man, so he’s definitely a pillow prince— no, a pillow king. He lays there and takes it like a good boy, only gazing at you with those soft eyes, hazy with love and lust while you continued to push into him. He takes your hand in his every time you enter him and he always squeezes your hand tight the deeper you go in.

Call him romantic and a basic man, but he lives for missionary. He wants to see you while he feels you stuff him full of your cock. He only writhes in the beginning while he tries to adjust around you, squeezing you tight inside him while his breath stutters, trying to take you in all at once.

If he’s the one in charge, it’s all the same, he’s gentle with his actions, though, honestly, he’d rather have you ride him instead. He likes to see you in all your glory, with you rolling your hips in such a needy manner while he kept you grounded, holding onto you as he caressed your thighs. It’s perfect for him.

Oh yeah, and this goes without saying — he’s a dragon, so he has two cocks. Fitting him in is a sport on its own, but you graduated with a major in fucking dragons, so you’re good. He’s a bit thicker on the side too, so each time you take him in, you could feel every inch of him, and every throb of his cocks is a heaven sent feeling that courses through your insides.

Please be gentle with him, he is an old tired man who hasn’t had a break. He is so vanilla that it’s boring but his cries are worth it.

He’s a very quiet man too, his moans are shy and light, a gasp here and there and a tiny whimper with every increment of speed adding into your thrusts.

Neuvillette is definitely the type to squirm and get away from you at first, but you just need to keep him still and hold him down by his thighs before you plow into him. He likes it though when you do it, it reassures him that you want to do this with him and that you’re not letting him go no matter what happens.

Another weather report: a good light rain. Not too heavy.

Now that all the sweet stuff is out of the way, rough sex is not as often as the usual vanilla one, but it’s not completely an uninvited guest between you two.

If you fucked him rough and hard, Neuvillette will cry and break. His poor pristine and unmarked body, filled to the brim with your greedy bite marks and hickeys, glowing red and bruising dark purple that leaves him embarrassed when they’re still around if you somehow managed to weasel in a rough session in the morning before he goes to work and you will be reprimanded for it once he’s home, no exceptions.

“No more of these obvious markings,” he’d say with a stern tone, only to end up face down on the pillow with his ass up while you found a loophole and devoured his entire back instead.

He hates that he can’t see you when you go rough on him, because it’s normally him ending up with his face buried into his pillow while he laid on his stomach, his hips being held up by you while you ruthlessly pounded into him without even an ounce of mercy.

He hates it, but at the same time, it does help with keeping his noise down because when you’re doing him so roughly, Neuvillette wails, he cries hard, with those pretty tears of his not letting up. He’d scream to the high heavens and were it not for the fact that your hand was forcing his head down into his soft pillow, the entirety of Fontaine would hear it.

Again, Neuvillette is a tired old man, so something so rough definitely leaves him drained, you’d constantly have to hold him up halfway through your little session.

Fucking him while he’s on his side and his one leg hooked over your shoulder is a great compromise, with how you can both still see each other Neuvillette can immediately turn his head to hide away into his pillow when he realizes he’s being a little too loud on his own good.

He’s definitely the kind to force himself to be quiet. If you fuck him without anything for him to bite into to hide his loud noises, he will cry and be embarrassed through out, barely even managing to cover his own mouth with his hand without an ounce of struggle while his body jerked up and down, following through every harsh punctuated thrust that you made into him. Weather report: Fontaine has a storm.

Neuvillette cries his heart out every time you go rough, full on sobbing and it is such a turn on. The way he makes garbled noises while he would protest into your roughness, hand gently pushing into yours while he asks for you to be gentler and go a little slower, only to cling helplessly into his pillow when his pleas fell into deaf ears.

His tears are just… divine. He cries so prettily and he does it with unwitting grace and class — somehow, he’s just innately beautiful in every thing that he does. There is no such thing as an unsightly sobbing to this man.

Neuvillette makes this soft noise in between a whimper and a gasp every time you hit his prostate spot on and he just shudders in delight, his breath shaky until he can barely think straight.

Gentle or rough, he’s definitely into breeding. Neuvillette has a breeding kink and anyone who thinks otherwise will sink deeper than Khaenri’ah. Stuff him full of your cum and he’s a happy and satisfied man.

It’s not just the feeling of your hot seed pumping him full that pleases him, but being around the Melusines, treating them like his children despite them being just his subordinates has definitely gotten this old man all too paternal. He likes the premise of being able to build a family with you, and he will nurture your children with all his being.

Thigh fucking? Thigh fucking. Though it’s rare, only when he’s really tired but still aches to please you, and even you’re too lazy to move a lot.

Bother him when he takes work at home by making him cockwarm you. He could not concentrate at all — squirming and squeezing around your cock so deliciously while you teased him about getting his work done.

Has definitely tried wall sex with you, with his back against the wall while you held him up. May or may not have happened at the opera after a heated trial when he ruled against your client and you were pissed your streak of wins on that week crumbled into dust. It’s neither your fault but the client’s, but you’re a sore loser and Neuvillette is a stoic judge.

Call him daddy while you fuck into him and he will break, he’ll go slack, his mind numbed when a rush of dopamine just infiltrated his brain every time you’d call him that.

And after all that, aftercare is a must. Treat your dragon well. He did so much for you, and you broke his old man back after fucking him into oblivion. Clean him nice and well, kiss his tears away, and wrap him tightly in a blanket while you hold him.

[kithtaehyung]

busted (3tan) (m) | myg

title: busted  pairing: 3tan!yoongi x reader(f) , jungkook x reader(f) series: masterlist | three tangerines | fireworks | house party | basketball | stay | sidewalk talk | friends | dalo | like that | anytime | sundress season | yoongi’s interlude | forfeit | flutter | video call rating/genre: m (18+) ; angst , fluff , smut ; brother’s best friend au, implied age gap au summary: when things go a bit south at your house party, decisions between you and yoongi have to be made. note: well. here we are, y’all. it’s been quite a long time, but we are back to regularly scheduled programming :’)) thank you to everyone that has supported and encouraged me throughout this whole process – and series, for that matter. i couldn’t have done this without y’all and the next part is already in the works. also i cried a lot writing this lol have fun! note 2: happy birthday, hedgehog! and to colourless and nicki and whoever else had birthdays recently, consider this my gift to y’all! warnings: language, the amount of content itself fck i’m so sorry, parties, alcohol consumption, tense situations, shoving, abandonment mentions (parental), obligatory yoongi on the phone, ch*king, head/hair pulling, reader has a pain kink and it shows oops, angst, overthinking :((, penetrative s*x, chains but come on now, protective s*x, cowgirl, or*l (m/f rec), edg*ng a ha ha, thro*tf*cking, kissing :’))), kissing D:, did i say angst?, bro😵‍💫, but also bro😭, jungkook gets a warning too, yoongi’s jeans are as ripped as he is heyo, hitting from the b b back, yoongi king of consent sheesh, multiple org*sms, spitting lmfao, sl*t/wh*re mentions, yoongi jfc lol, the aftercare y’all i–😭, the ending🧍  drop date: june 9th, 2023, 7:17pm est  word count: 18.8k gdi

-

-

Here goes nothing and everything.

It was fifteen years ago when you first met Jungkook. When the sidewalks in your neighborhood were fewer and the occupancy in your house was higher. 

A tiny boy, he was immediately ready to stay by your side, despite the limited amount of time he got to hang around before his parents corralled his energy back inside their car. 

Later on, he would tell you that had something to do with them not wanting him influenced by your brother and his group. But you didn’t know that at the time. 

Ever since the two of you met, you became the best of friends. And as you grew older, it was only natural that feelings bloomed with everything else. 

In the midst of an ever changing garden, you found something that never wavered, vibrant in color and immovable at its root. 

Which was strange. You’d never compared people to flora before him. 

But, because of Jungkook, you couldn’t help but see everyone as such—lilies, buttercups, the ones that trap to survive. 

And he was the prettiest, strongest flower of them all.

There was rain. There were storms. But with them came hope, and a pair of cheap rings that the two of you bought nestled nicely in boxes, waiting to be unearthed when you were ready.

However. 

What also came was a lesson. One that you would learn again when two of every seat remained unused in your household. 

A lesson that people are more like seasons than flowers.

They change with or without you. 

And they pass by.

“We can go somewhere quieter if you want,” Jungkook offers. And you know he’s going to suggest your room before he even utters the words.

But of course he adds a small, “If I’m allowed in there anymore.”

When he laughs, your smile is as slow as your head shake, a few memories of old tasting bittersweet on your tongue. “We can.”

“Okay.”

When you make your way to your room, you hear the thumps of music and rhythms of conversation—both casual and loud—echoing throughout the house. Some people are sharing laughs, others are scooting just a bit closer, and a lucky one is cackling before demanding that everyone hand over their money. 

All of them oblivious to the fact that you’re about to rip off a piece of your heart.

Well. That may not be the case. But based on the conversation that you had with Jungkook before your interview, this wasn’t going to be an easy one in the slightest—not for him, nor for you.

But if he’s gonna keep pushing forward, this is a stop you need to put up regardless.

During a party isn’t what you had in mind, though. Much less one in your own house.

You don’t know if anyone sees you open your door for Jungkook to pass through, or if they notice the slump of your mood, but you figure no one will care anyways. 

Until you see someone out of the corner of your peripheral.

And the skip of your heart tells you who it is.

Occupying one of the hallways a ways away, you can tell he’s very aware of you despite being in the middle of a chatty group.

But what’s on his mind? Is he worried? Is he gonna ask what this is about?

Damn it. You’re just gonna have to tell him later. You can’t exactly do anything now. 

A voice peeps from behind your tense shoulders,

“You okay?”

Fuck. 

Turning, you nod to the boy in your room before shutting your door, giving one more look to the man whose last text you couldn’t read.

And the way he stares makes you wanna bolt from everyone entirely.

When your door clicks shut, you slowly swivel, only the bass of your brother’s music pushing the walls in closer. 

Jungkook’s doing exactly what you knew he’d do, wandering around your room and either leaning in to observe, or lightly touching things that he remembers. 

The soft puff of a laugh snaps you into focus. “I can’t believe you still have all his medals up.”

Ah. He even remembers the way you have all your brother’s trophies and achievements displayed—all because you liked seeing them shine, and he didn’t want them in his room.

Sweeping your gaze along two of your walls, you let out a tiny sound of amusement while agreeing, “I can. Too lazy to take them down.” 

“I can do it,” he immediately responds. “If you need me to.”

If it had been five years ago, you would’ve been enamored that he even offered.

But five years ago is when he shattered any hopes you had for the two of you, so you turn him down yet again. “It’s okay.” 

“You sure?”

“We’re here to talk, not decorate, Jungkook.”

He stares before nodding in dejection, eyes finding something other than you. “It’s still weird to hear you say my name.”

It’s weird to say it. 

But you can’t let him know you agree, so the sound you make is half-cautious and weakly lighthearted. “You think so?”

“Ah, yeah.” He flashes a smile that still squeezes air from your lungs. “I’d gotten too used to all the names you had for me.”

“Oh, god.”

“But I guess someone else gets to hear them now.”

Goddamn it. He’s not gonna give up, just like he said right before your interview. 

“Who are you seeing?” 

“Kook…” 

“I wanna know.” 

“Why?”

He walks over to your nightstand, picking up a picture of you and your friends from years back. 

And your heart pangs at how big his back has become. 

Without turning, Jungkook lifts his head to stare at your ceiling. And if he’s wondering whether the glow stars he stuck all over it are still there or not, you don’t know if you’d admit that you never took them down. 

“So that I’d know if I still have a chance.” 

“You already had yours,” you whisper. “Remember?”

And when you look up, he’s already staring at you with regret. 

Memories start to come back, but you shove them away with force, trying to empty your sinking boat with a teaspoon. 

Every time he had walked back from school with you, every time he would make you laugh when you felt alone, every time he stayed at your place when your brother had to be out—all of them competed with each other to punch you in the gut and push you to your knees. 

“I do,” is all he says before softly placing the frame on your bed. “I fucked that up, didn’t I.” 

The times he said he’d be there when you needed him, the times he said it was gonna be okay when you struggled with your seemingly deepest darkest secrets. 

All the times you knew you’d have a long future with him. 

“You did.”

Everything leading up to the time he said you should break up before you left for university.

Right before you were going to tell him you loved him.

Your heart hasn’t beat in awhile, but you don’t notice until Jungkook starts walking towards your planted feet. Was he really so far away? How did he cover the distance between so fast?

With a sigh occupying your chest, you muse that he looks so different, but also not different at all. 

And just like the time you saw him downtown, your brain doesn’t know how to separate the Jungkook you knew from the one you see in front of you. 

Because they are still the same.

You don’t budge as he stands resolute, inches away but encasing you in his familiar presence. When his hand comes up to your face, he almost touches—but the slight hesitation has you holding your breath before he surrenders his hand at his side. 

“I was an idiot,” he admits, throat seemingly small and making yours the same size. “I never should’ve… I can’t believe I…” 

You watch as he flips his head up, and you hate how you know exactly what he’s trying to hide. 

But your soul still remembers the wound it was dealt. So while you don’t want him feeling this way, you’re perfectly okay to fight back. 

He doesn’t get to cry when he’s the reason for all those tears. 

“And yet you did,” you remind him, proud of how stable your voice leaves lips that used to seek his. “And you left me so fucking confused.” 

“I know.”

“Do you really?” 

He flickers regretful eyes your way, giving you all the room to talk. 

And you’re going to.

“Do you actually know, Kook? How fucked up that made me feel right before going where I knew nobody. No one.” 

His nostrils flare while eyebrows flinch. 

You expel a tough breath, everything that happened before bubbling up to the surface. The nights you spent wondering what happened, the days you spent feeling unwanted, the times you felt so fucking alone.

“Is it true that you even loved me?”

“Yes,” he finally shatters, face contorting and eyes welling at their rims. “Of course I did.” 

Did.

“I still do.”

Liar.

“I thought I was the only one.” You search his eyes, hating how you would comfort him in an instant if this were any other circumstance. Hating, hating, loathing that this is how you find out your love wasn’t unrequited. “Why did you push me away?” 

“I didn’t—I didn’t mean to…” He turns, unable to handle the loud silence streaming from your bones. Voice shaken, he flounders, “I don’t know. I’ve—” 

When he pauses, it’s to keep his lips from shaking. You just know it. 

“I’ve regretted it every day since.” 

“Bullshit.” 

“I have!”

“Really. So all those texts you never sent were full of regret, too, huh?” 

“No, I—”

“All those calls you never made.” 

“I wanted to call!”

“You wanted nothing to do with me!”

“No! That’s not true—”

“Liar!”

He digs palms into the soaking divots of his face, tense at all angles and making you so, so angry that this is what the both of you have come to. 

“I’m not lying!”

“You are!”

You thought it would feel better seeing him cry. 

But it’s not, it’s not, it’s not. You hate this. 

Because Jungkook made sure your tears were short-lived. Made sure to chase them away every single time—

There’s a rapid twist of your locked doorknob before you hear a shout,

“What the hell’s going on in there!”

Shit, your brother. Were you both yelling? 

…Were you both that loud?

“We’re fine!” you shout back, embarrassed that your fight somehow managed to outperform the aux. “It’s okay.”

“Open the door.”

“No.”

“You better be serious—”

“Promise!” You look toward the shouts. “We’re okay.” 

“…Okay.”

And then it’s completely silent.

But you know he hasn’t left. 

Fuck, he can’t hear the rest of this. He shouldn’t have heard any of it in the first place, and you can feel the heat of his questions coming later tonight. 

Which, you are fine answering when it’s just the two of you. But you cannot have anyone hovering right now so you go to open the door and tell him off, 

“Dude, I said I’m—”

Oh, fuck.

Yoongi’s right there with him.

And your heart fucking lurches.

Fuck fuck fuck they both see your tears and you’re getting moved aside before you know it now there’s—

“The fuck are you doing making them cry?”

“Wait, it’s not like th—”

“You come into our house after years—”

“Stop!”

“And pull some shit like this?”

Alarmed, you squeeze yourself between him and a very wide-eyed Jungkook, having to wrestle an angry wrist off a captured bicep. “Seriously, relax!”

You and your brother have a thousand differences. 

But one thing you two have in common? 

He’s just as stubborn as you are. 

A strong swipe moves you back so fast that your feet can’t keep up, and you find yourself stumbling until firm hands and familiar cologne keep you upright, voices springing up all at once.

“I’m not—”

“Hey—!”

“The fuck—”

“What’s wrong with you?” you question, commanding attention and snagging both your brother’s and Jungkook’s stares.

Barely even caring if they see where you are and who’s holding you. 

Because this is all stupid. It’s not fucking high school and you aren’t some kid that needs their useless, shitty, good-for-nothing parents to stand up for them. 

Resisting Yoongi’s grip until he lets go, you stalk up to rip your brother’s hand off your ex’s arm, voice darkened and sharp, “Get out.”

Breath hard, the reply you get is directed more at Jungkook than your own pinched brows, 

“Why should I.”

“Cus it’s fine,” you shoot out, sparing a glance at Yoongi and regretting it immediately. 

Because he’s not looking at you. He probably wasn’t ever looking at you.

No. Based on that look alone, he’s been eyeing Jungkook with an energy that sends chills straight through your veins.

It’s so unmoving, so infernal that your throat dries, forcing you to swallow before laying more reassurance on three pairs of tense shoulders. “It’s alright, okay? We’re just talking.”

“…So it’s like that?”

Jungkook immediately replies to your sibling with a monotone, “Of course it is.”

To which he moves forward again before you stop him with a hand and a shout, 

“The fuck it isn’t—” 

“It is! Fucking hell, dude...” 

You force an exhale, hating how your room is overflowing while you’re still drowning in the conversation prior. 

Because now one talk is gonna sprout into three, and you already dread what each one is going to look like when it develops. 

You hope Jungkook understands that you’re done. 

You hope your brother understands that you’re tired. 

And, above all the others, you hope to any high power out there that Yoongi understands that you are anything but finished. 

When the tension doesn’t budge, you sigh and shift your weight.

“Look. We’re just talking. But I need to speak to him alone.” You breathe with finality, eyeing your sibling and his ride or die—hating and loving how ready they are to do whatever they need to, together.

But they don’t have to do anything. 

Except let you do this yourself. 

“Please.” 

After a moment, they both look over your shoulder before your brother watches your face again. 

But Yoongi seems to have finally caught Jungkook’s attention, because his eyes haven’t broken their lock until you say something,

“Trust me.”

Two weighty seconds pass before both men nod. And they leave without a word, emotions toppling on each other as soon as your door shuts. 

When you walk up to lock it shut, you stare at the knob in silence. 

While that was massively uncalled for, it could’ve gone much worse. You can already think of over a hundred outcomes, because that’s a look you’ve seen on your brother many times. 

However. That’s not what has you lost in thought.

What keeps you frozen is the fact that you have never seen Yoongi like that.

It almost scared you, but somehow comforts you all the same. You can still feel the way he subtly squeezed you in assurance, pressing you into him when you really didn’t fall that far. There’s a jittering in your chest that hasn’t simmered, and it makes you feel like you’re halfway floating back to where Jungkook stands.

But you’re promptly grounded when you rejoin him, voice soft when you ask if he’s okay. 

“He hasn’t changed,” is all he whispers. 

And you look at the door with a sigh of disappointment. “He has a little. Still uptight as ever, but. At least I can leave the house.” 

“Yoongi was a surprise.”

Oxygen abandons your lungs before you quickly catch yourself. “They’re best friends.”

Jungkook glares at the floor in thought before exhaling, and his silence seems charged. Almost off.

“Right.”

…Well, what the hell is that supposed to mean?

Is it because he saw when Yoongi caught you? Or the fact that he showed up at all? 

“Hey,” you whisper, hoping to rope him away from whatever scary things he could be pondering. When he flicks his attention to you, it takes a lot to not flinch at his watery eyes. “Ignore them. We aren’t finished here.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” he murmurs, and your conversation jumps right back to where it was. “For everything.” 

“I know.” You close your eyes before sadness lowers your gaze. “But it’s gonna hurt for awhile.” 

Even if you get this closure, it can’t cover all the years he made you doubt yourself. Made you feel like everything you went through was a lie and that love was something you just didn’t deserve. Confidence vaporized as a result, leaving nothing but issues and manufactured intimacy for years. 

Maybe that’s why everyone said you were a bad lay before. Because you actually were. 

Through your thick haze, you hear a faint, broken, 

“You loved me?”

“I…” Don’t say it. Don’t tell him. “I still do.”

“What?”

Fuck. 

It’s true. While he broke your heart first, he still cared for it more than anyone else after him had—until recently. The only grief he gave you was the breakup, which was why it threw you for an absolute loop. 

As you grew up, though, you started to rationalize that the split was a good decision. He was moving, and you were leaving for college. How would you both have fared with the long distance? It probably would have ended one way or the other anyways. 

So while the resentment burned your heart, it didn’t quite rid you of affection. What you feel as a result is similar to before, but so very, very different. Subdued. Faded. Like jeans you wore constantly but haven’t touched in years. 

In all honesty, what broke you the hardest was losing a dear friend. 

“I do,” you finally admit, not looking at him because of your next words, “But not the way you want me to.” 

Jungkook doesn’t respond, letting the outside world bleed into the room like a bitter interlude.

When he still makes no sound, you lift weary eyes to check on him.

And your chest constricts at the way he looks utterly and totally lost. 

When you call his name, his gaze doesn’t leave the floor. When you whisper it again, the tear that falls makes you weak. “Kook, what’s wrong?”

He finally looks up, and you feel your eyes quickly reflect his. “I was so stupid,” he sniffles, wiping his nose. “I really didn’t know. Honestly, I knew that was impossible.” 

For some reason, this makes you chuckle, and a new mood starts to paint the walls. “Why?”

“Because you were so cool.” His smile hasn’t changed. And that’s what cuts the deepest. “And I was just there because I always was.” 

“What?” You start to join him in bittersweet recollection, albeit from a different perspective. When you reach forward to point at his necklace—because you will not touch the ring—you softly laugh. “Then what were these for, silly?” 

When he sighs, you can feel the cracks in his curve. “I’ve been told that I’m clueless.” 

“You are,” you say with a sagging grin. “Extremely.” 

He laughs again. So do you. 

And the both of you break all at once. 

He’s crushing you in a hug and you’re crying into his clothes, hands gripping at his jacket and shoulder feeling the weight of his world. 

While he repeats that he’s sorry, you choke out that you are, too. When he says it was never your fault, you cry even harder. 

You fucking hate this. Now that you know the truth, it hurts that much worse. You hate, hate, hate that this is what everything came to. Everything that you both went through, destroyed by one mistake at the bitter end. 

But you need to move on. You need to sacrifice the past for the future. 

“I still love you,” he whispers, and you tense when he tightens his arms. “And I’m still sorry.”

“You idiot,” you cry into his chest, and you hear him hold back a sob before burying his head again.

And the two of you stay like that. One last embrace that you both needed.

Reminiscing over everything that doesn’t matter anymore.

When you both calm, you feel like it’s been hours. 

But you move to step away first, confused at the way he doesn’t let you leave. 

What’s he doing? Why is his mouth hovering over yours? You need to move. You need to move away. 

But all you can do is plead, “I can’t.”

Still, Jungkook moves in. 

Leaning to kiss just next to your lips instead.

What once would have lit your soul on fire now feels like a tempered flame, the smallest light of a candle before it burns out. And you’re grateful that he respects you enough to not push in a time of weakness. 

You move away again, and he lets you go this time. But not without last words, “Promise me this person is alright.”

“I promise.” 

“Only alright? I have a chance then.”

“Kook.” When you give him an empty glare, dying stars still linger in his eyes. “Friends?”

His lips give away his breaking heart before he nods. “I’m not leaving you again.”

Swallowing, you spread a thankful smile. “You better not,” you sniffle. “I need to decorate.” 

He huffs, giving you one more teary stare. “If they ever hurt you, let me know.” 

“I’ll be okay.” 

After a noncommittal nod, he stands until you politely tell him you need a minute. When he leaves, you wait until the door shuts before wiping nothing from your cheek.

Wondering why this closure doesn’t make you feel better in the slightest.

You don’t know how long it’s been. Time doesn’t exactly flow when you’re caught between the past and the present. 

But when you open your door, Dom is watching you with pure, unadulterated focus.

And your face scrunches in pain before she ushers you back inside.

She doesn’t say anything as you sit on your bed, offering her shoulder even though she doesn’t prefer physical contact.

While you’re grateful—so, so thankful for her presence—intermittent sniffles are the only sound you’re capable of. 

Until you stabilize and come up for air, fishing words from your river of grief, “Remember what I told you. When he broke up with me.”

Anger simmers in her reply as her shoulder moves under your chin. You assume by the movements that she’s typing something on her phone—or prepping for revenge, either one of the two. “I do.”

“He said he still loves me.”

Your first thought is proven correct as a device plops onto your comforter. “Bullshit.”

“Dom…”

“What? Like he loved you then, too?” She scoffs. “You were the one that loved him and he cut you out. He needs to get over that.”

“He said it was a mistake.” 

“It sure as fuck was.” 

“I dunno. Something just doesn’t sit right.” You swipe at your nose. “He looked so.. I just…” 

“Uh uh. It’s too fresh.” She gently lifts your heavy cloud off her person, firm fingers squeezing out rain. “You gotta get out of your own damn head right now.” 

“I know.”

“Now.”

You break into another sob, hiccuping before nodding. “It just sucks, Dom. I d—”

“Look, I get that. But everything you’re thinking about already happened. It’s done.” A glance is thrown behind her back before she swivels around. “Focus on what you have now.” 

In your moments of weakness, you ask the dumbest things, 

“What do I have now.”

As always, Dominique is quick and to the point. “A man that’s waiting outside your door.”

Huh?

Your eyes flash up to hers as she stands. “Wait, what?”

What did she say? What does she mean? How does she know that what’s going on— 

“One minute,” she warns, far away and not to you. “Then you’re on your own.”

“K.”

Wait, what.

You don’t even realize you’re vacating your bed as you see him walk in, nodding back at Dom closing the door before regarding your wreck of a face. 

His name is molasses on your tongue.

What is he doing? Isn’t the party still on? Why is he walking closer? 

He’s not supposed to be in here he can’t be here and you’re telling him that but he pulls you in so tight that the rest of your tears rain down in sheets. 

“Fuck,” is all you can manage now, and he crushes you in even harder, as if he wants you pressed against all of him forever like a keepsake leaf on a journal page.

Your voice writes words into his clothes, silence his only reply but the only one you need. 

Even if you only get a minute, this is enough. It’s enough, not enough, enough.

When he holds you at arm’s length, his question comes out a bit fast-paced, “What happened?” 

Damn it. As much as you should probably tell him, you use precious seconds to pause, not really knowing if you want to or not. 

“Don’t sweat it,” he quickly understands, kissing your forehead just as chaste. When he moves again, you catch the tension in his shoulders, notice the ruffles in his hair. “You gonna be okay?”

“Yes. No.” Fuck, he kinda looks as rattled as you feel. What is happening right now? “I just, umm. I need a minute.”

“You don’t have to go back out there, you know.”

“But you do,” you counter. “And I just wanna see you.” 

Finally, Yoongi stops, and his whole upper body relaxes at once. A beautiful sound to your ears, amusement huffs out his nose before he mutters, “You can’t keep saying shit like that.” 

“But it’s true.” 

His chuckle is light, and mischievous eyes find the ground before they lift to yours,

“Makes me wanna take you home.” 

Well. You swiftly realize why he doesn’t want you to keep saying certain things. The zing of emotion through your body was definitely uncalled for. 

Any other day, you would want this type of conversation to keep going. And maybe you’d be a little coy about it. 

But right now, all you are is tired, and your barriers are crumbled enough for a truth to escape. 

Resigned, you step closer to wrap his waist in your arms, not caring if he can feel the rapid beats of your heart. “I want you to do that,” you admit, breath warming your face on his already warmer shirt. “All the time.” 

“Take you home?” 

“Mmhmm.” 

Yoongi runs fingers along your arm. “You know I’d do it if I could, doll.” 

If you were someone else. If you didn’t have to hide. 

If you didn’t have to wait. 

At least you don’t have to wait for much longer. Definitely can’t say anything to your brother tonight, but you and Yoongi agreed on after this party. So things will be better from here on out. 

But why does he seem so—

You’re spooked by a warning knock on your door, and you flicker eyes to see his filled with something you don’t like. 

And the air suddenly shifts to something alarming.

“Listen.”

“Hmm?”

“I know we said we’d say something.”

Oh. You shake your head, already on the same page and liking how in sync you are. “There’s no way. At least, not tonight. Jungkook—”

“It may need to be a bit longer than that.”

Huh.

What does he mean by—

“So you probably won’t see me for awhile.”

You freeze. 

So does time. 

A minute is no longer enough.

“Yoongi, please—”

“Can you do that?”

Your heart slams against your ribcage, banging and banging and screaming that what he’s asking is not possible.

Because he isn’t asking what you want to do. He isn’t even asking how long you can wait. 

There’s a reason why he’s risking all sorts of shit to say this in person. Why he seems so restless. 

And you’re already missing him so hard it hurts.

Truthfully? You can’t do this. Not now. Not when your heart is bleeding out on your own bedroom floor. There isn’t even enough time to process Jungkook’s talk and now you need to deal with this?

“Babe?”

But despite what you feel, even if your throat is seizing and your chest is caving in, your answer will be what he needs. 

Because seeing Yoongi look like this—torn and frayed at the edges—renders you powerless and protective all at once. For fuck’s sake, he looks slightly panicked and this is the second new side of him you’ve seen tonight.

And yet he found a way to be with you one last time. 

Sacrificing seconds just to say goodbye. 

So you give up something, too. Your wants and needs because you don’t think you can do this, but it seems way too important to him to not try. 

You get it. That whole confrontation probably snapped all sense back into him. He doesn’t want to hurt his best friend. Or disrupt his work environment. Or both. Whatever whatever whatever. You should’ve seen this coming.

If distance is what he wants, you’ll give it. Instant karma because you just told someone else to give you some, too.

Of course you lose someone as soon as you gain back another.

“Doll, let me know because—”

“Anything,” you rush out, and yearning taints your voice on the descent. “I’ll do it.”

He pans from one eye to the other, and you weakly reveal a crack in your resolve,

“Anything for you.”

That answer was a lot more than what you meant to say. And the next look he gives rips you into shreds. Shreds of the bigger truth you just told him with moments left of his time.

“For us,” he corrects, swooping in to give you one more soul-shattering kiss.

And with that, he pulls away, turning to retreat into the real world that proves absurdly cruel. 

You don’t know when you’ll get to be alone with him again. It could be a day. Or months. Or even longer.

But watching him go, you know you can get through this. You know you can do it. 

Because this is nothing new. Just another person leaving. You’ve gone through it before and you’ll go through it again and this time will be different, right? Right? He’ll come back. Of course he will. 

And yet there’s still a part of you that questions.

If people are like seasons… 

Which one will Yoongi be?

Fuck.

Your body is moving before the rest of you does, and you propel forward to tug him in, flooding his lips with saltwater and longing and a deluge of reluctant trust. 

And he responds in an instant, swallowing you in an embrace you’ll cherish forever and willingly giving in to your desperate tugs on his jacket.

“Yoongi, I—”

You hear another insistent knock before he slings you into the nearest wall, and he grips the back of your head so hard you sob into his mouth. 

“I know.”

His name rattles around your mouth.

“It’ll be okay.”

You wanna believe him.

“Okay?”

But you only nod, eyes filled with oceans but gaze unwavering. Because you need to see him. Because you need to see him. 

“Fuck.” 

He smashes his lips on yours once more, capturing every soft plea for him to stay and holding you so tightly that your heart splinters. And while you know this is his way of telling you everything will be okay, you have a sinking suspicion that he is fighting to believe it himself.

It’s not fair.

None of this is fucking fair. 

If he was anyone else, if you were anyone else, if your brother wasn’t the way he was, if Jungkook wasn’t in the position he’s in now. 

It was just nights ago that you cradled all his moonlight in your palms.

And now you’ll be farther apart than stars. 

Yoongi finally pulls away right as Dom opens the door, and a myriad of emotions slosh into your brain when his eyes never leave you. 

“I got us,” he vows, finger on your chin the sole thing keeping you afloat, and you suspend in disbelief that someone you know is witnessing his lips press your forehead in real time and no explosions or helicopters are crashing onto the scene.

Just a panicked “Hurry up, for god’s sake!” to indicate your friend is not amused or phased.

Yoongi finally steps away, slowly backing up before slipping out, and the door closes with only you inside—hand clawing deep into your chest. 

Because you know him well enough.

He was committing your every feature to memory. 

And the desperation in his reddened eyes hunches you forward in pain.

The rest of the party goes on. Music booms, people laugh, conversations sparkle.

And you hear them all through your door.

Unmoved from the spot everyone left you in.

Idiot🙄 [1:34am]: Hey

Idiot🙄 [1:34am]: You up or nah?

You [1:40am]: yeah

Idiot🙄 [1:40am]: Help me clean up

You scoff at your phone, letting it fall from your hand before resting tired eyes between your knees. 

When it buzzes again, you reluctantly read it with vision unreflecting.

Idiot🙄 [1:42am]: Left food for you, too

That you will leave your room for. You may have just cried out your weight in tears alone.

You🙄 [1:46am]: ok

Idiot🙄 [1:46am]: 👍

Cleaning is a quiet event, with you both doing the chores you’ve defaulted to over the years. While he clears the floors and deals with the trash, you steadily get through the dishes, scrubbing them as well as you can before placing them in the washer to dry.

A plate. A bowl after that. 

Two whisky glasses even though there were plenty of solo cups to use.

You needed this. Needed a way of going through the motions and letting your brain fly on autopilot. If you sniffle, the water drowns it out, and only the dishes get to see any lingering tears.

And unluckily for you, there are plenty of both.

“Hey.”

You hum.

“Do I need to beat his ass?”

Well, that didn’t take long. 

Frustration tears its way up your throat on all fours, “I should kick yours for what you did back there.”

“And I’d deserve it.” 

You pause.

“But I still wanna know.” 

Sighing, you shake your head, knowing that neither of you are angry enough to fight anyways. “No, okay? I was serious. We talked.” 

“I know you talked but he still hurt you.”

Your lip stings under your teeth.

“And I can’t just let that go.”

When he stops, you place another dish on its rack. “Let’s just finish and I’ll tell you everything in a sec.” 

He sets down the last of his trash before retiring in the living room, the thump of weary weight squeezing a sigh out of the couch.

And you eventually join him, water cutting off with a squeak before you shuck off your gloves. 

As you walk through the cleaned-enough rooms, you keep hearing afterimages of conversations, wondering how many revolved around your shouting match with Jungkook, or how many speculated who Yoongi is or isn’t seeing. 

All these pretend scenarios mock you from all sides. 

But the conversation you’re about to have with your brother is gonna be real. And a long time coming, quite frankly. 

You take a breath before crossing into a space that’s seen and heard many things. While you take residence in your regular spot on the sofa, your brother doesn’t deter his gaze from a television that’s not on.

But as soon as you blurt out your confession, he slowly closes his eyes. 

“He broke up with me. Before I left for school.” 

“...Why didn’t you tell me.”

Brows scrunched, you waste no time in pinning him with your response, “Did you see yourself back there? Imagine if you found out back then.”

Silence. 

“Besides,” you continue, deflating back into the cushions, “He was moving, remember? And you had enough going on. I didn’t want you to worry.”

“I always worry.” 

“It’s whatever at this point. I didn’t even know he was back until Yoo—you told me.”

Shit, that was close. 

“I shouldn’t have made it a surprise.” 

“Not your fault. What’s done is done.” When you observe the blank screen, you can see your brother aim a look your way. “Just made the whole uni thing miserable at first.” 

And the years after, too, but he doesn’t need the same details that Yoongi got. 

He sighs, hand scratching the side of his head before free-falling. When it’s quiet, you think he’s preparing for war. Prepping a vow to go after Jungkook and dealing with a problem that’s not yours anymore. 

But he doesn’t do that. What he says catches you completely off guard.

An apology.

“I’m sorry I’m always gone. Or not really here when I’m back.” 

Where did that come from? Are you already done with a talk you dreaded for years? 

This can’t be it. 

Blinking, your mouth slowly opens before you respond as level as possible. “It’s okay. I can pretty much fend for myself at this point.” 

“I know. But I’ll try to be better.” 

He’s gonna what? “Why?”

“Cus I feel… Uhh.” He moves his lips around in thought, as if the next sentence takes strategy to arrange. “I feel like we don’t really talk anymore.” 

“…Oh.”

You’re thoroughly thrown. Because who the hell is this person you’re talking to right now? What’s up with him? He doesn’t need to try anything better except calm the fuck down sometimes. And let you be an adult.

And frankly, you feel like you talk a normal amount anyway. At least, you didn’t think anything was off about it. 

What the hell happened after he left your room?

Suddenly, you see him laugh at the ground before asking it a question. “Remember when we’d go get our own food?” 

Alright, he’s definitely drunk or a clone. 

But you’ll take it. This switch in what you expected this conversation to be is a welcome one, and you softly entertain memories that aren’t supposed to be this funny. “Yeah. We’d get told to come back with our parents.” 

“Until they realized we kept going alone.” 

A memory makes you smirk. “You even tried dressing like a grown up.” 

He chuckles again, elbows resting on his knees as he watches your coffee table. “I really thought I did it, too.” 

“You did.” Thinking about all the shit you both went through, it’s truly a wonder how you’re both still here. Living and existing and doing big things. 

A rueful chuckle leaves your lips, floating to the floor. “We’re fucked up, huh.” 

“Very,” he agrees. “But who isn’t.” 

True. “It could be worse, I think.” 

“How?” 

You play with some of the frays on your sofa, wondering when this piece of furniture started to resemble thin lines of too-soft polyester at its edges. 

Did it start to give up around the same time your parents did? Or had their patience worn thin way before the threads on this cushion began to fade? 

Whichever truth remains, at least it’s still here—witnessing all the struggles and triumphs, the highs and lows, and all the times the two of you had sat in puffy-eyed silence. 

Together. 

“They could’ve left us somewhere else.” 

“Ah,” he nods, slowly shaking his head and twisting the watch on his wrist. “Nah.” 

Silent, your eyes find his side profile in due time. “No?”

And his glare burns the path ahead. Just like it always has. “I wouldn’t have let them.” 

“Oh, really.”

“I got them to leave us all this, didn’t I?”

Wait, he did what now?

…You didn’t know that. 

“Hold on,” you breathe slow. “That’s what happened?”

“We had a deal.” He sighs before leaning all the way back, hands joined at the knuckles on his stomach. “If I graduated with full marks and, uhh. Got a starting salary high enough, they’d pay for your tuition.”

The pause he makes weighs a ton. 

“And leave this to us when you came back.” 

So… He… 

Holy shit. 

You were just fucking relieved you didn’t have to pay any loans. For once, you thought your parents really had your best interests in mind and did something out of kindness before peacing the fuck out. 

But it’s all because your brother negotiated and pulled off the near impossible? 

…Is he paying loans? 

“I didn’t know any of that,” you whisper, finding yourself on the verge of tears again.

He simply shrugs, looking down at his cherished piece that he rarely takes off. “You didn’t need to. You were just a kid.”

“So were you.”

Your brother purses his lips, and you wonder what words he could be holding back. What thoughts he has that he won’t say out loud. If any of them are things he wants to say but can’t. 

“It’s whatever.”

He had to grow up fast so that you didn’t have to. 

And you don’t have the heart to tell him that university fast tracked that anyways. 

So, while grateful as hell and knowing you’ll be thinking about this conversation for years, you switch the subject. You’re already overwhelmed as is. 

And you suddenly understand what Yoongi might be struggling with, too. 

Because if he did all this for you, what lengths has he gone for his best friend? 

Shoving that thought into a far corner of your brain, you rest your head to mirror your sibling, letting your tears slide back to where they came from. “I, umm. Was wondering why they left us the house. But I figured they just didn’t wanna pay for it.” 

“It was already paid off,” he explains, seemingly just as happy to talk about something else. “Don’t ask me how I know this, but it’s how I was able to negotiate in the first place. They had four other properties, and a condo on some island.” 

“What.”

“That’s why they were rarely here. Work trips, my ass.” He scoffs before bouncing a leg. “And they had us in this place.” 

“I like it here, though.”

“I do, too, but…” You hear a shuffle of his feet before he stops. “I just. I dunno, it’s just us here. It feels...” 

“Empty?” 

“Maybe. More like something’s missing? I dunno, that’s probably lame.” 

You inhale before assuring him. “It’s not.” 

And with that, you’re both left to stare at the same ceiling, conversation stewing and simmering around the whole room.

Usually, this is when you leave. Because you don’t wanna talk about shit like this, or you simply feel like doing anything else. 

But tonight, you want to stay. You didn’t know these things about your brother and what he did, and it’s making you realize a lot of things. 

And regret others. 

A question rolls off your tongue before you can overthink it, “Do you ever wonder what we did wrong?” 

“All the time.” 

“When I think about it, I always end up thinking the same thing.” 

“Hmm.” 

You tilt your head his way. “We weren’t the adults. But neither were they.” 

And you both huff in tandem after he grins. “Damn.” 

You don’t know how the two of you got here. But it was much better than talking about anything else, and you silently thank him for not making you more miserable than you already were. 

Truthfully, you feel a little better instead.

He just needs to know for sure that you really are past the whole situation. Mostly. A healthy amount, at least. 

So you tell him. “I mean it, thou—”

“I’m sorry.”

“Huh?” You look over to see regret fill his side of the couch.

“For what I did. I was outta line.”

“Oh.” You swallow, surprisingly emotional that he’s even owning up to it. You know it only happened because he was being protective, but hearing this from him is huge. That had to be hard. “Thank you.”

“I just.. I love you, okay?” He turns to look at the ceiling again, and you quickly have to do the same because you know how that was even tougher to say. “You and my brothers.. You’re all I’ve got.” 

Liquid emotion runs down your cheek, never having been told that more than once in a single day.

It’s a shame how foreign it sounds when you say it back. 

But that doesn’t make it any less true.

“Love you, too.”

An hour later, you find yourself in bed, clutching your phone while a single question loops through your brain.  

…Calling should be okay, right?

Even if you can’t see him, or really be in the same room, this should be okay. At least, in the dead of night when even birds are asleep. When no one is awake to judge you both for lying to the people you... 

Your chest squeezes when you press down on your decision, the talk with your brother repeating in your ears.

Yoongi: Outgoing Call

It’s ringing.

Still ringing.

…And you feel your chest cave when you hear it go to voicemail.

Fuck. 

Maybe he’s sleeping already. Unforeseen circumstances like emotional turmoil tend to slow down your getting ready for bed process, so it took a lot longer than usual. Maybe he isn’t actively avoiding your calls and is just face down in a pillow you miss using.

And maybe you need to get used to this god-awful feeling as quickly as you can. 

This hollow, aching, painful feeli—

Yoongi: Incoming Call

Your chest booms when you see his name, and you try your absolute hardest to answer normally even though instant tears blur the screen.

“H—”

“Sorry, I was showering, fuck.”

His breath sounds so rushed, and you immediately wonder what he looks like if he didn’t take that long to answer. Imagining him in only a towel or less, you let out a pained chuckle before whispering, “You okay?”

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking that?”

Of course that’s his answer. “I’m not. Just wondering if you were.”

“Why would I be if you aren’t? Ow.”

Body alert, you only focus on that last syllable. “Wait, are you hurt?”

You hear a low grunt before he responds. 

“Just hit my fucking knee getting out.” 

Ouch. How the hell did he do that? “I’m sorry. You got ice, though, right?” 

“It’s not that bad. Just stings.” 

“Okay.”  

There’s some crunching sounds before you hear footsteps and hisses, and a thump before other noise crackles through. 

“Spoke to Kook.” 

Shit.

“And the guys.”

Oh. About work. “What’s up?”

“We’re gonna be busy as shit for the next month or two, so.. Guess that came at a good time.” 

Ah. No finish line in sight.

But he didn’t hide that information from you, so you appreciate the honesty. Better than him leaving you in complete darkness.

“Yeah, do your thing,” you support. “I need to prep for this interview anyway. And figure shit out if I end up getting the job.” 

“When you get it.”

You exhale, shy. “When I get it, yeah.”

“Where is it again? That blue building, yeah?”

“Mmhmm. But where I’ll be is like, third floor.”

“See? Claiming shit already.”

You realize right as he says it, but you meant something completely different. Your laugh is soft. “I meant for the interview.” 

“Mm. Well lemme know where you post up after they hire you.”

“Yoongi.”

“Fine.”

“Did you, umm. Did you and Kook talk about anything else?”

“Just work stuff.”

“Okay.” Your eyes lower. If he’s telling you everything, you gotta reciprocate. 

Even the stuff you don’t wanna mention. “He tried to kiss me.”

“What.”

Swallowing at his tone, you whisper, “I told him I couldn’t.” 

“…I see.”

Fuck. He does not sound okay with that in the slightest. Disappointed with yourself, you apologize, “I’m sorry.”

“Huh? Don’t be.”

“You sound mad.”

There’s another moment of silence, and you don’t think you breathe until he responds,

“Not at you, doll.”

Well, shit. You don’t wanna cause any friction between them, especially after the energy Jungkook gave off earlier. It’s still bugging you to hell. “Nothing happened, baby. But he felt really off after y’all left, so.. I dunno. Be careful.”

“I will. But that means I can’t talk when he’s around.”

You bury your head, watching the hours that you get with Yoongi dwindle away. Knowing Jungkook, he’s gonna immerse himself in whatever keeps him distracted. So he will most likely be at the studio just as much. “At least you were there today,” you whisper. 

“Mm.”

“Honestly, I didn’t expect that.” 

There’s a breath on the line, and you can tell he’s hesitant just by the way he moves his phone. So when he finally speaks, your jaw goes slack.

“I was there first, doll.” 

He what?

“Wait… You were?” 

He was at your door first? He has to know how that looked, right? Your brother clearly saw him if he was the one to shout, and yet there was no mention of it when the two of you spoke. 

Maybe that’s part of why Yoongi decided what he did. A decision to help you came with consequences he knew were coming. But he did it anyway. 

Your breath is suddenly short. And your head is starting to spin with information overload.

“The plan was to only check for a sec, but he had the same idea. Showed up right behind me.” 

“So… You both heard—”

“Nothing until the yelling.” 

They were there the whole time. Both of them. Yoongi first? Your brother joining him? 

Nope. This is too much. All of this is way too much for one night and your head is bursting at the seams. 

Just another reason why this separation could be a good thing. Other than the fact that Jungkook seems weird and you can’t see Yoongi at all and him and your brother really are more than friends and you wedged yourself right in between everybody—

Information. Realizations. Guilt. You’re spiraling. 

Run.

“I’m, umm. I’m gonna get off now.” 

“You okay?”

Say yes. Say anything but “No. I’m… I don’t know, I really don’t know—This is a lot and—”

“Wait—” 

“I get it and I’ll stay away for as long as you want—”

“Babe, talk to—”

“Bye, Yoongi.”

And you immediately hang up before your dam floods.

He doesn’t need to hear your grief over the past, your regrets of the present, your fear of the future. He doesn’t need to know how pained you really feel dealing with everything at once. How harsh his departure is because this is when you need him most. 

Yoongi: Missed Call

All he needs to know is that you’ll do this for him. Because he would do the same for you. 

And he’s done enough for everyone other than himself. 

But goddamn if this doesn’t hurt like nothing else you’ve experienced before. 

And you’ve been through hell.

Yoongi: Missed Call (2)

Why is he calling? Won’t this just make it harder?

Why does he keep trying if you need to stay away?

Yoongi: Incoming Call

With a heart so busted you don’t know where all the pieces are, you finally reach up to acknowledge his effort. 

And his greeting sends a pang through your chest.

“Knew you’d answer on the first try.” 

Sniffling, you say his name so, so softly.  

“You didn’t let me say bye.”

When you don’t respond, he trudges on.

“So now, you get to hear the longest good night ever.”

Huh? 

“And no hanging up this time.”

What the heck does he… mean… 

As soon as you hear the light strums of a guitar, your heart shows signs of life. And you let everything out while he gathers the scattered shards with every chord. Every note. 

Every second he doesn’t say goodbye.

A river flows into your pillow until it runs dry, and the Moon outside your blinds casts a silver blanket over your defeated shoulders.

And it’s only when you and your phone are dead to the world that the Sun steps in to peel it off with calm palms.

For the first time in a long time, you plan a sleepover at Taehyung’s. 

And after getting a rundown of what happened, he completely agrees that you both need it.

It’s been a minute since you slept over there, and rolling onto his driveway makes you remember the first time it happened. 

Your brother was outright flabbergasted you even asked. 

But after some arguments from you and very clear energy from Tae, your brother waved you off and just demanded no funny shit better happen. 

And you’ve spent so many nights over there since then that Taehyung’s one of the people he calls if he’s looking for you. 

Being reminded of something else interesting, you think back to the first time you went to Yoongi’s, spending enough time there that he ended up on the list of people to call about your whereabouts. 

As hot as he was picking up with a cheeky arm around you, it was surprising he was on that list in the first place. 

Well, maybe not. They’re best friends. But why would he—

“You just gonna waste gas in my driveway or what?” 

Snapping your head up, you see Taehyung looking bored, hands on his hips and wearing the most comfortable clothes you’ve ever seen. 

Your glare in return is empty when you finally get out, circling around to grab your stuff and take-out from the passenger seat. 

“You’re lucky I like you,” you joke as he goes to grab the food. Locking your car, you follow his grumbles into the house with a laugh, feeling a little okay already.

“How’s Jimin?”

“Still complicated, but that’s not what we’re here to discuss.”

You sigh before you poke your noodles, knowing you have quite the catch-up to get through. If only your attempt at procrastination worked.

“Eat,” Taehyung orders before taking a hearty slurp of his meal. “I don’t care if you’re sad, this wasn’t cheap.” 

“Excuse you.” He’s lucky you resist the urge to fling saucy food all over his shorts. “Also, I paid for it, the hell?” 

When your friend blows air through his nose, you scoff before silently doing as he says, pouting at the beginning credits onscreen.

“How long has it been?”

Ah. That’s a good start. 

As you peer down at your food, emotion and appetite abandon your palate,

“A month.”

“...Damn.” 

Taehyung already knows all about what happened. But even if he didn’t, you think he would’ve caught on to your increasingly depressing song choices. And the way you barely watched Yoongi during the last intramural game. 

“How’s the new job, though? Good distraction?” 

That you can talk about for hours. “Thank fuck it is.” 

“That’s good, at least.”

As your meal progresses, you continue to catch him up on everything, including the way night calls are the only thing keeping your hopes afloat. 

Because Yoongi was right. Ever since the party, weekdays have been radio silent, and you soon got accustomed to looking forward to his late texts saying he’s home.

And you’ve been okay with that. Landing the job and getting swamped with training has kept you busy, and your friends have been a wonderful salve for persisting wounds.

It just stings when you know the studio is close by. Because even though Yoongi extended invitations before, you avoid that area like the plague.

“But enough about me,” you huff. “Still complicated with him, huh.” 

If Taehyung knows you’re too sad to keep talking, he doesn’t show it. His response simply comes after a few chews. “Yeah. But”—he swallows—“Not in a way I’m mad about.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Taehyung settles back into the sofa right as a ball of fluff hops on, and you watch the movie roll by while he gently orders him to get down. “He’s not as flaky. We just haven’t really labeled anything yet.” 

That’s surprising to hear. Tae doesn’t strike you as the labeling type at all, so your question is genuine, “Do you need one?” 

A huff is what you get in return, and you can hear the smile in his tone. “He seems to want one more than me. Which is why I don’t get the hesitation.” 

“Mm.” 

That makes more sense. Knowing what you know about Jimin, you aren’t shocked he would be conflicted about something he really wants. 

Why he’s skirting around the point is the question. It’s clear to you that they would be so cute together. And sickly annoying in public. 

“Maybe that’s a good sign,” you blurt, roping your friend’s gaze and attention. Spotlight on you instead of the characters bustling about his television, you smile. “It’s like he’s scared because he cares about your feelings.” 

Not unlike what’s happening between another pair of friends you know.

Taehyung blinks, and you’ve always liked the way curiosity widens his eyes. 

But he’s so quiet that you shift. “What?” 

He keeps staring before biting an incoming smile. Before you can question him again, something brightens his expression. “You’ve changed, you know that?” 

Huh. “Me? How?” 

Your friend just grins before resting his head on the top of his cushion. “I’ve always known you were amazing. But now you look like you know that, too.” 

All thoughts fizzle out before your jaw dips. When you try to present arguments, none materialize, and Taehyung laughs at the way you physically buffer. 

“Not even denying it. I like this.” 

“Shut up,” you finally pout, embarrassed and shy when he laughs again. 

The rest of the film continues with nothing else but your commentary, and Taehyung clicks out of the queue screen before another one can start. 

“Break? Or what do you feel like?” 

You feel Yeontan’s fluff at your feet. “We can keep going.” 

“Mmk.” 

Both of you contemplate which one to pick when you feel your phone vibrate a ton. And when you see the notification, your heart leaps before crashing back down to the ground.

Yoongi [5:02pm]: Just got booked for another week

Yoongi [5:03pm]: Can’t talk now but

Yoongi [5:03pm]: Letting you know

Right.

You slowly let your hand drop with a sigh, and you can feel Taehyung’s pitied stare without moving.

“I know,” you whisper. “I shouldn’t be upset.” 

“You can definitely be upset.” 

You lift weary eyes to see that your assumption was very wrong. There’s no pity evident at all. 

Only warmth. And understanding. 

“Cus knowing him? He’s probably more frustrated than you are.” 

There’s a pinch in your chest, a sharp one that cuts your breath for a small second in time. 

Him? Being more upset than you?

You only thought about that possibility once, but you quickly dismissed it. There’s no way. 

But hearing Tae say it from a guy’s perspective—and someone that knows how Yoongi can be—gives you pause. 

It just didn’t make sense before because he sounds fine when you call, and he doesn’t really talk much about his own shit unless you ask. Which is strange considering he was fine doing so after your huge breakthrough at his place. Granted, it was mostly about good things.

Does he only hold back when it’s about stuff that stresses him out? That’s not ideal. You’ve told him before to tell you what’s bothering him, so if he’s still hesitant to let you in…

Taehyung’s honeyed voice brings you into the present, 

“What are you gonna say?” 

Blinking, you push your lips together in thought before looking at your phone again. 

If Yoongi really is more upset than you are, then you should tell him something that you would wanna hear from him. Even if you aren’t feeling so hot. 

You [5:07pm]: how’s ur back feel from carrying everyone so hard🥴 

You [5:07pm]: jk its ok<3 you’re getting recognized and it’s about time 

When you send those, something strange happens to your shoulders. 

They’re lighter. 

How is that possible? You’re still sad. 

But your mind seems to clear some junk out, instead feeling a little okay about the whole thing. 

Hopefully Yoongi receives them well. If he doesn’t, you’ll figure something else out. 

Yoongi [5:09pm]: Lmaoo I’m saying. They better run me my check and cover my hospital bills.

You laugh with teary eyes, soul feeling like it’ll live despite plans being pushed back again. 

The lingering sadness remains, but it’s dwindled for now. An afterthought to the slight happiness you feel from lifting him up instead of dragging him down.

Another message slides into the thread before you click your phone shut, so when Tae gets more food, you catch what it says. 

Yoongi [5:11pm]: Fuck I miss you

And your heart beats extra loud, mouth slightly curved and wobbly because you agree but it’s okay, okay, okay. You can both do this. 

You [5:12pm]: i miss you too.. but focus now and tell me all about it later

Of course you want to cry. Of course you want to curl up into a ball and sob. 

Yoongi [5:15pm]: Thanks doll

But just like there’s strength in being strong, there’s just as much strength in being gentle. 

Because as upset as you feel, it’s better if you don’t show it. While you aren’t completely resolute, you push forward in silence. Even if you can’t see the finish line.

The lingering feeling of anxiousness remains; the what-if’s batter your mind from the inside. But you choose to stay optimistic for him, and even you have to admit that’s admirable.

But the yearning still packs a fucking punch.

Your shoulders must be slumping to hell because you feel a warm presence settle against you, slinging an arm around and holding you close. 

The only sound you make is a quick sniffle, but you don’t move as Taehyung reads the thread on your phone. 

“You see what I see, right,” is all he whispers. 

And when you slightly shrug, he leans his head against yours. 

“You will.” 

Nodding, you feel more tears follow the paths of their predecessors, and you don’t move to wipe them away. “You’re a good person, Tae.” 

His chuckle sounds like a hearth, and you welcome Yeontan’s sniffs on your legs.

“Jimin’s lucky you’re even giving him a chance.” 

“Ah.” After squeezing your bicep, your friend reaches down to pick up his baby. “He’s lucky I gave him more than one.” 

“Oh? The luckiest then.” 

“You can do this,” he murmurs. “He’ll be ready before you know it.” 

With heavy eyes, you glance down at your still unfinished food. 

“Maybe you’re right.” 

One week turns into three. 

Then two more pass.

And Taehyung might be less correct than you thought. 

“Fuck,” you groan, clutching under your stomach. “Sorry, I’m a mess.”

“It’s okay.”

“At least you don’t have to see me this gross.”

“So?”

“You better stop.” Another eruption of pain shoots through your lower body, and you exhale into your pillow. “This is only making it worse.”

“You got a heating pad?”

A what? How does he know about— 

Oh. Right. 

…You probably shouldn’t tread waters you don’t know the depths of. 

“Yeah. But it’s too far and I’m lazy.”

He laughs in pity but doesn’t show any in his words,

“Go get it, doll.”

Because being reminded of his last relationship also makes you wonder why it ended. And wonder if that also has anything to do with his decision. 

Now hurt in multiple ways, you childishly retort, “You get it.”

“I would if I was there. But I’m not, so you’re gonna.”

“Fine.” You huff into your pillowcase, knowing you’re gonna get up because his perfect mix of support and command is annoyingly attractive. “How much longer?”

Yoongi’s too quiet for your tastes. 

“I’ll figure it out tomorrow.” 

Eyes closed, you’re silent for eons. 

“Okay.”

To your confusion, you get a food delivery at your office the next day. 

Inspecting the contents of the bag, you’re cautious until you notice a takeout box of mandu under some sweets and a few all too familiar fruits.

And at the note inside, you promptly proceed to the least used bathroom to compose yourself.

Soon.

Soon and Almost are somewhat similar.

Both can give people a bit of hope. 

But they can also be the most dangerous words to play with.

Because soon is hilariously arbitrary, and you almost believed it meant something good. 

“Going to Yoongi’s.”

“K.”

“You wanna go? He’s having a few people over.”

You bite down so hard your jaw hurts. “Nah, I already have plans tonight.”

“K. Have fun!”

When the door closes, you keep your eyes on the television.

Arms falling at your side because you know you aren’t going anywhere. 

On a random Tuesday, you finally get a package you’ve been waiting on for what seems like months, and you rush to your room to check if it’s exactly what you wanted.

When it looks so beautiful, and feels smooth to the touch, you clutch the material in sorrow.

It’s perfect.

And completely useless for the time being.

Calls have been the one thing getting you by.

But over time, even those have virtually stopped.

It can’t be helped. He’s working far too late into the night for you to stay awake, and is passed out by the time you need to wake up. 

Spending time with friends helps distract from the drift, especially when one of them keeps snapping you into the present, but they’re getting busy, too. 

However. Despite all the obstacles, you keep waiting. A season has passed, yet you stay grounded. 

Hoping, wishing, choosing to believe that Yoongi’s not gonna do the same.

You accidentally spill your drink.

And you sob. 

One chilly night, you take more of Taehyung’s advice, going to Jimin’s determined to have a good time. 

But despite the manufactured confidence you had while getting dressed up and the way you were totally fine walking in and conversing with people and the admittedly perfect vibes of the party…

There’s a hole in your chest that won���t decrease in size. 

No matter what you feed it—food, drinks, the compliments of others—it refuses to budge, and this emptiness holds weight. Heavy. Melancholic.

Painful.

As you suddenly find yourself on Jimin’s windy balcony, one with a slightly different view than the one you’ll remain on forever, dull eyes lower to your solo. 

If you forget this one on the railing, too…

Will he finally show up to hand it back? 

A sharp ache spreads as the hole expands, new tears too powerful to ignore. You know your vision swims, but you don’t move to stay afloat at all. 

Three months. 

Ninety days.

Eight million seconds. 

It only took sixty for you to miss him. And it only took sixty-one for you to feel something else. 

How many more will you end up counting? How long until you get to count down instead of up? 

You keep asking yourself that. When you know for damn sure that you don’t want to know the answer. 

A breeze wraps around your limbs as you sip, the chill cutting through your dress and making you teeter in your heels. 

Because it seems like Yoongi doesn’t know, either. 

To the point where it’s starting to scare you. 

Has he been perfect otherwise? Sickeningly. 

But something in you keeps wondering why the wait keeps extending, anxious that he could be flat out stalling. 

Prematurely saddened by the possibility that he’s reconsidering entirely.

It makes sense. At least, more sense than him actually wanting something with you. Maybe this time apart has given him the clarity to realize how rose-tinted this whole situation has been. How unrealistic and laughable.

But that night in his kitchen… 

It’s getting harder and harder to stay positive.

On the verge of defeat, you hold out your phone, clicking around until your finger hovers over a certain Call button.

You can’t.

He’s working. Someone could see your name, if he has it saved as normal as you have his.

Your finger moves a bit closer.

What the fuck are you doing? Stop. Don’t screw up everything you’ve had to endure with one impulsive decision.

But your mind is fucking bad tonight and you have no clue why.

When the screen lights up with the call screen anyway, ice water rushes through because you totally didn’t mean to call and you need to end it now. 

Hold on, it’s an incoming call?

Oh fuck, it’s an incoming call.

Your throat sears as your eyes shut tight. 

How the fuck did he know? How the fuck does he always know? 

Tears burning, you try your hardest to calm the hell down before you answer, wondering why he dubs you his good luck charm when he puts guardian angels to shame.

You can’t even say hello.

“Hey.”

Fuck. Get it together. Gentle, silent, strong. 

“Hello?”

But you can’t. Not this time. Just hearing his voice for the first time in weeks has you crumbling, and that damn hole in your chest is unquenchable. 

As soon as your greeting is nothing but a weak sniffle, his change in tone seizes your soul and squeezes.

Because it plummets.

“Where are you.”

There’s quick shuffling and a door opening.

“What’s wrong.” 

Damn it there’s keys jangling and you can’t help but sob even harder knowing exactly what he’s doing. 

Goddamn it, Min Yoongi. He doesn’t have to go home just because you’re what, sad? Pathetic.

You feel way too many things for this man and it fucking sucks that eight million seconds have gone by after you finally acknowledged them.

However many you get with him now, whenever that may be, you’re not taking a single one for granted. 

“Babe, tell me. Now.” 

“Jimin’s. Outside,” you choke out, sniffling and wiping both cheeks. “But nothing happened, Yoongi, I just—It just—” 

“Gimme twenty. Can you do that?” 

Lowering your head and expectations, you huff in sad amusement. 

Of course you can. Twenty minutes is nothing to you now. You can wait until he’s free. “Guess so.” 

“K. Go back inside and grab a bag.” 

Huh? Knitted brows get aimed at your cup as you question him.

“Chips, doll. Jimin has some in the pantry.” 

That doesn’t answer anything, so you remain thoroughly confused. “I’ll be okay,” you respond after a moment, simply assuming he wants you to replenish sodium. “I’m not hungry.”  

“I am.”

You freeze.

So does time.

And the next three seconds are enough.

“But you better bring the good shit or I’m not letting you in the car.”

After camping in the only unoccupied bathroom, you finally get a text that he’s somewhere around the corner. 

And your chest has never felt lighter.

Texting Tae, you let him know that you’re leaving and that you don’t apologize to Jimin for raiding his kitchen. When he responds, that’s when you slip out, your departure a mess of crinkling and racing heartbeats. 

If anyone sees you walking out with chips, you pay them no mind. Because you only care what one person thinks.

And seven minutes later, when you see him doubling over at the bazillion noisy bags in your arms, you laugh along at the absurdity of it all.

It’s almost enough to distract you from what he’s wearing. 

But to your credit, you don’t exactly see the damn rips in his jeans until he opens a back door for you to throw your haul in.

As if the black top wasn’t already disrespectful enough. His hair has even gotten longer, and you really, really like the new length.

“Fucking hustler.”

No second is wasted as you grab his shirt, positively melting at the way he doesn’t resist or shy away at all. 

In fact, he does the exact opposite, crushing you against his warm car so fast he has to brace himself. You welcome the way air leaves your lungs, because you’re giving it all to him with each pass of his lips over yours. 

Both of you know you’re outside, in public, somewhere you can be seen. But, mirroring the last time you kissed under a starry sky, neither of you act like you give a shit.

Just like that, everything that has haunted you fades. The worries, the fears, the doubts. It doesn’t matter how many days have passed, because it feels like he never left. 

And you suddenly know Yoongi is summer.

Endless. 

“Get in,” he rasps through a smirk. “Thief.” 

With a grin spread so wide your cheeks hurt, you respond right as your foreheads meet,

“Anything for you.”

With nothing but the road ahead and him beside you, everything is right with the world.

“You still have to gimme chips.” 

Maybe not quite everything.

Smile ruining your attempted pout, you reach behind your seat to pick a random bag, settling on the easiest one to grab. “You really made me get these just for you, huh? Are you eating?”

“Yes, my love. And I never said that.”

Well. That first sentence will never, ever, ever be unpacked.

As you shakily open the bag, you hope his music hides your shiver, “Such a smartass.”

“You’re the smartass.”

“Don’t act like you aren’t smart, too,” you laugh, tugging down your dress because he has his car pretty cold tonight. “I know you are.” 

When Yoongi reaches to grab some crisps, his blatant stare on your thighs makes you squirm. “Why?” 

“I just… You read.” 

To your chagrin, he laughs in surprise, forcing you to look out the window. 

Which makes you miss the way he turns down the fans. “I’m smart cus I read? How do you even know?”

“You have books under your coffee table,” you answer without doubt as he digs for more chips. “And you don’t have decor just to have it, so…”

He cocks a brow before focusing on the road, licking his fingers and giving you grief. “I moved those, by the way.”

“Em”—you cough—“Embarrassed?”

“Proactive.”

“Huh? For what?”

He can barely contain his spreading curve. “The next time you decide to fuck up my place.” 

Your heartbeat skips as you gawk, and the current song is overshadowed by your playful shouts and tickle attempts. “Oh, bullshit!”

“You soaked—aish—my whole apartment!”

“That was you!”

“No?”

“Yes? I was nice and only got your head wet!”

Yoongi glances at you then, head tilted up in cockiness and wide smirk slicing through your every thought.

And you glitch when you realize why.

Settling back into your seat with arms guarding your shyness, you sniff upward. “Ugh. Whatever… I’m right.” 

He chuckles a bit before making a turn, and the scenery starts getting familiar.

Way too familiar.

Wait, he’s taking you back to your house?

No no no. Why is he taking you there? 

You got into his car fully prepared to go back to his place, consequences and shit be damned. Everything else be damned. One night is all you want right now, and there’s no way you aren’t going without a fight.

All sense of the current mood dissipates when you grip his forearm. “Not there.” 

He flicks his gaze, rolling to a stop at an intersection that’s frighteningly close. And his expression falls when he shifts into park with a sigh. “Babe… We can’t.” 

“I don’t care.”

“I was only gonna bring you back.”

“Baby, please.”

“He’s home—”

“Do you still miss me?” 

He freezes. 

Which gives you a chance. 

Eyes glossy, you use all the seconds you have to say everything you’ve kept to yourself.

Almost everything.

“Because I get it if you don’t. I do. But I really… I really fucking miss you. And not just because of, whatever. But I consider you a friend and fun as hell to be around, and I haven’t”—you inhale, hating how it shakes—“I haven’t been this happy in weeks. And we aren’t even doing anything.” 

Yoongi is completely silent. But that’s okay because you aren’t done. 

“I know you said I wouldn’t see you. But after getting to know you? The real you? …That sucks.” You can’t look at him when his hand slips from the wheel. “I’m not gonna make you change anything, just. Telling you what’s on my mind. Like you said. I’m gonna do that a lot more now.”

He doesn’t say a word as a tear cuts one of your cheeks, and you’re brave enough to look his way again. “But it’s been three months, Yoongi,” you whisper. “Is that still not enough for you?”

Time ticks as you hold your breath, oxygen depleting and lungs nearing collapse as you watch his eyes close. 

You laid everything out on the table. Your words, your thoughts, your pain.

Whatever he decides, though? You’ll respect it. You said what you wanted to say and you won’t take any of it back. If he wants to prolong this, you won’t stop him. If he doesn’t want this anymore… the home in your heart will need repairs, but you’ll live. Somewhat. You don’t know how but somehow. People are like seasons. You’re used to it.

Yoongi’s still way too quiet. 

So, giving up and getting the point, you reach up to open your door.

“Stop.” 

You do. 

And the way he flexes his jaw shoots magma through your veins before he wrenches the car into drive. 

The universe spins as you burst into Yoongi’s apartment, running, bumping, slamming into furniture until you get thrown against his bedroom door. 

Welcoming the pain, you devour his scorching lips, fingers digging into his hair with a desperation that frightens you. All you feel is him him him, barely recalling the manic drive over and the way he all but busted into his own place. 

If there were any lingering doubts to your question, they’re left out in the chill, not allowed to witness the way he hitches your leg up before pinning you firm with his pelvis.

“Shouldn’t be fucking doing this—” 

You moan at the way his jeans feel on your skin, shivers running rampant when you more than feel his hardness poke through. “Please,” you pant, sticking to your word and ready to tell him what you want. 

“Please what.” 

Everything you want. 

Tugging his head back, your admissions rub right against his mouth, “Choke me. Use me. I don’t care, do it all.”

“Huh?”

A breath whooshes out when he yanks you forward with a growl, and you cannot seem to stop, “Don’t be nice. Spit in my mouth. Make me beg like a fucking slut, I need it.”

All the other times, you’ve seen Yoongi break in different ways. 

But this is the first time you’ve felt him legitimately snap. 

“The fuck.”

Lightning strikes the dark as he slams you backward, teeth clinking against yours when he smothers you with saliva and lust. When he shoves his door open, you stumble back, more unholy plans in mind than he imagines. 

You don’t know what’s coming over you. 

Even as you force him sideways to shove into his rolling chair, the piercing look he gives is no match for your inner storm.

“Babe—”

Impatient, you drop to your knees, the pain nothing to you as your fingers twitch over his zipper. As you tug his pants down with force, Yoongi’s outright shock is another first for you.

“Are you su—”

“Let me do this,” you plead upward, and you feel highly motivated when he doesn’t do a thing except let out a low, gritty hum. 

Grabbing at his cock, you already moan at the way it feels in your palm…

Softly, oh so softly, a large hand closes over yours, and you hear your name in a whisper, haze temporarily receding. 

What’s wrong? Does he want you to stop?

When you ask without a word, Yoongi leans forward to capture your lips, and this gives you a warm sort of deja vu. “You drank tonight, yeah?” 

“Yeah…?” Oh. He totally tasted alcohol. And your frantic behavior. He thinks—Oh. 

Understanding what he’s getting at, you reach up and caress his cheek. “I’m not drunk, baby,” you chuckle. “I just missed you.” 

Again, he looks at your eyes, one after the other. When you say it once more for good measure, he kisses you in acceptance. 

“So are you gonna fuck my throat or nah?”

He falls back with a groan, raking his hair and legs spread wide. “What are you doing to me.”

“This.”

Without prompt, you dive head first, leaning forward to take his tip and swirl your tongue all around. Commanding his every drop of attention, you don’t let up as you tug your dress downward, breasts spilling out before you stand just enough to claim his lips. 

He takes full advantage with a devilish curve, smacking your tits before ordering, “Get the fuck back down there.”

And you obey with a proud smirk of your own, hoping he’s liking this new side of you, too. 

Back between his knees, you worship his length in earnest, swallowing him again and again and lathering him in saliva so your hands slide easily on him, too. When you feel his veins rub both your palms, you hear a symphony of lustful baritones.

“Holy fuck.” 

You quickly discover you can’t get enough. Lapping, sucking, sheathing your head on his cock so far your brain smushes upward. He feels so familiar at this point that you realize you missed him even here, knocking the back of your throat and burdening your tongue with heavenly, sinful weight. 

And you feel more familiar palms grip your head, eyes opening to see him staring down with reverence and something you can’t quite decipher. 

“So fucking filthy...” 

You chuckle, the rumble making him hiss and throw his head back against his chair. 

“Don’t do that.” 

You gladly disobey, laughing even harder around him before releasing with an expert pop to suck on his balls. 

“Fuck!”

There’s a slight squeak before he grips you again, and you can tell he’s slipping by the way his moans devolve into breathy, short hisses. 

Breaking, he pushes your head into his sack before slapping your cheek with his cock, and you hum as it slips back inside your grin. 

Yes yes yes. You want him to enjoy this just as much as you do, steal this time together and run with it, need him to hang on the brink of mania where you currently reside. Because even though he’s saying things, you can’t hear them over the wholly impure sounds slopping out of your esophagus. 

“Fucking hell, baby,” he praises, thrusting up slow as you keep him slathered. “Missed that fuckin’ mouth.”

You finally come up for air, gulping in air and letting him see you in all your panting glory. When you lock eyes, his lidded gaze is loaded, aimed only at your taunting stare.

Drool coats you in globs. Your chest, the floor, hanging from your lips as you stroke him with wet fingers before swallowing another time. 

And you think you can do this until your jaw falls off.

But suddenly you’re hoisted upward before being thrown onto soft sheets, legs roughly shifted to one side as you paint the dark with your hoarse giggles. Before you know it, his lips attack your chest, and he’s setting butterflies wild as you arch in record time. 

“Take this off,” he growls, tugging at your dress with sweaty fingers that you want lodged in multiple places. “No more hiding.” 

You mewl, undressing as fast as you’re able, tearing the garment off and flinging it away. But your heels are still on, and whether he’s just as deft at removing those, too, you’ll need to hit pause. “What about my—”

“Don’t,” he grits with brows pinched, and his next vow is absolute, pure sin,

“I’m fucking you with them on.” 

“Oh, fuck.” Your whine is high as you throw your head back, the next groan guttural as you feel a hand smack the side of your ass with force. Your jaw comes loose, soreness shooting through its curve as your legs are erotically parted to give Yoongi a view of everything. 

You know your panties are soaked. 

You know he’s gonna wreck your shit. 

But seeing him eye the whole mess on display before lifting his hungry gaze your way? You’re damn sure you aren’t gonna survive the night. 

Perfect. 

“Please fuck me, baby,” you let out with a tone so soft that you think he doesn’t hear you. 

He does. “I’m gonna do a lot more than that, doll.” 

You tilt your head, confused and wondering what he means. 

But he ignores your wordless question, sliding fingers along your ankle before holding your leg to kiss that same spot. 

The action alone is enough to rewire your brain, but it’s the way he looks so confident, so unbothered, so determined that has your insides churning with want. 

He plants lips there again before shifting his hand down to your calf, yanking your leg back wide and pulling a tiny help out of your throat. When he shifts to grip your other leg, he growls under his breath, 

“So fucking perfect.” 

“No, you,” you counter with a pout, and flinch what the fuck his slap to your cunt felt good. “Hey!”

“None of that,” Yoongi orders with finality. “Not after all that shit you said at the door.” 

“I dunno what happened there,” you admit, inevitably shy under his commanding presence. Your cheeks sizzle before your teeth grip your lip, temporarily brought back to normalcy at his confession,

“Almost made me come.” 

“Be for real.” 

“Damn serious.” 

The cheshire cat would be jealous of your grin. “Then I should keep going?”

“Uh huh.” He cups your whole cunt, and the possessive nature it exudes pushes a whine against your teeth. “Tell me.” 

“Fuck me like you missed me.” 

A groan rips through his room before he swoops down, lips bruising yours on the landing before he shoves his mouth against your neck. 

Tingles erupt over your skin as he laps at your throat, so hard that your entire upper body slides across his rumpled sheets. When you feel his cock rub across your thong and his jeans grazing your skin, his name flies out of your chest. Moans, sighs, everything in between. 

“Careful,” he warns low before another toe-curling lick. “You won’t leave if I did that.”

“I don’t want to,” you grit in return, reaching to sink claws in his hair and tug. “Wanna stay.”

Strong arms wrap around you before you feel him spread liquid fire up your shoulder, and he reaches to nip at your ear before deft fingers flick a nipple. 

His voice rasps against your cheek, but the words sound reluctant to even leave. “You shouldn’t even be here, babe.”

Fuck. You know that’s true but your heart is rattling like a monster starved. 

“Just tonight,” you plead your case. Because you don’t want to be shooed away before it’s over, but if this is all you get, he needs to do something now. “But if you really don’t want this then please kick me out before—”

“Fuck that.” After greedily tweaking your other nipple, he rolls his body against yours, making you fiend for the weighty cock wedged against you with only thin material between. “Fuck all of that.” 

He rushes upward before nudging your leg over with a strong hand, and you fixate on the way his chains hit his chest. Just like always. “Don’t move.”

You don’t even get to breathe twice as he drops from sight, and you yelp to his roof as soon as you feel teeth nick your inner thigh. At your flinch, you feel him grip your leg with force, ordering you even harsher,

“I said. Don’t move.” 

“But—Yoongi!” 

You don’t notice him yank your underwear sideways before flattening a hot tongue against your folds, sucking so good you have to back away from the stimulation. Immediately, both your legs are seized before he tugs you back to him. 

“Uh uh.”

And he keeps your legs apart before diving deep, and you’ve never devolved into a quivering mess so fast in your goddamn life. The way he licks, sucks, kisses just where you need—everything sends thunder through your chest, lightning across your cunt, rain into your eyes. 

You can do nothing but squirm, squeals and whines and high moans leaving arrowheads in his ceiling. 

Holy fuck, did you sound this loud when you worshipped him? Even now, spread wide and willing to give Yoongi the world, you find a moment to be embarrassed in the best way.

If the neighbors hear, you don’t care. They’re gonna know how well he’s feasting on you, how gorgeously corrupt you feel. How you’re his and his alone and ready to scream it to the rooftops. 

When you feel a finger alongside his tongue, the sound you make borders on inhuman. You think it’s his name, but even you aren’t quite sure. 

All you know is that you’re close. Your thighs are burning and your fingers swipe at his locks but he refuses to let you go. “Yoongi—I’m—”

Suddenly.

He stops. 

And every nice thing you have to say to him falls to the wayside. “No no no! Please, fuck—”

The light tap to your cunt makes you quiver, and your chest heaves when he chuckles without pity,

“What’d you say?” 

“Plea—Baby!” 

“Huh?” 

Every fucking time you speak, he taps again. And every time he gets you close, he edges with aggravating control. Again. And again. 

And again.

You exist between reality and fiction, somehow seeing yourself unwinding, winding, spiraling out of control. Words start to form abstract blobs of syllables, your mouth hanging open as he peppers lazy, unbothered kisses on your thighs.  

In your foggy vision, you think you see him stand. And you’re pretty sure he grabs his cock before he’s rubbing his thick head between your folds oh fuck—

“This is what you wanted, huh.” 

Your breath hitches with a whine as you nod.

“You gonna be a good little slut?” 

Oh, you’re gonna be whatever he fucking wants. So you nod again, not without a smile lopsided. 

“Then fucking beg.” 

He smacks his cockhead against your cunt, springing your back in an arch and tugging strings of incoherent speech from your depths. You make hard lines of his sheets as you grip them in both palms, and you don’t wanna know what you’re saying because the way Yoongi’s staring with a smirk has you blacking the fuck out. 

To the point where you’re nothing but a quivering, shaking, restless mess on his bed.

You somehow closed your eyes at some point, because they fly open when you feel his lips on yours, and you tug at his stupidly attractive shirt that he didn’t bother to pull off. “Please,” you whisper, brain floating oceans away. “I need you.”

“Need you, too.” 

He breaks away to grab a condom, and this is when you realize how intertwined you feel because even this distance is too much to bear. You’re spilling nonsense and breathing harsh and you attribute that to the sole fact that you crave release. It’s aching. Consuming. 

Yoongi’s already naked and prepped by the time he positions himself between your sore legs, and you give in without resistance again when he descends on your lips. 

When you whisper his name, he kisses it away, and you briefly wonder why his hands shake running up your sides. 

Finally, finally, finally, he gives exactly what you want, the initial connection stretching you sore because it’s been way too long. And you feel emotional when you don’t even doubt it’s been too long for him, too. 

Because his eyes speak volumes. 

They hold onto your every move, watch your every reaction, hesitate when you blow out air accommodating his size. 

But you lock yours with him when you relax, weakly grasping his jewelry before sliding fingers up his shoulders. When you nod, he pushes in further, both of you sighing in tandem. 

And as soon as you whisper you’re ready, all niceties fly out the window. 

You’re thrusted up his bed with a determined stroke before he sets a pace, and your head kicks back as soon as a hand captures your neck. 

“Look at me,” he commands, and he gives you a light pat on the cheek before squeezing your jaw. “Open up.”

When you do, spit flings from his mouth into yours, and you already sprint to the edge feeling the weight of your heels and the strength of his body. “Fuck!”

You get pat again—rougher this time—before Yoongi goes to choke you a second time. “What do you say?”

“Me?” you pant, tearing the first thought from your throat when he grits it again. “Thank—” 

Fuck, his dick is hitting every spot you need it to. It takes you a second to repeat your garbled guess in full, knowing it’s something you would’ve said anyway. “Thank you.”

“Now swallow.” 

As soon as he shoves inside, your obedience is your undoing. The skies open to welcome you as your body locks, thighs squeezing his taut sides as he moans through your release. Waves tug you unbelievably far, and you almost lose yourself in the swell before you crash onto shore again.

“Such a whore for me,” Yoongi praises, kicking you back to the very first night and making you melt. When you peel eyelids open, you notice his smile matches yours, and the shared, cherished memory smoothens your gravelly laugh.

“Love when you do that,” you admit, shaking your head at your own strange preferences. “Don’t know why.” 

“Me neither.” He spears you again with a cheeky lip bite. “But it’s so fucking hot.” 

Your grin can’t be contained, and this is where you wanna be. Right here. Nowhere else in the fucking universe. 

“I’m ready,” you pant, and he gives you a brief look of affection—which you shatter with force. “Fuck the shit out of me.” 

Yoongi twitches madly inside your core as he expels a pained, breathy laugh. “Goddamn, this isn’t good for me.” 

“What?” 

“Nothing.” He doesn’t waste a second gathering your calves while you ponder what he says. “Hold these pretty legs up for me. There you go.”

When you find the easiest way to do so, you marvel at how shaky and slippery your thighs are, wondering if the rest of you is faring any better. 

It’s not. 

But you can’t dwell on that now because Yoongi is holding on like he’ll lose you, resuming a delicious pace and smacking your hips into his with the most indecent sounds. 

Your whines soon join in, and his hums of satisfaction fuel your ever going flame. Heaven and earth could move and you would remain here, suspended in time as he fills you perfectly with every fast stroke. 

“Feel so good—”

When he leaves your cunt, you mewl before he grunts, “Fucking—Get up.” 

What is he— 

You’re hoisted upward so quickly that you see starlight, not even registering the clanks and shifts of items before he’s spinning to pin you down on a solid surface. Your heels find purchase on the floor but your knees prove unbelievably weak.

What’s—

Oh fuck, are you on his desk?

Your hands retreat until they find an edge to grab, and you moan outright when you feel his fingers slide up your cunt, shoving your thong farther over one side of your ass. 

“Yoongi—”

You feel full in an instant, jaw going slack as he shoves you backwards on his cock, praises washing down your back as he pushes down any arches you instinctively make. 

“Uh uh. Stay like that.” 

“I wanna—” Your words are cut off with a whine as you feel a sting on your ass. “Fuck!”

“There you go.” 

The rock of the desk is so strong that every bang against the wall booms loud, equipment sliding back and forth and making you briefly worry if anything will fall.

But this is the most turned on you’ve ever, ever felt, and you have no fucking clue why.

You wonder if he feels the same right before his dark laugh consumes you.

“Goddamn.” 

Your hands are grabbed before he shoves you forward, letting more of your body lie on the surface so that he can pin sweaty arms at your back. 

Oh, fuck!

Your moans glide across wood as he doesn’t let up, and you don’t even want to know how much drool will exist on his desk when you’re done. Maybe you’ll never be done. Maybe he really will keep you here forever, and you’ll soak his whole—

“Come here.” 

He gathers your wrists in one large palm before reaching to grip your chest, hauling you up and securing you against his body by the throat. 

And you think your soul just left your earthly vessel. 

Pressing you further into him, he grits in your ear, 

“Never fucking kicking you out.” His tight stroke launches you across space. “Don’t even think about saying that again.” 

When did you— You said— Why don’t you remember—

You go limp when he shoves into you again, but your heels wobble and you focus damn hard on staying upright. 

But Yoongi doesn’t give a shit. “You hear me?” When you let out a breathy confirmation, he still isn’t satisfied. A hand pats your cheek before he asks again, “Say it louder.” 

“Yes!”

“Good.”

He drops all talk, pistoning in from behind while you take it and take it and love it. Mercifully, he lets your sore arms go to pin you down again, gritted words and curses dancing with your high-pitched sighs. 

Fuck, his strokes are so deep that you see into the next universe, and you don’t think your mouth has been shut ever since you made contact with his desk. 

Maybe he was more frustrated than you were. He’s using you as stress relief like you intended, and his roughness is a fantastic surprise. 

It’s just what you need. Which kicks you into a whole other level of want and the beast inside you transforms yet again. 

When Yoongi yanks himself out, you’re quick to spin and shove him backward. As he flops onto the bed, he laughs like sin incarnate when you pounce, his hot hands grabbing at your hips and encouraging your behavior in the nastiest way.

“Let’s go then, pretty bitch.”

“You already fucking know.”

“Show me what I’ve been missing.”

“Don’t fall in love.” 

When you sink onto him, Yoongi’s already groaning. But when you start to swivel at a pace that will render you sore, he begins to lose it. 

“Fuck.”

His head kicks back, eyes shut and brows pinched to hell. After holding your waist, he has to slap his sheets to squeeze even tighter, chest marred with red under pretty silver. 

You make sure every rotation is full, slowly rocking with each circle you make and gritting teeth at how fucking big he is.

Soon, his hisses devolve into groans, and he snaps his head back up to slap your breasts—one after the other before gripping your hips so hard you welcome the pain. 

“Fuck, I missed this pussy,” he confesses with husk, and you whine in response as you lower yourself to kiss him deep. 

“It missed you, too.”

Coming back up, you dig one of your hands in his mattress while bracing on him with the other, and you close your eyes in bliss as you arch your tits toward his hungry lips. 

Just like you want, he chuckles in satisfaction as he suckles, lolling his tongue all around before giving your nipple  a hard suck. His noises remind you of lollipops, and you briefly think of a few fun things you could do with those for next time.

But a hand juts up to seize the back of your neck, forcing you to arch in place as he starts thrusting hard. 

“Yoongi!”

“Uh huh.”  

Before you can talk again, his other hand joins in to choke you just enough, and you find yourself teetering on a precipice. Holy fuck, holy fuck, you’re close again.

“You gonna come?”

A frantic nod.

“Then come.” 

As soon as you hear the words, you do exactly that, windpipe released just as you pulse around him incredibly hard. The waves prove tsunamis, and you dangle from their crests before plummeting and tumbling below. Your moan extends as he thrusts erratically through your quivers, encouraging you and digging rough fingers into your hips. 

“Again.” 

Somehow, that’s enough to make your body obey, and you cry out as you flutter around his trembling cock, hearing him talk you through it but not quite understanding what he’s saying. 

Maybe you also choose not to listen because of what you think you hear, and you don’t want to be haunted if you realize later on what you thought you heard wasn’t true. 

The world rotates up as Yoongi sits up, and you sling arms around him as he leans back on his hands. Your breath hitches at the new angle he’s filling you at, and your eyes swirl when he coolly, confidently commands, 

“Again.” 

You can’t you can’t you can’t but you can. Holy fuck apparently you can, and this time, it consumes you so hard your eyes roll back enough to see the past. Past you, insecure and meek and scared to say what they want. 

Oh, if they could witness you now. 

You shudder impossibly hard around him, coated with his deep chuckles and dashing, ego-ridden grin. It’s all you see before you slump against his chest, heartbeat pounding against yours when you can’t feel any bone in your body.

One breath.

Two breaths.

Two hearts.

One night is enough.

“So fucking perfect.”

“For you,” you wisp out, lost in galaxies. “Only you.” 

He can only kiss the side of your head in response, gently lowering you both onto spent cotton and helping you straighten out your muscle-locked legs. When he asks if you’re okay, you can only nod, and he plants another kiss on your temple before sliding off his protection. 

Both of you take time to calm down, breaths heavy from what felt like a marathon. But a much better marathon than the one you’ve had to endure over the last three months. 

When you lie against his chest, you silently thank him for giving you tonight. It’s the riskiest thing you’ve ever done with him, but you won’t worry about it. Not right now. Not when you feel more at home here than your own house. 

Your brother is right. Something is definitely missing over there. 

It’s when your pants have relaxed into soft breaths that you nudge your head against Yoongi’s chest, eyes shut in peace as he lazily draws circles on your back. 

And the first words he says in minutes inject sparkles into your eyes,

“I need to re-up this damn cat’s food.” 

Oh, shit!

Your outright squeal is surely coming out too loud but you don’t care. Don’t care don’t care don’t care not when Yoongi just gave away so many different things. 

This man leaned right into the whole thing.

“I knew it!” You proclaim in triumph, smacking his thigh while hearing a very elongated ‘shut up’ at your side. “Tried to hide it from me all these months? Somebody’s getting soft.”

“First off.”

“Uh huh.”

God. If only you both could go on one of those late night shopping trips he talked about before. Maybe you could’ve gotten plenty of things. Like some little cat toys, or extra storage cabinets for your clothes. 

Yeah. Stuff like that. 

“I’m her favorite.” 

Your scoff is immediate as you hoist yourself up, leaning on your hand and regretting the burn in your arm. “Only because you gatekeeped her.”

A soft disagreement precedes a more prominent, “Won’t even matter.”

Yoongi looks so at peace when you stare, and your voice calms to match as it floats down, “You took care of her.”

When he only smiles, you decide that this is how you want him to be all the time. Content and outright glowing, fireflies dancing in his eyes. 

Does he feel at home, too? 

“She was gonna be your surprise,” he finally murmurs. “For getting the gig.”

Heart and tear ducts full, you lower yourself to tenderly press lips to his. And, since it seems to work for you, his forehead is what you decide to kiss next. 

Then you pull away.

Wondering why he’s not smiling anymore. 

“Come here.”

You blink, lying back down to snuggle against his side. When his arm wraps around your shoulder, it's only then that you’re aware you still have shoes on. A clean person, you hope Yoongi doesn’t mind them touching his sheets. 

But maybe it’s a tad too late for that concern. 

“How are you gonna get home?”

Oh, right. You use his chest to scratch an itch in your nose before responding, “I’ll call a ride in the morning. He’ll be out cold until noon at the earliest.” 

“K.” 

“Did I keep you from anything?”

A puff flies out his nostrils. “Kinda late for that, huh.” 

“True,” you sigh, berating yourself for thinking a lot of things too late. “Sorry.”  

“But no, we were finishing up when I called.” 

“Okay… Did I scare you?” You lift your eyes then, because you need to know for sure. 

When he levels a look, you curse at his quiet confirmation. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” 

“S’ok.” 

“I just… It hurt tonight.” Emotion washes over your face before you bury it. “Really hurt.” 

After a light squeeze, Yoongi gently rolls you over, resting his head exactly where your hand clutches your chest. When you move your fingers, he kisses that same spot, and your heart stops. “How about now.” 

Feeling the deepest pain you’ve ever felt in your life, you cradle his head with a whisper, 

“Maybe try that one more time.”

And he does, not looking at your tears as he sits up to peer down the bed. 

When he scoots down to the edge, your breath catches as he holds a heel in sure hands, his back beautiful even with the scars. While he works through leather straps, he starts to speak, 

“I always do, babe.” 

Blinking, you ask what he means as he slips your shoe off with ease.

“Miss you.”

As he tenderly holds the other, you gulp in oxygen to quell the sear around your eyes. “I just… Wasn’t sure,” you admit, voice wavering. 

His hair falls forward when he sighs, and his palms feel way too relaxing to just be taking your heels off. Even now, it feels like he’s revering you. And you truly don’t know how you deserve any of this. 

“That’s my fault.” 

Throat small, you’re swift to reassure him. “No, no. I need to just suck it up. I’m sorry.” 

After freeing your other foot, he rubs it without prompt, and you don’t know how to deal with someone giving you this level of care. 

“Just a little bit longer, doll,” he says, and you admire his profile when he turns. “I’m sorry.” 

“You gave me tonight.” 

When he swallows, you reassure him with all the support you can give, 

“A little longer is nothing.” 

A moment passes by before he finally moves, and you catch a hint of a smile right before he faces his disheveled to hell desk again. 

Deciding that conversation has concluded, you crack the atmosphere with a joke, “You liked whatever happened over there, huh.”

Immediately, Yoongi’s shoulders bob with a laugh before he admits, “Fucking you on my desk? I’ve wanted to do that for months.” 

“Really?”

“Yeah.” He leans forward. “There’s a lot of shit I’ve wanted us to do for months.” 

Us.

Thoroughly giddy and full of life again, you egg him on. “Oh? Like what?”

Finally, he looks over his shoulder with a grin, and you scoff in frustration at his answer,

“What’s the fun in telling you?”

“Ass!”

While you’re getting ready to shower, he leans against the doorframe of his bathroom.

“We have a game next week.” 

As you fetch a towel from his cabinet, you clarify, “The championship, right?”

“Mmhmm.” 

“I’ll be there,” you confirm, walking away to slip the thick cloth over its rack. “I can’t believe it’s still going.” 

“Same. But there’ve been a lot of delays, remember?”

“Oh, yeah.” Your hand feels out the water, satisfied with its temperature. “I meant your win streak but whatever.” 

And you squeal when he rushes forward, shutting the glass with a wobbly thud before he can get to you. When you stick out a childish tongue, you laugh under the spray, curve slowly, curiously, softly fading when he simply keeps staring.

What’s he doing?

You don’t move as he slowly slides the entrance open again, and you don’t dare breathe as he leans inside to kiss your wet lips.

When you tenderly take one of his wrists and pull, he obliges without hesitation, and you take another shower with the man that sets fireworks off in your soul. 

An hour later, filled with food and laughter—and slight disappointment when you couldn’t find your surprise near his door—you occupy his bed with full bellies and fresh minds. 

As he lies on your chest, you think this is better, because it gives you time to think about things. And tell him about others. 

You finally tell him what all happened with Jungkook, to which he listens without a single word. When you can’t seem to shut up about your job, he doesn’t stop you, and you adore the way he cuddles you under faint moonlight cutting through his window. 

“Oh, wait,” you stop, feeling like you’ve talked his head off by now. “What did you call about?”

“Huh? Tonight?” 

“Yeah.” 

“We finally have a confirmed date. For that album,” Yoongi rumbles against the shirt he let you borrow. “I was gonna invite you to the release party.”

Whoa, what the fuck? “Me?”

He chuckles soft, and you wonder if he can guess how shocked you look. “Yes, you. All of y’all.” 

At least it’s everyone. But at the same time, you still hesitate. “That won’t be weird?” 

“Nah. You can bring anyone you want, so. I was assuming you’d bring your friends.” 

“Ah, I see.”

You didn’t mean to sound disappointed. You truly aren’t. But Yoongi pushes up to comfort you anyway, planting kisses along your skin, your neck, and finally your lips. 

“It won’t be the only one,” he promises. “We got time.”

“Duh,” you giggle. “And I’ll be at all of them. Whether you like it or not.” 

Yoongi regards you before laying his weight back on your chest. And you find it strange how familiar his body already feels. How you’re already attuned to every way his legs fit against your own, or how you would know it’s him solely based on how his chest molds with yours. 

You start mindlessly caressing his hair, fingers weaving through a dark sea of strands before smoothing over its surface. 

And you start to hum.

It’s not really any song, just notes you start stringing together at random. You build up before you dip back down, staying in a comfortable middle range and dancing between similar tones. 

You stop from time to time, trying to figure out what would sound best next and changing up the cadence. Always coming back to a central theme because it’s what you deem best.

And you’re so comfortable that you completely forgot he’s lying right under your chin.

“Shit, was I too loud?”

He just shakes his head, arm pressing a bit more into your side. 

“Not at all.” 

So you keep going, humming more familiar tunes and phrases, softly giggling when Yoongi huffs at the way you drum on his head. 

And that’s how the night goes on, with you at peace and him in your embrace.

Never noticing how the shirt you're wearing collects rain.

When dawn breaks, you part with one final, heavenly kiss. 

Yoongi watches until you get in the ride he politely called for you, and you spend the whole drive with eyes filled with light. 

You can do this. Just a little longer, he said.

For him, you can do anything. 

But when you get home, your brother occupies the foyer as soon as you open the front door.

And you feel the world shatter and crash at your feet.

“I think,” he states, “There’s something you wanna tell me.”  

—

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tbc. :) 

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a ha ha... what do we think/like! | wanna support with a 🍊?

A/N: i’m so swirly-eyed that i don’t even know what to say here other than i’m sorry for throwing that ending at y’all! busted pt. 2 is gonna be its own huge part at this point so i had no choice but to end it here (originally it was gonna end before they went back to yoongi’s but i love y’all too much dlkfjdsklf)  A/N 2: gonna say this again: enormous thank you to everyone supporting this whole journey, whether that’s liking/commenting/reblogging/messaging, recommending this series to people, telling me how it makes you feel or what it means to you, or even wanting a physical copy of the series like😭 that’s surreal to me and makes me wanna keep working harder.  A/N 3: as far as feedback, i would absolutely love any type y’all wanna give. this chapter took all of my brainpower and the next one is gonna take just as much haahahahdksfks so any encouragement would be wonderful!  ++ feedback box: ⇥ of course, any reblogs/comments/messages are appreciated! ⇥ for the ones that are too shy to reblog with a review, comment on this, or send a message, i went ahead and made another anonymous form where you can send in what you think! ⇥ no emails collected, no need to put in a username. it’s literally just a comment dropbox :D feedback can be as short/sweet or as long as you’d like! ⇥ here! ++ more links: ⇥ three tangerines masterlist ⇥ masterlist 

[pharaohbean]

came to peer review you too jay

oh okay so im not insane that some characters are. sorta sidelined atm?

also "thats what fanfic is for" NEVER BEEN TRUER

you, because im thinking about it: why do you think colopale hasn't really talked about toya and kohane's relationship at all? from my eyes, they've had very little interaction outside of group events (and really even 1-on-1 in them; the ones off the top of my head they actually talked to one another instead of in the group are an1, val3, and their vbs archive). do you think there's a reason behind this, or am i just missing their growing relationship?

I'll be honest with you: probably just bad writing + event format holding them back. I'm not exactly looking to be negative on this account but Sega have kind of written themselves into a corner with Kohane and she's not been getting that much development in general (compared to the others), and Touya has been pretty abandoned as well.

The First Concerto has redeemed Touya to some degree, so one can only hope either An5 or Kohane's next event will tackle Kohane's lack of deep connection between her and Touya, among other things.

[hostilecandle]

I just saw a post unironically being up in arms and pissed that the pricegaz ship exists because "a captain and a sergeant is a huge power imbalance" Please I need yall to be so fucking for real with me rn 😭😭 I've seen this take so many times and enough is enough.

Look at me, I'm gonna tell ya something, come closer- YOURE IN THE FUCKING WAR FANDOM. For the love of God get off your morality high horse and come back to earth for a second. I'm begging you to go touch some grass. If you want to play a morality game, a power imbalance between an officer and those he's in charge of should be the LAST of your worries in this fandom. (Also how funny that ghost and soap weren't mentioned as a power imbalance when it's just as bad. Yeah I fucking caught that you hypocrite)

Like come on let's be for real, if you really cared about fictional morality issues, well you wouldn't be in this fandom would you? You would be beyond pissed and sick to your stomach that there's war, actual torture, racism, and all the other "fun" things that come in a game about a proxy war and terrorists for fucks sake. You don't have any box to stand on, you're in the CALL OF DUTY FANDOM 😭😭😭 Yall wanna be special and unique SO bad. Yall just want a reason to say you're better than others and you froth at the mouth at the chance to do so.

You know this shit ain't real. You know it's a game but even still, you have to try and find something to make you better than those degenerates and it's pathetic. And again if you really cared, this game series as a whole should offend you. If yall are really so pressed about fiction and reality this whole series should make you want to throw up. This is the game series that brags about how realistic it is and how they've brought in people who've experienced this to make it as real as possible. But wait, you don't care about morality as long as it's fictional children and brown people being murdered but GOD FORBID Gaz takes a cock up his ass from Price. Its just gone TOO FAR 🙄🙄

Obligatory you can just dislike a ship for any reason. Things are allowed to squick you out. That's FINE. That's good and healthy even. You don't have to like every ship. What pisses me off is the moral soap box yall have to stand on to preach and prove why you dont like it and why everyone who does like it is bad. Idc someone doesnt ship gazprice, (I enjoy it but personally have ships I like better myself) but getting mad it exists is genuinely, and i cant stress this enough, pathetic. It's old and I'm so sick of seeing it. This is not the fandom for these games. Go back to something made for children if you want to have the moral understanding of one.

[nvuy]

oil, but the petroleum kind, not the lavender kind — wanderer

summary. the wanderer keeps breaking down, and as frustrating as he believes you to be, you’re the only person on this god forsaken planet that knows how to fix him.

notes. obligatory first post of 2.7k words is not a navigation post, and had to be scaramouche related because i’m not obsessed at all. i actually don’t like him. not one bit.

warnings. innuendos because you’re a bit weird. also not proofread, so mind your eyes.

The puppet trudged into the rundown warehouse with a sickening twist in his stomach, like a towel wrung too tight.

In his right hand was his left hand. Popped right off at the socket, and buzzing incessantly. He would kill The Doctor when he got his hands on him; why would there need to be an unnecessary bzzt! in his ear every time something in his body went wrong. Case in point, his hand was not attached to his arm.

He didn’t need a warning alarm. He could very well see the problem.

Nonetheless, he barged through the door with a permanent snarl imprinted on his lips.

Typical. You were asleep at a bench in the back, spine bent at an awkward angle with your forehead resting on your forearms. Your arms were covered in charcoal of some sort, as well as white smears from the paint bucket you decided would make a great pillow.

It reeked of oil. He noticed a black leak from beneath one of the machines. It looked old, very much so, with lots of holes for missing compartments. It screamed Fontaine, if he’d ever seen anything like it.

Impatiently, he thwacked the back of your head. “Hey.”

You shot up from the seat. There were dark imprints around your eyes from where you’d been wearing the safety glasses over your head.

You blinked blearily at him. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he repeated. “I need your supposed ‘expertise.’”

“What sort of time do you call this?” you scolded.

“Five in the afternoon.” And he was right. Oops. You swore you’d fallen asleep last night, too. You swivelled around in the chair to face the clock ticking on the wall. It was a good few minutes behind the actual time, but yep. Three past five.

Then, you stood up. “I’ve been sleeping for twelve hours?!” You shoved the chair out of the way and bounded for the giant machine. “Gods!” You vaguely remember setting an alarm. You had no idea what you were doing, rubbing at your eyes and blinking the sleep from them.

You hit the machine with the side of your fist.

“You can cry later.” He tossed his hand at you and you barely caught it. “My ears need fixing as well.” For good measure, there was another vibrating buzz deep inside his head, and he jolted.

“Do you want your hair done, too?”

He almost hissed at you.

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” You sighed, still staring sadly at the machine. “You know the drill. On the bench.”

So, he got on the bench. The same as what he'd done for centuries with another man. It was different now with you; he’d insisted the pain you inflicted, as unintentional as it was, didn’t hurt in the slightest because he’d experienced much worse, but you’d paused every time. With a grimace too, like you were worried about his state. It was never anything worth mentioning anyway.

He wasn’t a frequent customer, per say. Frankly, not many people that came in claimed they were sentient puppets anyway. You’d believed him, as absurd as the claim was. And you’d poked at the indentation on the nape of his neck.

But, he’d visited more often than he’d like to admit. More often than not because he was breaking down without constant maintenance—and no, it wasn’t because he was old—to the extent that it frustrated him. Limbs popping off if too much pressure was applied, especially now with his newfound Vision attached to his heart.

He hated to admit your company was tolerable, even if all you did was blabber about machines. You’d taken a rather strange interest in him, it seemed, though. Not that he minded. He liked to be doted upon.

“Are you finally gonna let me–”

“No.” There it was. The pathetic begging to crack him open and watch how he worked. Every time, without failure, like a broken record spinning the same loop on repeat.

You pouted. “But I do things for you.”

“Fix my hand,” he practically demanded. He felt you reach over his legs when he straightened them out on the bench. Then, there was the sound of a buckle, and his right ankle was ensnared on the table. “What are you doing?”

“You squirmed too much last time,” you explained, tightening the buckle around his left ankle.

“You’re not exactly gentle.” He made no effort to fight you. “And this treatment is barbaric.”

You tested the restraints. “Whatever. My warehouse, my rules.”

“You’re filthy, by the way,” he said. You smelled like oil, so strongly he was convinced you’d doused it on yourself like a fragrance. Usually, you liked to combine a mixture of lavender and coconut. When you were clean, of course. You tied his right arm down to the bench. “You should shower.”

“I would, but there’s a dog barking at me on my workbench.”

He almost turned his head to bite your arm.

Nonetheless, his hand was an easy fix. He’d probably be able to do it himself, in all honesty, but it gave him an excuse to escape Lesser Lord Kusanali’s never ending ramblings and such. Not to mention he could visit you, as pathetic as it sounded.

The limb reattached with a pop that made him tense immediately. Other than that, he wriggled his fingers experimentally, and they worked just fine.

His ears were the worst. Not only did they require constant maintenance, but aforementioned 'constant maintenance' needed patience. Patience that you, nor him, had.

And because of that, it was hurting him. He tried not to let it show, not that you couldn’t tell, but there was simply no other way to do it. His ears were tricky technology because he didn’t have standard human anatomy, or anything that was a poor imitation of it. No cochlea, no eardrum, no nothing, so permanent hearing damage wasn’t too much of an issue.

In the absolute worst case scenario, if you completely destroyed whatever it was that allowed him to hear, you were sure you could make something. You were crafty like that. It also sounded fun. (And gave you the excuse to bury your hands in his chest and see what he was made of).

His ear buzzed and he jolted.

You frowned, the scaler tool wedged deep inside his ear canal. “Stop moving.” Your fingers pressed to his temples to steady his squirming.

“I’m not trying to.” Another buzz. “Ow, you wretch! Get off me!”

You held his head still. “Yeah, yeah, you big baby. I’m almost done.”

His fingers curled into his fists and he shut his eyes as tight as he could when you readjusted his head to his side.

The pain wasn’t even the worst part of it. It was just uncomfortable. He’d rather just cut off his ears and be finished with it.

Another bzzt and he grunted. There was a pained and wobbly line coating his lips. His eyes glossed over.

You tried to ignore how he was practically trying to curl up into himself and shift away from the tools. You needed a pair of suture scissors in his ear as well, and he almost broke free of his restraints when he felt more pressure.

“I think I–”

“Finish this,” he said dully, voice embarrassingly shaky.

“I can’t.” You pulled the tools slowly from his ear. “It’s not your ear. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

The buzzing was astoundingly miserable, and there was now a sharp ache to accompany it. “Well, then what is it, genius?”

“Something’s up with whatever controls your hearing. And no, it’s not your ears. There’s literally nothing in there.” You traced his earlobe soothingly, still thoughtful. “Did you fall?”

He did. A very very large fall, might he add, but he wasn’t going to tell you that. “Never mind that. You can’t fix my ear?” For a laugh, it buzzed again.

“I can, but–”

“Absolutely not.”

“Okay, well, if you don’t want me to help you, then get out of my warehouse.”

The puppet bristled like a cactus. “I stated, very clearly, might I add, that my ear and my hand needed fixing. There is no reason for you to pull me apart.”

There was a scowl etched onto his face.

“Clearly it’s more than just an ear problem, old man.” You poked at his chest teasingly. “I’ll charge you less if you let me pull you open.”

“No. And you’ve never charged me regardless.”

“Negative number charge.” You tapped your cheek. “You can pay me with a kiss.”

“I will leave,” he threatened. He felt heat creep into his chest.

“Not if I keep you here.” You leaned over the workbench to retrieve your toolbox. “C’mon. I’ll be quick. And I’ll fix your ear. It’s a win-win situation.”

He jolted when his ear buzzed once more. It was like torture choosing between a constant involuntary and painful twitch and your hands below his skin.

They both sounded like terrible outcomes, though one was slightly more feasible than the other.

“Fine. Be quick.”

You gasped, eyes sparkling. “Really?!” Alarm bells rang in his head when you raised a hammer over his torso. “You got it.”

“I have buttons,” he forced out swiftly. “Put the hammer down.”

You practically threw the hammer somewhere else. It clattered on the ground with a loud clang, making his ears buzz. He writhed for a moment, and his teeth gritted at the incessant stiffening pain in his joints.

The restraints were growing difficult to bear. The cloying scent of freedom just out of reach was overwhelming.

“Where are they?”

If his wrists weren’t tied down to the table, he would’ve flailed unintentionally and caught you right in the stomach. “Hips.”

You whistled lowly. “Nice.”

He shot you the most withering glare he could muster whilst his left eyelid began to twitch.

You managed to get the waistband of his pants down just enough to see two large markings on either side of the roundest part of his hips. The waistband sat dangerously low, and he tried to control the twitching, though that didn’t seem to help.

Experimentally, your fingers grazed the deep purple markings. There was a shock that raced up your fingers; a warning not to try anything stupid.

The longer you pressed your fingers, the purple rose higher and higher towards his torso.

There, the electro-like veins and circuits formed a square that covered the expanse of his stomach to the tip of his ribs.

There was a hiss, and then the square sank into his torso.

He grunted at the vulnerability.

His skin gave way and slid below another portion of his hip, completely out of sight.

You stared down into him for a moment.

He wanted you dead. “What?”

“You’re beautiful,” you whispered, more to yourself than anything.

His thigh twitched; whether it was him trying to remove himself from his confines, or if the surging Anemo was seeping down to his legs was a question that he couldn’t even answer.

He wanted to bark, or retaliate, or harp on about how weird you were, but he refrained. You were here to help, as strange as it was.

Instead, he murmured, “hurry up.”

“I’m serious.” You reached over and prodded a circuit running in a loop along his spine. “Whoever created you sure took their sweet time.”

“Enough.” He tried to sound as menacing as he could from his position. “Just finish this.”

So, you began, playing with an assortment of tools and wires to see what made him jolt.

Just as he’d so proudly proclaimed many times before, his mechanics and anatomy were beyond your understanding. From your own personal experience, robotic puppets would be absolutely filled with machinery and crossbeams and devices of all sorts, with barely any wriggle room for experimentation.

The puppet on the table was filled with almost nothing. There were a few core pieces, one of which you recognised as actuators stuck to the internal joints of his limbs.

As you poked and prodded, the puppet tried his very best to remain still. He’d been opened before, countless times actually, but with the intention of pain. Hurt, as a price to pay for power. Gloved fingers would yank and pull and shock until whatever was beneath his skull melted behind his eyes.

You were simply and innocently curious. Albeit a bit wobbly and unsure with your fingers.

“No clue what I’m looking at.” You nudged at a weird metallic square with purple script where a stomach would be. “This one looks important, though.” You then knocked on it, and his ear buzzed in tune with your knuckles. Found it. There were two wires from the square that crept up suspiciously close towards his ears.

As you worked, his hearing faded in and out. You’d asked him questions throughout, even having to wave a hand in his face when you noticed he was completely unaware that you’d spoken at all.

It wasn’t as jarring as he would’ve thought it’d be; although, there was an aching disappointment in his chest when your voice didn’t come through in his head properly.

His hearing eventually came to properly. He could feel the tugging and harsh pulling of the circuitry and wires controlling his ears, but the buzzing eventually subsided. Relief was light on his shoulders when he could finally sit still for longer than five seconds.

But even though his ears were fixed, and he clearly wasn’t twitching anymore, you’d barely moved from your spot with feeling hands.

He sighed. “You’re taking a long time considering how much you prattle on about your ‘inventive genius.’”

“I’m having my fun.” Experimentally, you pulled at one of the actuators, and his right index finger twitched involuntarily in response. “You’re a work of art.”

“Whatever comes out of your mouth never fails in making me want to shrivel into a ball and die. Did you know that?”

You tugged at another mysterious wire and his shoulder jolted violently. You were smiling, knocking his rib cage softly. “This is so cool.”

You whistled a tune while you tended to him. More yanks of things you didn’t understand like some sort of toddler on your end, but he figured if it made you happy and satiated that never ending curiosity, he’d let it slip through his fingers.

Just this once.

Patience was not his forte, however, because soon enough, the uncomfortable persistence of hands where there shouldn’t be was weighing heavy on his chest like an anvil.

He grunted. “Are you finished groping me?”

“I could do this forever, I think.” There was that stupid smile still printed onto your lips. “I’d love to pull you to pieces and see what happens.”

“A strange proclamation that I won’t let happen, unless you don’t want to keep your hands.” The restraints were like lead wrapped around his limbs. “Stop drooling over me and hurry up.”

You sighed, disappointed. “Yes, princess.” You closed up the hearing compartment, making sure you hadn’t ruined anything else before allowing the exterior skin to slide back over the hole in his torso. “I’m finished.”

He was disgusted by the appalling nickname.

But, you seemed pleased.

He was proud of himself for it, and secretly pocketed the pride. However, the scowl remained on his face.

“So…” You moved to unbuckle the restraints. “Where’s my ‘thank you?’”

“Shouldn’t I be receiving one for being so generous?” When you froze with the restraints, a reminder of who was at a disadvantage here, he let out an exasperated sigh, before mumbling, “thank you.”

“Mm-hm. You’re welcome.” You leaned over the table. “And where’s my kiss?”

“You’re an insufferable rodent and I should squash you beneath my heel,” he threatened through his teeth.

You remained frustratingly unperturbed. “One kiss or you can stay on the table.”

“I will spit in your face.”

“Fine.” You unbuckled the restraints. “You’re missing out.”

“I’m sure I am.”

You blew a raspberry at him before you dusted off your hands. You really needed a shower, actually, but the broken machine sitting in all its glory with a pungent oil leak was staring at you with big bug eyes.

You kicked it in retaliation.

While you moped, the puppet struggled with an inner turmoil. He was still standing by the table, testing out his hand—not that he really needed to, actually. You’d helped him many times before, all with precision. You’d never let him leave with a problem.

And that was the thing.

He felt he did have a problem, and his skin felt like it was alight.

His hand was fine, and the incessant buzzing in his ear had finally ceased.

He heard you flop back down into the swivel chair for a moment, hands in your hair as you moved around the circumference of the base, trying to eye where the leak was coming from.

He turned with a spout of quickly dying determination.

A tweak of one of the bolts in the machine had a spring of black petroleum target your face and thoroughly drenched you.

You looked like a sad, wet cat.

He was heating up, and his mind wandered elsewhere.

“Hey.”

You turned around defeatedly in the now wet swivel seat, clicking a pen you’d just found absentmindedly. “Yep.”

His lips pressed to your own.

When you tried to lean forward closer to him, tried anything, to pull him onto the chair with you, or let your fingers creep towards his hips, he shoved you back into the chair and left.

In absolutely no world would he let you witness the bright blue beneath his skin flickering to life with heat all over.

You tasted like oil. There was a black smear across his lips that he frantically fought rubbing off all the way back to the city.

[recurring-polynya]

I have been thinking about Minazuki lately for a variety of reasons. One interesting fact about Minazuki is that, while that's the name of both their shikai and bankai, it's spelled differently. Shikai Minazuki is 肉雫唼 (Flesh-Drops' Gorge, per the Bleach Wiki). The Bankai version is 皆尽, All Things' End. (For more translation notes, see this excellent Name Games post from @littleeyesofpallas). However, there is another homonym for Minazuki: 水無月, month of water, aka the old-fashioned name for June. Additionally, there is a wagashi called minazuki wagashi, a triangular rice cake topped with red bean. It is traditionally eaten in June, and according to this Kyoto regional cuisine website, it is used in a Shinto ritual at the end of June "to purify the 'sins and impurities' of the six months from January to June."

What makes this interesting to me is that in Bleach, shinigami are a mixed bag insofar as how open they are about the names and abilities of their zanpakutou, but I think that Unohana's would be among the more commonly known since it's used for healing. But is the spelling common knowledge? It's not like she's going to stand in front of the blackboard on the first day of class and spell it for everyone. (I assume this is how Aizen's obligatory shikai-reveal goes).

Furthermore, the assumption that her zanpakutou uses a slightly archaic/poetic name for a late spring month goes right along with Unohana's whole paragon-of-traditional-womanhood deal. It also would be yet another example of Kubo's love of hiding things in plain sight.

I want to get back to the wagashi, tho! For starters, the idea of "wiping away sins from the first part of the year" to me goes along with both the whole idea of Unohana "turning over a new leaf", so to speak, and maybe also with some of the morning vs. night shift change stuff mentioned in the Name Games post above. Maybe I'm going out on a limb here, but Minazuki's shikai even bears a superficial resemblance to a minazuki, in the sense that Minazuki is a) vaguely triangular, and b) darker colored on top and lighter on the bottom. (This recipe post suggests you can dust your minazuki with matcha powder, if you wanted to make it green).

Unohana already has some associations with tea ceremony, and she publishes a guide to sweet shops in the Seireitei Communication. I guess I just think it would be really funny if everyone thought her zanpakutou was named after a dessert--like if you met some nice, mild-mannered lady with a cute little purse dog named "Cookie", but then, several years later, you find that "Cookie" is short for "Cook My Enemies in the Scorching Hot Oil of Vengeance."

[sodafrog13]

someone mentioned wanting to see my rationale for referring to ralph with it/its. so here's that!

ralph is very clearly uncomfortable with its own humanity, seen with its general self-loathing and the ever prominent quote of "if i was a real person, zimforth wouldn't want me". because of this, i feel like it probably makes sense for it to attempt to separate from being seen as human as much as possible, which includes referring to itself as though it were an object.

frankly, if ralph could get away with just not referring to itself at all, it probably would. but considering it can't even hear its own name without it being heavily distorted, i imagine this to be rather difficult, so it/its is the closest it feels it can get to being nothing.

it doesn't really tell anyone this, though, not even johnny for the most part. mostly just to keep up its façade, but also because it's like. acutely aware of when it does things that aren't considered "normal" in public, and it hates that feeling even though it knows it's not normal. and it doesn't want to draw attention to itself, so it just lets people call it by he/him even though it makes it uncomfortable because it just doesn't have the right words to say about the whole thing.

in that same vein, if you were to ask it, it'd probably just tell you its a man. again, just bc i don't think it'd have the vocabulary to describe how it feels about things like that so it mostly just identifies as a man for sake of convenience rather than anything else. that and i feel like even if it was keyed into that kind of stuff, i feel it'd probably have that whole complex of "the end of the world is on my shoulders, when would i have time to think about my own gender?????" bc i mean. i'd probably think that too LOL

...as an aside, johnny probably gets an inkling for it at some point? just because ralph is the only person he ever has contact with for about 10 years anyways, so i figure that he'd probably be more tuned into its habits just by nature of proximity. i don't even think they'd have a whole conversation about it either, i just think johnny would refer to ralph as he in one of his little "a man kept me in his basement" quips, and ralph would very quietly just say smth like "its, not his". and johnny would just process that for a little bit before saying "ok. its basement, then." and they would just not talk about it past that.

also obligatory addendum of: do not think that this is the only reason why most people who go by it/its choose to do that. i am trying to pathologize a 59 year old man who stalks and kills people for an unknown god who hates it. i'd like to believe that people can be normal about those who use it/its, but if i see any clownery about it i am blocking you on sight.

[sopranoentravesti]

Not directly inspired by anything except for *gestures vaguely at the surrounding shitshow* but I do think more people could stand to read this article by Dara Horn about Roald Dahl from 2021.

I’ve included text of the article as well, under the cut. And to head off the whining of those who will perceive this as an attack on their favorite children’s book writer or whatever: read the damn article. This isn’t about “cancelling,” someone for being bigoted (hell, if I boycotted books or plays because the author was virulently antisemitic, there would be precious little to read). It is about understanding a really dark part of human psychology that is at play in conspiratorial thinking— which of course is at the heart of antisemitism— that Roald Dahl capitalized on. Developing a more mature sense of morality, rather than indulging in the bloody politics of blame and vengeance is crucial.

There’s nothing quite like the realization that what you thought was an empowering work of art is actually a 200-page exercise in trolling. It took me more than 30 years to figure out that I’d been trolled by Roald Dahl.

Dahl, who dominated juvenile publishing when I was growing up, revealed himself late in his career to be a vicious antisemite, who thought “powerful American Jewish bankers” ran the US government. He told the New Statesman that “there is a trait in the Jewish character that does provoke animosity, maybe it’s a kind of lack of generosity towards non-Jews. I mean, there is always a reason why anti-anything crops up anywhere; even a stinker like Hitler didn’t just pick on them for no reason.” This was in 1983, the year in which Dahl published The Witches, his 13th novel for children.

Apparently, Dahl had been an antisemite his entire life, but it didn’t prevent him from being essentially canonized after his death in 1990, and it didn’t much affect my thoughts about him either. I had adored his books as a child, and I’ve never taken much interest in the now-obligatory grunt work of connecting artists’ personalities (often horrible) with their works (sometimes great). And although Dahl was not only an antisemite but also (and even more damningly these days) a misogynist and a racist, he hasn’t been canceled yet. Who doesn’t love Roald Dahl, or at least his stories?

Hollywood certainly does. The most recent Dahl adaptation, which began streaming on HBO Max this Halloween season, is called Roald Dahl’s The Witches (note the value of the authorial brand), directed and written by Robert Zemeckis, with the help of two younger Hollywood powerhouses, Kenya Barris and Guillermo del Toro. It stars the high wattage Octavia Spencer, perhaps best known for her Oscar-winning role in The Help, and A-lister Anne Hathaway, not to mention the voice of the comedian Chris Rock. In fact, this is the second big-budget version of The Witches, the first having been a 1990 film starring Anjelica Huston.

But The Witches was on my mind long before I’d heard about the new movie. It was one of my favorite books when I was a child, one I read repeatedly and pressed into the hands of friends. I was eager to share it with my own children and hesitated only because, as a child, I’d also found it somewhat terrifying. But when I read it aloud to my eight-year-old son last month, I discovered that it was far more terrifying than I remembered, and for entirely different reasons.

The key to Dahl’s success as a children’s author lay in how he pitted children against adults, making children into a beloved underdog class whose moral victory lay in vanquishing their powerful exploiters. His heroes are blameless boys and girls tortured by diabolically abusive adults, whom they destroy in outrageous revenge sequences of the sort even the most fortunate child occasionally fantasizes about. In James and the Giant Peach, for instance, the orphaned James, enslaved by his villainous aunts, squashes them to death with the titular fruit. In Matilda, a kindergartener uses magic powers to terrorize a school principal who routinely locks children in a nail-studded closet. In Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, the starving Charlie, living in the sort of poverty that would make Oliver Twist qualify as a one-percenter, inherits a fantastical candy factory—but only after a book-length morality play in which wealthy children and their entitled parents are absurdly tortured and maimed. In George’s Marvelous Medicine, a boy forced to care for his heartless grandmother concocts a potion that makes her shrink and disappear.

In short, Dahl is like a modern Charles Dickens, except instead of social justice and spiritual redemption, Dahl’s books offer only revenge. Kids, like all emotionally and morally stunted people, eat this stuff up. Dahl tapped into something primal and hideous in the human psyche: the desire of disenfranchised people to feel righteous precisely by demonizing others. As a kid, I bought this too. The sheer sadism of it went right over my head until I shared these books with my children and saw how I’d been punked. And The Witches was the worst.

The Witches is about a boy who is orphaned in the opening chapter—pity points are always crucial for Dahl—and then adopted by his loving Grandmamma, a kindly old lady who fills him in on a little-known scourge. Witches, she explains, are real. They are demons disguised as women, and their sole purpose is to entrap and destroy innocent children through their diabolical magic. One unfortunate boy, for example, went off with a witch and returned unharmed—but later hardened into a stone statue. After vanishing with a witch, a girl reappeared only in a landscape painting in her family’s home, changing positions whenever the family wasn’t watching and even aging as years passed. (That one haunted me for decades.) Other children are “disappeared” in ways worthy of an Argentine junta. Kids better watch out.

One summer on a beach vacation with Grandmamma, our hero wanders into a hotel conference room occupied by a group calling itself the “Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children.” In fact, it is a coven of witches discussing their latest plan, a potion designed to turn children into mice. They discover the boy and immediately mouse-ify him, but now that our talking mouse hero knows where they keep their potions, he and Grandmamma hatch a clever plot to administer them to the witches themselves. Hijinks ensue, evil is vanquished, and although the narrator remains a mouse, he doesn’t mind. He and Grandmamma embark on a crusade to take out the witches of the world, and he never has to go to school again.

The book chimed perfectly with the stories of “stranger danger” that other 1980s children and I were constantly fed in state-mandated school curricula, but it made that threat delightfully preposterous—and manageable since all one had to do was believe that certain adults were actually demons with recognizable tells. It was a highly rewarding fantasy. After all, it was clear to me, as it was to every young reader, that even adults who didn’t molest children in shopping malls were nonetheless conspiring against us, making us do dehumanizing tasks like making beds and taking tests. The book was empowering. With its frisson of secret knowledge, it made us feel righteous and invincible. Unfortunately, revisiting it as an adult revealed that the book was cribbed from the Protocols of the Elders of Zion—and helped me understand, for perhaps the first time, antisemitism’s seductive appeal.

“Witches,” Grandmamma explains, “are not actually women at all . . . They are demons in human shape.” How do you spot one? Well, since they’re demons, they have toeless hooves instead of feet and claws instead of fingers, disguised by fashionable shoes and gloves. You can’t spot those, but you can spot their “larger nose-holes than ordinary people” (the better to smell you with, my dear). But the real tell, of course, is that witches are bald—which is why a witch always wears “a first-class wig,” which she puts “straight on her naked scalp.”

As I read this aloud to my enthralled son, it was hard to miss how much these witches resembled women in, say, Stamford Hill (the London version of Borough Park). It was also hard to miss how much they resembled caricatures from Der Stürmer or a medieval blood libel. Was I overinterpreting?

You be the judge: “Wherever you find people, you find witches,” Grandmamma tells her innocent grandchild. “There is a Secret Society of Witches in every country. . . . An English witch, for example, will know all the other witches in England.” If this was too subtle, Grandmamma clarifies: “Once a year, the witches of each separate country hold their own secret meeting. They all get together in one place to receive a lecture from The Grand High Witch of All the World.” The boy’s question about this fun fact is, at this point, predictable: “Is she rich?”

Grandmamma replies, “She’s rolling. Simply rolling in money. Rumour has it that there is a machine in her headquarters which is exactly like the machine the government uses to print the bank-notes you and I use.” The boy then asks, as any normal child would, “What about foreign money?” You already know the answer: “Those machines can make Chinese money if you want them to.” Here, the boy turns skeptical: “If nobody has ever seen the Grand High Witch, how can you be so sure she exists?” Grandmamma counters, “Nobody has seen the Devil, but we know he exists.” All of this isn’t merely true, we are told, but “the gospel truth” (the italics are Dahl’s). After all, Grandmamma “went to church every morning of the week and she said grace before every meal, and somebody who did that would never tell lies.” As Grandmamma warns her dear boy, “All you can do is cross your heart and pray to heaven.”

Alas, crossing his heart and praying to heaven doesn’t protect our hero from his encounter with the Elders of Witchdom, at which point Dahl drops all pretense. The Grand High Witch, we learn, “had a peculiar way of speaking. There was some sort of a foreign accent there, something harsh and guttural, and she seemed to have trouble pronouncing the letter w. As well as that, she did something funny with the letter r. She would roll it round and round her mouth.” The Grand High Witch, in her Yiddish accent, explains to her secret society how they will lure England’s children by buying high-end sweet shops and poisoning the candy, since “Money is not a prrroblem to us vitches as you know very well. I have brrrought with me six trrrunks stuffed full of Inklish bank-notes, all new and crrrisp” (italics mine).

Few children can resist the lure of witches. My son loved the book so much that he wanted to see the movie. Perhaps you are wondering: is the 2020 Hollywood version, whose creators unsurprisingly included plenty of Jews, antisemitic? The short answer is no, or not exactly, but that’s also the wrong question.

Adapting from a source this hideous was never going to be easy or entirely uncontroversial, and the new film has already been slammed for portraying limb differences as evil (instead of the claws mentioned in the book, the film’s witches are depicted with missing fingers). Despite that tone-deaf choice, it’s clear that the filmmakers were aware of the book’s larger problems. To their credit, they knew they had to fix something, and they went big: instead of contemporary England, Roald Dahl’s The Witches takes place in 1968 Alabama, and the protagonist and his grandmother are Black (Octavia Spencer’s Grandmamma is even a voodoo healer). Unlike the 1990 movie, the witches no longer have big noses and are, in fact, racially diverse. At first, this does seem poised to dilute some of the book’s inherent awfulness: when a Black witch attacked the protagonist in an early scene, I had high hopes for a story where “evil” was depicted solely through Marvel Universe methods of pancake makeup and special effects. But that scene proved to be half-hearted tokenism, since the rest of the film focuses almost entirely on, to use the current term, white-presenting witches—and most tellingly, what really distinguishes witches in this film is that they are rich. As we watch a flashback of the lily-white and fabulously dressed Anne Hathaway as the Grand High Witch attacking an impoverished Black child in a 1920s Alabama shantytown, Grandmamma tells us that “witches always prey on the poor.”

This class warfare idea is utterly absent from Dahl’s book, but it perhaps unintentionally provides a trendy update to his rather old-school racial antisemitism: the idea that a secret society of fantastically wealthy “global elites”—often, but not inevitably, Jews—prey on the poor. This means that bigotry against them, rather than being retrograde, is, in fact, a fresh and righteous way of “punching up.” Instead of just protecting innocent children, this new Grandmamma now also shares her truth to defend the downtrodden, like every righteous nutjob tweeting about the Rothschilds or George Soros. In the book, nothing much happens with the Grand High Witch’s counterfeit cash. But here Grandmamma commandeers it at the film’s triumphant end and hands out hundred-dollar bills to the hotel’s exploited Black employees.

If this sounds tedious, it is. Roald Dahl’s The Witches is wretched less because of the book’s wretched premise than because it is a conventionally lousy children’s movie, full of Hollywood pieties (in the climactic scene, Grandmamma actually lectures the Grand High Witch about the Power of Love), canned stereotypes and recycled animation. That doesn’t mean kids won’t love it, of course. As Hollywood knows well, everyone loves a good conspiracy theory—and that’s the problem.

My kids laughed their way through the movie’s animated mice and cookie-cutter triumphs, enjoying everything that conventional children’s stories do best—reinforce their audience’s expectations, vanquish villains, and make powerless people feel superior. Conspiracy theories make for great stories, but in an era when a nontrivial proportion of the American electorate apparently believes in the QAnon conspiracy theory that a secret cabal of satanic pedophiles preys on American children and the country, I couldn’t help feeling that this film was, at the very least, ill-timed.

It is so easy, after all, to believe in a conspiracy, so self-indulgent, so appealing—and, as I now finally understood, so much fun. Watching this mediocre and unremarkable movie left me shockingly ill at ease, precisely because it was so mediocre and unremarkable. My discomfort was compounded by the knowledge that the eight-year-old me would have loved it too, not knowing any better. Few children do. In the elaborate, magical long game of luring innocents into handing over their hearts, it turns out that the Grand High Witch was actually Roald Dahl.

[vampiric-succulent]

OUAW EP 20:

It’s not even past the bean footage yet and already I have a thing to comment about—

“Hey. Keep working. Keep your hands down.” Idk if it’s just Mace or if it’s me but this is an interesting thing to start the episode with

Also I lowkey already watched this but considering that I wasn’t really paying attention due to Sleep im rewatching

Oh this is the Silly Goofy episode. Got it.

Watching this is so different now that I know how tall each of these people actually are in real life

“Mr Kremyyyyy….. Torbek had a nightmaaaare………..” torb <3

Hot jones?

Why is Mikey using the King Shmebulon voice

Oh the energy here is so weird today

NEXT YOURE GONNA TELL TORBEK THAT A SHRIMP FRIED THAT RICE and they’re gone

The improv shenanigans here are SO GOOD— “the wee hours” watches and the blue J and the bottle of something

HOT JONES!!!

“There was that guy and he was like… woah.” Bi Gricko!!!! “Why you always watching these kingly types and looking at their woah?” Lmfao Gideon you are no better

Degenerate Jones

TABAXI TORBEK and eughhh Mammon Tiefling Gricko (applying for all Mammon Tiefling Gricko)

I love how Kremy is super paranoid thinks everyone is out to get him but still immediately tells Gideon everything (I need to see Gideon do some sort of something back bc coalecroux is feeling increasingly one sided and it is making me sad)

“Torbek was happy with the infinite abyss”

THE FEDS

Poor Twig she went from dealing with absolute loneliness to dealing with all this bullshit. She needs to have the space to Bogart out a little bit like get this woman a destruction room

Twig 🤝 Torbek

coping mechanisms

Gideon has such older brother who acts like a father figure to Twig vibes

THE FEDS THEYRE IN THE CLOTHES

Torbek is simply following suit… following the suit to the ground lmfao

PENIS NOSE?????? HOW IS THAT AN OPTION

Gideon is overwhelmed by Penis im sorry

This is just reminding me of when Frost got the proud nudist curse and Derek made that slapping turn joke 😭

Obligatory “im walkin here” please stop

Nvm we have the coalecroux and also poly party affirmations (long shots and headcanons)

OH!!! Woah there Kremy

“Think of the Federal government!” Quick Gid take your clothes off!! The government!!!

OH NO THE ORCIFICATION

NO THE FUCKING CABINET

DEREK. DEREK WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT DEREK WE COULD HAVE NEVER GONE DOWN THAT ROAD

Love Torbek’s Spring Aladrin voice. It’s like some sort of old English aristocratic friend of Oscar Wilde.

Oop! Theseus’s Ship mentioned (kind of)

“Did we do a bunch of drugs before bed again?” Funny you should have asked that Gideon given what is now happening

“Tentacles probe me” “yes Gideon join us the time is now get naked”

WHY IS IT ERECT NOW DEREK. PUT THAT DOWN. “Something about beekeeper helmets…” HUH

Oh god Twig is gonna bogart out

PUT IT DOWN. PUT THAT THING DOWN AND AWAY.

“STOP BEING ERECT. STOP EATING MY BONES”

Love how Nikkie says “your mind is back to Gricko” and Mikey just starts screaming

Whoops!

It is so impressive how Twig is so controlled. Like she has every justification to absolutely freak out right now and she’s keeping calm and trying to manage things.

Thank god Hootsie is out of this lol

NO TWIG LOOK AWAY

“Torbek was *very* thorough.”

Okay seriously how old is Twig?? This is a very important question. Like REALLY important.

I’m imagining Spring Aladrin Torbek lying on a couch like he’s gonna say “draw me like one of your French girls”

Guys. Please. We are nearly halfway through this video. Please.

YES CAST SILENCE. HUSH MICHAEL.

No Twig it’s not your fault!!!!!!! No!!!!!!!!!!!

Not the Pennsylvanian sperm trees

“After what I’ve watched today I don’t think you’ll accomplish anything of value.”

Not the milk joke PLEASE y’all not the cilk

Frost is so sweet tho

No more Hot Joneses :(

Yesss Twig establish those boundaries!!!!

Tom is such a deep cut

Okay so Twig is at least 200 years old. Good. That’s really good. Good to know.

Grinko is having a stronk. Please call the Gronkulance.

WHAT HAPPENED TO HOOTSIE.

Omg she’s their niece!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! But also HOLY FUCK HE HIT HER??? WITH A CABINET????????

“Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.”

Menasith, and their older sibling Menapauthe.

The Glowing Anus 😭

Oh this is Nikkie’s fault. Fantastic.

MORNING FROTH CONGRATULATIONS EVERYONE

“That’s very funny Gricko. Your daughter is possibly bleeding out.”

Ohhhh Hootsie’s okay thank god

Gricko however is really not

Okay so I know this is a fantasy campaign and we are in the literal Feywild so this like kind of doesn’t matter but how does Gideon get energy??? Does he need to absorb nutrients or is it just sort of as long as he keeps his internal furnace alive he’s okay?

Twig boundaries 100 with regards to Torbek but fully get the party’s concerns

Also Twigsy ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Not Gricko being hypnotized by Spring Aladrin Torbek’s hip sway

Torbek does not know but Torbek must dance!!!!

Oh Torbek’s ticket is so sad

“This is an Acorn Satchel!!!”

Mikey annoying Nikkie so much that she just takes things away

Frost getting jealous over the Gricko impression 😭❤️

What is a mud meffet?????

I love Andy so much. Oh he’s wonderful. So glad he’s here.

KLUTZY RETURNS for like two seconds

Love these guys. Oh my lord. Also what the fuck happened in the first like hour???? Still a fun little episode.

[ashesoriley]

The lost DND Darkwing Duck episode

Trust me guys this is real

So we open on Honker and Gosalyn who have joined their schools DND club and are talking about it as we enter the Mallard residence.

As they talk about it, Drake Mallard hears and excitedly tells them about his old campaign

We cut to a flashback of high school Elmo Sputterspark and Drake Mallard running their old game with a focus on the hand painted custom minis that Drake made (nerd)

After the flashback we fade to the Fearsome Fives lair where Quackerjack is digging through Megavolts stuff. And what does he find? But the hand painted minis of his and Drakes old characters.

Quackerjack: Why Sparky, I didn't know you were into toys!!

Megavolt: Shut up! They are not toys, they are figurines for a very serious campaign (obligatory don't call me sparky)

A short argument follows after which Bushroot mentions he also used to play. Quackerjack then decides that they all need to do a game. All is well and dandy, they are all having fun. Until!

Negaduck comes to the lair. He declares that that game is for nerds and pussys and bans them from playing in "his lair"

Back at the Mallard home we hear an alarm. Someone has broken into [random building]!!

Darkwing Duck is on the case!

He flies in

Darkwing: I am the terror that flaps in the night! I am the natural one in your death saving throw! I am- what's happening here?

The Fearsome Four are sitting in a circle, Quackerjack in the middle of a dramatic battle.

After a brief argument, Darkwing can't really figure out what they're doing wrong here so he's hovering until they do something illegal. Quackerjack is dming like he's trying to kill the players( he is) when suddenly, Darkwing hears a broken rule!

Darkwing: Stop right there! I think you'll find that according to the phb that[ insert arbitrary rule]

Quackerjack: Aww Darkwing you always ruin my fun!

Megavolt: You know, maybe it isn't so bad having a goofy two shoes after all

Liquidator: The Liquidator thinks it would be in our best interest to have an outside perspective.

Enter Darkwing as rules lawyer. After the climactic battle and the session ends it's pretty awkward and they kinda just start going their separate ways.

As they're packing though, Darkwing spots his old minis

Darkwing: Where on earth did you get THAT!

Megavolt: I didn't steal them if that's what your after, buzz off

Darkwing: It's just, I used to have some just like that

End credit music plays

This was one hundred percent real and not made up

[buckybarnesss]

Blessed post where you detail the storytelling points proving Derek's very young age both when the fire happened and during the show. And it's during the show too, because we may have been watching for six years but the story actually spans about two if I'm not mistaken?

The college-age-Derek-when-the-fire-happened truthers have been around forever and my favorite line from them is: "Why do you want so badly Derek/Kate to have been statutory rape? Just so your fave can claim more suffering?"

And it's not untrue that we like to see our faves suffer because it makes for compelling storytelling. The jokes and memes about the hurt-comfort are true. But this isn't that? No one ever walked up to J*ff D*vis and asked him to write up the story in a way that keeps supporting a timeline where Derek was 16 when the fire happened. He did that all by himself and it's not on us that we went along with it and didn't just discount the actual storytelling for retconning claims D*vis made in some interview or panel or other.

And more importantly, why are these people so passionately for this retconning? That's the real question. Why do they want so badly for Derek to have been 19 or 20 or even 22 (which would be beyond a stretch no matter how you retconned it) when the fire happened? Why is it so much more palatable to them  -better yet, why do they think it would be so much more palatable, so much less the suffering for Derek if he'd been college-age? Is it maybe a secret third idea that it's not even rape if he's a legal adult? That being underage is the only thing that made Derek/Kate not actually consensual? That made it rape?

The funny thing is that Derek is not even my favorite. I do like him but I also happen to like Allison and Scott just as much. And it's Stiles that happens to be my favorite, and I am very much in love with Sterek, but I liked both Derek and Jennifer (however complicated the ship ended up being) and I liked him with Braeden especially because she was the first canon love interest (Paige aside) he got that was actually a good match for him, that genuinely cared for him and didn't hurt him. The point is that Derek doesn't have to be your favorite to call out what Kate did to him as what it actually was, and it doesn't make you sexist either (I've seen the argument, they're really that stupid).

Obligatory addition that Sterek is fanon at the end of the day. So is any other ship involving adult Derek and a teenage character. So @ Derek haters (there's a Venn diagram that shows the impressive overlap between Derek haters and the above-mentioned truthers) who love accusing Derek of being what Kate actually was: canonically Derek had Paige when they were both 16, then he was 16 or even 22 and Kate is established older than Derek (which is what makes 22-year-old Derek impossible when the fire happened because Kate was 22 according to the chem teacher whose name I forget and who told her how to burn the Hales down), then he's an adult and he has Jennifer (who is a high school English teacher and that speaks for itself) and then he has Braeden (who was, like, a marshall or something years ago, before losing her job obsessing over hunting down Malia's mother or something, and I'm pretty sure that also speaks for itself on the question of Braeden's possible minimum age). Even that scene with Erica in season 2, poorly executed as it was, had Derek literally throwing off of him the only teenager that made a move on him (what Erica was actually going for is not the point here at all).

I haven't touched the show in years and I didn't watch the movie either, so correct me if I'm wrong about any of this. But anyway, thanks for reading my rant. It's defending Derek o'clock apparently because there's just some things in this fandom that can really grate your cheese.

thank you anon!

yeah i do not know where people got the idea of derek being much older. in the presentation pilot script derek is specifically said to be 19 but they realized that if the fire was 6 years previous than he would've been 13 when he was involved with kate so they aged him a few years so he'd be 16.

of course that still isn't super great but jeff clearly had a specific story in mind for what happened with derek and how the fire occurred. picking up on those storytelling cues isn't us wishing bad things upon a character and it doesn't make me or anyone else a bad person. it's us engaging with the story and understanding what the creator is trying to convey to their audience without it being explicitly said.

and while it's conjecture that kate was a substitute teacher because it was never confirmed in canon i think there's evidence to support the idea between the on fire novel and how in season 2 the the argents infiltrate the school system. her being a substitute would explain not only how she was able to gain such access to derek but also how she knew to approach harris and how to approach him to get the information she wanted.

when i was watching the show while it was still running from 2012-2014 it was pretty accepted fandom wide that derek was very early 20s and had been 16 when the fire happened. it has only been since i returned in 2023 that i've seen an uptick in the idea that derek wasn't underage when he and kate were involved.

peter and cora's comments in visionary about age were tongue in cheek. it was show winking at the fans about how they were shit with character ages and timelines. and even then despite how messy the teen wolf timeline is we can be reasonably certain of a lot of events within canon and suss out ages and such.

derek wasn't in his 30s during the show. he wasn't even over 25. he was barely in his 20s. scott and stiles treat him like a peer because he is one. the idea of him being some much older guy needs to be put to rest.

i didn't go into detail with kate's behavior in that post because it was about whether or not derek graduated beacon hills high but like kate is a sexual predator. the narrative is very consistent with her behavior.

she makes several suggestive comments about both jackson and scott. in the tell when she's tormenting derek at the hale house she says:

"this one grew up in all the right places. I don't know whether to kill it or lick it."

that is not ambiguous. i've discussed kate and derek before here and here.

her behavior towards de-aged derek isn't ambiguous either.

kate argent is a sexual predator that likes teenage boys. she groomed and raped teenage derek all the while planning to murder his family. this doesn't get any better if derek had been older and was in a consentual relationship with kate.

there's a very consistent story throughout the entire show of derek's consent and body being violated by others for their own gain. kate, gerard, deaton and scott, the twins and kali, jennifer and even the nogitsune.

and yet antis like to turn that all around on derek which i've discussed here about how derek isn't a perfect abuse victim and how it's been used against derek here.

when people deny what happened to derek it's with the same reasonings that people deny men can experience sexual assault and rape. like, how many times has a female teacher engaged in sexual misconduct with a male student only for the comments to be that he should've been grateful and enjoy an older woman's attention? look at the way the news coverage of mary kay letourneau was handled.

i have discussed derek's turning of erica here, here and here. more here about the subject.

the whole sterek thing. it's whatever to me at this point. antis seem to think they're gonna make people stop shipping it when they're not. there's no moral high ground.

[nompunhere]

Obligatory Long-Overdue Pinned Post

Hi! Welcome to my blog. I'm NomPunHere, but you can call me Nom, Pun, NomPun, NPH, or whatever. She/they pronouns, please. I'm not too active these days, but in here, you will find:

Safe, soft, nonsexual vore/noms, aka extreme cuddling

Some G/t here and there

Gay bugs

Fandom thoughts

Fics and art (most of which is kinda old by now)

Angst, sometimes

Please do not ask to RP unless I know you personally. I may occasionally engage with some silly little RP-type asks, but I'm also pretty bad about getting around to answering asks in general, so don't expect too much.

I do have a sona! I haven't officially introduced them on this blog, though. Maybe someday I'll finish her ref sheet. Today is not that day. Other than them, the vast majority of my OCs are bees I made to fill roles in a couple of my fics lmao

A lot of my work is fandom-based, though I also have some non-fandom posts floating around that people seem to like. I'll put my fandom list under the cut so I don't have to break up the names with slashes (hopefully)

Explanation of my DNI will also be under the cut. You can skip past the fandom list if you want, since it's so long

List of current/major fandoms, in (mostly) no particular order:

HOLLOW KNIGHT (this makes up like half my blog)

Rain World

Bug Fables

Celeste

Treasure Planet

Slay the Princess

Pokémon Mystery Dungeon (only PMD2 though)

Pokémon Legends: Arceus (still on my first playthrough so no spoilies)

Sky: Children of the Light

Stardew Valley

D&D

And here's some older/minor fandoms I may occasionally take interest in, again in no particular order:

OFF

Subnautica

Journey (2013)

Legend of Zelda (Breath of the Wild, Tears of the Kingdom, Twilight Princess, and Wind Waker, though my memory of those last two isn't the best)

Homestuck

Baba Is You

Golden Treasure: The Great Green (if anyone recognizes this one I love you personally)

Plants Vs Zombies (mostly the first game)

Undertale

Avatar: The Last Airbender

Boku no Hero Academia

SPORE

To The Moon (and its sequels)

Terraria

Flight Rising (note that I haven't played since like 2020 though so I'm not up-to-date)

Detroit: Become Human

PIKMIN (only up through Pikmin 3 so far though)

Mushi-shi

Steven Universe

Gravity Falls

Invader Zim

Danny Phantom

How to Train Your Dragon (only the first two movies plus Gift of the Night Fury and Book of Dragons. Haven't seen RoB, DoB, or RttE)

BE MORE CHILL

Miraculous Ladybug

Fullmetal Alchemist (2003)

The Dragon Prince (only the first two seasons but I intend to watch the newer episodes later so NO SPOILIES)

My Little Pony (gen 4) (haven't seen The Movie or anything after it)

Okay that's probably way more than enough. Some of these fandoms, I will not talk about in a vore context, either for my own comfort or the comfort of others. And some of these, I don't actually remember much about, but they all have a place in my heart so I figured I'd mention them

DNI:

Blogs that post explicit sexual content

I would strongly prefer not to see that type of content, and I definitely don't want people interpreting my work as sexual, so I ask that you not follow or reblog my posts. If you just leave likes on my most popular posts though (like over 100 notes), I won't give a shit.

If you're gonna interpret my work as sexual regardless of what I say, then you do you, man. I just don't wanna know about it.

Blogs that only post hard and/or fatal vore

For this one, I mainly just don't want my posts reblogged there, because that's generally not what my posts are meant to be, and I don't want them to be interpreted incorrectly, if it can be helped.

Blogs that post irl vore/weight gain pictures or edits

I'm not judging, so long as everything is done with consent, but these do make me uncomfortable, and I don't wanna see it.

Proshippers/comshippers/anti-antis

Again, the content makes me uncomfortable, and I would rather not have people interpreting the relationships in my works as romantic or sexual unless they're intended to be.

On another note, if you strongly identify as either anti-anti OR anti, and go out of your way to harass people who disagree with you, I probably won't like your vibe! We don't need that around here! Thanks.

MAPs/pedophiles and zoophiles

I hope you're getting whatever help you need.

TERFS, transmeds, racists, sexists, LGBT-phobes, neonazis, ace/aro exclusionists, and whatever else I'm forgetting. Idk I'll probably block you if you give me that sort of bad vibe

This should be pretty self-explanatory, I should hope? Don't be a dick.

I don't want to argue with anyone, and I don't want to be dragged into any drama. This is meant to be a safe place to talk about my interests. Thank you for understanding, and I hope you enjoy your visit (or stay)!

(And yes, if you must know, I'm an adult.)

[yersina]

[part 1]

[tag list: @whalesharksart @sleepyboosstuff]

Steve starts out on his Pokemon journey at the ripe old age of ten, toddling into the Hawkins Laboratory empty-handed and coming out with Piplup’s Pokeball. Just like every other kid in his class. Unlike every other kid in his class, he also has the weight of his dad’s words hanging over his head.

Make me proud, son, his dad had said that morning, and every other morning between his tenth birthday and his appointment at the Lab to get his starter. I don’t want you back here until you’re Champion. His mom had smiled at that, like this was meant to be encouragement. Steve had smiled back, like fear hadn’t trickled down his spine like a particularly malevolent Muk.

So he sets out that day, zero experience under his belt and a sickening churning in his stomach. He discovers that he’s bad at battling pretty quickly—he hates seeing Piplup get hurt, and he doesn’t have the money yet to heal him after every battle. Piplup, to his chagrin, picks up on this right away, and takes to reassuring him after every battle, running over to Steve as soon as the other Pokemon has fainted and raising his flippers pointedly until Steve picks him up and hugs him close.

Steve loves his Piplup so, so much.

(The first time that Piplup doesn’t win a battle, Steve… freaks out, to put it lightly. He scoops him up and rushes him to the nearest Pokemon Center, completely forgetting to pay the other trainer, and anxiously waits the ten minutes that it takes for him to reach the front of the line and for Nurse Joy to put Piplup’s Pokeball in the machine.

Later, he finds the trainer and apologizes, only to be waved off with an understanding smile. “Hey, I get it,” she says lightly. “You might want to re-think the trainer career, though, if you can’t deal with your Pokemon getting hurt.”

Steve thinks on this and thinks and thinks. He’s still thinking.)

-

It takes him six years to beat all the gyms in the region, in the end. The last two take him a year each. By the end of those six years, Steve is tired. He hates battling, probably. It never feels natural no matter how many battles he goes through, but he likes the joy that it seems to give his Pokemon. Empoleon, ever in-tune with Steve, refuses to battle if it’s not for an official gym match. Steve both loves and hates him for it.

He makes a trip back to Hawkins after he beats the last gym, eight badges clutched tightly in their case. He’s not sure what to expect when he gets there, but before he even really has a chance to start wondering, he runs into Ms. Henderson as she’s outside watering her garden.

“Oh, dear,” she says. Steve can’t decipher if it’s a greeting or an exclamation of worry. “What are you doing back here?”

“Visiting my parents?” It comes out like a question. Steve shifts nervously. “Are they… not in town?”

“Oh, dear,” Ms. Henderson repeats, and this time it’s definitely worry. “Sweetie, they moved away a couple of years ago. Sold the house and everything. Didn’t they tell you?”

Steve hasn’t talked with his parents in over two years, not since his obligatory fourteenth birthday phone call that really only amounted to a status report on how far he’d made it through the gym challenge. Never once have they mentioned moving away from Hawkins. “Oh.” All he can think about is how this frees up his weekend.

Somehow, he gets invited into the Henderson’s house and talked into staying for lunch. He learns about how Dustin Henderson left on his Pokemon journey just a year ago, together with his group of friends. They’re interested in attempting the gym challenge, but they want to explore the region first. Dustin’s starter was a Turtwig. Turtwig is much more rambunctious than Dustin and is always getting into trouble before Dustin can rein him in. Dustin caught a Scatterbug and it just evolved into a Spewpa a few days ago. Ms. Henderson is excited to see what pattern the Vivillon will have when it evolves.

Over the course of two hours, Steve learns more about Dustin than he ever knew about Tommy or Carol when they were still friends.

“Oh, but I’m hoping Dusty will come back soon so he can take Growlithe with him,” Ms. Henderson frets. As if to prove her point, a Growlithe bounds into the living room and over to Steve, tail wagging a mile a minute.

Steve reaches out with both hands, digging his fingers into the thick fur of Growlithe’s scruff, and scratches furiously. Growlithe practically melts into his hands. “Who’s a good boy,” he coos. He’s always loved Growlithes, but his parents never let him keep one when growing up. Too much fur in the house. “Has he been giving you a lot of trouble?”

“He doesn’t really get along with my Skitty, which was fine when he was out all the time with Dustin, but my hip can’t keep up with him anymore.” Ms. Henderson also reaches over to pet Growlithe a few times. “He just has too much energy for this little town.”

Steve hesitates, chewing over his next words carefully. “I don’t want to overstep, but I can take him for now, if you want?”

Ms. Henderson gasps. “Would you? Oh, but I don’t want to burden you.”

“It’s no problem, really.” Steve shrugs. “I’ll leave my contact info with you. Whenever Dustin gets back, or if he’s in my area, he can give me a call and I’ll trade him Growlithe back.”

“It would make things a lot easier for me in the house,” Ms. Henderson says reluctantly.

“It’s settled, then.”

Steve walks out of the house with three boxes of leftovers and a Growlithe at his side. This is the warmest he’s ever felt leaving Hawkins, and it’s not just because Growlithe puts off heat like a furnace.

-

It takes another two years until he feels confident enough to challenge the first member of the Elite Four and only half an hour to prove himself right. Jim Hopper—also from Hawkins, funnily enough—takes the loss with grace, but he does look up at the ceiling and groan when he comes over to shake Steve’s hand. “The next generation’s starting to come for us,” he says wryly. Steve’s not quite sure what to say to that, not when he’s still shaking from adrenaline and thinking about the three fainted Pokemon on his belt.

He finds out afterward, after he’s healed all his Pokemon and checked them over personally and given them all celebratory meals, that he has two options: 1) since he’s of age, he can accept responsibility for the Elite Four gym and run it himself, which means that he becomes a member of the Elite Four and forfeits the right to challenge the other members of the Elite Four for a minimum of a year and the Champion for three years, or 2) he can continue onward with the Elite Four challenge and eventually make his way to the Champion.

He almost goes for option 2 on automatic, because that’s been his default for eight long years, but then he stops. And he thinks.

He hasn’t talked to his parents in four years. He doesn’t know where they are, and he can’t really be bothered to care either. He knows for sure that he managed to disappoint them somehow a long time ago already. Maybe it was the fact that it took him so many years to finish the gym challenge. Maybe it was the way he battled, long and drawn out and clumsy, with none of the brutal efficiency of his dad that Steve vaguely remembers from the recordings he used to watch. Maybe he just never had a chance to begin with.

Either way, Steve doesn’t have to give a single thought to what they want out of him anymore. And he doesn’t want to be Champion.

Option 1 it is.

“Hey, you can always call me if you need anything, kid,” Hopper says gruffly when he’s handing Steve the keys to his gym. “No one expects you to know the ropes right off the bat.”

“Thanks.”

Even after Hopper leaves, Steve doesn’t walk into the building. He just stands there, looking blankly at the giant metal structure, and trying to convince himself that it’s his now. “Steve Harrington, Elite Four,” he murmurs to himself under his breath. He wonders if he’ll ever get used to the sound of it.

(It’s not until a year later—a terrifying, whirlwind of a year—that Steve realizes there’s actually a third option: stop being a Pokemon trainer and actually do something that he likes for once.)

-

The year that Steve is on the Elite Four, several things happen:

1. He meets his soulmate, twin from another mother, in the form of a trainer employed at the gym, Robin Buckley. She’s one of the only reasons that Steve manages to survive the ensuing chaos with his sanity even remotely intact.

2. Steve finds out that he has absolutely no talent whatsoever for running a gym, but he does like helping the other trainers with their Pokemon and running training exercises when he can. It’s sort of like being a babysitter, if the babies were covered in metal plates and absolutely capable of giving him a concussion.

3. Dustin Henderson, with absolutely no attention whatsoever to gym protocol, bursts in and demands to speak to him.

4. Steve finds out that the Hawkins Lab has been conducting awful-gross-abhorrent experiments with the aim of giving humans Pokemon abilities, and Dustin needs help taking it down. Steve is apparently the most powerful trainer from Hawkins that he knows, which is the only reason why he trekked all the way out here to find him.

5. Dustin knows about this because one of his friends, Will Byers, was kidnapped to be a subject. Steve remembers Will, faintly. A quiet kid, sweet, liked to draw. The whole thing makes Steve sick to his stomach.

6. Steve drags Dustin, Hopper, and Robin (who is, shockingly, also from Hawkins) with him back to his hometown, where they confront Professor Brenner.

7. In the ensuing battle, Steve works on freeing as many of the captives as possible, which takes the form of asking his Lucario to fire a Hyper Beam at the wall and making sure that no one trips over the rubble as they flee. A Tinkatink, too terrified to move, and a little girl with hair buzzed close to her head, are the last ones left. Steve, not wanting to waste time with figuring out if the Pokemon already has a Pokeball, tucks them each under an arm and gets the fuck out of there.

8. He’s not sure how everything after that happens, really, but Dustin and Hopper meet Steve and Robin at the Pokemon Center when the dust has settled, Will and Joyce Byers in tow. The Tinkatink and the girl—Eleven, apparently, which had broken Steve’s heart—have refused to leave his side.

9. Steve eventually manages to convince El (not Eleven) to go with Hopper. Hopper promises to stay behind and keep everything running smoothly in the town, or as smoothly as things can go when it’s been revealed that the town’s Professor has been running a human experimentation scheme under their noses this whole time. The Tinkatink is a lost cause. Steve adds her to his roster.

10. Steve and Robin troop back to his gym, where Steve promptly has an existential crisis and wonders if he should just quit being a trainer altogether. “Yeah, why not, dingus?” Robin asks him quietly as they look up at the stars together one night. “I don’t think I’ve ever really seen you be happy here.”

And then, a few weeks later, Steve’s contract expires. It takes embarrassingly little thought to pack his things, write Robin a quick note (‘Hey, headed back to Hawkins. Elite Four thing’s not for me. See ya.’), and hop on his Corviknight.

When he arrives in Hawkins, he finds Hopper losing his mind trying to keep all of the kids and Pokemon in order. “Please tell me you’re here to relieve me,” he says, half-jokingly, but Steve can hear the desperation hidden under there. Steve relishes his shock when he tells him that yeah, actually, he is.

In the time it takes Hopper to sort everything out with Joyce Byers (Steve’s not going to question that relationship too much) and move back to his gym, Robin has stormed her way over to Hawkins and back into Steve’s life.

“I can’t believe you thought this was enough of a goodbye, you asshole,” she yells as Steve stacks boxes of Pokeballs to move out of the Lab. “Steve! Are you even listening, dingus?”

“Robin,” he says, catching her flailing arms before she manages to hurt herself. “It wasn’t gonna ever be a goodbye, dingus. I wrote ‘see ya,’ didn’t I?”

Robin’s lower lip wobbles, and Steve realizes that he might’ve miscalculated when he penned the note. “God, I hate you so much,” she says, and wraps him in a hug like a particularly bony Octillery. Steve figures he’s forgiven.

Over the next few weeks, Steve gradually moves everything out from the Lab and converts an unused storefront in town into a Nursery. It feels like a natural choice—most of the Pokemon from the Lab were only babies. He comes to be known as That Person Who Takes Care of Baby Pokemon, and eventually, That Person Who Takes Care of Pokemon in General. It’s the convenient option for most people, especially when no one wants to go to the Pokemon Center two towns away for a checkup.

Ms. Henderson stops by with a casserole. Joyce Byers stops by with stock from the PokeMart. Will Byers stops by with a Sliggoo, which he apparently picked up at the Lab. It has a hard shell and doesn’t look like any Sliggoo Steve’s ever seen. He tentatively stamps it with a clean bill of health and tells him to contact him immediately if it ever shows signs of wanting world domination or anything like that. Will laughs, but Steve’s being mostly serious.

He’s busy pretty much from the second he wakes until the second he collapses into bed, or whenever Robin decides that he needs a break and forcibly closes the Nursery for a day. It’s the most busy he’s ever been, even if he includes when he first started running the gym, and it’s also the happiest he’s ever been.

“I don’t regret this at all,” he tells Robin one night, looking up at the same stars as they always do. It’s a particularly clear night, and the stars glimmer brightly. He wonders if Jirachi had been listening that day, had heard his unspoken wish and granted it for him.

“Yeah, I know,” she says softly. “Me neither.”

In a moment, they’re both going to trudge inside and curl up in bed after a long day, and tomorrow they’re going to wake up and do it again. But for now, they sit together quietly under the light of the stars.

[singswan-springswan]

Reasons to watch Justice League: War (2014)

free on tubi

absolute banger start with Dry Humor Hal

"Batman is real????"

once again we bring you speculation of Batman Turned Villain?/Is He Abducting Random Civilians Or Is That Just Parademons?

We have Green Lantern thinking Batman's a cryptid right out of the gate then going "wait you're not just some guy in a bat costume, right?" while Batman gives him a deadpan stare and Green Lantern weeps and also they are in the sewers

Bruce "I make it my business to know" Wayne, for your consideration

Billy Batson conning his way into a football game

Billy Batson being a fan of Victor Stone??? and stealing his jersey

Victor is a nice young gentlemen to everyone except his father, with whom he devolves into Indignant Gremlin and will Break Things watch out

Flash and Victor's dad being friends

poor Barry went and got burritos for EVERYONE and SOMEONE STOLE HIS

Green Lantern and Batman already hate each other's guts

Bruce stole Green Lantern's ring just to be feral and made fun of him for it

✨Utility Belt✨

space cop Green Lantern

Superman's costume is so sexy

testosterone overdose with Green Lantern, Batman, and Superman all in the same scene: 368 dead, 1,590 injured. Obligatory catfight between those three while also there are hostile parademon soldiers flying around everywhere

Bruce stopping Superman in his tracks by saying his name quietly

Clark just staring at Batman for a second, then: "Bruce Wayne??"

"who's Bruce Wayne?" help

Diana publicly coerces a man into admitting that he cross-dresses as her and it makes him feel powerful while standing in the middle of a hostile mob on her way to meet the american president

3 seconds later she decides to ditch the president and go get ice cream

Diana thinks ice cream is The Best

Diana makes friends with Hannah and adopts her on the spot

🚨Flash and Green Lantern bromance!!🚨

"Batman is real????"

Diana is Bloodthirsty.

oops victor got yeeted. maybe he shouldn't have touched that glowing alien space box in his dad's lab

Billy's gonna fight demons in his backyard alone at night with a baseball bat which in no way seems saf--⚡SHAZAM⚡

squad is so lit my dudes

actually they are so cool together

the writers were clearly Clark/Diana shippers because man there was SO MUCH chemistry between those two

Diana gets to stab Darkseid in the eyeball with her sword :3

Barry gets to stab the other eyeball with a crowbar :3

Batman tells Green Lantern he's normal and then disguises himself as a civilian in .002 seconds and promptly hitches a ride on a parademon like he's hailing a fricking taxi and gets carried off into the night, leaving the rest of the heroes to hold the line while he tries to rescue Superman from wherever he got portal-ed off to single-handedly BRUCE SHUT UP

Green Lantern is really bad at giving speeches. but like. it's funny

Everyone kicks alien butt

Bruce does, in fact, end up saving Superman single-handedly

Victor is soooo OP

Diana punches Captain Marvel through a wall and shoves her sword in his face and says "you are a warrior, not a child! act like it!" LIKE NO MA'AM HE'S LITERALLY TEN YEARS OLD

Captain Marvel does not stop flirting with Diana throughout the time they work together

Green Lantern said "I like trains"

lads I am not joking about how cool the squad is

Victor has bad reception so he flies into the clouds. pray

Victor finds out Captain Marvel is actually an infant and lets him keep the jersey. Billy cracks jokes about his arm being a cannon

Diana calls them all gods. she said Batman is Hades. send help.

Sean Astin voices Captain Marvel

I'm not the biggest fan of the way they drew Superman's face. it's too shaped. BUT the rest of the animation is so spirited and vibrant. storyboard and choreography is phenomenal, not to mention the cinematography! amazing animation

Batman, to Green Lantern: let them think we're friends so the cops don't get me

dialogue is so much fun and so rich. no lines wasted. full to bursting with wit and humor

exposition is breathtaking, considering the time frame they were working with. I'm honestly floored. they took an hour of screen time and made it feel more than twice as long. holy kriff, that's some masterful storytelling right there

this film had more character development for a cast of seven than most modern movies--and some shows--have for one character

excellent voice acting

completely stand-alone; can be watched and thoroughly enjoyed without any prior knowledge

[i-smoke-chapstick]

HELLO WORKAHOLICS WRITER?!1?11 PLEASE SOME BLAKE HENDERSON FLUFF I BEG I’m torn between making out with him and playing with his hair TY!! ☺️

‘RED WINE SUPERNOVA,

-BLAKE HENDERSON X READER-

⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ; blake general fluff hcs <3

⋆ tags/warnings. Blake Henderson x female reader. PURE FLUFF <3 This song is SO him, thank god for chappell roan!! making out, playing with his hair (ofc), canon typical drug talk, some vague spicyness. anons i love u pleaseplspls keep sending these requests in im FLOORRRREEDDDD

♫ “I don't care that you're a stoner / Put her canine teeth in the side of my neck / Okay, maybe it's a twin bed, and some roommates.” Red Wine Supernova by Chappell Roan

He is such a BABE

I know I mentioned pet names before, but this man NEVER stops. Ever. There is a never ending list of all the sweet things that come out of this guys mouth. We see him through almost every single season say the word “sweetheart” at least once. It’s his favorite.

And of course, the obligatory “my love,” and “dude” and “brajette” he says 24/7

Getting the craziest stupidest texts with all the ideas he comes up with. Having to talk him down, or if you wanna stir the pot, go ahead and encourage him.

“Babe, you won’t believe the idea I had today. What if we opened a petting zoo, but for people? Like, you pay to come and pet really nice people.”

“Blake, No-“

LOTS of physical affection. Especially showing off infront of the guys. He’s got a girlfriend (probably his first…) and he is in LOVE. He wants to scream it from the rooftops. Besides, out of all the guys, he might be the most insecure deep down. Que his hands wrapped around your waist ALL the time, or hugs from behind. Tackles you with kisses.

Insists on being incredibly chivalrous. Type of guy to run up to any door you need to open JUST so he can open it up for you first. Or, if you and the boys are out on the roof, he’s keeping an arm secured tightly around you. Just so you don’t fall.

Also insists on dragging you along with him everywhere he goes.

Get’s really nervous and excited whenever you reciprocate the affection, but he melts right into it. Seeing you wearing his clothes gives him a heart attack /pos

He’s just so caring. Type of boyfriend to check in on you, make sure you’re eating. He’ll give you a high-five if you eat a taco in two bites, incredibly impressed and just wowed by you. You have his utmost support in everything you do.

The dominant energy and he’s a golden retriever boyfriend LAWD

Him getting reallllll back into theater, wanting to act out some monologues. Attempting to read off Romeo and Juliet, butchering the old english. He’ll have you hold whatever script he’s got, wanting you to check his lines and prompt him.

Talking about dreams with eachother. Getting highly philosophical while he paints your nails, both of you high off your asses. Listening to whatever music CD you two play.

“You know, I think I missed my true calling as a nail artist.” When he’s done, admiring his handiwork.

He just loves DOING things with you. You guys will need to get Der’s to drive you out somewhere, and he’ll take you to a nature park or arcade with the boys. Or if it’s a one on one date thingy, he’ll try his absolute best to cook a frozen pizza. When he inevitably burns it, he’ll take you late night snack shopping and push you around in the cart.

Would love to have you in his WoW guild <3 He’s such a giant nerd ahhh

You’re the ONLY person he lets touch his hair. Anyone else he immediately gets defensive with. But with you? Oh my god, he feels honored. And it feels good. Especially when you snake your hand through his curls while you two are sneaking kisses at some strangers house party.

Speaking of kisses…

Ultimate neck-kisser. That one scene, when he’s with the girl in the pool, and he flips her around kinda roughly so he can kiss her neck? Yeah, it’s those small slight acts of dominance that come out when he knows you’re comfortable with him and just as horny as he is.

The heavy breathing, the way he clings to you. He just can’t keep his hands off of you. One on your face, one on your waist, letting you climb into his lap. When he notices it’s getting real hot and heavy, he’ll flip you over so he’s on top ;)

Those little high-pitched moans he lets out with no shame. The little soft utterances of “Oh god,” and “Damn, you’re so fucking hot. Like, crazy hot.” Quickly muttered between open mouthed kisses he plants on you <3

Mmm the french kissing, the shotgunning smoke out of his mouth while he holds you’re chin, his sharp little canines brushing up against your neck when he bites down softly.

You know that little meme thats like, “If I was a worm, would you still love me?”

If you turned into a worm he’d build you a little sanctuary and take care of you everyday.