#anyway law you have it so bad and you’re in such denial about it

[dinowatermelons]

Was rewatching stampede with some friends and there’s a part where Sabo is like “I trust Luffy’s friends :)” and law is like “ugh, we’re not actually friends”

Damn dude, will you just kiss luffy on the lips already

[sytoran]

⋆｡°✩ GOD, YOU'RE INSATIABLE ✩ w. maximoff !

✩ pairing. sub!wanda x dom!gn!reader

✩ synopsis. (based on this ask) a formal work party goes wrong when wanda's co-workers hit on you, and your babygirl gets a little very jealous.

✩ cont. smut (18+), established relationship, smut, strap-on usage, jealous bratty!bottom!wanda, jealousy, orgasm denial, thirsting, degradation kink, humiliation kink, name-calling, r is mean but in a good way

✩ word count. 1753 (masterlist)

"god, you're insatiable, you know?" 

"shut up and let me ride you."

there the two of you are, going at it like horny teenagers, not even having made it into the bedroom of the house. wanda’s shoved you on to the couch, sat in your lap, short dress rucked up by your wandering hands. your pants are pulled down to reveal wanda’s favourite ivory strap, atmosphere heavy with libido.

how the hell you’d end up here, you might ask. well, it all started two and a half hours ago.

.

it was one of those formal-dress work parties, with the jazz band and the glasses of champagne. held by the law firm wanda worked at in celebration of their fifth anniversary, they were allowed to bring a partner, so wanda had brought you.

it was with much difficulty that you and your girlfriend made it out of the house in the first place, one too many kisses on wanda’s exposed neck as you zipped up her sleek, green velvet dress.

“w-we’re going to be late,” wanda said breathlessly, through your chaste kisses. you merely smiled, sucking a hickey onto her pale skin, tilting her head up to watch through the bathroom mirror.

“oh, fuck,” your girlfriend whined, pupils dilating as your tongue swirled over the newly-blemished skin, kissing and licking. 

“you’re right,” you say abruptly, pulling away just as wanda’s about to get into it. suppressing the smug grin that’s threatening to creep onto your face, you tuck a lock of her soft brown hair behind her ear, not missing her flushed face.

holding open the door as wanda steps out of the house, both of you already fifteen minutes late, you also don’t miss the extra sway in her hips.

not like you would complain, anyway.

“what’s a handsome stranger like you doing here?” 

the words of a woman catch your attention, turning around the meet the eyes of a blonde. you smile cordially, choosing to ignore her advances, instead reaching out to shake her hand. “y/n l/n, nice to meet you.”

the woman smiles quizically. you shift under her wandering eyes, feeling the bubbles of a very bad situation about to break out already.

“sharon carter, very nice to meet you. who’re you here with?”

“oh, waiting for my girlfriend. she’s gone to get some punch, i think.”

you don’t miss the way sharon’s face falters for a small second. you swore you could hear the evil chuckle of your girlfriend somewhere in the back of your head.

the awkward silence filled by the jazz tunes of the band is quickly replaced by sharon boldly stepping forward to adjust the collar of your shirt, almost as if with completely disregard for anyone else in the room right now.

“your tie’s quite messily tied. your girlfriend help you do it?”

your gaze darkens, and not in the good way. she’s invading your personal space, the scent of some heavy perfume making your nose scrunch nose. she’s insulted your girlfriend.

before you can even move to shove her hands away, a flash of brown streaks your vision and soon a resounding slap is heard in the area.

soon, all gazes in the room are on you, a shocked sharon carter, and a very mad wanda maximoff. 

wanda’s not even trying to hide it, you think affectionately, not at all bothered by the blonde clutching her cheek with her jaw dropped. wanda’s absolutely fuming, spitting out curses at said blonde, some strings of her native sokovian tongue rolling out alongside it. it’s kinda hot.

“so, sharon, this is wanda, my girlfr-”

“wife.” wanda hisses, and the deathly look she shoots you has you raising your eyebrows.

“we’re newlyweds now, i suppose.” you say lightly, but neither of them are laughing. you hear a distant chortle from wanda’s coworker, sam. you grin.

“now, if you’d excuse me and my girlfr- my wife, and i, we’ll be taking our leave.” you barely manage to get out, being physically dragged out of the place by an extremely furious wanda maximoff.

she tugged you through the crowd of her co-workers and bosses, not giving a damn about any of them, not when you were at stake.

“oh, so we’re married now?” you quip with a teasing smirk, hand resting on her lower back as wanda jerks your hand off with a huff, going to sit in the passenger seat, slamming the door shut.

okay, maybe the situation was worse than you thought.

or maybe she just wanted a good fuck.

“let me open the door, at least.” you groan, but wanda’s already unbuckled your pants, mouth watering when she catches sight of her favourite ivory strap.

“yeah, no thanks. if you fuck me in the open everyone who walks past can see that you’re not meant for anyone else.” wanda says snarkily, jumping up onto your torso, and you catch her underneath the thighs.

she’s really doing this, right now, in the front porch of your shared house. either she was that mad, or you had no shame, but all’s well that ends well.

that’s how you end up on the sitting on the couch, legs spread to give wanda space to sink herself down on your strap. her hands rested on your abdomen, hair already slightly dishevled.

you never thought she looked more attractive.

your eyes darken as you watch your girlfriend take the black silicone cock into her pussy, inch by inch. she was so irresistible, and you wanted nothing more than to let your hands do whatever they wanted with her pretty body, but practiced self-restraint only left wanda needing more.

“fuck,” wanda gasps, throwing her head back when the strap hits a particularly sensitive spot. you lick your lips, your hands never travellling further than the outer sides of her thighs.

letting your girlfriend do all the work by herself, watching her whine in frustration but cry in need, made your head spin.

wanda was only slightly hesitant, rocking slightly to adjust herself to your size. her eyelids fluttered shut, but then she would remember sharon, and she would get mad again.

“you’re mine,” she would growl, fingernails digging into the muscle of your abdomen as you hissed in pain. 

“really? or are you just a big fuckin’ whore, begging to be used like a doll?”

wanda only lost her big, bag demeanour when you leaned back, looking up at the ceiling, ignoring her statement.

your faux indifference had wanda spluttering - how dare you, pretend as if she was nothing - how dare you. it only fueled her to begin riding your cock, determined to make you pay attention to her.

“look at me.” wanda says firmly, clutching onto your tie. you don’t oblige, only your hands moving to rub up and down her thighs. 

she shivers, involuntarily gyrating her hips down onto your strap, little whines escaping her fast-fading facade. 

“look at me, y/n.” wanda tries again, less conviction in her voice but a ready effort nonetheless. you reward her with a thumb on the lower lip. wanda eagerly sucks as she gains more rhythm. 

your strap quickly gets moist, wanda’s slick dripping onto your thighs. it takes every cell of fight in your body to not flip her over and fuck your girlfriend silly. 

no, this time you needed to wait. you wanted to make her fall apart, then try to patch herself back up, only to realize you were the glue that held her together.

you needed her to need you.

your sweet mercy came soon enough, when wanda couldn’t get off without your dark eyes finding hers, without hearing your voice, without you.

“daddy, please look at me, please, please!” she breaks off into a loud cry when you finally look back down at her. your eyes are blown wide, without any trace of light.

“fucking slut, hm?”

the sight of your girlfriend - your wife - getting herself all hot and bothered, a fucking mess for you, made you lose your goddamn mind. with more energy she had ever exerted, wanda began riding you again with newfound vigour.

“m’ your whore,” wanda melts, mewling at your harsh plucks of her nipples. 

“yeah? cum for me, then.”

“shit, daddy!” it was only with your hands plucking at her nipples, and your voice muttering absolute filth into her blushing ears, that wanda could climax.

you were looking at her, so harshly and so demandingly, that all wanda could do was look at you through glassy eyes, mouth hanging open as she brought herself over the edge.

it was loud, with shrieks of your name, white going everywhere. you closed your eyes, relishing the moment of sacred beginnings.

it was only when you opened your eyes that you realized wanda had knocked herself out with such vigorous fucking. you could’ve laughed at her antics, running a hand through her locks of hair and pressing gentle kisses on the top of her head.

it was a few hours after you carried up into your bedroom that crept up once again, fishing in your drawer for the biggest strap-on you could find.

then, slowly spreading her legs in the dark of the night, catching sight of her glistening pussy. you bit your lip in anticipation.

it started slow, but then you grew impatient, and a growl of “pretty girl” bit your girlfriend out of her sweet slumber.

so all wanda could do was whimper and cry when you started pounding into her, gripping her pretty hips so hard it would bruise, fucking her into the mattress. 

in the dark of the room, your body weight pressing down onto her, your grunts right up against her ear. you told her then, as she moaned into the pillows, that you were hers and she was yours, because that was the only way your world could find its direction, the only way the earth spun beyond its axis.

wanda’s incoherent ability to form words only spurred you on further, forcing her to orgasm again and again, until she was a quivering mess. kissing up the column of her neck as she shook beneath you.

you loved her, you loved her, you loved her.

whether you liked it or not, wanda maximoff had imprinted herself into every inch of your brain, into every cell of your existence. the morning you woke up without her by your side would be the day the galaxies collided.

because you would always be hers.

no matter how insatiable.

sharon gets made out to be the villain in almost every fic but im not even sorry lol i need a bad guy... also this is the return of the ivory strap, which first made its appearance in slow hands, which is in my masterlist reblogs are appreciated :) main m.list

[merlins-strawberriesandroses]

I’m not very articulate unfortunately but now that I’ve made this sideblog I wanted to get some thoughts out. I do see the logic when folks say that Arthur mostly experienced bad things in regards to magic, so it makes sense why he was wary of it/didn’t alter the laws since he didn’t know about Merlin’s guardian angel tendencies/etc. BUT. If we’re going with the magic is a queer metaphor (or just using it as one of many real life parallels) then I got to say. If you’re homophobic or your dad’s a queerphobic/bigoted politician who sanctions their murder and you haven’t explicitly said oh yeah I really don’t agree with that. Then queer people will probably not go out of their way to be kind to you while also letting you know they’re queer. They’re going to be wary and many will be antagonistic, and if there are queer people in your life they’ll probably keep mum because saying anything risks their life/security, and even freedom, in a way that’s distinct and sometimes worse than the restriction of freedom the closet imposes. 

In the same vein I feel like well if magic was banned in Camelot, and we know that even innocent people using it for, idk, healing a cut, got persecuted, then why would magic users be tripping over themselves to explicitly show Arthur how they’re using “good” magic. It’d put them in danger! Even if they were being helpful they’d not be telling Arthur they were being magically helpful (on account of the tyrant father’s laws still existing). Only sorcerers who are about to Revenge it Up (or power-grab it up) will likely be found out as sorcerers (on account of the occasional monologue and gold flashing eyes as they try to stab u).

Arthur just couldn’t have realistically seen an equivalently diverse number of people doing benevolent magic as long as all magic, no exceptions, was technically still illegal. (Though he does see some instances of ‘good’ magic!)

And about magical people close to Arthur not telling him for so long (Merlin, Morgs), I think they had many understandable reasons. At one point if you live long enough in a place where various parts of your identity can be legally prosecuted, or are liable to be socially persecuted, it’s physically hard to even get the words out. From personal experience the fear is just very encompassing, and it sucks to think that you very likely have to bear agression or worse if you want to let people you care about know. Plus, for Merlin I imagine a part of the situation was that telling Arthur would risk their closeness, which is pretty important to his ability to protect him. And Merlin believes that if he protects Arthur, the prophecy dictates at some point in the future magic will be legalized (which it does become, but it’s mentioned so briefly at the end. Could we not have had a happier ending??) :( I have a lot of other thoughts on this specific topic that I’ve tearfully jotted down over the years about how I understand why Merlin didn’t tell his friends (I’m less tearful about it now haha I was just Going Through It back then), but I fear I’ll still be incomprehensible and even more rambly, so I’ll avoid doing that right now. ANYWAY sorry for the ramble. I just made this sideblog and realized I can share some of the things that have been rolling around in my mind for years. Okay now I’m gonna go back to being in denial over the ending :) 

[strwberri-milk]

Yours

Kaeya x Reader || (Mild) Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Fluff || 3 479 words

Jealousy might be normal but that doesn't mean it makes it any easier to bear.

a/n: im trying to find more of how i wanna write kaeya so im slowly working at some ideas for kaeya fics/drabbles as i grow into his character a bit more since im not quite satisfied with his voice quite yet!

“Why of course it was no problem! Really, I’m here to help after all.” 

The familiar chuckle makes you turn your head as you stand over at the fruit stand, watching Kaeya take another compliment from another elderly woman holding onto his arm. The sight is incredibly normal, your boyfriend inclined to help out wherever he can. It just so happens that old people seem to flock around him like no other. 

“Kaeya,” she starts, the formalities of his title non-existent as it is with all the other elderlies of Mondstat. Kaeya’s insistence, of course. 

“Why don’t you come and stay the night for dinner? A few of my grandchildren have arrived from their own adventures and I’m sure they’d love to regale our Cavalry Captain with the stories. I’d love to introduce you to them all.”

“As much as the invitation is tempting, I have plans for the evening already,” he responds smoothly. 

“If it’s tempting then why don’t you just come along anyway?” she tries again, tugging at his cuffs. 

“I can’t abandon my beloved to have dinner all by their lonesome,” he continues, turning his head and coincidentally meeting your gaze. 

You’re about to turn away when the look on his face softens just momentarily. His eye tilts downward, shoulders relaxing a little and you think he’s about to turn and run to you when he remembers his arm is trapped against a very insistent woman, looking down and losing that moment of calm. 

“I’m sure they wouldn’t mind your presence lacking for just one night Captain, just the one.” She’s become more insistent in her attempts to pull him in, now trying to butter him up. 

You know this routine; the dance is the same every time. Kaeya gets swept up by some admirer or hopeful in-law, stepping into tune and skirting around an outright denial because of course even his rejection is all covered up in that pretty voice of his. 

A knot of mean words and twisted emotions seek to make themselves known. It’s not necessarily bad what you’re feeling, no, it’s natural. Of course it’s normal to feel a pang of something unkind as you watch your lover try to weasel his way out of what you know is a thinly veiled attempt to introduce him to someone better than you, smarter than you, perfect for him. 

Without looking back you turn to head back home, the purpose for your outing forgotten. 

There’s no way to describe your actions right now other than an obvious stare, watching as someone makes their desires known to Kaeya, practically humping his leg like a dog in heat as they stare up at him, neglecting the fact that the height difference is negligible. For a second you’re struck by the thought that perhaps you look just as desperate as they do when you’re with Kaeya but when your gaze travels up to his face you almost choke on your laughter at the simple fact that he really looks like he could not care any less. 

He’s bored, the mischievous twinkle that lives in his eye instead replaced with a dullness that glazes over his entire energy when faced with a massive stack of paperwork or with yet another letter from the Grandmaster apologising and extending his expedition that continues to leave Kaeya horseless. 

The outfit this admirer dons is one of the Knights, clothes much too neat for you to think that this is an experienced knight. Most likely it’s a new recruit that managed to shoehorn their way into Kaeya’s orientation, famous among new knights for a plethora of reasons. But, instead of testing their practical skills or leading them around the headquarters, Kaeya is now leaning against the doorway, seeming to try and will the energy needed to deal with such an “energetic” recruit from Barbatos himself. 

“Now, I’m very glad to see you’re excited to be working with me-” Kaeya begins, immediately cut off. 

“I’m more than excited!” they respond, jumping to attention as soon as they hear him speak. 

“I’ve wanted nothing more than to work at your side, Captain! Your skills are second to none and I’m sure there’s a lot to learn from you!” 

“You’re not going to learn much by holding my arm to your chest. I may see out of one eye but I do use both hands,” he sighs, yanking his arm out of their grasp. 

“Captain, you sound exhausted? Is there anything I can do to help boost your energy? Perhaps we can warm up…together?” 

Your stare turns to open mouthed shock, covering your mouth with a hand as you continue eavesdropping on this conversation, knowing that he would say no. Or at least you’re pretty sure he would. He doesn’t know you’re here - there’s always the off chance he’d say yes, right? Even though it would make no sense for him to, no, not when he’s taken so long to bare any part of him to you, refusing to even tell you what his favourite things were at first for fear that it’d begin to break down the walls he’s so painstakingly built. 

The look in their eyes is obvious and you hold your breath, the air around your ears painfully loud as you try to figure out what he’ll say. 

“Don’t be silly. If you want to warm up you’ll do it with the others,” he responds coldly, seemingly unwilling to entertain any of this anymore as he pulls his hand back. 

“I didn’t mean anything by it!” they begin to plead, realising that they’ve made a grave error. 

“It does not matter what you meant with your words when it’s clear with your actions what you want. If you went through all this work to join the Knights I’m sure you know what the daily routine of a Knight looks like. Go back to the courtyard and get ready for the Acting Grandmaster’s opening speech.” 

They nod meekly and run off, Kaeya crossing his arms in frustration. He turns his head again and you think your gazes will meet again. The pounding in your chest disagrees with that possibility and forces you to duck down and hide from his prying eye, knowing he’ll find you instantly were he to try but all you hear is a yawn as he stretches.

“My dear,” he sighs, talking to himself as he hasn’t actually spotted you. “I miss you so much.” 

The pout in his voice is clear and you hold back your laughter, knowing that he was extra clingy today with the prospect of training new knights. You could barely get him out of bed what with how desperate for your touch he was, smiling to yourself as you listened to the click of his boots turn back in to join the other knights. 

You’re used to Kaeya being coveted, and you know he wouldn’t do anything to slight you. You’ll witness it time and time again, whether accidentally or on purpose such as when the two of you are out on the town together. He’ll give you a kiss that’s longer than usual, give a pointed look to his desperate admirer as he dips you low, pulling back from your lips only to nip at your collar and make you gasp his name breathlessly for the audience of one. It’s normal to be caught up in him, what with his alluring gaze and charming lines. 

What you rarely witness was Kaeya flirting back. 

Well, this wasn’t intentional and you could hardly call it flirting on his side. Kaeya’s being nice, friendly in the way that he is. He keeps the attention of his conversational partner and nods and hums, active listening skills making him that much more attractive as the person in front of him enthuses about something. You’re sitting at the bar, lightly stabbing the food you ordered as you remember Kaeya wasn’t expecting you for quite some time so of course he won’t be looking around for you yet. 

However, the other person was becoming more and more bold with their actions. Their hands brush their bangs out of their face, framing it prettily with the strands of hair as they lean in more to listen to Kaeya give his response. When they speak it’s with a fluid confidence you know Kaeya appreciates, his smile easy. 

It’s not a crime for him to get along with people and you’re happy he is, but you can’t help but find yourself feeling so out of place.The two of them look dazzling together, garnering a few stares of interest from neighbouring tables. 

“Are you going to say anything?” a voice in front of you asks and you shake your head, not even bothering to look at him. 

“Why would I? He’s having a good time.” 

“His new friend there seems to be having too good of a time,” Diluc retorts. 

“He’s not flirting so it’s not like I can tell him to stop,” you mutter, continuing to push your food around. 

“He isn’t flirting but clearly they aren’t understanding that. Maybe I should go and remind him that he’s waiting for someone.” 

You hear the door to the bar click and you shake your head furiously, looking up at Diluc for the first time of the night. 

“It’s okay. He’ll come home when he can’t find me and we’ll do something at home. It’s fine, I’m fine,” you tack on, not sure who you were trying to convince more. 

Diluc stays quiet but you watch his eyes continue to scrutinise the scene in front of him, clearing his throat and stepping towards the table as you slip out of the tavern before you can hear him speak. 

The house is dark when he steps in. Kaeya knows it’s late. He almost lost track of time and then when he remembered why he was at Angels Share in the first place he waited a little more. Then more, and some more just in hopes that you would come see him. He’d been looking forward to this date after all, and meeting up at a place after being separate for the whole day reminded him of the early days of your relationship, where everything you did excited him. It still did, don’t get him wrong, but it was still a feeling he loved to chase when he could. 

When he sees your shoes tucked neatly into their place at the door he knows something’s wrong. It’s too meticulous. He flips the light on and he notices it again. The entrance is tidied. You’re stressed out about something, distracted and dealing with those feelings of anxiousness by doing mundane tasks to keep your productive. Worried, but productive. 

He half expects to see you cleaning in your shared bedroom, glad that there’s no light spilling onto the hallway of the home. Maybe you’re asleep he hopes, knowing you must be tired as he dresses for bed before sliding in next to you.

Instinctively, his arms pull you into his chest, comforting you as he presses kiss against whatever part of you he can reach. Kaeya’s about to wish you good night softly, lips right on your ear when he feels you hug him back. Tight. It’s not strange, but it’s concerning and he quickly rolls over to pin you underneath him, resting on an arm as you stare up at him in surprise. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks bluntly, buttering you up by kissing your lips softly. 

“Nothing,” you mutter, trying to turn your face away from him. 

“Don’t try and hide from me,” Kaeya scolds, nosing against your cheek to turn you back to him. 

“I can tell that something’s wrong. You’ve been crying.” 

The revelation is new to you as well, fingers coming to touch your cheeks as you realise there’s a distinctive wetness coming from your eyes. Your cheeks are cold with tears, blinking exacerbating the problem as Kaeya’s face swims in front of you. Once you realise you’re crying the feelings come up again - a desperate inadequacy that really wasn’t anybody else’s fault but yours - and your lips immediately go into a pout as you try to hold back the tears. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says quickly, falling to his side of the bed and pulling you back into his arms. 

“I didn’t want to make you cry, let me hold you.” 

His voice soothes your racing heart, mind stilling for the first time since you returned home after leaving him at the tavern. He returned much earlier than you thought he would have, thinking he might have just had a drink or two too many and forgotten why he was there in the first place after being a bit tipsy. You weren’t going to condemn him for having a social life after all, knowing how stressful work was for him lately. 

“You were having a good time - I - I didn’t want to bother you,” you blubber, crowing more into him while he nods at your words.

“This is more than just tonight though, isn’t it?” he soothes. “You can tell me what’s on your mind, you know that for a fact.” 

“I know,” you sniffle, leaning into his touch slightly as his palm cups your cheek. 

“I know but I don’t want to weigh you down. You have so many important things to do - it’s not your fault I just didn’t know how to bring it up without worrying about how it might affect you and-” 

Your messy ramblings are cut short when he presses his lips to yours again, stealing the breath out of your lungs and distracting you just for a minute. The jumping thoughts in your mind slow with each passing second and you think he’s forgotten you both need to breath when your head begins to spin from the lack of air. 

Inadvertently - or probably on purpose knowing him - the lack of oxygen makes you forget all about whatever it was you were crying about as you lightly grab his shirt, Kaeya coming off of you with a slight gasp right against your lips. He looks into your eyes with his, stunning you into silence even more. 

“You are one of the most important things to me,” he whispers against you reverentially, palm still resting on your face. 

“You have no idea how much it kills me to see you trying so hard to fight something I know I can help you with. Just tell me what I can do for you, please.” 

You know you can never deny him, especially when he’s right above you with a pleading look and his touch on your body. Kaeya was impossible in every sense of the word and you know that denying him wasn’t going to work. Eventually you know you’ll give in so you decide to give in now, taking his hand off of you and sitting up against the headboard. He joins you, leaning up against the wood and putting his hand on your thigh. 

“Everybody loves you so much,” you begin, fiddling with your hands. 

“Including me. And I know your eyes aren’t straying from me. I have no reason to doubt that at all. But I can’t help but wonder sometimes if you’d be happier with someone else.

“Earlier today I saw you talking to someone else while you were waiting for me. You just seemed so at peace. It looked right and I don’t know why but I felt like, at that moment, you two were dating. It wasn’t you and I, it was you and them. That made me so jealous but I couldn’t properly articulate it so I’ve just been moping at home trying to get over it.”

He takes your words in, fingers combing through your hair while you speak. The silence that falls over your bodies afterwards is comfortable, not scary and you’re glad for it as he settles back into bed next you. Burying his face into your neck, you get the distinct sense that for whatever reason he’s seeking comfort from you. Kaeya doesn’t say too much, more wrapped up in finding solace in you before he speaks against your skin. 

“You’re right but just because you know that doesn’t mean you’re going to be immune to feelings of jealousy.” 

His words make sense and normally you’d be much more able to respond but the affectionate, almost sleepy way he holds you is dulling your thoughts as you bury yourself more into him. 

“I want you to know though that I love you so much,” he continues, muttering.

“I wake up because I want to see you and go to bed with you as the last thought on my mind. There’s nothing I want more than to stay right here like this for the rest of my life but if I did then I wouldn’t be able to have happy days either. Really, I’ve put myself in quite a conundrum,” he chuckles, yawning a little at the end of his words. 

“You are so fucking cheesy,” you say half-heartedly, already beginning to feel a little more at ease through his reassurances. 

“No I’m not,” he whines. 

“I’m just trying to tell you how much I love you. No matter what it is you feel I’ll be here to tell you that your feelings are unfounded. Do you believe me?’

“Of course I do,” you placate, his breath against you reminding you that he was here, with you. 

“I love you so much Kaeya. I just know that if someone else were to make you happier-”

His hand slaps over your mouth and you’re stopped, shocked at the random show of energy so contrary to how he normally is when you two are getting ready for bed. 

“Don’t you even start that up again. You are my happiness,” he says with finality, eye peering at you from below. 

“Now, when I take my hand off your mouth you’re going to repeat after me, got it?”

You raise a brow and he sits up a little, waiting for your response. He only lets go when you nod slowly, falling back onto you with a comforted sigh. 

“Kaeya loves me,” he starts. 

“Kaeya, this is so stupid-” 

“You want to lose the gift of speech again?” he mockingly threatens, the heel of his palm resting against your cheek. 

“I just think that this is ridiculous!” 

“Just repeat after me. Kaeya loves me.” 

He doesn’t say anything else, but you feel him press against your face a little more which makes you relent, sighing and repeating after him. 

“Kaeya loves me.” 

“And he will spend the rest of his life keeping that promise he made to himself.” 

“And he will spend the rest of his life keeping that promise he made to himself.” 

“Nice. Now, good night darling.” 

He’s about to doze off and you shake him a little, confused at the knowledge of some promise Kaeya made apparently about you without your knowledge. 

“What promise?” you ask. 

“Oh that? You aren’t supposed to know the contents of that, just that I’ll do everything I can to keep my promise to you,” he responds lazily, trying to get you to leave him alone. 

“It’s not much of a promise if I don’t know what it is!” 

“We can talk about it later. Just go to sleep, please? It’s been a day and a half.” 

“Kaeya.” 

There’s a thinly veiled threat in the tone of your voice and he groans, deciding that he can’t handle being this vulnerable while cuddling up to you. It takes him a moment but he quickly readjusts your bodies to hold your back to his chest, not giving you any leeway to turn and look at him. 

“Don’t make fun of me,” he mumbles, speaking into your ear.

“I just want to know. Why are you squeezing me to death?”

“I’ll tell you if you don’t make fun of me,” Kaeya reiterates, fingers twining through yours. 

“I’d never make fun of you. Just tell me what you’re talking about so I know. Please?”

You want to turn to look at him, give him your full attention but the fact that he won’t let you look at him makes it clear that whatever it is he wants to say is something he can’t admit to your face. He has almost all the typical markers of his own embarrassment and you’re sure if you could see him his cheeks would be tinted pink and he’d be doing his best to avert your gaze. 

It takes him a second but you know he’s ready to tell you when his hold around your body tightens, voice so fragile you think it’d break if Kaeya spoke with anything but a gentle reverence for your being. 

“I promise to become a man that’s worthy of your love.”

[the-daily-dreamer]

Alicent and her kids have ZERO claim to the Throne. Rhaenyra was named heir. Alicent hasn’t followed any rules, she’s actively trying to break the laws and she feels like she deserves the throne because she was manipulated by her dad. She isn’t right about anything. Y’all are absolutely ridiculous when you try and make her behavior okay.

Funnily enough, I actually find you absolutely ridiculous for your bad takes AND for coming into my inbox to complain about my posts that are properly tagged. You don’t even have the courage to come off anon and put your blog in association with your actions because you know you’re in the wrong.

Anyways. Legally speaking, yes Rhaenyra is the heir. I never claimed in any of my posts that she isn’t. I also never claimed that Alicent or her kids take precedence over Rhaenyra in the line of succession. However, I will say that Alicent’s children do have a claim to the throne (as the current king’s legitimate children) and especially have a higher claim than Rhaenyra’s bastard sons.

While legally Rhaenyra’s sons are recognized as true born, they are very VERY clearly bastards. Like it literally couldn’t be more obvious they are not related to Leanor. The issue is that because it’s so obvious they are bastards, their claim to the throne is built on shaky ground. Many nobles who have prejudices against bastards will oppose them taking the throne. Many people will see them as illegitimate rulers with illegitimate claims, legally recognized as legitimate or not. It’s clear they are bastards. Everyone knows it. When the time comes many will bring up the factor of their parentage and it will be used against them to delegitimize them. Because in reality, they do not have a claim. They are bastards.

Meanwhile, Alicent’s children are true born children of the current king. Aegon’s parentage is 100% clear. He is the legitimate child of the king and his wife. After Rhaenyra, her half-brother has a HUGE claim to be next in line. If most people know Rhaenyra’s children are bastards then they won’t support them. They will support and recognize the next clearly legitimate person in the line of succession: Aegon.

Sorry, if you can’t understand the nuances of the time period. But it’s pretty clear. Rhaenyra’s sons are considered bastards by many. This means that even if they are legally seen as legitimate, most nobles will not recognize this. And thus, many will defer to the next legitimate heirs. And that is Alicent’s kids. They have a claim. And it’s strong as hell.

And your other point...what? I’m genuinely curious to know what on earth Alicent has done at this point? What laws did she go out of her way to break? What did she actually do illegally?

Alicent’s only crime she has actually committed at this point is taking a knife to Rhaenyra. Which I 100% understand because if anyone ever excused mutilating my child and then asked for further torture to that child for stating the truth...it would be hands on sight.

Otherwise she has followed every. single. rule. She married the king because she was told to. She birthed him sons because it was her duty. She kept every secret asked. She tried to create a compromise to protect her kids and herself. She has done everything right, and she’s still villainized. And no, saying the truth that Rhaenyra’s sons are bastards was not illegal. It’s the truth. It’s only illegal now because Viserys decreed it in the last episode (because he’s too far in denial to admit reality).

Alicent doesn’t want the throne. She’s not fighting to put herself in that ugly chair. She is fighting to keep herself and her children alive. And why is she fighting for that? Because they are a threat and have a legitimate claim to the throne.

[manifestingnoobie]

Manifesting Away Major Depression

When I manifested away my depression before I knew about the law, I constantly held the assumption “Life and its circumstances are transient. They never last forever.” And it’s a logical assumption to have because, I mean, before knowing about the law, life’s always changing. I didn’t ALWAYS have depression. The bad days don’t last forever. Mind you, I consistently had suicidal ideation, felt like life was a drag, and on top of that I was so numb, empty, and detached. But I kept the faith and knowing. You don’t need to pretend to be happy and be in denial, like I didn’t fucking affirm “I am so happy and fulfilled!” when I wasn’t.

Anyway, eventually the doors were opened for me, I found free therapy at my college which helped a lot, and later on my parents offered to take me to a psychiatrist who prescribed me medications.

I didn’t really think of the how, honestly. My subconscious took care of it for me. It wasn’t an overnight change, but I made gradual progress and before I knew it I became a person who doesn’t even need the assistance of therapy and medications anymore.

So for those who are just starting out, like I emphasized before, try telling yourself neutral affirmations. I hate to say they’re more “logical” since we don’t use logic in the law of assumption, but honestly, for me personally, they just sink in easier and feel more comforting. Like they’re not as big of a shock. Again, do you think I affirmed “I’m so happy and fulfilled with my life!” when I was feeling like shit all the time?

Honestly, it’s all up to you though, if you can easily make that jump telling yourself affirmations that are the complete opposite of what you’re feeling, more power to you! But I just wanted to share for those who are like me who can’t make that jump right away and who need to ease into it.

But yeah, if I can manifest away depression that I’ve had since I was 13 years old (I’m 26 now lol), anything is possible. :’)

edit*: here are some links to neutral affirmations you can use!!

My post

Manifesting in Hard Circumstances (this is where i heard of neutral affirmations for the first time hehe)

more neutral affirmations

[erenscherub]

i know that it’s explicitly stated throughout the series that eren and the reader’s parents mutually hate dislike each other but was this true at the beginning of their relationship? or did it gradually get to that point? i always think about eren going to your parents’ house to ask for their blessing and they’re just like “… uh no” but he just proposes anyways 😭

did he ask for their blessings? what was their first impression of him?

Hi, Nonnie!! ♡´･ᴗ･`♡

Ok this has to be one of my favorite asks so far. I can go on a tangent of the ups and downs of Eren’s relationship with his in-laws.

When you first started dating Eren, your parents tolerated him. Though Eren was your first serious relationship, they tried their best to be cordial with him since they thought it was a fling. Something along the lines of, ‘Oh this is just a phase Y/N is going through. They’re just dating and Eren isn’t actually serious about our daughter. She’ll actually settle down with Colt, or Marcel, or anyone else soon enough.’

But a few months turned into a year which then turned into several years. And then your parents were in full stop denial and were thinking this was a some long-ass fling until Eren asked for their blessing one day.

Your parents: ‘Shit, we might be stuck with you forever? Why not Marcel? Colt? Someone—like anyone else??’

So Eren had to propose multiple times. But after you said yes, that’s when they weren’t as polite and cordial with Eren. You even stopped speaking to them for a period of time because of how torn up Eren was that his future in-laws didn’t like him. Carla and Grisha welcomed you with open arms into the family. His older siblings, Mikasa and Zeke, have always been fond of you.

Your parents do show up to the wedding but after you decide to move to New Hampshire with Eren, they put on their best behavior and are cordial again with Eren. They don’t call him ‘son’ or greet him with hugs. But they’ll at least say ‘hello’ and won’t start comparing him to Colt or Marcel as soon as you’re out of ear shot.

The time from when Eliza is born until her third birthday party is the best the relationship between Eren and his in-laws have been. Eliza is the only grandchild so far on both sides of the family so your parents begin to cut him some slack and their opinion of him begins to improve.

They are almost on friendly terms with him and try to give him the benefit of the doubt until all shit hits the fan when Annie, Colt, and Zeke had let it slip to the in-laws how pissed they were at Eren for not being there for you at any of the ultrasounds and when you lost the baby. And then Mikasa adds more to the fire when she also calls them ahead of time to pick you and Eliza up from the airport when Eren stood you up at your already twice-rescheduled wedding anniversary dinner.

You’re actually pretty tight-lipped about what’s going on between you and Eren until something bad happens and you can’t bottle up your feelings anymore.

So initially, it’s not as if your parents actively hated Eren. Even Eren can’t fault them for wanting the absolute best for you. But your parents should have just toned down how much favoritism they held towards Marcel and Colt and how much they wished things could have progressed between you with either of them. But after the affair starts between Eren and his co-worker, and it gets to the point where all your mutual friends and even the kids began picking up how rocky your marriage had gotten and relaying that shit back to your parents how they’re concerned over how Eren treats you is when they no longer hold back on how they wish you and Eren never got together.

[vitalpen]

Psychonauts: Mental Blocks

(so @upperstories made a Psychonauts character​ that’s a psychologist (she’s pretty rad, you should check her out) and there was a post about how the entire Aquato family needs therapy, which... true.  Frazie is an interesting character to me.  She’s older than Raz and is in almost complete denial of her psychic abilities.  So the idea of masking and repression came into my head and I wrote this thing out over the course of an hour.  Not sure if I’m gonna take in anywhere yet, but hey, enjoy anyway.)

“So, did you figure out the problem?”  Raz asked.

“I believe so.”  Sasha removed the substantial headgear from his cranium and set it down on the table with a resounding clang.

“And?”

Sasha took a drag of his cigarette as he looked down at Frazie, whom he’d just finished his mental scan of.  “It would appear that the years of repression have created a substantial number of advanced blocks in your mind.  They are preventing you from using your psychic abilities for more than a few moments.”

“Great,” Frazie hopped off the table ran a hand through her hair.  “We finally get the go-ahead from mom and now this happens.”

“So what do we do about it?” Raz asked as he approached the table.

“A good question.” Sasha stroked his chin. “Mental blocks are dangerous business.  They are created by our mind as a self defense mechanism, blocking out thoughts that we consider dangerous.”

“Oh!” Raz’s face lit up. “So they’re just like censors!  That doesn’t sound too hard.”  He took out his favorite little, tiny door.  “All we gotta do is go in and bust them up.”

“Ohhh no!”  Frazie spoke up, leaning in close.  “Pooter, if you think I’m letting you into my mind, then you’re out of yours.”

“Oh come on, it’s not like I’m gonna find anything that I can’t handle in there.”

“No, Rasputin, she’s right.” Sasha put an easing hand on the boy’s shoulder.  “Going into a family member’s mind is almost always a bad idea. It can easily lead to seeing things you were never meant to see.”  He walked to his desk and ran his finger along his bookshelf.  “What’s more, while a censor and a mental block are alike in concept, in reality, they are quite different.”

“What do you mean?”

Sasha’s finger tapped a specific lime green text and he pulled it out, handing it to Raz.  The cover read Free Your Mind: a comprehensive summary of research on mental barriers by L. & L. Wachowski.  “Open that to page ninety-seven and read the first paragraph under ‘Structure’.”

As Raz flipped through the pages, Frazie rested her elbow on his head and glanced at what information she could.  When they came to page ninety-seven, Raz started reading aloud.  “It is prudent now to discuss the differences between mental blocks and censors.  Upon first glance, the two constructs might seem nearly identical in function. However, they differ in several major ways.  Chief among these are their focus, the form in which they manifest, and the way in which their carry out their function.”

Frazie took over from there. “Censors are more akin to law enforcement officials or white blood cells.  They move throughout the mind to seek out misplaced thoughts, foreign ideas, and other counterproductive mental constructs.  Once found, they eliminate those constructs.  Mental blocks, on the other hand, more resemble prisons or security systems.  They are created to block off natural parts of our mind that, while normally healthy, may currently create ongoing, acute stress for a given situation.”

With that, Sasha took the book back and returned it to the shelf.  “Mental blocks are specialized constructs that are often only employed when adjustment in our thought patterns is a matter of survival.  Unlike censors, they are built into our brains very intricately.  Simply going in and destroying it would likely take parts of Frazie’s mind with it, causing untold destruction to her psyche.” He sat down in his chair and folded his hands.  “To put it simply, the alterations could very well dwarf what you saw with agent Forscythe.”

Raz gulped and slowly put his little door away.  “Oh.”

“Forscythe? You mean the lady with the stick up her butt?”  Frazie gave Raz a raised eyebrow.  “What’d you do to her?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Raz replied.

“Oh boy,” Frazie laughed, “now I have to hear it!”

“Another time, perhaps,” Sasha interrupted, clearly regretting bringing it up.  “For the moment, we should focus on the issue at hand.  So long as those mental blocks are in place, your progression with your abilities will continue to be stunted at best.”

The blunt assessment hit Frazie a little harder than she was expecting.  She folded her arms and shifted on her feet.  “So what am I supposed to do?”

“Mental blocks usually must be deconstructed by the person who made them.”  Sasha stood back up.  “You will have to learn to accept the parts of you that you’ve shut out until now, whatever those may be.”

“But,” Frazie paused and growled in frustration.  “But I’m here.  I came to the psychonauts.  Doesn’t that show I’m ready to be a psychic?”

“Frazie,” Sashe walked back to the girl and put his hands on her shoulders, looking her in the eye.  “There is a saying that acceptance is the first step to progress.”

“I thought it was ‘recovery’.”  Raz interjected.  Neither Sasha nor Frazie answered him, only glared. He shrank back, gave a sheepish smile and pointed off to the side.  “Sorry, I’ll… go stand over there.”

With that, Sasha resumed. “Mental blocks are highly complex and fortified mental constructs.  They often preserve themselves by being forgotten about and hidden through repression. We become so used to them that we have no idea they’re even there.  Your coming here was no small step; it is likely what allowed me to find them in the first place.”

“But…” Frazie’s eyes dropped to the floor.  “How am I supposed to get rid of them?”

Sasha let go of her and stood up straight once more.  “There are those who can do so themselves, but such is very rare.  In most cases, it calls for a specialist.  The kind that can enter the mind of another without astral projection.”

“Whoa!” Raz’s eyes lit up. “What kind of technique lets you do that?”

Sasha gave him a raised eyebrow for a moment, then sighed.  “Therapy, Rasputin.”

[rrasado]

Hello! Its me hearts-chan! Hope your having a wonderful day rras ❤❤

May i request a headcannon for the first years with an mc who is pretty much a grim reaper (like ones in black butler if you have watched it) and make it platonic 😊

Again have a great day! 💘💝💖💗💓💞💕❣❤🧡💛💚💙💜💟

Met at Scythe point

I’ve only ever watched book of circus from Black butler so I’m gonna rely on my research for the accuracy of these headcanons kddkn. BE PREPARED-

When you’re a reaper

The guy was probably on another routine for the sake of the rules of the queen of hearts. The gardens of Heartslabyul needed tending to and it just so happened he saw the tool he needed- well goddamit it ace you should know by now that there is more to what meets the eye-

Suffice it to say, the way you just seemingly come out of nowhere to snatch back your precious weapon made him realize a lot of things on the spot. One of them being how you’ve always been faster than most.

Whether you tell him yourself or not, Ace is gonna figure out on his own how you’re not...purely human. But hey- If you do tell him yourself- he’s gonna ask you one thing and one thing in particular-

“Oi...who’s gonna die soon-“

and then you hit him. It’s not like you’re actually there specifically for someone heck you just winded up here after a mistake in the dispatching process. But overall ace would go from care free to careful.

He’ll try to goof around less and use that energy to just- observe you as much as he can, because admit it or not yknow he himself has more than meets the eye. Friend or foe which one are you to eachother I wonder...

Deuce well...oddly enough he’s already noticed something from you from the start.

Call it solidarity or whatever- but he’s sensed that air of subdued superiority on you since day one, that’s coming from someone who’s surrounded himself with a diverse bunch of people in his ruffian days.

But he never dared question your hyphened abilities, maybe you were just like him or the others who are born athletic? No there’s really something irking him whenever you jump...as if defying gravity itself.

“Trey senpai said there was a mower in need of fixing...ah-“

...wrong mower deuce- no even better the way you just swung the mower out of his reach over your head like it’s nothing is just- please explain before the bb gets even more confused about the laws of life, he doesn't trust himself about anything anymore after the egg incident-

Hm...you broke him. No but on a serious note- he’s gonna have a hard time wrapping his head around the concept of...his friend being a supervisor of death. But hey, you’re both learning in the process right? He’ll try too maintain the prior dynamic you already had but...god remind him to be cautious around gardening tools-

It was fine he was fine we were all fine- great seven did you just leap off the school building- wait you’re fine? You were just reviewing something? WHAT IN GREAT SEVEN’S NAME DO YOU NEED TO REVIEW ON THE CASTLE SPIRAL-

Jack takes it the hardest in terms of accepting it. By that I meant- you...keep tabs on the cycle of life and death... he does not hear he does not hear-

The first year savanaclaw student takes a good few days to process the news. In that duration he wonders whether his view on who is good and who is bad kinda...topples. But when he talks to you again and continues your already established friendship, he’ll learn that one’s character doesn’t always align with what they do.

“Hey...do you enjoy your duty.?”

It was an innocent question one he meant well in, he just wanted to confirm many things but the way you became reluctant just...told him that it’s not a good conversation topic in broad daylight.

Overall, he’s gonna put his faith in you as he continues to stay by your side, you are after all still his friend...despite being probably able to surmise the lives of those near their end but- that's Not something he should be worrying right now.

Epel...took it the wrong way- No dear, as much as it seems cool it’s not...all power and glory.

The initial admiration quickly turns into abstract fear when it finally sinks into him how you’re not...a glorified guide to the afterlife with a cool oversized blade. The stories painted your kind wrong in this world huh?

In short- be prepared for having to catch him before he stumbles to the ground- fully denying his terror when you ask him if he’s alright while shaking a bit in your arms. You’ll have to explain it very slowly and lightly to him how no you’re also not the type of reaper that forcefully reaps out souls from bodies in a spur of crimson

“E-eh-...you’re still our friend right?”

Assurance is key with him, so treat him slowly but surely whilst not hiding every single fact from him. It’s a fickle balance but it’s definitely something that’ll pay off once he comes into terms with the fact.

And when he does...you can bet he’ll use your status as a cool threat to others. Not everybody has a Grim Reaper as a buddy right? Take that you cunts-

I pray for this boy’s soul, literally- the moment you accidentally reveal your true status he just- instantly feels the need to channel all his faith into his one and only waka sama.

Like Epel, sebek would take it the wrong way...thinking of your revelation as a pathetic attempt at a prank, he's seen how most students at school do such childish ministrations. How would you be any different?

By all means you are on every level different, the diasominan resident's denial diminishes when he slowly recounts every instance with you. You weren't his everyday ruffian were you...there's certainty in every action you execute, and when you act on your goals your drive is unstoppable.

"Huma- n-no...you..."

The way he attempts to keep up his boisterous personality with you is both amusing and pitiful. Honestly...his perception of those with power and those beneath become blurry. Heck he wonders where you truly stand compared to the young master.

You're gonna have to assure him that despite your inhumane nature you aren't some omnipotent being like he thinks... Omnipotence born from tragedy is not a blessing of authority, at least.. that's what you thinks anyways.

[qqueenofhades]

Did Ivan and Fedyor ever have, like, one of those big first fights where there is this uncertainty of "are we over now?" ? I mean, they would be alright in the end, but between Fedyor's overthinking and Ivan probably not having a lot of experience with relationships, there would be room for them worrying for a time after it.

Sequel to this and prequel to this. Set, as usual, in Phantom!Verse.

Moscow, 2013

June 30, 2013, is not a good day. In fact, it might be the worst of all the days of Fedyor Kaminsky’s life to date, and it is made absolutely no better by the fact that he’s long known it was coming – he just hoped, however vainly, that it wouldn’t. Three weeks ago, on June eleventh, the Duma unanimously passed the law formally entitled “For the Purpose of Protecting Children from Information Advocating For a Denial of Traditional Family Values,” with only one abstention and no dissenting votes, and President Putin is going to ceremoniously sign it into law today. It’s more pithily known as the “anti-gay law,” and it basically prohibits anything related to acknowledging that homosexuals exist in Russia. Fedyor has been anxiously following its progress with his activist friends in their group chats, all of them praying for some last-minute miracle to swoop in and knock it off course. Now that’s not going to happen. He has no idea what is going to happen, but to say the least, it won’t be good. He’s taken some body blows before, but this one sucks.

Fedyor vacillates wildly between wanting to watch the signing ceremony just to scream obscenities at it, and wanting to hide under the covers with the pillows over his head and cry. He texts frenetically with his friend Lyosha, who lost his position at Perm State University a few months ago for daring to do research about LGBTQ people, and is already planning to head into exile abroad. Does he have to do that too? Fedyor has lived in Russia his entire life, even if he has traveled internationally and has lots of foreign friends. He could stay. He could try to fight this thing somehow. He could do more. He should do more.

But how?

When Ivan gets home from work at six o’clock that night, that’s where he finds Fedyor: sitting on the living room floor under a quilt and neurotically eating chocolate biscuits, texting and crying. He drops his backpack and rushes over. “Fedya? Fedya! What’s wrong?”

“He signed it,” Fedyor says flatly. No more elaboration is necessary. “So now we’re fucked.”

Ivan looks troubled. He rocks back on his heels next to Fedyor and searches for the words. Then he says, clearly trying to be helpful, “Maybe not. Nobody has to know about us. If we just keep on like before, go about our daily lives, it will be all right. We are not important people. Why would they bother with us?”

“What?” Fedyor wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and lurches upright, shedding the quilt and a shower of cookie crumbs. “What are you talking about? Just – deny ourselves and go back in the closet and pretend we’re not here, that those assholes won? Go out, but make sure I never hold your hand walking down the street or dare to pretend that we are together? I don’t want to be afraid every second we’re out in public, Vanya! I don’t want to be wondering if maybe they’ll look at my emails or cook up some other reason to come after us! Lyosha already got fired before this even officially passed, and – ”

“Lyosha was a radical beforehand,” Ivan says dismissively. “It wasn’t because of this, I’m sure. So what? He’ll get a fancy position somewhere else. The West will love to take in the gay Russian, persecuted by the barbaric Putin regime, to show off how humane and enlightened they think they are. He will be fine.”

Fedyor looks at him as if he has two heads. “That’s how you’re reacting to this?”

“What am I supposed to do about it?” Ivan shrugs. “We have to make the best. What else are we going to do? Leave Russia?”

“Maybe we have to. What other choice do we have?”

“Stay?” Now it’s Ivan’s turn to sound like he’s talking nonsense. “Russia is our home!”

“Look, Vanya. I know you and I think differently about things, and we’ve gotten used to that. But I can’t – I physically cannot – stay in a place where I am criminalized for existing, for loving you, for being afraid that something will happen to us. We have to go.”

“No.” Ivan’s voice is colder than Fedyor has ever heard it. He sounds like a stranger. “No, we don’t. That’s crazy talk. Where would we go? America?”

“At least America doesn’t have this law!”

“America has no law that is helpful for us!” Ivan shouts. “And I’m not going there. The end! You make that choice, Fedya. Exile, or me?”

There’s a horrible silence in the wake of that pronouncement, as they stare at each other and Ivan instantly looks like he wants to bite it back, but it’s too late. Fedyor turns on his heel and marches away in frozen silence, refusing to utter a single word to Ivan for the rest of the night, even as Ivan tries to apologize and coax him into speaking again. Finally, taking the hint, he takes his things and silently goes to sleep on the couch, and Fedyor lies in their bed, staring at the ceiling and tossing and turning. Ivan didn’t mean that, right? Or maybe he did? Flee Russia, start a new life somewhere across the sea, but leave his boyfriend behind? Until recently, he thought Ivan Sakharov was the love of his life. Maybe he isn’t. Or even more terrifyingly, he is, and Fedyor will have to give him up anyway.

The rest of the week is just as bad. Ivan leaves early for work and keeps to himself when he gets home, while Fedyor starts Googling the U.S. asylum-claim process and reaching out to North American-based friends who can help with logistics. He spends hours on the computer, takes reams of notes, and doesn’t feel any better. Is he planning this for them or for him? He needs to answer that question like, now, and yet the prospect fills him with sickening dread. He cries himself to sleep with the bedroom door shut, and hears awkward shuffling in the corridor outside, like Ivan is listening and desperately wants to come in, but doesn’t think Fedyor wants him there. That’s even worse.

Finally, on Saturday night, Fedyor decides that they can’t go on like this. He drags himself out of his cave of blankets and cooks a nice supper, while Ivan goes for his usual afternoon workout at the gym, and when he comes back, he blinks. “Fedya? What’s this about?”

“We need…” Fedyor’s throat is a desert. “We need to talk about us.”

Those six little words are usually the kiss of death in any relationship, and he has no idea what’s about to happen next, but Ivan’s face wrenches in half like a torn piece of paper. He opens his mouth, shuts it, shakes his head furiously, and comes to a sudden and unassailable decision. With that, still in his gym clothes, he drops his bag and goes to one knee on the creaky wooden floor of their kitchen, in this humble sixth-floor Moscow flat that is the first place Fedyor ever knew pure and perfect happiness. “Okay,” he says. “How is this for a start. Fedyor Mikhailovich Kaminsky, will you marry me?”

Fedyor stares at him, utterly blankly, seized with the horrible fear that Ivan is making fun of him. “Have you – are you – are you serious?”

“Yes.” Ivan reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small box. “I wanted to do this in a different way, but maybe this is better. Fedya, I don’t – I can’t – I don’t want to live without you. I’ll even move to America if you want to. I’m no good without you. I can’t. Please.”

Fedyor continues to stare at him. Then finally he moves closer, as Ivan holds out the ring with a look of utter, silent entreaty, his heart wrung out and raw in his eyes. “Are you – ” Fedyor’s voice is a whisper. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Ivan says again, strong and steady. “More than I have ever been about anything.”

Fedyor starts to answer, and simply can’t. He starts to shake from head to toe, and Ivan scoots forward, still on his knees, and wraps both arms around Fedyor’s waist, burying his face in Fedyor’s stomach. Fedyor clutches hold of him and sinks down, the two of them barely making a sound. Finally, he whispers, “You hate America.”

“I don’t,” Ivan says. “Not really. But either way, I love you, Fedya. And I’m choosing that.”

Fedyor grips Ivan’s face in his hands and kisses him thoroughly, then remembers that he still technically hasn’t accepted his proposal, and he should do that. He holds out his right hand so Ivan can slip on the plain band, with the promise to buy him a nicer one once they get to wherever they’re going. He’ll help with arrangements, he promises. Whatever Fedyor needs him to do.

They board an Aeroflot flight, Moscow Sheremetyevo–New York JFK, on the evening of August 3, 2013, with all their worldly belongings either in the cargo hold or waiting to be shipped over by Fedyor’s parents. They hold hands in the terminal, unobtrusively, and when they get on the plane. And even as the jet engines roar into takeoff and the lights of his homeland fall away into the clouds for what might be the last time in who knows how long, Fedyor Kaminsky can’t help but feeling, once again, ready to start anew.

[happyandticklish]

Unusual Interrogations

Notes: For the ask by @ticklish-sidekick who requested villain/hero tickles with Percy Jackson. It gets a little angsty at the end, fair warning. I hope it lives up to expectations! :)

Summary: Luke kidnaps Percy for information and uses unorthodox methods to acquire it. 

When Percy first opened his eyes, he found blank walls staring back at him, grays and white blending in and out of each other. Some of the walls were peeling, and as he glanced down he could see the remains of debris covering the ground, indicating some kind of ongoing construction.

It took him a second to realize he was in a warehouse. It took him an even longer second to realize he was still in boxers, his preferred apparel each night. He shivered, wishing he could somehow cover himself. Unfortunately, it seemed as though his arms and legs were tied securely to either side of one of the many supporting beams in the building, stretching his exposed body out.

He tried to think back on his most recent memories. The last thing he remembered was going to bed the previous night, safe and secure at Camp Half-Blood. How he got here was a mystery.

He struggled for a moment, attempting to somehow wriggle his way out of the bonds, but whoever had tied him here certainly knew their way around a knot. He exhaled in frustration. He didn’t have Riptide either, as the pen/sword was stored securely in the front pockets of his jeans, thrown haphazardly on his cabin floor. Not that a sword would have been much use anyways, with his hands out of commission as they were.

“Hello?” he called out warily. “Who’s there? Is this some kind of prank? Ha, ha, very funny. Tie the great Percy Jackson up, see what happens. Well, you’ve had your fun now, I think it’s time you let me go.”

“This is no prank.”

Percy startled as a figure emerged from behind him, stalking around the pole slowly to face him. A scar ran jagged down his features, and a shock of blonde hair crested his forehead. Percy frowned. “Wait. Luke?”

A smirk tugged up the corners of his lips, and Luke spread his arms wide in welcome. “Bingo.” He glanced down in amusement. “Nice underwear by the way. Is that… Nemo print?”

Percy flushed, bristling at the comment. He had almost forgotten about those. He wished now that he had chosen to wear something more dignified, but admittedly nobody really prepares for a kidnapping. “It’s for all ages. Look, forget about that, what’s going on? Where are we?”

“Do you like it?” Luke asked, surveying their surroundings. “Very roomy, spacious. This building has been ongoing construction for years now. I believe it’s supposed to be a law firm, but the plans for it fell apart and now I have the place all to myself. It took a while to find somewhere we wouldn’t be interrupted, but I pulled through—as always.”

Wouldn’t be interrupted. The words sent a chill down Percy’s spine. Despite his apprehensions, he didn’t want it to seem like Luke was getting to him, so he tilted his chin up and spat, “What are you gonna do to me, then? Torture me? Kill me?”

Luke shrugged, calmly approaching him until they were inches apart. “No, no, no. I can’t kill you, remember? You have that pesky curse that prevents me from doing so. What I want is information. I know you and your little camp is planning and attack, and I want to know what it is.”

“I’m not gonna tell you that!” Percy exclaimed indignantly. “You’re crazy!”

“Obviously you’re not,” Luke agreed dryly. “I figured you weren’t going to just hand over top secret plans willingly. But—” Luke placed hands on either side of him—“I have ways of making people talk.”

“So you… are gonna torture me?” Percy confirmed hesitantly.

“In a way,” Luke agreed. “See, I figured normal torture wouldn’t be enough. Anyone can hold out against pain—it just takes endurance. No, what I’m going to do to you is much worse. The kind of torture that needles away at your sanity slowly, an itch you just can’t scratch no matter how much you want to. The kind of torture that has left grown men begging for mercy within seconds. Do you know what it is?”

Percy slowly shook his head, feeling almost hypnotized by Luke’s words.

Luke curled his fingers in slightly on either side of Percy, smirking at his sharp inhale. “Tell me Jackson... are you ticklish?”

Instantly, nerves flooded Percy’s stomach at those three words, words that had foretold his doom many times in the past though usually he was at free to at least defend himself. He scoffed, though the sound came out more nervous and giggly than he had intended. “Really? Tickling? This is your hardened torture method?”

“You never answered the question,” Luke reminded him, his fingers ever so slowly wiggling against his sides, though it had the effect of making Percy want to crawl out of his own skin. “Are. You. Ticklish?”

Percy tried to answer but the second he opened his mouth a volley of laughter attempted to escape and he slammed it close again. His lips tugged up into an unwilling smile, and he squirmed underneath Luke’s touch.

“No answer?” Luke asked, raising an eyebrow. “I guess I’ll have to assume that’s a yes.”

Percy shook his head rapidly, his smile growing wider with the other’s words.

“You’re not?” Luke preformed a rapid squeeze attack on his sides and Percy shrieked, breaking into a fit of hysterical giggles. “What was that then?”

“I-I’m nahahahat!” Percy insisted, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to somehow block out the sensations. “Iihihit dohohohoesn’t tihihickle a-ahahat ahahall!”

“You’re not a very convincing liar, Jackson.” Luke gave him a brief break, letting the other breathe for a moment. “You know, I almost feel bad for you. If you’re that ticklish after only a couple seconds of this, I can’t imagine how you’re going to last an hour.”

Percy’s eyes bugged out of his head. There was no possible way he could last another couple minutes like this, let alone an hour. “A-An hour?” he repeated nervously, desperately hoping maybe he had just heard him wrong.

“Or longer,” Luke mused, running a finger slowly up his sides and watching him flinch away. “Maybe days. However long this takes, really. It all depends on how quickly you break.”

He had to be bluffing. There was no way Luke would risk keeping him that long; his friends would eventually come to his rescue and his entire plot would be unveiled. It would be ludicrous to keep him longer than a day. Still, as Luke’s finger made its slow path up his side, just brushing against his armpits before darting down again and sending shudders down his spine, Percy couldn’t help but doubt his own assessment. His friends wouldn’t notice he was missing till morning at least. That gave him hours in which to suffer under the assault of the torturous sensations.

“C-C’mon,” Percy stammered, panic writhing sudden and quick through his stomach. “You don’t need to do this, really—”

“So we know your sides are ticklish,” Luke interrupted, ignoring his protests. He traced his fingertips lightly over the spot as he spoke, sending the other into a round of reluctant giggles. “But I wonder if there’s somewhere else that would get a better reaction out of you? Do you want to volunteer any information? No? I guess I’ll explore on my own.... Maybe this soft little belly of yours is ticklish?”

“Ihihit’s nahahat sohoft—ahAHAhaha, nohoho!” Percy’s laughter jumped an octave and quickly shot through his own denial. Quick, nimble fingers scratched gently against the skin, a delicate tickle that was quickly driving though his inhibitions. He jerked on his arms, but the bonds held as tight as before and no matter how much he squirmed and writhed to get away from the touch, he found himself ultimately helpless to stop it. “Nahahat thehehe stohohomahahach!”

“Hot spot, is it?” Luke taunted. “You know it’s strange—in all the time I knew you I never realized how ticklish you were.”

“B-Behehecause yohohou wehehere ahahalways t-trying toho k-kihihill mehehe!”

“It seems so silly now. All my past trouble could have been solved if I had just tried tickling you instead of trying to kill you.”

“I-Ihihi wohohould hahahave preheherred ihihit!”

“Oh?” Luke’s eyebrows shot up on his forehead and he leaned, a shark’s grin glittering on his teeth. “Is that a confession, Jackson? Do you actually enjoy this torture?”

Percy’s eyes widened as he realized the connotations of his statement and he desperately tried to backtrack. “N-Nohoho, Ihihi juhuhust—ehehe, ahaha, Ihihi juhust—fuhuhu—nohoho—Ihihi dihihidn’t mehehean—pfft, aha, lehehet mehehe ahahanswer!”

“Gladly,” Luke agreed, changing his gentle touch into a series of rapid pokes that made Percy jump.

“T-Thehen stahahap tihihihickling mehehehe, ahaha, nohohohoho!”

“Ah, see, I’m afraid I can’t help you there,” Luke informed him sympathetically. “See, that’s the thing about torture—it doesn’t exactly end when you want it to. But feel free to talk. All you have to do is resist a little bit of tickling. Should be easy for the famed demigod, hmm?”

Percy, quite possibly, was going to kill him. At the very least slap him. Certainly give him a stern talking to or write a note to his mother. All of those options were proving rather difficult at the moment however. “Fuhuhuhuhuck, ahaha, shihihit!”

“Such strong language,” Luke noted. “Feeling anymore like talking?”

Percy squeaked at each poke of his finger, shouting out obscene phrases that in the normal light of day he would never dare utter, but otherwise refused to answer.

“Still holding out?” Luke said, shaking his head in disappointment. “You know, you’re only hurting yourself with this petty resistance. Sooner or later you’re bound to give in; it’s only a matter of time. It does make me wonder though—is your upper body really the best place to tickle you?”

Luke momentarily stopped his attack, circling around the pole to the other side. Percy allowed his eyes to flutter open once more, breathing heavily. His relief was short-lived however, as soon as he realized where Luke was headed. “No,” he ordered, a giggly panic lacing his words. “No, absolutely not, no fair, not the feet, c’mon, please!”

Luke kneeled down by his feet, slowly sliding one and then the other sock off. As the cold air whistling through the ware house hit his skin, a shiver of anticipation coursed its way through Percy’s limbs. Goosebumps scattered down his flesh and he curled his toes preemptively.

“Just to clarify, not your feet?” Luke repeated, grasping one of his feet in a firm grip that left the sole completely exposed.  

“Yes,” Percy agreed, squirming in his hands. “Please, I can’t handle it, you don’t understand—pfah!”

The involuntary noise left him before he could stop it as one nail dragged slowly down the length of his foot. A slow smile made its way over his features and he stiffened, letting out a soft, “No. No, this isn’t f-fahair.”

“It’s perfectly fair,” Luke contradicted, keeping up the light teasing. For the moment, anyways. “I want information and you’re keeping it from me. Sometimes you have to resort to drastic measures to get what you want.”

Percy stammered out a response that was lost as Luke’s pace changed from a single finger into many spidering down his arch and onto the ball of his foot. He squeaked, giggling uncontrollably as his foot shook in the other’s grasp. “Nohoho, stahahahap!”

“Are you gonna tell me what I need to know?”

“Thihihis ihihihis sohohoho uhuhunfahahair!” Percy repeated instead through babbling laughter, clenching and unclenching his toes as he fought to somehow control his reactions. “Thihihis ihihihis—thihihis ihihis—gahahaha!”

“I’m hardly even touching you,” Luke informed him, amusement dancing through his words. “Is this a bad spot?”

Shakily, Percy managed to flip him the middle finger.

“Ooh, bad move,” Luke said, clucking his tongue in disappointment. “I think you’re forgetting the power dynamic here. Maybe this will help you remember.”

Without preamble, Luke raked his nails quickly up and down his foot, digging into the skin in a way that made Percy near lose his mind. He jerked forward, arching against his bonds though he knew it was useless now. He squeaked and snorted at each and every touch of Luke’s fingers, the ticklish torment racking his body. “Nohohoho, gahaha, ehehe, stahahap! Thihihihis ihihihis sohohoho ehehevil!”

“It is, isn’t it?”

“Y-Yohohohou’re ehehenjoying thihihis tohohoo muhuhuhuch!”

“Maybe,” Luke admitted. “I have to admit it is sort of fun to get back at you, for wrecking my plans so many times now. Do you know how many times I’ve been scolded for your interference? This is kind of therapeutic in a way.”

“Ihihihihi hahahahad tohoho!” Percy protested, struggling to get out coherent sentences as the intense tickling on his feet drove him slowly insane. “Y-Yohohou wehehere, ahaha, shihihit—ehehe, uhuhum—nohohoho—yohohou hahahahad tohoho behehe stohohohopped!”

Luke’s smile dropped a little, a dark shadow crossing over his eyes. “I did what had to be done. No one asked you to get involved.”

There was something about his tone that made Percy want to inquire further, but he found that speech was quickly becoming impossible. The upper body tickling had been bad but ultimately bearable. This was something else. It was hell. It was torture. It was exhilarating.

He had no idea how to feel about that.

In an attempt to distract the other from the earlier course of their conversation, Luke decided to switch up tactics. He momentarily stopped his attack and Percy sagged against the rope, breathing in much needed breaths. A silly grin was plastered to his features, and even the slight breeze wafting through the building seemed to tickle. There were shuffling sounds from behind him as Luke reached into a bag of supplies Percy hadn’t noticed from his vantage point. Unseen by the other, Luke pulled out a bottle of skincare oil and a simple hairbrush—both seemingly harmless from the outsider’s perspective. Unfortunately for his bound captive, the objects were far more intimidating than they appeared at first glance.

Percy frowned when he first felt the cool oil being applied to his feet, flinching a little when Luke’s finger pressed in to rub it into the skin. “What is that? Is this a massage now? Because I would much prefer that.”

“That would be nice, wouldn’t it? No, this is something much better.” Luke smoothed the oil out, gently sliding it in-between his toes. Percy twitched and giggled throughout the process. “Not many people know about this method, strangely. But trust me, it’s very effective.”

Though Percy couldn’t imagine how simple oil could make things worse than they already were, a crawling anxiety spread throughout him regardless. He tried to plead once more, in the hopes that maybe this time it would be somewhat effective. “Why are you doing this? Aren’t there better ways of getting the information?”

“Maybe,” Luke conceded. “But this method seemed easiest. You’d be surprised by the number of people who will talk under the influence of a mere feather.”

“Even you?” Percy challenged.

A hot pink tinged the ends of Luke’s ears, though the sight was invisible to Percy. “That is for me to know and you to never find out. Besides, I’m not the one tied up am I?”

It was an obvious lie, but Luke was right in that there was little the other could do about it in his situation. “Well what is your ingenious method then?” Percy said instead, a sarcastic lilt to his voice as he attempted to brave through his fear. “Because I hate to break it to you Luke, simply smearing oil over my feet isn’t going to—shihIHIHIHIT!”

The expletive broke from Percy suddenly as hard bristles were dragged back and forth quickly over his soles. It was a new and rough and intensely, unbearably ticklish in a way Percy hadn’t known could exist before. “AhAHAHAHahaha, whaHAHAHAhat thehe HEHEHELL?!”

“Isn’t going to what?” Luke inquired, raising an eyebrow. “Isn’t going to tickle? Is that what you were going to say? Tell me Jackson—does this tickle?”

He dragged the brush over the ball of his foot and Percy went ballistic with laughter, shrieking and twisting like a madman in an effort to somehow, someway, get that damned brush away from his foot.

Thus far, he was entirely unsuccessful.

“OHOHO MIHIHI GOHOHOD!” Percy exclaimed, throwing his head back in ticklish agony. “THAHAHAHAT’S SOHOHOHO BAHAHAHAD! PlehEHHEHEhehease STAHAHahahAHAHAP!”

“Are you gonna give me the information?”

“IHIHI CAHAHAHAHAN’T!”

“Sure you can, it’s very simple,” Luke assured him. “Just tell me your attack strategy and the brush goes right back in my bag where it’ll stay for the rest of your future. But first I need you to talk, okay? Do you think you could do that for me?”

“PLEHEHEHEASE! IHIHIHIT TIHIHIHIHIHICKLES!” Percy choked on uncontrollable giggly shrieks, every swipe of the hairbrush sending him into a whole new level of hell. Every inch of him pleaded with himself to just talk already, to make it stop even for just a moment. The only thing that made him resist was the thought of everyone back at camp currently asleep in their beds. He thought about what would happen if he let Luke win, if he had to face each and every one of their disappointed faces. So he held out. Despite the fact that he had never experienced tickling like this and each second that ticked by felt like an eternity, he held out.

“Percy,” Luke said, a bit of hesitation creeping into his voice. “Are  you going to tell me or not?”

Percy could only laugh in response.

“Because I could keep doing this,” Luke insisted, narrowing his eyes. “Hours of just this, just this hair brush on your feet. Is that what you want?”

Percy threw his head back, eyes shut in helpless mirth.

Luke was getting irritated by this point, the other’s reluctance to speak bothering him for reasons he couldn’t explain to himself. “You would rather endure this—” to emphasize his point he started attacking the other foot with spider tickles and sending Percy into hysterics—“than rat out your friends?”

Percy squealed and writhed, the tickling to such an intense degree at this point that he hardly allowed himself to even focus on the words coming out of Luke’s mouth.

“Fine then!”

With a flourish, the tickling stopped as Luke dropped his hands, sitting back in annoyance. Leftover giggles spilled from Percy’s lips, his feet tingling from phantom sensations. A strange euphoria clouded his brain, similar to that of staying up for days on end or winning a battle. His nerves were exhausted, his mind rattled, and he couldn’t erase the stupid smile from his face no matter how hard he tried.

Luke shoved the bottle and the brush into his bag, which he slung over his shoulder jerkily. He grabbed a knife from his pocket, resolutely and suddenly cutting the ropes holding Percy. The boy dropped to the ground, his legs feeling like jelly and unable to support his sudden weight. Percy threw a confused glance up at the other, managing a frown. “What are you—”

“Don’t tell anyone about this,” Luke snapped, holding the knife out to him threateningly. Percy’s eyes widened at the weapon, though he was too exhausted to try to move out of the way at all. Luke looked like he was going to say something else, but after a moment he just closed his mouth into a firm line and stalked off, the assumption that Percy was not to follow him.

Percy slowly made his way to his feet, his legs shaking underneath him. He made his way through the ware house cautiously, though at this point he was too tired to care much about anything. As he exited the building, sunlight blinded him and he realized it was probably early morning by this point.

For a moment he considered what would happen if he told the others about what had happened to him that night. In the end though, he decided that it would be better, for him at least, if no one ever knew about the events of that night.

With a sigh, he raised his hand to call a taxi and resolutely made his way back to Long Island Sound.

[thanksjro]

More Than Meets the Eye #30 - The Cybertronian Judicial System is a Friggin’ Joke

Have I mentioned that I’m not a huge fan of court case stories? I think they’re pretty boring, on average, so the last couple of issues have been slightly dragging for me.

Anyway, back to Megatron’s trial. 

Our issue opens up with a full back shot of Ultra Magnus.

Artists take note, he really is built like a capital T.

As Magnus reads out Megatron’s statement retracting his “guilty” plea, we get some decent points as to why. See, telling a guy that you’ll stab him in the brain, so his trial can be over as quickly as possible, maybe isn’t such a hot idea. Megatron wasn’t a huge fan of that, or of how those memories they would’ve yanked outta him would have been used to fuel the Autobot propaganda machine. Why, you may ask?

Well, I don’t know if you knew this or not, but Megatron… doesn’t particularly care for the Autobots, nor the rhetoric they uphold.

I know, I was surprised too!

There’s also the fact that Optimus Prime is the judge on this whole thing. You know. Optimus Prime. Off and on leader of the Autobots, whenever it suits him. The guy who fucked off into space for a year after the war. The guy who threw a hissy fit when someone pointed out that he was compromised the last time they did something like this with Megatron. This guy:

Yeah, there might be a slight conflict of interests here. Remind me again why this had to be a military trial?

Anyway, enough of that, it’s time for a fight scene.

A swarm of Decepticons storm the arena, going after Megatron so they can help him escape. Magnus, though acting as Megatron’s defense, cannot abide by this disorder in the court.

Wild to think there’s a tiny little Pringles man with anxiety in there, isn’t it?

Optimus joins the fray, because there really are, just, so many guys to deal with here. A dude goes to collect Megatron, stating that they brought teleport packs for this little shindig. Megatron isn’t super jazzed about that though, not bothering to grab on before the dude gets shot to death. There’s a brief recess, I guess so the janitorial staff can deal with the mess of corpses littering the courtroom.

Meanwhile, in the present day, Rung’s building a model spaceship in Swerve’s, which is a very brave thing to be doing, seeing how sticky and gross bars can be. Brainstorm’s brought a flask to the bar, and proceeds to pour the contents into a funnel sticking out of his arm.

Our bartender for the evening- I’m assuming it’s evening, but I doubt the concept of time has any real weight in space- is Bluestreak. Bluestreak was stationed on Earth for a while, which is some Phase One stuff, and took a liking to human media while he was there. He’s the guy who handles movie night these days, seeing as Rewind’s too busy being dead to do it, and I doubt Chromedome has the emotional bandwidth to take over for his late spouse.

Bluestreak’s favorite movie is Zulu, a film glorifying the colonialism of the English over the native populace of an African kingdom. Make of that what you will.

Whirl wants to watch À Bout de Soufflé, or Breathless, as it was translated for the English-speaking world, which is a French New Wave film about a criminal who shoots a cop, hides from the police in a journalist’s home, who he seduces and likely impregnates. She eventually finds out what he did, reports him to the police, but then has a change of heart and lets him know what she’s done. He runs, but is shot, and dies in the street. The film is notable for its final scene, in which the following dialogue happens, between the dying criminal Michael, his lover Patricia, and an officer.

Of course, any poignancy would almost certainly be lost on the average comic book reader, and is also somewhat nullified by Whirl praising the film with internet lingo.

Then again, I suppose Whirl would be the type to dismantle any deeper reading of his interest in such a film, lest he be subjected to the horrifying ordeal of being known.

Over with Skids and Riptide, it’s revealed that Megatron’s been teaching classes on the Lost Light, specifically on the Knights of Cybertron. Riptide’s getting an education, because he’s been feeling pretty lost since the war ended- we’ll get to the potential whys of that later on. Swerve isn’t a fan of this community college thing that’s going on, stating that Megatron’s using it as a distraction, so he can devise plots most foul.

Back in the past, Autobot high command is having a talk about what Megatron’s demanding, and man is it a doozy— turns out, since the trial’s happening on Luna 2, the trial proceedings are subject to the laws of the moon. One of these moon laws is the right to request being judged by the Knights of Cybertron. Now, this is a problem, seeing as the Knights of Cybertron have been AWOL for the last several million years, but the law is the law, and you can’t just go ignoring it when someone’s pointed it out.

Bro, your SIC just suggested y’all pull the trial so you could slap it on Cybertron, thus negating any need to pay attention to the Knight law. That’s such a gross miscarrying of justice, it’s genuinely baffling. You’ve got bigger issues going on than flouting. My god, Optimus, you were a cop—

Oh wait, that’s right. Carry on, then.

Back on the Lost Light, First Aid’s checking to make sure that the coffin Rodimus they revealed last issue is true and proper dead. Now, this may seem like a given, but you’ve got to remember that Brainstorm was mostly dead for over a year and a half, and nobody fucking noticed, so it’s probably for the best that they’re checking.

First Aid’s been pretty withdrawn since Ambulon died, so this autopsy is really good for him, since it got him out of his room. Pretty fucked up that it would take a dead body to get him out and about. Has Rung checked in on his poor son of a gun, or has he been spending the last six months getting his professional rocks off psychoanalyzing a genocidal warlord?

Our coffin Rodimus died from having parts of his brain removed, and potentially died screaming.

Yes, that is a Furmanism, thank you peanut gallery, moving on—

Ratchet hands the phone over to Ultra Magnus, saying that a call has to be made, and it can’t be by him, because the callee is mighty upset with Ratchet at the moment.

Oh, I guess he’s fine after all. This must be where the sci-fi bullshit really starts kicking in for the series.

Because seeing your own dead body is likely very traumatic and awful, Rodimus is taking a while to string together his thoughts on the matter. Megatron doesn’t particularly care, because he’s not terribly sympathetic to this sort of thing, and the two get into a spat, where it’s revealed that they’re co-captaining the Lost Light.

Because things weren’t chaotic enough on this fucking ship. Need to mix in some peacocking between the McDonalds twunk and the man who killed half of Beijing.

Back in the past, Optimus Prime visited Megatron in prison to have a little chat. It’s not about that little rescue attempt, though the fact that those Decepticons may have been released from the Lost Light’s brig is certainly interesting. No, Optimus is here to sit way too close to his mortal nemesis on the floor of his room and talk about how Megatron is a sneaky bastard.

You remember the Hellraiser puzzle box from a couple issues back? Yeah, that was a communicube, one that was passed to Optimus to suggest that the trial be held on the moon, so the arena there would be able to hold all the people wronged by Megatron. This seems pretty damn convenient in hindsight, but Megatron swears that the legal loophole wasn’t his only intent when he sent the cube.

Because it’s all about you, isn’t it, Megatron? It’s all about how you’re perceived by future generations. Fuck the guys who had to actually deal with what your personal choices caused to happen.

Megatron wants to make amends with all those who were wronged by him. This doesn’t include being acquitted of his crimes, which, y’know, good- at least he’s being slightly realistic about how this is going to turn out for him.

What he wants to do is find Cyberutopia, so the Cybertronians have a replacement planet, since Cybertron kind of sucks now.

Oh, sorry, did I say realistic? I take it back.

In the present, Rodimus is still bummed out about being dead. Still, the day doesn’t stop just because it’s a bad one, and he calls in the experts.

CHROMEDOME YOU PROMISED TO STOP THIS SHIT

Yeah, no, Chromedome’s fallen off the wagon again, and does his thing on the coffin Rodimus. As he does, Megatron suddenly gets squeamish, Brainstorm pulls out his early early-warning device to lean on the fourth wall, and it’s revealed that the coffin that coffin Rodimus was in was built in the fashion of the Spectralist faith.

All Chromedome can suss out of coffin Rodimus’ memories is the really big important stuff, which includes the speech at Rivet’s Field inviting folks to come join the Knight Quest. Aww, that’s sweet.

With the analysis of the innermost energon complete, the results are in— the coffin Rodimus is a Rodimus. A real one, from the near future. Bummer.

I suppose denial is one of the seven stages of grief, isn’t it?

As everyone argues over whether or not Rodimus is going to die, Nightbeat brings up a good point— there aren’t any numbers carved into the coffin Rodimus’ hand. Rodimus is about to reveal some Ratchet-original wisdom, when things start getting really weird; whole sections of the Lost Light are disappearing.

Over at Swerve’s, Tailgate is regaling his peers with the story of his derring-do against Chief Justice Tyrest. Everyone is very impressed, and this includes our good buddy Getaway.

Jeez, think you’ve got enough antagonist shadows on this guy? It’s almost as if the art’s trying to tell us something about him.

Getaway lays it on real thick, saying that Tailgate could totally be the next Prime, with how courageous and awesome he is, all while completely ignoring Tailgate’s personal space and having a weirdly tiny hand. This seems to seriously bother Cyclonus, who is watching this shit go down from the doorway. Our purple space jet leaves once the drinks start being poured and conversation starts happening. God knows he hates talking about his insecurities.

Then the Pipes is Friggin’ Dead alarm goes off. But Pipes has been dead for a while now, so that must mean something else awful is happening.

Back during the trial, I guess because Optimus has a soft spot for Megatron, he allows him to join the Lost Light’s Knight Quest… even as he says that he could keep the guy locked up until Rodimus and pals find the Knights. However, there are rules to this, and one of the rules is that Megatron must publicly denounce the Decepticon cause.

It is a slow and painful experience for everyone involved, as he reads the statement he was given. It’s an immediate call to action- or rather, inaction.

Geez, think they could’ve made it any more obvious that this was being ghostwritten? I can’t wait to see how long it takes for “Megatron was blackmailed into saying this by the Autobots” to be a plotpoint.

Outside the prison, Ratchet and Rodimus are taking in the brand new Rod Pod, which is genuinely ridiculous in how large it is. Rodimus admits to having taken Atomizer’s list, though he knows that trying to use it to keep those who voted him off would be a pretty shitty thing to do.

Also, no one’s told him about Megatron coming along on the trip. As captain.

Or you could, I dunno, lock him up from the start. Or, if you want to give him a chance to prove himself, slap him into a bottom-rung role, like bilge cleaner, or sewage mucker, or whatever the equivalent would be on a spaceship full of giant gay robots. We don’t have to give the guy any power to hold him to scrutiny— any minimum wage worker will tell you that scrutiny comes far harsher for those who actually carry out orders than those who give them.

But what do I know? I’ve never fought in a several million year war, and I don’t plan to.

Getting back to the list, it seems as if Ratchet and Rodimus are on the same wavelength, in that both agree it’s only going to cause trouble and hurt feelings to keep the thing around. Rodimus destroys it with his usual flare, only to be blindsided by the fact that it was fake this entire time. How does Ratchet know this?

Because his name wasn’t on it.

...Man, that’s gotta sting. No wonder Rodimus was upset enough to not take his calls.

In the present, everyone’s in a panic, as they all bolt for the shuttle bay and start pouring into shuttles. The Lost Light is disintegrating around them, which is sort of a problem. Despite this nightmare scenario happening, Rodimus and Megatron still find the time to be assholes to each other. That’s dedication right there.

As the two bicker, multiple shuttles zip away from the rapidly disappearing ship, including the Rod Pod.

Man, now it really is the Lost Light.

[honeymoonjin]

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ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs: voyeurism, exhibitionism, filmed sex, sex toys, bondage, blindfolds, use of safeword (yellow, not red), aftercare, pet names, praising, degradation, controlled orgasm - delay/denial/forced, oral (m receiving), masturbation, face fucking, loss of virginity (wink wonk it’s our namjoonie), however not full sex just a bj

DAY FIVE

“Going outside again today, Namjoonie?” Yoongi questions with a teasing grin.

Namjoon sighs morosely at the thunderous downpour of rain visible through the kitchen windows. “It’s over for me,” he announces sullenly. “I’ve lost.”

You pause, spoonful of rice hovering in front of your open mouth. “So your prompt was ‘the outdoors’, huh?”

A miserable cry leaves his throat before he buries his face in his arms, slumped at the dining table where a few of you have gathered for breakfast. “Damn it,” he whines, muffled by the thick cable knit sweater he’s wearing. 

You’d woken up early to a crack of thunder; the weekend storm apparently descending upon the villa earlier than expected. For once, you’d had to help Jungkook work out the heating system, cranking it up until you could smell the quickly-heating dust that had gathered from lack of use. 

Yoongi, also an early riser, had announced that a day like today required a hot breakfast, and you’d helped him prepare a basic stew and some steamed rice as you were gradually joined by Namjoon, Jin and Hoseok. You’d waited a bit for the remaining two contestants, but the wafting aroma of beef and potato quickly broke your patience.

You finish your mouthful with a chuckle, leaning over to rub his back. “But now that you’re already going to get the penalty, you may as well do whatever you want.”

Namjoon’s body is still for a few moments as he considers this, before the faded purple of his hair jostles with a nod. “I guess so,” is the reply that comes from the crook of his arm.

You grin. “It’s okay, it’s not like you’re the last one. Hoseok hasn’t gone yet, and I swear Jimin doesn’t even wake up before midday.”

Hoseok narrows his eyes at you challengingly but before he can retort, the youngest makes a noise of disagreement in his throat. 

“Oh, he’s not sleeping,” Jungkook answers breezily between cheeks stuffed with rice. “What? Yesterday I wanted to ask if I could borrow one of his shirts for my stream this week - you know, that see-through pink one he wore over a white shirt? - and he didn’t answer when I knocked so I opened the door-”

“Jungkook,” Yoongi and Jin cut in simultaneously, faces turned down in disappointment.

“Wait!” Jungkook protests. “It’s not as bad as it sounds! I just stuck my head in the door and he was in the bathtub-”

“He gets a bath and I don’t?” Hoseok asks incredulously.

“Hobi-hyung, please,” Jungkook whines. “Not the point. So like, his hair was covered in white stuff and he had this bright green clay mask on his face and a black one all over his hands and the water was like pink, but still see-through and I could kinda smell rose and maybe tea tree oil but then he was yelling at me to get out and then I got a text saying if I told anyone he’d-” Jungkook pauses, his excitement fizzing out suddenly, replaced by a look of pure fear. “Oh, I probably shouldn’t have said all that. Let’s pretend that never happened.”

Jin looks like he wants to ask for more information, but Hoseok huffs, shuffling in his seat impatiently. “Who cares,” he spits petulantly. “He isn’t fucking Edward Cullen; just because he’s mysterious doesn’t make him hot. I can be mysterious.”

Yoongi gasps, pointing at Hoseok’s feet wordlessly. That alone is enough for the younger man to let out a pealing yelp, stumbling up out of his chair and jumping on his feet, frantically patting himself down as he wide-eyes the floor. Yoongi begins chuckling, a dry cackle that spreads to the others at the table, and Hoseok deflates, sending him a withering gaze.

Sitting back down in defeat, though not without glancing down one last time cautiously, Hoseok huffs at Yoongi, mouth sticking out in a pout. “You’re lucky I’ve already found my arch nemesis or it would be you, Yoongi-hyung.”

“What a relief,” Yoongi replies in sarcastic monotone. 

Hoseok frowns, before cheering up again to send you a bright grin. “Hey, Y/n, are you gonna go out to the confessional booth today?”

“Real subtle,” Yoongi murmurs lowly.

Ignoring him, you shake your head. “It’s raining,” you reply, “I’ll get wet.”

“I’m sure you will.”

Hoseok tuts, the dull thud of his foot stomping making Yoongi fight to prevent a smile. “Stop it, hyung! You’ll give it away!”

“It’s okay, Hoseok,” you assure, “it doesn’t really matter if you lose. The penalty is just spending the week in the bunk room. If you think about it, it’s like a sleepover.”

The doms eyes slide back and forth as he considers this. “Okay!” he announces cheerily. “My prompt is the confessional booth! If everyone else says theirs, we can all hang out together!”

You swear you could hear a pin drop. Namjoon looks like he’s feeling sorry for himself again, Jungkook and Jin are both avoiding his entreating gaze, and Yoongi just stares at Hoseok unabashed, smirk deepening as the silence stretches out.

After a minute of dead air, Hoseok frowns. “Fuck you guys. I wanted to sleep on the bunk beds anyway.”

Feeling bad for him, you stand up, collecting the empty bowls around the table and taking them out to the kitchen. “It’s okay, Hobi,” you chime, “if everyone else succeeds for theirs then I can keep you company.”

Hoseok’s eyes go wide, before he turns to Namjoon. “Buddy, you gotta fuck her outside. Let me have this.”

Namjoon pales, staring at the rain outside which continues to bucket down. “We’ll catch a cold.” 

“Fine, I’ll just make sure I don’t lose,” Hoseok insists, standing up himself. 

You walk back towards the dining room. “What are you gonna do, ma-Hobi!” You squeal as your body is suddenly lifted, swung over a shoulder. 

“Woah, hyung, you’re strong!” you hear Jungkook gush as Hoseok carries you without so much as a grunt. “That’s so cool!”

“Hey!” you try to snap, but with your body folded over a bony shoulder and hair dangling on end, you can’t imagine the heat of your comment is felt by anyone. “This is kidnapping!”

“Not really,” Jin calls out in a bright tone, “he’s not taking you off the property.”

You kick your legs in the air in frustration, blood rushing to your head. “Fuck you! You can go fuck Yoongi without me next time!”

“As far as threats go, that’s not strong,” Jin retorts, his voice carrying over the three shocked parties. “Fucking Yoongi would be a pleasure.”

“Thanks, Jin-hyung.”

“No problem.”

You feel your cheeks heat up with the added blood and your eyes ache, so you give up the fight, instead batting your fists against Hoseok’s ass in protest. “Hurry up, John Cena,” you grumble. “Either let me down or take me to the confessional room before I pass out.”

“So demanding,” Hoseok tuts, but before you know it you’re shifting, getting tugged down and up and sideways, vision spinning sickly until you’re resting, bridal style, in Hoseok’s arms.

You pout up at the dark-haired man. “Hobi, I feel seasick now.”

He grins, lips quirking into a heart shape. “Are you that wet already?”

Your head lolls back as you kick your legs weakly in his hold. “Stop it,” you whine. “Being mean.” 

“Poor baby,” he jibes, and calls out a cheery goodbye to the others, walking you out to the outside dining area where you’d spent that first night, and following the house around until you arrive at the garden shed that houses the confessional room. Once he lets you down, he checks his phone, wincing at what he sees. “Shit. Producer Shin is getting impatient.”

Even with all the excess blood in your head, you pale at the thought of the friendly middle-aged man that operated the camera in the room. “He’s not waiting there, is he?”

“No,” Hoseok dismisses distractedly, typing out a reply, “I exiled him to Sejin’s caravan out front. He just doesn’t like leaving his post for too long in case others want to film.” After he pockets his phone, he glances up at you, a strange dark flicker in his eyes. “Get inside and sit on the stool. Wait for me.”

Your mouth drops at the sudden change in his tone, his demeanor. “Why should I have to wait?” you protest. “You’re the one that wants me in-”

You jump when a sudden smacking noise rings in your ears, sharp and thin. In front of you, Hoseok has simply clapped his hands together once, but the fright as well as his sudden seriousness has your words dying in your throat. 

“I don’t appreciate subs that talk back,” he says slowly, each word enunciated and clear, like he’s reciting an important law. “So go inside, sit on the stool, and wait.”

“Yes, sir.” The honorific is meant to be a final sarcastic sign of defiance, but you find yourself meaning it as you say it. This isn’t Hobi that you can joke and laugh with. This is a glimpse of what he’s like at his job at the dungeon. Of what he’s like when he’s Master.

His back straightens and his face clears in approval, but he doesn’t praise you for it, simply standing in stoic expectation for you to follow his order.

When you get inside, you feel his eyes on your back like two hot pinpricks, but you don’t dare look back, leaving the door open a crack as you sit on the stool.

The room itself is cramped, with just enough room for the stool, the camera, and a seat behind it, empty for the first time since you’ve arrived. You’re used to seeing a producer sitting behind it, open from eight in the morning until midnight; Producer Shin doing the early half and Producer Kang in the evening. Both were friendly, middle-aged men. Shin was divorced and Kang was happily married with two kids in primary school, and after you’d gone through whatever thoughts were on your mind and whatever questions fans had sent in, both men would often switch off the camera and chat with you about whatever topic felt interesting at the time. 

Though it wasn’t broadcasted like your interactions with the other guys, you really had found good company in the two of them, as well as Sejin. On the Tuesday after Namjoon had walked out on you, you’d even gone out the front door to the caravan where Sejin resided, joined by Shin as the two ate dinner. While the two of them, Sejin especially, preferred not to know any extra information about the game just to maintain a professional distance, but that didn’t mean they didn’t give you a hot cup of tea and a portion of the Chinese food they’d ordered in and distract you with chatter about a k-drama Sejin was watching. 

Used to them, it feels strangely empty in the confessional room with that empty chair, more so now that you’re restless with anticipation, eyes straining to see outside the sliver of door you left open. 

He leaves you for a long time. Whether it’s on purpose or not, or whether you’re just feeling the drag as you wait, you don’t know, but it seems like hours of being on full alert before the sudden metallic screech of the door opening gives you a fright, heart racing as he steps inside. 

You gape as he casually steps behind you, a hand on the back of your head locking you in place when you try and look back at him. The glimpse you got was enough to see that he’d changed clothes slightly; bright yellow sweater replaced with a black leather jacket open over a see-through black shirt. The sight of him in your mind flashes every time you blink like an afterimage. Beyond the all-black ensemble, the tight ripped jeans and the heavy boots, perhaps the picture that stays behind your eyelids the longest is that of his hands. You didn’t have enough time to see, but he was holding what looked like a small rucksack, like the kind you’d take swimming or to play tennis. Somehow, you imagine what it contains isn’t so innocent.

You swallow as his fingers press on your scalp, splayed out. “Face the front,” he commands, and his voice brooks no protest. Once his hand leaves you, you remain still; hyper aware of the effort it takes to keep your eyes ahead, staring at the wall behind the Producer’s chair. “Arms.”

Pausing, you stare dumbly down at them as they rest on your lap. “What?”

Hoseok lets out a light sigh, like he’s exercising great patience, and taps your elbow. “Behind your back. Both of them.” 

You follow his order, a shiver running through you when his hands, calloused but limber, grasp your wrists tightly. He ties you up in silence, the cool caress of silk making your eyes slip shut in bliss. While you definitely have an interest in it, your experience in bondage isn’t particularly vast, and you marvel at how such a simple tie changes you. With every swish of fabric against the delicate skin of your wrists, your nerves all over your body sing out, need pooling between your legs. Your shoulder blades are tucked back, opening out your chest, and even in a thick hoodie and leggings, you feel deliciously exposed. Your forearms are crossed over in the hollow of your back so that the tie binds your wrists together. Instinctively, your fingers wrap around your opposite forearm for support, and knowing that there’s no back to the chair, that you’re now open on all sides, has your heart-rate picking up. 

You feel your arms tugged as he tightens the knot with a flourish, before slipping two fingers under. 

“Wiggle your fingers,” he instructs, and you obey. “Try to get out.” You pause for a moment, but then pull in opposite directions, attempting to wiggle yourself out, but to no avail. “Good.”

You swallow again, fighting against the dryness of your mouth. “What are you-” Your eyes fly open wide as his hand claps over your mouth, pulling your head back to rest against his chest as he looks down at you. You make a noise of protest, but he shushes you, brows in a straight line of disapproval.

“I ask the questions, princess. You see that chair?” He points ahead, and you try to nod but fail as his hand keeps you still, your breath coming hot through your nose. “That’s where the producer sits and asks you questions. So the only thing I want to hear from you are the answers to my questions, and your safewords if you need them. Understood?”

You try and nod again; this time, he unwraps his fingers from over your mouth and lets you catch your breath. “Yes, sir,” you confirm, voice small.

“Do you remember your colours, princess? Can you tell me?”

You lick your lips where they’ve gone dry. “Green for go, yellow for slow down and red for stop... Sir.”

If he catches the pause where you almost forgot to say his title, he lets it slide. “Good. Let’s begin.” 

You’re left dazed when he lets go of you and steps away in one swift motion, stepping to the side. You force yourself to keep your gaze ahead, unsure if the command from earlier is still in effect, but your eyes strain to make out the peripheral of him bending over the rucksack, rifling deep inside it. Your stomach curls at the sounds that emanate; the soft thuds of glass and silicone, the jangle of metal, the rustle of fabric. 

Finally, he stretches up again, and you suck in a breath when his hand finds its way to your mouth again, this time wrapping tightly around your jaw and turning your face to look up at him, at the small device he’s wiggling in his fingers. 

“Do you know what this is, princess?” Hoseok grins, and your eyes focus in on the small metal object. It’s short, a stubby cylinder. On closer inspection you notice a small remote tucked in his palm. A remote-controlled bullet vibrator. You nod as much as you can in his iron grip, and his eyes twinkle. “Are you gonna be a good girl for me and let me put it in?”

Your heart stops, blood rushing south as your desire skyrockets. “Yes, sir,” you gasp needily, unable to help yourself rocking your hips against the smoothed top of the wooden stool. 

Hoseok tuts at your movements. “Good girls stay still,” he chastises, and you freeze, feeling your jaw ache once he lets go.

As it turns out, ‘in’ doesn’t mean inside of you, but rather in your panties. Your fingernails dig into your forearms with the effort to not move, biting down hard on your tongue. He steps in front of you, hands dipping shamelessly to the front of your leggings, fingers tugging at the elastic and releasing, letting it snap onto your front. You hiss in a breath through your nose but don’t speak, remembering his rule. Going back, this time his hand slips under both layers, and you can’t help the whine that comes out when you feel cold metal against the heat of your core, sliding over your clit. Frustratingly, he himself doesn’t touch you, only placing the vibe before removing his hand, patting over your crotch where you can see the obscene bulge, straight down the middle. 

You let out a breath, brows furrowing with want, but he simply walks away, leaving you tied up and waiting as he sits behind the camera. 

He looks entirely in his element, legs spread and leaning back in the chair, fingers running over the control in his hands. In front of him, slightly to the right so his face isn’t blocked, is the camera. It’s still set up, black lens staring you down from its position on the tripod. You watch with baited breath as he leans over and turns it on with a little electronic beep, Your pussy clenches at the thought of him filming this, not for the show but for himself. 

How he’d take it to his room, booting up his laptop and locking his door. He probably sat much like he is now when he jerked off; legs wide to make room for his hands. Watching you moan and writhe, hands trapped behind you and chest pressed out as the metallic whine of the vibrations is just barely audible through his speakers. Would he drag it out, wanting to savour every last minute of the video, stroking himself slowly so as not to cum too soon, or would he be frantic, desperate, panting alone in his room as he tries to orgasm in time with you, spilling all over himse-

An unbidden cry leaps from your throat as you’re taken off-guard by the sudden voltage between your legs. Your thighs snap shut but the pleasure continues, Hoseok watching raptly as your shoulders twist, the instinct to pull your arms forward even as soft silk holds firm. “Hobi,” you whine imploringly. 

He ignores you, ramping the vibrations up enough that the noise fills the room; a constant high-pitched whirring that rings in your ears even as you clench your thighs around it. Though you’d enjoyed the odd vibrator yourself, you were sure Hoseok knew full well that there were always a few high settings that were quite simply too much. It overstimulates you before you’ve even orgasmed, so much you can’t take it. 

“Hobi!” you cry, curling over yourself as if you can escape it. Belatedly, in your electrified brain, a puzzle piece clicks into place. “Sir! Sir, please, turn it off! It hurts, please!��

You go lax, shuddering when it stops suddenly; the only sound in the confessional room coming from your heavy breathing. 

“Oh, princess,” he soothes in a warm voice, “don’t worry. Sir will help you learn. Think of this as training, hm? I want our time together to be enjoyable, but it’s important that you know how to behave. Sir would rather reward you than punish you. That’s fair, don’t you think?”

You straighten up awkwardly, the weight of your arms crossed over your back making it difficult. He’s patient, smiling once you face him upright again. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

His eyes glimmer at that, and your core clenches, all too aware of the powerful motor resting over your clit. You wanted him to be happy with you, not just because you want a reward, but because you know just how unbearable his punishment would be. “Here’s the plan: I’m going to ask you some questions, and you’re going to answer them. If I don’t like your answer, you know what happens. Understood?”

You feel your arms and thighs break out in goosebumps at the thinly veiled threat. “Understood, sir.”

“Then let’s begin. We’ll start with an easy one, hm? How do you address me?”

“Sir.”

“Correct. When should you speak?”

“When spoken to,” you answer automatically, but his head cocks to the side, raising the remote meaningfully. Your mind scrambles. “Wait! And if I have to use the safewords, sir.”

The hand holding the remote lowers again as he nods. “That’s right. I can punish you for forgetting the other rules and move on, but if you ignore that then we can’t play at all, princess.” Hoseok smiles placidly. “Those are the ones we’ve already learnt. Let’s see how good your instincts are.”

You take in a deep breath, eying up the remote warily. This was uncharted territory, so the chance of you making a mistake just went right up. Rather than making any comment, you bite your tongue and wait for him to address you. 

“When do you get to cum?” Hoseok asks in an authorial tone. 

You pause for a moment, not wanting to blurt out something wrong. “When Sir gives me permission?”

He smiles placidly. “Good. Now; normally with my subs, they come only by my say-so. But I know for you, that isn’t reasonable given you have to play with the others. However there is still something I expect to have control over. Think for a bit; I’ll give you time. What can you not do without my permission?”

You stare at him imploringly but he just waits for your answer. You rack your mind for some clue, running over his words. He only wanted you to cum with his permission, but he was saying sex with the others was fine. So it wasn’t like you couldn’t cum at all without him around... You blink, feeling cold dread settle down your back as you come up blank. “I don’t get it, sir, I’m sorry.”

“That’s disappointing.” Even as you brace yourself, the powerful vibrations shock you to your core, more intense than you remember them. Hoseok’s eyes remain on you as you rock your hips and wiggle your torso, body trying to escape the overwhelming sensations even as you know you can’t. He holds you like that for what feels like an eternity, though it can’t be more than a minute or two. Finally, just as you feel like you’re going to fall apart, he takes mercy, and the vibrations cease, leaving you gasping. 

“The answer I was looking for,” Hoseok explains coolly, “is masturbate. You are not allowed to masturbate as long as I am in the show. If you want that release, you’re to come to me, and I’ll decide if you’ve earned it. Is that clear?”

You open your mouth for a disingenuous yes, but he beats you to the bunch.

“And if you break that rule, don't think I won’t notice. I have mercy for mistakes but I don’t take well to direct disobedience.” 

You deflate, lips turning down in a frown. It takes you a moment to commit. “Yes, sir.” 

“Good.” His eyes glint proudly at the power you’ve handed over to him, and you clench your thighs together, not wanting to admit just how much that look affects you. “I have one last question for you. What would you like from me?”

This feels like a question with no right answer, but still you hesitate. Ask for too much and he might chastise you. “A kiss, please, sir,” you try tentatively.

Hoseok’s eyes crinkle slowly as he smiles, standing up. “How romantic, princess.” You turn your chin up in anticipation, toes curling as he sidesteps the camera and moves closer, leather jacket shifting to reveal tantalising slips of skin, covered by the black sheer mesh. Once in front of you, he bends down painfully slowly, close enough that your eyes slip shut, the lightest brush of his lips on yours and-

He chuckles above you as the vibrations reappear with a vengeance, making you jerk violently and curse.

“Sir! Please!” you cry. Each time the vibrations come, they’re more insufferable, like they’re breaking down your defenses one pulse at a time. “Sir, please stop it, it’s too mu-uch!”

Hoseok turns it down, but not off, so that a gentle thrumming keeps you shuddering. He reaches behind you to tug your hair, pulling your head up to face him as he stands above you, tutting. “Why would I give you what you want?” he asks rhetorically. “You didn’t answer all my questions correctly. Maybe next time, hm?”

The vibrations are now the exact opposite of before - too low to bring you close to your high. “Hobi, plea- Sir, please, make me cum! I tried my best!” You round your eyes and pout, trying to plead with him. 

Though he tries to hide it, his poker face falters for just a second. Just a twitch of his eye, a softening of his jaw, but you know you have him. 

You let your voice soften even more, the sweetest begging. “I’ll be good for you, sir. Please just let me cum.” 

Hoseok lets out a sigh, eyes melting. “Just this once, princess,” he allows, “Sir will go easy on you since you’re just learning.” He smiles at the way you moan in relief once the vibrations pick up again, the divine middle ground between too much and not enough. With your senses so heightened, it’s no surprise to feel the coil in your stomach quickly tightening, egged on by the fond way he strokes your hair, brushing it off your face to drink in your reactions. “Are you going to cum for me?”

“Y-yes, sir,” you breathe, hips rocking as much as you can without compromising your balance. It’s an overwhelming feeling having your arms still tied behind you. The thought that you aren’t in control of your own pleasure. Considering his prior rule, it doesn’t surprise you that he started with a scene where you didn’t even have the choice to cum without permission. Every time the silk tugs at your wrists or the metal vibe slides slightly with your grinding, it just reminds you of how you’re fully at his mercy, and you can’t wait to feel what that’s like once you finally cum. It’s not quite enough though; so wet, the metal slips more than you’d like and it frustrates you when the pressure isn’t enough, or is in the wrong place. You hiccup a sob when he turns the vibrations up just one more level, so close to your edge you could cry. “Ho-hobi, please, I need more.” You sniff at the way his brows tick. “Sir,” you cry desperately, legs widening in invitation. 

Hoseok lets out a low grumble as his jaw flexes. “You’re lucky I’m going easy on you,” he announces, before dropping a hand down and cupping it over your center, pressing the vibrator right over your clit. “You better cum now, princess, I’m getting impatient. You wouldn’t want Producer Shin to walk in right now, hm? Poor man just wants to do his job, not deal with whiny little girls like you who just want to cum. Do you know why I’m not fucking you right now, princess? Because I know you couldn’t help yourself from making a mess. I bet you’re sopping wet in those panties of yours.” 

With every sentence, Hoseok grinds the heel of his palm over you, jostling the vibrator against your swollen clit and before you know it, you’re cumming, leaning forward and burying your head in his chest as you latch your thighs around his hand, cresting the high. 

He holds you there the whole time, vibrator jumping up another level to make you let out a squeal. As your vision begins to clear and your body returns to normal, the vibrations make you jump and whimper against him, arms flexing aggressively as you fail to pull your hands in front of you, no way of stopping the assault of sensation- unless; “Sir! Turn it off, sir, please!”

Hoseok takes mercy on you and the vibrations cease. As you gasp for breath, the sheer fabric of his shirt itching your cheek, you feel his palms slide over your shoulders and down your back, warm even through your hoodie, and reach for the length of silk. You make a low noise of disapproval at the feeling of being untied, not wanting the scene to be over, but he just shushes you gently, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. 

Your shoulders twinge once your hands fall to your sides, and you follow his instructions to roll them out as he massages the muscles. While his fingers aren’t as heavenly as Taehyung’s, it does ease the ache, and you let him sit you up as he fishes the slick metal bullet out from between your legs, smirking at the way you shudder when his knuckles brush against your sensitive clit.

“Now, princess,” he announces lowly, “Shin will be coming back soon, so we need to head out. But I still have one last lesson for you. Are you able to keep going? It’s nothing too crazy, I promise.”

You swallow the dryness in your throat that’s come from your heavy breaths and nod, a soft smile gracing your face with the satisfaction of a good orgasm. 

Hoseok hums, pleased, and pats your cheeks warmly before holding up the black silk. “One of the most important things in a scene,” he explains, brushing your hair back with his free hand, his knuckles light against the sensitive skin of your neck, “is trust. So we’re going to take a walk back to the house together, princess. Only you’ll be wearing this.”

Your breath hitches as the silk comes over your eyes, cool on your lids and temples as he ties it in a knot at the back, tight enough that it won’t slip but making sure it isn’t catching your hair or digging in. It’s a new kind of vulnerability, having your hands free but your sight prohibited, and you find your head tilting up blindly, seeking him out in the void.

“Oh, Y/n,” you hear him chant in a whisper, “you have no idea how beautiful you look right now.”

You shiver, hands clutching at him, slippery fabric and sharp teeth of a zip scratching your palms. “Sir,” you say, no words coming to mind but his title as his hands grasp your sides, lifting you off the stool. You stumble a but, hands flying out to steady yourself in the darkness. Your heart races when you realise your hands are empty, and as you wave them around, it’s all open air, feeling deep like a crevasse. “Hobi?”

Hoseok ignores the slip, his voice coming slightly to your right, but at a distance. “Follow my voice, princess. I’ll keep you safe. Come.”

Your mouth hangs open and your feet feel leadened to the floor. As fear begins to roil in your chest, you slide your feet forward, shuffling closer, hands scanning the air in front of you. With no sight, every inch feels like walking up to the edge of a cliff, hands grasping for contact that never comes. Your breath hitches, lungs not expanding fully. “H-hoseok, yellow,” you gasp, eyes tearing at the fear that grips your heart. “I don’t like it.”

“Okay, shh, you’re alright, I’m here,” Hoseok comforts, his voice closer, and you let out a sob of relief when your hands touch the mesh of his shirt, elbows buckling as he pulls you into a tight hug. The restriction on your ribs falls away the moment his chin rests on the crown of your head and his hands rub soothingly at your back. “I’m so sorry, princess,” he murmurs gently, “too far, hm? Are you still okay with the blindfold?”

You sniff and nod, bottom lip trembling so much that you don’t dare speak.

“So not being able to touch me was too much? That’s okay, don’t get upset, we don’t have to do that. Do you think you could walk to the house with me if I hold your hand? Would you like to try that instead?”

As he speaks, he slips a hand into yours, squeezing tightly. You take a steadying breath, feeling those sickly stresses fade away. “I wanna try, Sir,” you decide, voice only wobbling a little. 

“Are you sure?” You hum in confirmation, and he rewards you with another soft kiss to your forehead. “Then let’s go, princess. Walk this way with me.”

It’s still scary stepping out blindly, but Hoseok reassures you every few moments, and his hand is like an anchor in the black ocean, keeping you steady. His hands are surprisingly slender, but they just fit into yours all the better, warm and strong and tugging you along slowly. 

The first thing you feel once you leave the shed is the spots of rain on your cheeks, air fresh with moisture. Rather than be a negative, however, the lighter downpour soothes you, as well as gives you an incentive to walk faster. 

There’s a slight lip where the patio begins, and once Hoseok guides you to step up on it, the rain ceases to hit you, now a soothing patter against the eaves of the house and the roof over the outdoor dining area. The swish of a glass sliding door, and finally you’re led inside, Hoseok warning you about furniture you’re close to so that you don’t trip. 

Even as it gets easier with time, you still let out a heavy breath of relief once he slides back a chair at the table and helps you sit, unwinding the knot and baring your eyes to the world once more.

You blink, wincing at the bright lights of the kitchen and dining room, feeling Hoseok’s hands on you, warm voice praising you. Strangely, your mind feels more fuzzy now that it’s over, and you tell Hoseok, rubbing your eyes to try and get your vision to focus on his face.

“Probably subspace,” he answers, taking the chair next to you and holding out his hands, palms up. You frown blearily at him and he just laughs, reaching out for your wrists. You look down and let out a noise of surprise. All your struggling has left harsh red lines circling your wrists, and you hiss as Hoseok gently rubs them, pressing in an almost clinical manner like he’s making sure you haven’t hurt yourself. “Typically the trust exercise alone wouldn’t make someone fall that much, but I suspect cumming first had gotten you halfway there.” 

“Okay,” you answer dumbly, making his lips quirk in a smile, letting your wrists down. 

“I’m going to get you a drink of water and something sugary and then we’re going to sit down at the couch and watch a movie together, okay?”

“Okay,” you say again, head feeling heavy. Perhaps you’d lie rather than sit on the couch, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“You did so well for me today, princess,” he praises. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Thank you,” you slur happily, waiting for him to duck into the kitchen and retrieve the supplies.

And so for the rest of the morning, the two of you curl up together on the couch, gradually joined by the others, until all eight of you are watching Paddington 2, Jungkook furiously playing a game on his phone to hide the fact that he’s tearing up at one of the climaxes. 

It’s easy to let time pass like this; long after you feel fully clear and coherent again, you remain safe in Hoseok’s lazy embrace, his head resting against yours and his arm wrapped around your shoulders. Jin and Yoongi bicker about the movie choices as the day goes on, and Taehyung demolishes enough snacks to clear the pantry, but you and Hoseok just relax, enjoying the mutual comfort after your scene.

In fact, you barely notice the afternoon drifting by until Jin stands up and announces you order in some dinner, because it was too late to cook. True to his word, it was almost 8pm, and you didn’t fancy waiting until 10 or later to eat. 

It’s not you, or even Jin or Yoongi, but Jimin that notices Namjoon’s change in demeanour. The eight of you are crowded around the coffee table cross-legged (or, like Taehyung, lying on his stomach) in an uncommon silence founded by the delicious food you’re all stuffing into your mouths. 

Not all, apparently, as Jimin’s voice breaks the silence. “Namjoon-ah, why aren’t you eating?”

The silence changes, then. No longer the contented hush of eating, but the frozen uncertainty of a social faux pas. You’d only known each other five days and already Jimin was using a very familiar term, one that normally you wouldn’t dare use to someone older than you. Namjoon, however, doesn’t seem offended, but rather sends the younger man a grateful look. 

“I’m just not hungry,” he weakly explains, staring mournfully at the steaming dishes in front of him.

“You didn’t eat lunch either,” Jimin points out, making you raise your brows. You’d seen on many occasions that Jimin was an observer - the memory of his hand around your throat still makes you shiver - but to hear it directed at someone else’s wellbeing impressed you. 

Namjoon just shrugs. “I wasn’t hungry then.”

Abandoning his own meal and ignoring the gawking stares from the others at the table, Jimin reaches out with his chopsticks, piling food from all of the dishes into Namjoon’s bowl. “You’re going to sit here and eat with us, Namjoon, and then you’re going to tell whoever you feel comfortable telling why you’re upset.”

Namjoon’s face falls, guilty. His fingers fiddle with the hair tucked behind his ears as he watches his portion grow. “I don’t want to be a burden,” he mutters softly. 

“You aren’t a burden,” Jimin says firmly, sending him a firm look and sliding a set of chopsticks his way. “Just say thank you and eat.”

“Thank you, Jimin,” Namjoon says in a small voice, grabbing a piece of pork cutlet first, biting into the crunchy crumb. 

With a quiet smile, Jimin turns back to his own food, continuing to dig in. As if that’s the signal for the rest of you, the group returns to their bowls, a satisfied silence falling once again. 

After a few mouthfuls, Jin sets his cutlery down, wiping his mouth on a stray napkin. “I think all of us are probably facing some challenges in this situation. No matter who gets voted out and when, we’re the only ones we have right now, so let’s be honest with each other and support each other. We shouldn’t expect Namjoon to be vulnerable with us without being able to do the same. So I’ll start; one thing I’ve been worrying about is that I’ll get my own feelings in the way - whether that’s affection or jealously or competitiveness - and not be able to give you all objective advice. I want you all to see me as a person you can talk to and a shoulder to lean on, so I’m worried if I get too in the game I may no longer be able to do that.” 

Finished, Jin returns calmly to eating, pulling a long trail of cheese ramen into from the bowl into his waiting mouth. To your surprise, it’s Jungkook that speaks up next; the boy having kept quiet this whole time. 

“I’m worried-” he begins, before his nose twitches violently like he’s fighting the urge to tear up. “I’m worried that I’ll miss you guys. If I get voted out or any of you get voted out. Like; once the competition is over we can still hang out at stuff sometimes, and we can still talk, but it won’t be the same.”

You coo as he presses the back of his hand to his nose, blinking hard. Sitting beside him, you leave your own food and wrap your arms around him in a sideways hug, resting your head on his shoulder. He sniffs, but his head tips to the side to lean against yours, and you feel his body relax into the embrace. 

“I worry about that too, Jungkookie,” you admit. “Though my biggest fear is that whoever I vote out each time will hate me for it. I know it’s hard not to take things personal. It’s going to be an impossible decision every week, and I don’t think I could handle it if you got angry and didn’t want to speak to me again.” 

“That won’t happen,” Taehyung answers certainly. “You’re so cool, Y/n, and getting a bunch of hot people to fuck you every week is the dream, but I would never want to be in your decision. We all know it’ll suck more for you than it does for us.”

You smile as the other guys at the table nod in agreement, letting out a low hum as Jungkook’s shoulder jostles beneath your head, the boy reaching forward to grab his bowl. As he lifts a hunk of white rice to his mouth, you poke him in the ribs, opening your own lips. 

Though you can’t see his face, Jungkook scoffs and you can picture the reluctant grin he must sport as he changes angles, lowering it to your mouth instead. You hum happily once the warm rice fills your mouth, but it soon turns into an indignant squeak as Jungkook pulls out a cut of cooked pork with his chopsticks, eating the much better morsel. He chuckles, feeding you the next strip, and the two of you sit contentedly like that, feeding each other as the conversation continues.

It seems like it’s Hoseok’s turn. He has his gaze internal, biting at his lip. “I’m terrified that I’m gonna fuck up and say something wrong or do something wrong and then people at my work will think I’m a bad dom. I swear I’ve read Y/n’s limit sheet a million times but I still messed up today.”

“Hobi,” you sigh, voice soft with empathy, “that wasn’t your fault. And you handled it perfectly. Please don’t feel bad.” 

Though you know the others have questions - Jimin especially is staring hard at Hoseok, not angry but burning with curiosity - nobody asks, simply letting things move on. Yoongi pats Hoseok on the back from beside him and looks towards the center of the room.

“My concern is with the editing team,” Yoongi explains. “We don’t really have any way of knowing how much is going to be shown in the episodes on the website, and I don’t want people to watch this and get altered perceptions of things. I’m sure it can’t be avoided, but I do sometimes wonder how much the audience even sees.”

“I bet if one of us takes our clothes off, they’ll air this part,” Jin offers between mouthfuls of meat. “If you ever want to make sure something gets on the show, just remember it’s a porn website. I bet I could get five minutes of me talking about the economic state of Poland on the show if someone was going down on me at the time.”

Namjoon chokes on a sip of his water and you laugh heartily at the satisfied grin on Jin’s face. Always one to lighten the mood, the eldest seemed relieved at the way Namjoon blushes, but still chuckles, looking less anxious. 

“Alright, then,” the virgin announces shyly. “I’ll get it off my chest. I’ve wanted to make my move this whole week but I keep chickening out. I’m worried that I’ll get to Sunday and not have done anything.” 

You straighten up off of Jungkook. “That’s easy, Namjoonie. I’ll just make a move for you. After dinner, let’s go to your room.”

He chuckles nervously, but the whole room burst into a joyous cheer when he nods at you. 

“Namjoonie, you casanova!” Hoseok jokes, but you can see how his eyes glimmer with pride, all the guys genuinely happy for him.

Namjoon senses it too, and some of his nerves seem to dissipate. He laughs, rocking his fist like a small punch of victory, and sends you a grateful smile. “Anyway,” he says once the celebration calms down, “we still have Taehyungie and Jimin to hear from.” 

“I’ll go first,” Taehyung insists, jumping up from his spot lying on the floor to sit instead, placing his hands palms-down on the table like he’s divulging state secrets. His eyes narrow, his voice lowers. “My deepest, darkest fear is that either I or Jimin-hyung will get voted out before I get the chance to give him a massage.”

Jimin rolls his eyes as everyone oohs at the confession, but he can’t hide the upwards twitch of his lips. “Go on, then,” he allows, cheeks plumped as they fight to hold back his grin. “I need to be loosened up to admit my feelings anyway.” 

Taehyung hoots, springing up and stepping around limbs and bodies until he’s sitting on the couch behind Jimin, legs on either side of the older man’s body. “You’ll have to take off your sweater,” Taehyung announces, fingering the cream-coloured fabric around his shoulders, “it’s too thick.”

Once again Jimin surprises you by actually removing his sweater, delicately slipping the ends of the sleeves over his wrists before lifting it up. He’s not shirtless - underneath the sweater is a thin cotton tank, tucked into his white jeans - but it’s the most skin you’ve seen on him, and you gape at his bare arms, lithe and pale. 

The atmosphere in the room has changed very suddenly, everyone’s eyes on the pair as Taehyung rubs his palms together, warming them before laying them over Jimin’s shoulders with an excited grin. Jimin sighs almost inaudibly, lips parting as Taehyung begins to work his magic. 

“Tell us then, hyung,” the masseuse requests, “what’s eating Park Jimin?”

Jimin’s lids flutter, the tension returning to his face with a frown. “That none of you would like me. That I’d get voted off just to make things less awkward for the rest of you.” 

Taehyung’s hands freeze, his face falling. “We love having you here, hyung,” he insists lowly. “You’re a tough egg to crack, but I bet you’re a softie deep down. We’ll get there.” 

“Thank you,” Jimin replies shortly, feeling considerably uncomfortable with the eyes on him for once. “I do hope that wasn’t the end of the massage, Tae, you barely sat down.” His tone is flat, but he lifts his head up to send the younger boy a sidelong grin. 

Taehyung winks back at him, gently turning Jimin’s head back to face the front. “Of course, not, that was just the warm-up. You’ll be so relaxed when I’m done, you won’t be able to walk up to your room.”  

Jimin lets out a little laugh as Taehyung begins pressing his fingers in more deeply, the flesh rippling beneath his touch. The masseuse, however, glances up to the rest of you, jerking his chin away like he’s asking you all to leave. Privacy, he mouths, and you fight the urge to nod in understanding.

Jimin probably wouldn’t let himself relax like that if all of you were just sitting there staring at him; you can see the way he nibbles lightly on his bottom lip that he feels out of his comfort zone. 

Jin takes the first iniative, letting out a satisfied sigh and standing up. “I’m full,” he announces, “who’s gonna come help me do the dishes?”

And like that, you all clear out and leave Taehyung and Jimin behind, Jimin’s shoulders dropping in relief when he thinks nobody can see. Instead of helping clear up, Jin tells you to take Namjoon upstairs, and before you can really comprehend it, the two of you are sitting on the end of his bed in his room, kicking your legs out awkwardly. 

“Well,” you say after a moment, Namjoon jumping slightly like he hadn’t expected you to speak, “how would you like to do this, Namjoonie? Lying down, sitting up, standing?”

He swallows, fiddling with the ends of his hair. “I think sitting,” he answers. “Could we, um, do it under the covers?”

“The blowjob?” you ask in surprise, and Namjoon nods, cheeks bright red.

“Nobody’s seen me naked before, and it doesn’t matter if I get disqualified for not showing everything because I’m going to get the penalty anyway for not doing it outside.” 

“That’s fine,” you coo, “whatever makes you comfortable. How about I turn away while you get undressed?” 

He nods, and you face the wall, listening to the sound of him hastily undressing, like he was worried you’d get impatient and turn around. 

“You do realise I’m going to see you naked anyway?” you call out. “I can’t suck your dick with my eyes shut. Well-” Your voice lifts up as you consider it. “I suppose I could.” 

Namjoon laughs, and you let yourself smile proudly at the sound. “You can turn around now,” he instructs, and you do, smile widening at the way he sits up in bed, pulling the covers up over his chest cutely. 

“Namjoonie,” you sigh, stepping over to perch on the side of the bed, “I don’t want to push you if you aren’t ready. Are you sure about this? I don’t mind waiting.”

He mulls it over for a moment, chin pressing out as he tenses his jaw. “I think I’ll be fine once we get into it, you know? I’m ready.”

“Then let’s get into it,” you announce, fishing out your phone. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Namjoon’s shoulders deflate. “What are you doing?”

You smile softly, selecting a romantic playlist to set the tone a little; a slow, soothing guitar and husky male vocals emanating from your phone. “Setting the mood,” you answer, placing it on his nightstand and turning to him. “You’ve kissed before, yeah?”

Namjoon nods, his eyes widening once you stand up, shimmying out of your clothes. “I- y- mhm. Oh, god.”

“What?” you ask innocently, like you didn’t just get naked in front of him. This whole ‘being filmed 24/7’ thing had done wonders for your body confidence, and so you boldly straddle him, the duvet being the only thing that separates you. “We’ll just start with something you know, then.”

He makes a little muffled squeak of surprise when you press your mouth to his, but it shocks you just how quickly he seems to calm down and kiss you back. Perhaps he was a natural, or he had more experience than he’d let on, but in  few short moments he begins to take control of it, deepening it and making your mind hazy with slips of his tongue. 

“Wow,” you gasp out between kisses, “how did you learn to - mmph! - kiss like this?”

“Sorry,” he replies, voice already husky with arousal, “I’m excited.”

“Good,” you chime with a light giggle, “are you excited all over?”

“N- Yes,” Namjoon admits, stricken.

“So soon?” you question teasingly.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, pulling away and clenching his eyes shut like it pains him. “You’re really pretty.”

To hide your blush, you slide a hand down his chest and stomach. “Do you want me to touch you now?”

He nods quickly, jerky motions as his hands fist at his sides. “Shit, can you- This duvet was a bad idea, I shouldn’t have-”

“Hey,” you interrupt softly, standing up off him. He makes a low noise of loss and opens his eyes, widening when he’s visually reminded of just how naked you are. “We can take the duvet off, don’t worry. It’s easier this way, too.”

Once he nods his consent, you flip the covers back, revealing his naked body.

Your mouth drops open. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Namjoon frowns, brows knitting together. “That’s not a good reaction,” he says unsurely, hands tucking over his hardness. He’s huge - big enough to rival Seokjin’s - and he’s practically leaking precum like a faucet, his tip looking so red it must be painful. 

“Oh, I can assure you it most definitely is,” you gush. “God, I’m so lucky. How did I get this lucky?” you ask yourself in wonder, stradding him again. This time, you sit lower so that you can bend over and take him in your hand, marvelling at the weight of it. 

With that simple touch, Namjoon’s head falls back and knocks loudly on the headboard, making him hiss. “Y/n, if you don’t put your mouth on me now, I swear...”

Your eyes widen, mouth in question falling open in shock. “So Namjoon’s a baby dom, hm?”

He lifts his head off the wall, staring at you like he can’t believe the words that came from his own lips. “Sorry, was that rude? I’m going crazy, I want you so bad.” 

“Don’t apologise,” you croon, running a single nail lightly up his side, “I like it. I’m going to suck you off now, okay? Tell me what feels good.”

He nods, a small amount of his prior nerves returning, but before they can take over, you dip your head, wrapping your lips around his tip and simply sucking off the precum that pools there. 

“Fuck! God, oh my god,” Namjoon all-but shouts, and you can’t help but chuckle around him. “Don’t laugh,” he chastises, a hand winding its way in your hair to pull it back from your face. 

You glance up at him, lips still on him, and slowly sink down, letting his hardness fill your mouth all the way to the back. He’s barely halfway in, but when you flick your tongue against one of the veins on his underside, it looks like he’s reached nirvana. You pull up, licking your lips, and use your hand to spread the wetness around his length. “Good?”

“Good, just keep - fuck - keep going.” You grin when his lips press together and he visibly forces himself from saying please, now that you’ve said you liked his dominant streak. 

Always one to please, you drop your mouth onto him again, this time building up into a bobbing rhythm, a salty tang hitting your tongue as sweat and precum mingle. As you jerk off what can’t fit in your mouth, Namjoon curses lowly and his hips rise off the bed, pushing himself deeper so that his tip begins to breach your throat. You gag in shock, but he just groans louder at the obscene noise. 

Expecting him to do it again, you try and relax your throat, but instead you feel tugging on your scalp as he pulls you up by your hair. He’s still slow enough to be painless, but he seems more comfortable taking some control and it makes you grin when you get pulled up off him, sucking air into your lungs. 

“I want to try something,” Namjoon admits with wide, lust-ridden eyes. “I won’t push if you don’t want to.” He swallows, fingers tightening in your hair. “Can I fuck your face?”

Your mouth drops open even more, but your grin only broadens. “Fuck, yes,” you enthuse. “Is like this okay, or do you wanna change positions?”

“Like this,” he says, and his other arm moves down so that he can hold your head with both hands, fingers brushing back the hair that’s fallen in your face. “Just hit me if it’s too much?”

Your heart warms at the thought of him worrying about your safety, and you nod, taking the initiative to lean down, opening your mouth to rest his tip on your tongue, glancing up at him.

“Okay,” he breathes, and begins. 

Rather than fucking up into you, he first starts by guiding you up and down on his cock with his grip on your head, each time a little lower, a little deeper down the back of your throat like he’s readying you. After only a few pulls up and down, his head tips back again, smacking noisily against the headboard as he speeds up, eyes shutting in pleasure. 

It’s only once his eyes have closed that his hips begin to thrust up too. Like he’s letting himself get lost in the pleasure and just feel. You get lost in it, too. It’s easy to go passive like a doll, just focusing on the way he fills your throat. The way he hisses when you gag, and moans when you swirl your tongue in time with his thrusts. 

Your eyes tear up with the intensity of it, breathing through your nose and trying not to cough on him, but you’re in heaven, a hand slipping down between your legs to give yourself some much-needed friction.

It’s once you start touching yourself that everything suddenly happens much faster. The rush of pleasure makes you moan around him, which makes him open his eyes blearily to look down at you, slowling his thrusts when he sees your hand between your legs. Once he realises what you’re doing, he curses again, and his hips pick up their speed, surpassing it until you’re gagging on every thrust, your jaw aching and tears streaming, but still you rock against your hand and moan onto him, caught in the pleasure of feeling, watching, and hearing him fall apart as you fall apart yourself. 

As you grow close, a hair’s breadth away from orgasm, you reach your free hand between his legs and cup his balls, softly rolling them in your grasp. 

Namjoon shouts as he reaches his orgasm, and suddenly he’s pressing you still against him, cumming down your throat with a stream of intense groans, thighs shaking. 

You can’t catch your breath; his cock triggering your gag reflex but staying deep inside you, and it’s that desperation, that lack of control that brings you over the edge yourself, soaking your hand and the sheets below it with the force of your orgasm. He lifts you up as you’re riding your high, spent himself, but the sudden rush of oxygen to your lungs only heightens your pleasure, and you collapse, face pressed against his stomach as you cum and suck in air and cum some more.

Your own legs are shaking by the time you finish, core throbbing with aftershocks, and it takes all of your energy to push yourself up beside him so that you can lie against his bare chest again. 

The room is filled with nothing but panting for a few moments, your fingers lazily tracing patterns on his chest as his arm wraps around you, holding you tight. 

Namjoon is the first to speak, his voice low even in the silence of his bedroom. “Will you stay?”

You swallow back the hoarseness in your throat, using your foot to hook the duvet back up and over your lower halves, snuggling closer to him. “I’ll stay.”

TAGLIST

due to issues tagging the main post, tags will be in the comments.

[eutaerpe]

the escapades (m)

pairing — jimin x reader

genre/warnings—  smut (oral, fingering, orgasm denial) & college!au, fratboy!jimin, brief e2l, brief ewb, acr universe

summary —  the one where there’s a lot of unresolved sexual tension, until there isn’t.

notes — 8.3k words of the happiness before the storm i couldn’t write. i realised halfway through this there’s a slight plotwise change in comparison to what i wrote in acr so. yeah. sorry. kudos to you if you find it lol

The first time it happens, you’re pretending to be someone you’re not.

You’re sitting near the end of the table, crossing your legs and playing with the hem of your dress, your lips twisted into a frown. The real reason lying behind the simple decision of having a single, almost infinite table of guests doesn’t, in the slightest, cross your mind; why your idiotic brother would see this as a delightful idea really is above you, but you suppose the valuable genes in the family runs all in your DNA.

You’re playing with the table decorations while waiting for the guests to come, and it’s so fucking boring you regret telling Seulgi no, babe, what the fuck - you even shook your head and decided to sound extra mad at the idea - I won’t sneak in weed.

Too bad for you, she had answered, a cute pout on her lips, I’ll give you an hour before you’re bored out of your mind.

The truth hangs above your head, with a sheepish grin: you just needed ten minutes to be absolutely, drastically bored.

In hindsight, sneaking in weed wouldn’t have been the worst idea: your mother is talking to the in laws, gesticulating excitedly at the idea of kids right after marriage. What the fuck, you text Seulgi, at home trying to get out of bed, my brother has been married for an hour and there’s already baby talk going on at the table.

 Seulgi

[12.49]

With the baby talk comes the dick talk

 You

[12.49]

Oh no the dick talk

 Seulgi

[12.50]

man how can you survive your relatives talking about nonexistent boyfriends without my weed, damn???

 You

[12.50]

option a: I’ll tell them I’m dating you

 Seulgi

[12.50]

we kissed ONE time

 You

[12.50]

option b: I’ll tell them I’m in a relationship with Jeon jungkook

 Seulgi

[12.50]

bitch we both know you’re not in a relationship with the hottest guy on campus. he has dimples and long hair and piercings. my sources can even confirm he has a big dick. what do U Have

 You

[12.51]

i was talking about my vibrator but go off lmao

anyway I’ve had that D ;)

 Seulgi

[12.51]

you’re officially cancelled

when did this happen? I can’t believe you’re telling me over text!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 You

[12.51]

last semester!!!!! why do you think I’ve named my vib after him!!!!!!

 Seulgi

[12.52]

because you’re lusting after him like the rest of us mortals!!!!!!!!!!

 You

[12.52]

I’ve upgraded since then. I’ve leveled up. I’ve seen things People Can’t Even Imagine

 Seulgi

[12.52]

just say he got u off and go

 You

[12.52]

;p

anyway option c: I scare them away by saying controversial things. Id est: I don’t believe in love. I am choosing my partner solely judging their abilities to finger me under a table when people are around. I am secretly lusting after my brother’s wife. I am trying to get impregnated like in The Sims 2 aka I am waiting for that alien dick.

 Seulgi

[12.52]

hate to break it to you babe but that’s literally who you are

 You

[12.52]

i

I literally compliment joohyun’s boobs once and this is the treatment I get

 Seulgi

[12.52]

are we not gonna talk about your alien dick kink

 You

[12.52]

no kink shaming in this house lady

option d: I listen to their complaints and run

 Seulgi

[12.53]

option dick

man sorry I meant option d

 You

[12.53]

you didn’t

 Seulgi

[12.54]

ur right I didn’t

 Option e, also known as I’ll entertain the other guests so I don’t have to talk to you, presents itself in the form of one very hot, very ripped young man sporting the most expensive shirt in the room. You’re only human when you admit to yourself, mental sigh, that he ticked all the let’s get y/n horny requirements in less than fifteen seconds.

You can’t believe Joohyun has kept him hidden for so long from you. Such betrayal ends when your brother, Kim fucking Seokjin, hugs him tight and brushes with utter affection the nape of his neck, gracing him with a warm smile and a heartfelt laugh.

You can’t believe Seokjin has kept him hidden for so long from you.

Well. Scratch that. You can.

Suddenly, the ticked requirements disappear and a giant neon sentence with a very cheap background music impose themselves in your head. WHAT A TURN OFF! they read, the neon red words mocking you; you steal a glance at your brother’s acquaintance one more time - one last time - before slipping your phone in your hands and dedicating yourself one more time at your Instagram feed, scrolling through the most recent pics.

(You stumble upon an extremely rare Jungkook selfie, and you hate to admit you spend the following thirty seconds admiring him before tapping twice on the quality content you’ve signed up for when you joined the social)

You suppose that, even though your brother’s friends with fuckboy tendencies are signed off your let’s get to know each other better ;) list, it doesn’t mean the same goes for them.

So, when the dark-haired young man with a jawline sharper than Seulgi’s retorts after her third beer sits next to you, you reckon you shouldn’t be that surprised.

He acts all casual, you notice while discreetly looking at him; he’s busy taking off his jacket and flexing his muscles, all of this while pretending not to notice you, and you find it immensely cute.

Ah, fuckboys.

“Fuck,” he rasps, lips twisted in a crooked smile, “I didn’t think it would be this hot today.”

“Yeah, sorry, the heat is on me.”

He chuckles in disbelief at your words, eyes turning into crescents.

“Right, there’s always the girl stealing the bride’s spotlight at weddings.”

“Oh! That’s me,” you nod enthusiastically, “That’s one hundred percent me.”

“Groom or bride?” He asks, pointing at the couple with his chin.

“What do you think?”

He looks at you funny, pressing his back on the seat, pondering in silence. Cute.

“Bride. One of Bae’s sorority sisters, maybe? You seem too young to be her age, though.”

“Damn,” you exhale, crossing your arms under your chest, “I can’t believe you got it all wrong. The expectations were low, but I’m still disappointed.”

He ducks his head, still smiling. “Then it’s the groom. How do you know Seokjin?”

Your eyes twinkle with excitement at your next words, but honestly, who can blame you? You’re having fun with this lost, cute chick.

“What’s your take, officer?”

He erupts into a laugh, and you drink in his handsome features; fuck you, Seokjin, for being friends with fuckboys only.

“Alright,” he punches the bridge of his nose, scanning the room, which is slowly filling with other guests. “I’m his friend, and I know all of his friends, which can only mean one thing: option a, you’re one of his ex-girlfriends; option b, you’re one of his secret hook-ups; option c, you’re an old friend from high school.”

“Oooh,” you beam, unrealistically intrigued, “You really suck at guessing, don’t you?”

He laughs, passing a hand through his dark locks, messing his perfectly styled hair. “Ok, fair. Which one was the closest, then?”

“Option d, of course.” You nod, relaxing your features into a sheepish grin, “I’m his much more beautiful and smarter sister.”

You exam his face, now twisting into some sort of what the fuck, such betrayal look, and you take in, for the last time – really the last, this time – his attractive, sculptured face, his full lips, the smoothness of his skin. It’s awful and unfair knowing you two won’t cross paths ever again in your lives, but at least you had some fun messing with him before things could worsen.

“I’ll be sitting in the middle of the table, with my family, if you want to avoid me.”

You wink at him for good measure, and you swear to god he blushes.

 Half a wine bottle and two flutes of prosecco down, you realise you underestimated your resident fuckboy.

It happens when you’re grabbing your napkin and channelling your dreamy, happy looks towards the newlyweds, dancing in the middle of the room, their eyes gravitating only towards the love of their lives.

You sigh, pouting for the smallest of fractions, when you feel someone sitting at your side.

“You know,” Fuckboy begins, and you picture him licking his lips as he pauses, “Now I get why he never told us anything more than: I’m not an only child.”

“I know,” you exhale, turning to face him, “Seokwon is the real catch of our family. We’re really protective of him.”

“He’s married. With kids.”

“I was there when the twins opened their eyes, thank you.”

“We thought you were either a small kid or a forty years old woman.”

“Wait,” you tilt your head, “How did you know about us then? And who’s we?”

“We dug into his stuff and he caved in, admitting he had a brother and a sister.” Fuckboy looks at you, eyes dark but reflecting the dim lights of the function room, “Us. The frat guys.”

“Right, the fuckboys.”

He looks taken aback by your statement, bewildered, and you take advantage of his reaction to stand up and head away from him. It’s his words that stop you from doing so, though.

“You don’t know us—”

“—except I do know your pledges and your brothers.”

“But you don’t know me.”

“Maybe,” you shrug, “I prefer to steer away from my brother’s friends, though.”

“Right,” he says, tightening his lips in a hard line, almost hurt, “So, who am I to interfere with your judgmental thinking?” He clicks his tongue, then, a resolute exhale slipping past his lips, smothered by his own tingling despair.

The words hurt.

You don’t know what exactly pinched your senses hard, if the tone or the wallowing sadness swimming in his expression, but, as he stands up and leaves, you’re left facing the cold, hard truth.

The words hurt, you hurt, and you feel guilty.

You say nothing, glancing in the direction of the first alcoholic beverage around, and you fill yourself a glass.

Had it been someone else – had it been another sentence, another less sickening scenario, you would’ve felt proud, righteous. You’re, instead, on the other side of the feelings spectrum, all filled with crippling guilt and a nauseous, pervasive feeling you can’t quite name and pin down.

The guests are dancing around you, moving hand in hand to the rhythm of the pop love song now playing; the ballroom is packed when you let your impulsive side make a choice, eyes following the guy’s composed figure. You can drastically feel the sweat, and the heat the people are radiating, when you stand up and move towards him, the only smiling boy passing his glass from a hand to the other.

You’re close enough to tap his wrist and brush your fingers, which you do; it elicits a gasp from him, all soft, not scathing around the edges yet able to bite you, anyway. It’s the guilt, you remind yourself, looking for a sign of some sort of inclination to accept your apologies between the crease of his brows and tight jaw, and everywhere in between.

It’s sickening—this boy didn’t exist four fucking hours ago. It didn’t even cross your wildest dreams, someone like him. His shape – his silhouette – has left a print in your mind, and no matter how hard you try focusing on something else, someone else, your mind keeps going back to the shape itself.

But you’re a coward, so, while he lets you intertwine your fingers, you admit, voice loud: “I wanna dance.”

He handles you properly, kindly, before pushing you in the crowd and brushing your hips with his hands, all rings and jewellery adorning them.

He blinks twice, biting the insides of his mouth, but he manages,

“Who says I wanna dance?”

Which is a bit stupid, or hypocritic if you might, because he’s swaying you to the rhythm of a ballad the pop love song turned into. You break into the smallest of smiles.

“I want to apologize.”

He scoffs. “I don’t know you,” he says, funnily enough, “But that seems almost unlikely, coming from you.”

“Yeah, you got me there, officer. I was, uhm,” you stare blatantly at his neck, and you suppress the desire to stroke your fingers’ pads on his soft skin, “I was out of line. I’m sorry. You were right, I don’t know you. I do know your frat brothers, my own brother, but that doesn’t mean I know you.”

He hums, moving for a small fraction of instants his thumbs on your hips and it’s enough for your breath to catch into your own throat. He nods, which could mean anything, from I accept your apology to go fuck yourself, this is bullshit. You prefer the former option, if you’re being honest, which is the answer you settle for in your head, hazed and absolutely hazed and madly hazed because of his small physical contact.

To put this into the simplest terms, Seulgi’s words, you don’t like this.

“I like dancing,” his eyes tower you and gaze at the other people dancing; you wonder if he’s thinking about them, who they are to you, what role they played in Seokjin’s life, if they’ll show up to your wedding, too. These thoughts popped into your mind unannounced, before, at the table, before the not-really-fuckboy sat next to you and made you feel guilty. Such absurdity; yet here you are, in his arms. Oh god, what would Seulgi think of you if she saw you?

“Good to know, I’m awful at shoulder-hips coordination.”

“Shoulder-hips coordination?” he inquiries, lips parted.

“Uh, body rolls?”

“Oh,” he chuckles, “I see, you mean classy grinding.”

“I don’t do classy grinding, sorry,” you retort, head tilted to a side.

His smile his amused. “Too bad, shoulder-hips coordination is a nice trait to exhibit sometimes.”

“I prefer hips coordination. Well, hips rotation.”

“Hips rotation?”

“Riding? Is the term somehow unfamiliar to you?”

He flushes, biting back a grin and fixing his gaze somewhere in the crowd. How cute.

“Not at all, it’s nice to meet a hips rotation enthusiast here, though.”

“Statistics say at least a member in each family is a riding enthusiast, did you know?”

“Shit, talk dirty to me,” he licks his lips, pointing at Jin with his chin, “Didn’t peg him for a rider, though. Not at all.”

“I’m starting to think you’re not a STEM major, are you? You’re lacking basic intuition, my friend.”

“Is this your attempt of discovering my major?” – he eyes you, a flick of amusement burning in his orbs – “You’re not very smooth, you know?”

“I have my moments.”

He snorts, placing both hands on the small of your back. You’re at height level with the base of his neck, and it’s fun how your mind betrays you in such moments, providing mental images of your nose brushing against his skin, and you nuzzling in the crook of his neck. Such taunting, invasive pictures. Fuck off, you reprimand your own mind, fuck off.

“I’m Jimin.”

“Jimin,” you taste the name on your tongue, hitting the back of your front teeth. “Jin never talked about you. I’m Y/N.”

“Jin never talked about you either.”

“Of course he never did, I’m prettier than he is.”

His little dimples make an appearance. “You know, you could really steal the bride’s spotlight.”

“That was my ultimate goal all along, even though I prefer the dark side.”

“I,” he licks his lips, and you don’t know why you’re following the gesture, “I meant to say you’re beautiful.”

“Oh my god,” you whisper, eyebrows raising, “Are you a charmer?”

“I mean,” he begins, sheepish smile on display, “I never kiss and tell.”

“Touching.” He smirks. “How sweet of you.”

“You know what else is sweet?”

“Please,” you beg, meeting his eyes, “Don’t say my pussy.”

“Please,” he repeats, same mocking tone, “The possibilities are endless. Your mouth,” he scoots closer, words whispered on the shell of your ear, “Your mouth around my dick,” he almost nibbles your ear, “Your mouth screaming my name.”

“My pussy,” you add, trying not to lose your mind.

“I would never call sweet something I’ve not tasted.”

He raises a brow.

“Are you offering? You’re not very smooth, you know?”

He ignores the last question, tightening his grip. “In the middle of your brother’s wedding? Seokjin’s wedding? I’m not a dick, even though you sitting on my face would be a sight to see.”

“Right?” your voice doesn’t falter for a second, “That’s what I always say”

“Nice to see how we’ve got much in common. But I was thinking of something else, actually—” His face is once again inches away from yours, ear to mouth, hot breath fanning over you bare neck. “I wanna finger you.”

Oh.

“Under the table. Right behind you. Wanna make you whimper.”

It’s almost like being tongue-tied, fumbling for words, body flushing, but you gather somewhere the strength to form an actual sentence, which makes him smirk devilishly.

“I can be very quiet.”

He pokes his tongue into his cheek. “Bet you can’t keep your pretty mouth shut.”

“When I win,” you say, lying your words on an unrealistically high vote of confidence, even for yourself, “What do I get?”

He licks his lips, slow, savouring the moment. “You get to ride my face.”

“Not your dick?”

“I’m not a fuckboy, baby.”

A comeback of some kind is already on your tongue, but – there’s a kiss somewhere in the following seconds, all wet and tingling and perhaps filled with too many lip bites, but he can’t really blame you when you’ve been brushing your thighs together for the past minute, heat pooling down your belly. It’s enough for you to silently pledge for more, and for him to tease, because he takes a step back, smirk in place and lips reddened, and guides you towards his seat at the end of the table with a hand on the small of your back.

Downhill begins as soon as you sit down, legs barely parted, a minimum space not fitting for his plans, apparently, because the crease between Jimin’s eyebrows grows when he nudges them apart with his hand, the cold metal of his rings cooling down your flushed state. You want to gasp at the sudden intrusion, but the sound is swallowed entirely by his hot mouth on yours, distracting once again, incredibly soft and alluring. This kiss is slow, this time, like he’s taking his time tasting you and learning about the hums he draws out of you, the shyness of your previously biting tongue, and how fast you get lost in the kiss itself. You press a chaste kiss on his mouth, before creaking a space between you.

“I’m starting to think you’re all bark and no bite”

He doesn’t answer, but stares into your eyes with his hooded gaze, and he manages to sneak a hand furtively under your dress not breaking the contact. His skin is warm, but you’re warmer, and his destination is even hotter. He cocks his head, fingers brushing against the soaked, sticking material you used to call panties up until fifteen minutes ago, and he must notice—his eyes grow wider, his jaw tightens and his hand gains courage.

Fuck. This should be embarrassing, getting worked up over dirty innuendos and a kiss or two, but you’re instead feeling flushed and more. More sensitive. More open to the idea of him ruining you, even though that’s not what he’s offering. Or— is he?

The question lies unanswered when his digits rub with a sparkled intensity over both your clothed sex and your inner thighs. It’s a continuous, mellifluous melody, his fingers dancing between the two until he settles on your panties only, and that’s when you almost let out a soft moan; you don’t, he raises his brow, challenging, but you don’t, and instead glance around to notice if someone has his eyes on the both of you, sitting in the furthest region of the fucking smart, endless table.

He raises the stake, flushed: Jimin pushes your panties on one side, petting with his index your exposed self, and you suck in a breath. He continues to do so, face still, closing the distance between you two.

You don’t question the sudden kiss, instead you angle your face and close your eyes and let him press his lips on you. This feels like being drunk, or high, stretching underneath a sky dripping with stars. You cup his face with your hands, his lips so terribly soft and inviting, the smallest of smiles meeting your own chapped and curved upwards lips.

It’s when you’re merely inches away from him that he thumbs at your clit, sensitive and tingling, circling with utmost peace and no speed whatsoever. You pout at little, you realize, which makes him melt either cause of your cute frown -oh, how the tables have turned- or simply because he’s the devil himself, pressing a finger against your entrance and delving it into your heat.

“Cute,” he purrs, kissing you, “Is this okay?”

The crude, hot, nerve-wracking fingering has begun, which makes you, quickly enough, putty in his hands and ablaze with ardour for this man whose rasping voice could kill you.

“Yeah,” you breathe on his mouth, eyelids drooping closed, “Yeah, all good.”

You hum to yourself as he starts pressing kisses on your jaw and your neck, a trail of treacherous flames lighting up your skin, and you have the audacity to sigh under his ministrations, a tiny, strained sound not quite a mewl.

If he hears, he doesn’t show it. You’re biting your own lip when he enters a second finger, filling your searing emptiness.

“Want three?” he asks, voice husky and as desperate as you are under his touch. He adds it when you nod, the squelch louder than before, and you moan, rocking your hips against his fingers.

“Shh, baby,” he coos, placing his other hand on your hips, slowing your movements, “Be a good girl.”

He fucks you deep, fast, fingers clashing against the silky dress you’re wearing and sweat sparkling on his forehead. He swallows another moans of yours, sucking your bottom lip and tugging it between his teeth. You’re close. You’re so close, and it’s only been a couple minutes. You can’t hear anything that isn’t your wet pussy clenching around his fingers, his rhythm ruthless and burning.

“Too bad you’re not coming on my fingers, today,” he says before kissing your neck and emptying your dripping pussy, then proceeding to taste and lick his own fingers in his mouth. He lets them out with a small pop, and it’s the most terrifying sight you’ve ever had in front of your almost watering eyes. “I’m sorry I won the bet, though, your pussy is the sweetest I’ve ever tasted.”

That’s the high and dry story of how you first met Jimin.

/

 The second time it happens, it’s under completely different circumstances, and, substantially, against your every predictions, it really happens. It takes place, like a once in a lifetime event: there’s an orgasm involved, not due to the very charming and never disappointing Jeon jungkook the robotic version, and instead it involves a rather attractive asshole with a persistent smirk plastered on his face.

Except it’s a lot more complicated than what it sounds, and most of it is Seulgi’s fault.

Your roommate had pouted all evening, because that’s what semi adults do when they’re denied a companion for the night.

“I just wanna get wasted. It’s been one hell of a month, and you know how I get when I’m stressed.”

“I can suggest you a vibrator and a bottle of vodka. Do you settle for that, your honor?”

“The more you talk like this,” all self-absorbed and assertive and cautiously, like when talking to a kid, she begins, hands in her long, mahogany hair, “the more I just wanna push you up against the wall.”

“Sounds to me you just wanna get laid.”

“Maybe I do,” she huffs, hands on her hips, the light of your abat-jour highlighting her golden skin. “Maybe I don’t. What I know is that I wanna get wasted. Come with me, pretty please?”

“Look,” you raise your eyes from the book you’ve been holding, stretching a leg onto the unmade bed of yours, “I just wanna get this fucking paper done. I need,” you grip the phone on the bed table, checking for the white, large numbers on your lock screen, “an hour. An hour and half to edit it and I’m all yours.”

“This paper is due on Thursday, though.”

“Yeah, but I have a reputation to uphold in the family. Have to be the most beautiful and successful.”

“You’re full of shit,” are her last words, muttered with a smile as she grabs her jacket.

“Hey,” you call, stretching your neck towards her, “I don’t care if it’s two am and you’re already wasted. Call me and I’ll come to you with a whole bottle of vodka to make it up to you. Hell, I’ll even kiss you goodnight.”

“I don’t wanna make out with you, you freak.”

“You didn’t say that last time, baby!”

 Seulgi

[2.13]

wassup bitch

make out with meeeeeeeeeeeeee

[location shared]

com n get me littl nuggrt

 Not Sober Seulgi is probably the worst Seulgi you have ever dealt with. You let out a sigh, eyeing the frat dorm all lit up and vibrating to the trashy trap music the insiders are jamming to.

Of course, when it comes to Not Sober Seulgi, there’s boys involved. Frat boys involved. At first, you don’t pay attention to the details, the signs, surrounding you like blinding traffic lights signalling stop stop stop, all red and striking. The thought doesn’t cross your mind, the dots connecting in some hidden part of your brain not making your insides short circuit—instead you’re knocking on the door, then banging on the very wooden entrance until a face shows up; the dorm is dimly lit, and the face is partially lightened by a soft, hued red and, that, too, Future You pinpoints, should have been a sign.

It’s useless, anyway, because you hear the insider talk and you’re burning instantly, like after touching a steaming, hot cup of coffee, except that bitter coffee is still good coffee. Smug Jimin plus bitter you isn’t really sweet, nor a match made in heaven. It’s chaotic, a caustic explosion, and you both know it, judging from the sharp smile he offers you, after blinking lazily at your figure.

“This is a mixer party only,” his soothing voice welcomes you, “Do you have an invite?”

You press your tongue on your teeth, mouth carefully closed.

“Yeah, from Hell, I’ve come to take a fallen angel.”

“Sorry to break it to you, oh-kind-lady, but we didn’t give any invite to poor, damned souls.”

“Too bad I don’t give a fuck about your policies, then,” you move towards the small space between the door and Jimin’s body, but he interferes, placing himself right between the two. “Look, I don’t give a single fuck about this party.”

“Yeah, it sure looks like it.”

You roll your eyes. “My friend is here. She’s most certainly not sober and I’ve come to pick her up. That’s it. Do you think I want to be here, among these drunk, perverted jocks?”

He turns around, stretching his neck, his eyes darting through the crowd, inhibited by alcohol, smelling like cheap beer and weed. The moment his eyes bore into yours, though, it’s terrifying; it’s a rustled reminder of Seokjin’s wedding Jimin, and you don’t like it. You loathe it. You dread it.

“Maybe only some of us.”

He tips his head, lips curving into a timid, small smile, and you tear your gaze from his lips in a heartbeat.

“Yeah, keep dreaming of it. I just want my friend back.” You point your chin towards the amalgam of drunk party animals, “I’ll leave you to your immensely interesting activities, then.”

“What if,” he begins, “You don’t. Or—even better scenario, you leave with me.”

“Best case scenario, I leave with my friend. You stay here.”

“What’s the worst-case scenario, then?”

You cock a brow at him, crossing your arms on your chest. “I leave with my friend, you stay here. Sometime before me leaving, you’re punched. Or kicked. I don’t know. There’s a high chance I’ll throw a drink on you.”

“That implies you’ll be here long enough to grab a drink, doesn’t it? And you don’t have to ruin my shirt to get me naked, babe. Just ask nicely.”

You huff, and you’re mildly tempted to shove him against a wall. Or ruin him. Not in the funny way. More like the high and dry way, the one he knows so well. “I changed my mind, I’ll kick you.”

“Ask nicely?” His teasing tone makes your cheeks flush, and you hope the shitplace with subdued lightening can cover it. His expression shifts into an arrogant one, full smirk and little dimples out, so your cute guess is that he can see. He sees his effect on you, albeit completely unwanted and full of hatred from your side, and he enjoys it. Actually lulls in it, letting out a small laugh which, in turn, makes his eyes turn into crescents, all warm and cute—all things he’s not. All things you know he’s not.

“Ask nicely,” you repeat, rolling the words on your tongue, “Okay, babe. Let’s do this, babe. What do you want from me, babe?”

“Has it ever crossed your mind that maybe the answer is you?”

“Yes, actually,” you sigh, fingers brushing his neck, face comically close to his perfect, chiselled one, “That’s exactly what I thought when you stopped fingering me.”

“Right,” Jimin has the audacity to smile, craning his neck as if to close the distance between you in order to meet you for a kiss, “I’m a man of word, thought. You should be impressed.”

“I’m pretty sure the only thing that’s impressed is your face under the orgasm denial definition. Google it, babe, I guarantee you the meaning comes with your name and a brilliant review of one star.”

“Unlike you.” He licks his lips, eyes on your pretty pink ones, smeared with venom, “You’re not coming.” He explains, to further ignite your rage.

“And whose fault is that, babe?”

Jimin nuzzles into your neck, cupping your other cheek with his rough palm, and his thumb stills on your throat, right where your breath is stuck. He adds pressure on it, lips fondling your burning skin, his usual smirk plastered on them.

“Let me make it up to you.”

“You’re not fucking me,” you spit back, mouth now millimetres away from his, gently inviting you to kiss it, and cherish it, and biting it until you’re satisfied with the hot result.

“I’ll eat you out? Until you come.” He hums. “You’ll come.”

His voice is a mere strangled sound, wanting and dripping with need, and you snap out of it with a small smile.

“Nice offer,” your smile is wicked as you scrape his nape with a feathery touch, the slow movement rousing a flutter in your lower belly. “But get in line, babe.”

His shell-shocked face is the last thing you see before you fulfil the let’s rescue Seulgi! party.

 (“Why do you smell like softener?” Seulgi sniffs you, arms looped loosely around your neck, eyes completely shut down. It’s a nice sight, all things considered. You’re no angel, no saint, no perfect person, but you’re a nice friend, and that’s probably the most Seokjin trait you recognize in yourself. It’s your shared apartment, and it’s past 3 am and you’re the one good friend who keeps her promises. “It’s strawberry vodka, you heathen.”)

 The line turns out to be a real line, queue line, let’s get this coffee line, which, well. How can one word it, how can one phrase it fully catching the irony of it all, the distinctive je ne sais quoi of life without—

“Nice to see you here.”

It’s the perfect set for a rom-com, you notice, taking in the warm scenery around you. What else can one dream of, right? The campus coffee shop, the campus hot not-really-but-also-kinda fuckboy Jimin, partial jock to give him credit, full time attractive idiot with a tendency for orgasm denial. Really.

“What are the chances?” You exhale, voice devoid of emotions. For the sake of your parents’ integrity, you suppose, because they raised no impolite woman, of course, you turn around to face the angel-like human being, black hair partially covering his forehead, little dimples on full display. That’s—that is lack of integrity, or indecency or au-fucking-dacity. It might as well be a mix of the above-mentioned possibilities, all fitting and nurturing you because he’s gorgeous. He’s handsome. Jimin’s the most attractive human being you’ve ever seen in your life, and it’s not fair.

(Beside the fact that you’ve lived with Kim Seokjin, for fuck’s sake)

He pokes his own cheek, and you bask into the otherworldly scenario that takes place right in front of your caffeine deprived eyes. It’s a sight for sore, soft eyes, and it’s the end of the world as you know it, because it’s morning, too early to properly function like a normal human being, but there he is. There he is, Jimin, channelling his inner boyfriend material aura, oozing off boyfriend smell, nice, fresh, aftershave smell, rocking a stupid sweater and the messiest black mop of hair.

It’s honestly a tragedy, and you won’t stand for it. You will make a move—

“You’re squinting your eyes, like, real tight. Are you alright?”

Just ogling you, your drowsy mind offers, the fucking cheater.

“Yeah,” you reply, swallowing a lump in your dry throat, “Just need coffee. A latte. Anything.”

You move forward in the queue, and as you blink you realize it’s your turn, until it’s not anymore. Jimin carefully and gently moves you out of the way, brushing with the softest touch your side.

“A latte and an iced americano, please.”

The sweetened order for two turns into a hushed thank you, a tipped smile, a flutter of you heart. It’s drinks still half full, his curious gaze darting on your lips, your defences down. It’s unfair, because in a hot second all this pent-up tension shifts into a light, chaste kiss, your back pressed against the coffee shop’s restroom; your chest heaves under his tantalizing make-out session with your neck, followed by his frantic lips pressing on yours, his tongue licking lazily into your mouth, a gasp easing its way out of your warm and eager mouth. It’s a hot-blooded supercut, each frame announced by a starving moan, a content sigh, and, before you realise it, you’re on your bed, Jimin hovering on top of you.

It’s Saturday morning, you hum to yourself, fingers sliding into his hair, all’s in check. There’s a warm body slumped on yours, his tongue swerving on your lower lip and his hips shyly bucking between your open legs. Your panties are drenched, you can feel his hard on through the jeans and, really, all’s in check.

He nudges your nose with his. “Lemme eat you out.”

The answer lies sitting on the tip of your tongue, right next to an obnoxious remark that you hope will rile him up enough for him to rip your underwear, which you definitely won’t complain about. However, the words don’t come out, they slur in your craving mouth the second he gets up and shoves you toward the end of your unmade bed, spreading your naked legs open with his calloused palms.

“Nice skirt,” he comments, voice a rasp, eyeing the drenched, lilac underwear, skirt at this point gone up to cover your stomach. “I just want…”

He shuffles closer, enough for you to feel his hot breath on your core, and that’s when Jimin pulls the panties on a side, teasing you with little licks to your entrance. You’re responsive, too eager for anything to quench your thirst that you sigh happily at the barest of actions, gripping strands of his hair. Jimin chuckles, engulfing the throbbing clit in his mouth in one go and drawing desperate moans out of your cute, devilish mouth.

“Fuckboy move,” you emit, voice cracking at the pressure of his warm mouth, “Oh, oh. Fuck…”

He replies flattening his tongue on your core, then licking and lapping against your dripping folds. Jimin positively glows at the cries you let out, face slobbering with your arousal while driving you insane, fucking with his tongue like his life depended on it. It’s almost a spiritual experience, a crescendo of wails and sobs, his face drown in your pussy and his tongue paying reverence to your approaching orgasm. He can feel it in the way you writhe, in his hand splaying over your stomach, keeping you still while he eats you religiously, forehead beaded with sweat.

You come with a trembling hand in his hair, the other flicking your bare nipple, back slightly arched and a lewd mewl; Jimin takes in the way your body trembles, your breath all staggered because of him, and the sight alone is enough for him to cum in his pants with a grunt, completely untouched.

The second time it happens is, coincidentally, the first time Jimin knows there’s no turning back from this.

/

Complicated is a big word when it comes to relationship, you reckon, emitting something akin to a gasp, truly soap operas worthy material, but, for the first time in your life, you decide to name it this way.

Being with Jimin is… complicated, for starters. Especially because you’re not with Jimin, in the strict, relationship-wise meaning. He knows your favourite colour (“Why the fuck you only own purple underwear?” “It’s lilac, dick, watch your mouth.” “Watch your own mouth, babe. You’re the one on your knees.”), your favourite food (“But you like having your mouth stuffed with my cock, honey.” You sigh, blushing. “First of all, I’m talking about real food. That amazing steak kind of food—“

“I’ll show you real meat, babe.”

“Gross. Gross. How can I cancel the last five seconds of my life?”

“Come here, Jared, nineteen,” he half smiles, tilting his head, “I’ll get us fries.”), your favourite movie (“We can’t get each other off every time your ugly paper cap fits—oh,” you suck in a breath, Jimin flicking his tongue on your turgid nipple, “oh, god, don’t stop.”), your best friend’s name (“I condone you dicking her so good she sometimes cries, you know, I just don’t when I’m in the room next to hers and all I can hear is my best friend trying to formulate a single coherent word but failing because you’re pounding her mercilessly into the mattress.” Jimin chuckles, grabbing his jacket before holding the doorknob. “She begged, Seulgi.”)—so what? It’s not like you sat down and decided not to ask each other dumb questions, so that you could find out in the funny, kinky way. For fuck’s sake, you didn’t even decide on anything, didn’t even talk about talking, because the relationship related shit didn’t even cross your mind.

It’s even quite fucking hard for it to cross it, because half the time you’re together you’re either both naked – except for the time he pleaded for the tartan mini to stay – or stuffing your mouth with food—because, if there’s something you’ve learned after one too many hook-ups with him is that this kind of sex requires strength. Like, actual, physical strength, if we’re not talking about the this test is draining me please fuck me until I can’t walk sex. Which, yeah, 10/10 would recommend. That was the day Seulgi decided to invest in ear plugs while muttering capitalism, here I come.

You also came.

Funnily enough, guess who also came. Not in the funny, kinky way. Think about the grossest thing, imagine the beyond the bounds of possibility, sprinkle it with Jimin earnestly shoving his dick down your throat, stir it with a poor Taehyung brushing his teeth next to the both of you, a step away from the shower, and serve it on the most expensive plate in the kitchen, a recipe not approved by Kim Seokjin.

Yeah, you mentally roll your eyes, licking your lips clean, at eye-level with your sorta enemy with benefits’ pretty dick: the married brother of yours, former fratboy, taller than your current will to live.

In hindsight, maybe it is Seokjin’s fault. Once you’re married, you’re supposed to be committed to the cause, and sometimes, an angry little crumb in you finds the audacity to speak, the cause is made up of your four walls: ergo home, ergo your married life, miles away from the absurdity that once filled his university days. You’re being hypocritical, you realize, skin wet, body trembling. In the simplest, most hedonistic terms, you’re done with the chaos in this fraternity and just wished that hooking up was easier. It’s more than a stolen orgasm, a random spur of pleasure and free de-stresser; it’s also something not quite like art but just as peculiar. Sex with Jimin is more than nice, more than a fast rummage of clothes on the floor and panties teared, or condoms stuffed in every single pocket of his jacket.

It should also be noticed that it’s been one hell of a stressful week, okay, which means that it’s one of those times you seek for naked intimacy, in its least literal meaning. You’re looking for something sure, something silent, something earnest. Jimin gives you that in the simplest of forms, in the easiest of ways. It’s not fair for your brother to come unannounced and burst into the house with his adorable laugh and love for his own brothers. Way to ruin the moment, bro.

Jimin blinks attentively when Taehyung laughs, clapping his hands all happy and following the elder’s voice outside the bathroom.

“I’m getting you my clothes.”

“Wait, what?”

His lips part just enough for his tongue to wet them, and your eyes follow in silence the gesture.

“I mean,” he starts, grabbing a towel, “You either come out with me from this bathroom or you don’t.”

He’s concise, yet harsh, words uttered with those soft lips yet are just as hot as a slap in your face. He’s telling the truth, but you soon find out you don’t really like it.

There’s something abrupt and severe in those chosen words, so well picked out because they’re not meant to hurt, but at the same time they’re so worrying. So terrible, practically as hard as a punch in your guts.

You either come out of the bathroom with him — you had been blowing minutes before, hadn’t you? Quite the intimacy, huh? — or you don’t. You stay behind. Different rooms, a whole door to separate you while he’s out with the people he cares about.

Seems legit, but. It’s unfair. You know Jimin isn’t choosing for you, but it’s obvious he’s inclined towards an option between the two, and you’re terrified to discover whether it’s his own desire pushing or what he thinks you want.

You, instead, push the thought aside when you nod, taking the towel from his hands and covering your body from this terrific half hook-up.

Because that’s what it is—that’s what you are.

It dawns upon you like a cold breeze hitting your face in full December, suddenly, and that’s when you realize winter is near. In your mind, this hooking up scenario seemed nicer. Sounded softer, a cute bubble moving slowly in the air.

But now—well, now the bubble has burst, and it feels wrong, and this unexpected wrong doesn’t feel right in your chest, and that’s the story of how you leave the house escaping from his window, in his clothes, with vision blurred by hot, stupid, idiotic tears.

/

Seulgi is the first one to notice, and, obviously, the first one to speak.

“Something’s been bothering you,” she says, head tilted in a way that’s supposed to be emphatic and worried but comes off as stiff and terrified. “Care to share?”

It’s just a wholesome amount of terrifying stuff, isn’t it? First the shower incident, now Seulgi’s ways not working around you anymore. What’s next? Avoiding Jimin for a whole week? Blocking his number? Losing the smart and beautiful title to your obnoxious brother?

You wouldn’t be surprised, really. Shit like this always happens at the same fucking time.

“It’s nothing. A stressful couple days, maybe? Or maybe I’m getting sick. There’s a guy always coughing during Physics. Maybe it’s his fault, who knows.”

Seulgi unlocks her phone, an unreadable gaze studying you. She gives up a second later, though, her weak maybe reaching your ears when you’ve already looked down on your book.

One simply cannot be annoyed because of a half hook up. Christ. You deserve better than that. You have some dignity left, tainted by everything that’s not Jimin and his harsh, stupid words.

So, your mind offers, while you squint your eyes, I suppose there’s nothing else you could do about it.

Nothing else besides acknowledging it and moving on.

Sounds like a plan. A fireproof plan, an escape plan, something detailed and precise. Planned to work out smoothly; planned to be executed without pain or mistakes.

/

It’s seven sharp when he knocks, takeout in his left hand, eyes bulging because it’s fucking freezing outside.

“It’s fucking freezing, what the fuck.” He says out loud, indeed. What he receives as an answer is the sound of your tongue clicking, the biggest amount of interest you’ve shown towards him the whole week. He would finally exhale, weren’t it for the fact that this is still pretty traumatic, because if there’s something he’s learned while orbiting around you, is that you’re constantly awake and aware of your surroundings. Your body language says that you pay attention to him, or Seulgi, or whoever you’re talking to. You follow the guy with your eyes, and you listen and nod in all the right places during a conversation, and you search for his dark gaze when he’s fucking you in the dimly lit bedroom, the bed creaking under your sweaty sex making. He’s not admitting it, he never will, and he’ll pretty much deny this to everyone who will ask but: there’s something hot about it. Something burning with the way your body reacts to him, when your eyes follow his actions, while your voice falters when he fucks you right, and it somehow pushes him to the edge every time. It’s the equivalent of Jungkook getting a boner in the gym while catching girls and boys drooling at him, except he’s talking about you and your crazy moans, your magic aura.

And yes, okay, fucking blame him, the realization alone made him jerk off in his room like a teen, twice, yesterday. That’s a fact. That’s barely a fact, alright? This is a truth; a statement soon forgot by the knowers. Obviously.

You look spent, he thinks, if he had to choose a word, dared by some arrogant deity to define the current mess you were. He glances at your barely done ponytail, at the tiredness written all over your face. He takes in your baggy sweater, your quiet beauty, knowing this is gonna be one of those nights you take a step back.

He doesn’t say anything though, instead he brushes the hair on your forehead, not even making contact with your skin.

You grab the bag from his hands, shivering instantly and hoping he doesn’t read the signs. They’re—they’re there, you know, you’re collecting them slowly, one after another, grabbing one and looking cautiously for the following one, hoping it’s not there. Hoping it doesn’t exist.

You exhale a sigh, disguising it as cough, a noise, something distracting Jimin from his silent staring, which is, funnily enough, loud and cacophonic.

“Hungry,” you state, the single word weighting more because of the soft pout on your lips. Jimin hates that he knows what it means, that it’s gonna be just the two of you this time, no chill whatsoever, no bodies touching and melting against each-other. He’s not complaining, what the fuck, he’s not an idiot. He’s not even mad, he’s just—accepting, on a level. This is the point of no return, he guesses, following you on the couch and admiring the laptop’s screen reflected on your face.

He doesn’t say anything when you search for Brooklyn 99 on Netflix, because he’d say everything, otherwise. He’d mumble something along the lines of this feels real, we could do this all the time, or, worst of all: I like this. I like you.

So, in order: he tugs at your sleeves and scoots you closer to him, and you say absolutely nothing at the gesture. He’s ecstatic on the inside, partially terrified, mostly delusional. He pretends he’s something more when you lean on him, the slightest pressure of your head on his shoulder. He cares zero fucks about the show when he’s breathing your scent in and feels how warm you are and shuts his eyelids down when he pictures you adoring him. Liking him. Liking him a whole lot more—

He’s fucked, he realises, hours later, when you doze off and he has to carry you to bed, something you claim of loathing, which—what on earth. It’s an unfathomable absurdity, that’s what it is.

“You can stay.”

His voice falters. “What?”

You cough, eyes closed as you speak sinful words: “The night, I mean. It’s fucking freezing outside.”

His lips form a small o, and it’s hot all of a sudden. “Alright,” he manages, staring at you on your bed, hands fidgety and heartbeat accelerated for some reason, “Make space for me. Hey, fucker. I’m serious. Let me in.”

You do.

(to be continued. ily)

[chronicbatfictioner]

"Overall, it wasn't so bad..." Tim commented.

"Except for the fact that Bane roared like a constipated bear and literally lunged at Damian and Jason threw him out the window..." Barbara quipped, her face serious but her lips were still twitching. "I... am highly amused. Twice."

"You were laughing until you bent over double that if you weren't in a wheelchair, you've probably knelt on the floor laughing." Dinah deadpanned. "It was hilarious."

"Yes, it was. The fact that Jason could actually lift Bane and throw him out... Did you guys see Bruce's face, though! Oh my god! He... he looked at Jason as if he'd seen the lord savior Jésus Todd or something!" Tim crowed. "Like, the dude Bane got thrown out a bay window twice. I get the awe, I was a little star-struck myself. But I can't believe dude actually wanted to try the third time until Alfred pointed a damn shotgun to his forehead! I can't even!"

"This thus solidifies my thoughts that the Waynes may be trying to figure out a way to get rid of this... brute without... I dunno..." Barbara pondered.

"Gotten themselves broken in half?" Tim suggested. "He sure insinuated that he would do such a thing to Damian."

"Oh, gee, Tim. Which part of his speech insinuated that? 'You lying bastard!', or 'I'll break you in halves!'?"

"I'm partial to the 'bastard' remark, really. I mean, pot, kettle?" Tim replied, giggling.

"Technically," Helena Bertinelli - The Huntress - sighed as she chimed in; "and ironically, at that; the 'bastard' would be Bane since he claimed to be Thomas Wayne's son and is younger than Bruce. Which means he was 'conceived' while Dr Thomas was already married to Mrs Wayne..."

"Right? Bruce and Talia were two consenting adults, albeit under 20 years old; and were wed in a local ritual witnessed by locals, according to Jason. You should see Bane's face when Jason presented copies of the marriage's registry." Tim continued.

"Oh, we saw, all right. Harper's drones worked quite well." Dinah replied, snickering, referring to Harper Row, one of their tech 'consultants'. "Even at that height, it still delivered crystal clear pictures. I vote we use them again."

"No vote needed, the drones are on stand-by at the Wayne Manor permanently at this point. I'm more interested in his reaction when Damian offered them a DNA test." Barbara told her.

"I'm more interested in Bruce Wayne's reaction, really. He didn't seem too surprised, as if he was expecting this to happen or something." Helena pointed out.

"Maybe he did," Barbara replied absently. "Dude has been swingin' more than the roarin' 50s, there has got to be some juniors out there that even he didn't know of."

"Ugh, while I'm not a fan of Bruce Wayne's womanizing ways, I personally don't think he's that reckless. He's not a drinker or a junkie, as far as I know. He has virtually no vice other than extreme sports." Helena argued.

"I agree," Selina, who has been quietly watching from the corner, chimed in. "This is a guy who got visibly antsy when some sexy girls in bikinis come up to him - I thought he was gay. But if he'd been... wedded to Talia Al Ghul all these times, that would make sense. He knew exactly where he stood, and what would come up if he screwed it up."

"Has Jason or Dick said anything of the Doc and Mama Wayne's reaction?" Helena asked.

"They seemed truly confused, a little apprehensive, but didn't seem to be opposed to the idea that Damian is Bruce's child. Dr Wayne said that a DNA test wouldn't be necessary, but Jason insisted it." Tim replied, and added a little absently a few heartbeats later. "But why would he, a physician with more specialties than a truck stop, would not question the biology of anyone claiming to be his biological descendant?"

Barbara glared at Tim, "excellent question, Tim. If my dad has someone coming out of the boonies saying he's related to me, the first thing dad would do is draw blood."

"They... don't care?" Dinah suggested. "Maybe the Wayne men were less... chaste than they appear?"

Barbara glared at her this time. "Of all the women Bruce Wayne has dated, I've only recorded a handful who would end up in a second date. Less than a handful who were actually mentioned beyond social media photos; and you know how I feel with social media photos: generic, unverifiable, and showoff-only. Dates with Bruce Wayne generally would start with the pick-up, dinner, and then some form of jewelry. I..." she looked at Selina and Helena, "you've both dated him at one point or the other."

Selina shrugged, "I went for a gala dinner, and was honestly there to scope the homeowner's safe, really. I wasn't interested in a follow-up date." she replied. "Helena?"

"Social arrangement. My people called his people and boom, we were on a red carpet." she elaborated. Helena was a part of a mafia family, until she decided that the mafia way would not be the best way to make Gotham a happy place for all, and donned the costume of the Huntress to hunt down wrongdoers. Barbara had decided to let her join to prevent her from going over the line and murder anyone out of overzealous-ness; but also in order to get a line-in into the mafia families.

"No second dates, either, huh?"

"No, I'll have to check, though. I think his people called me again, but I wasn't interested in a vapid playboy, even if he has more money than Jesus."

"Vicky Vale," Selina reminded. "She has had a... somewhat lengthy relationship with Bruce some years ago."

"Sooo... the next answer in our mystery could probably be answered by interviewing an investigative journalist." Tim commented.

"Oh, no..." Barbara grinned mischievously. "Not this investigative journalist. I know just the journalist to talk to when it comes to gossip among themselves."

Dinah snorted a laugh. "I thought you didn't like her."

"I liked Vale less," Barbara griped. "Plus, Vale is already getting news on Bruce's probable child; why shouldn't I send Lois Lane the allegations of the Bane Conspiracy?"

"Conspiracy with who?" Dinah asked curiously.

"Oh, the Waynes, of course, to get rid of the Court of Owls," Barbara smirked. "Why should we be the only ones racking our respective and collective brains when we can have someone else on the ground doing the grunt work?"

"Babs, you can be... pretty evil sometimes," Selina remarked. "I know there's got to be a reason why I like you."

"I'm also awesome with technology and can launder your ill-gotten money and make it legal and undetected." Barbara pointed out.

"Oh no, that's why I liked you." Helena quipped smirking. "Seriously, how many mob family can say their ill-gotten money is accountable by law?"

"As long as it is within the facets of the law, and so on and so forth... Anyway! Tim, you're quiet for more than two seconds. I'm always nervous when you're quiet."

"Just thinking..." Tim said, looking a little lost in his own brain. He often does that when he has at least a dozen scenarios running through his mind. Through the time of Barbara knowing him, Tim would probably be the only person whose claims of 'just thinking' wouldn't immediately be picked on by anybody.

"Care to share with the class, kitten?" Selina prompted.

"It's not fully mapped yet... but I was thinking. What if the Waynes aren't... didn't cooperate with Bane in order to destroy the Court of Owls, and they're literally being hostages in their own home? What if Bruce Wayne has predicted something like this could happen, and has gotten himself all prepared all the way to ten years ago when he wedded Talia Al Ghul? I mean, who would have had enough firepower to defeat Bane other than the Al Ghuls? Look at Jason," Tim pointed out. "He threw Bane out the window as if he was a fly. While Jason is as solid as a rock but isn't a metahuman - Bane is. He was assigned by Talia herself - out of Gotham - to protect and guide Damian-- why? What's so special about Jason Todd? Why did Talia choose him? Why didn't Bruce Wayne - at least - act shocked when Damian said he was his son? Surprised, sure. But not shocked or in denial.

"Who's gonna win if Bane turned out to be Dr Wayne's son? Who's gonna lose? What will they lose? Who is Bane accountable to? If none, who planted the idea of him being Dr Wayne's son? Because from what I've read about him, he was born and raised in a prison with his mother - no mention of a father. His mother was an insurgent of Hasaragua, fighting against US-condoned democracy. And while there was a record of Dr Wayne being there, there was no exact date and length of stay, because he was there privately and not as a part of Médecin sans Frontieres or something like that.

"What about Mrs Wayne? She wasn't a poor or uneducated woman, since she was a Kane. Society-wise, do you think she would have tolerated her husband's indiscretion, both then and now? Yet she kept quiet for nearly two months. She has a Ph.D. in psychiatry, and would she be the ones to keep quiet about DNA testing and all that? Personally, I don't think so. If my mother - a little 'lesser' society lady compared to Martha Kane-Wayne - ever got a word of a child that 'probably' got fathered by my dad, she would have demanded a divorce right away without bothering with a paternity test, sure. But my dad, who was also a society man, would have at least attempted to convince her that it was a mistake and/or it was a lie. What best method to decide a child's paternity than DNA test?

"The criminal front in general - especially the costumed criminals - has been pretty quiet since Bane eliminated the Court of Owls. Why? That's rather stupid since we know that the Court's Talons were the ones who made moves to 'discourage' the costumed freaks. Annnd... that's where I couldn't map out things further." Tim rambled.

"Keep talking, even half sentences are better than none, Timmy." Barbara prompted. Tim might have had a brain that worked a mile a minute, but he was still very young and would often get flustered with himself. Barbara, on the other hand, has an eidetic memory, and things Tim said tend to stick to her brain and would fill the gaps in any puzzles she might be thinking about. Even half sentences.

"Right, I do the fact spreads, you do the jigsaw-puzzling." Tim nodded. "The murders of Talia and Ra's Al Ghul. Jason said they were deliberately murdered in a way that they would never be able to be resurrected through the Lazarus Pit. The perpetrators would be the League of Shadows, a rogue splinter of the League of Assassins. Lead by Lady Shiva. Why? Why were they murdered? Why now and not - say - next year or last year? Who benefited by their death? Aaand... I'm done, for now, I think..."

"I... can feel a headache brewing," Dinah admitted. "You and your conspiracy theories." she rubbed Tim's head fondly. Tim gave her a half-smile, still trying to articulate the thoughts in his head.

"That's why we need him, he takes the most random input and makes a theory out of it, and some of them would actually make sense. I'll start a search string based on some of your questions. If you have more, don't hesitate to tell me, Tim." Barbara realized belatedly that her tone sounded dismissive, and turned to Tim. "Want me to call up for Chinese and powwow a little more?" she added.

Tim shook his head, still glaring blankly. "Thanks, I gotta go... I've some... things to look into. Thanks, Babs," he replied, ending it with a genuine smile as he got up.

"Want to come home with me, Kitten?" Selina asked, worry for Tim apparent on her normally-blank face.

"No, thanks, Ma. I gotta go back to the mansion, just in case, right?" Tim pointed out.

"Then Dinah should go with you," Selina decided.

"She's coming there later, right, aunt Dinah?" Tim asked. Dinah nodded.

"I'll get home with food, so don't worry about that, kiddo." she said. Tim waved them all and then walked out.

Once he was out of the door, Selina sighed. "Ah, young love..."

"Right? Remind me to check in on him before going to the House. I don't want to walk in on something and have him traumatized." Dinah agreed.

Barbara glared at them quizzically, and then at Helena, who shrugged. "Grayson said it first, I think. Our kitten is growing up. I just hope that Jason guy is worth his firsts..."

The memory of Tim gawking at Jason when he thought Barbara wasn't watching flashed in her mind.

Oh.

And then of Jason blatantly checking Tim out just before Oracle made her appearance, and at times when her Oracle projection was turned off.

"Oh boy," she sighed.

"That's about it in a nutshell. Good thing I've told him of the birds and the birds..." Selina grinned slyly.

"Millennial parenting at best, Ms Selina Kyle." Dinah grinned. "Come on, let's go patrol and induce the fear of goddesses to Gotham's low-lives before inducing maternal fear to our little kitten."

"...or to the big tabby. We'll see," Selina added, waving as she and Dinah walked out of the room.

Suddenly Barbara felt a little sorry for Jason. Just a tiny, teensy, weensy bit of sorry.

[always-there]

About consent

OK guys, buckle up, because today's topic is depressing as hell.

Today I'm gonna talk about consent. I usually ponder about this while I cook, in the shower, late at night when I'm applying all my learned hypnosis techniques to force myself to sleep.

I was never taught about consent. All I had going for me was the classic "Rape is bad, avoid rape" chant the world of the 90's society thought was enough. All I saw were girls being advised to not dress like sluts and avoid being provocative in public. I got a good couple of different versions of that, mind you, as I grew up in a conservative Catholic school.

Nobody told us about the universe of potential situations contained within that fucking "Rape is bad, avoid rape". We thought rape happened when a man forced himself on a woman that was actively trying to resist him.

Black and white. No grey areas. Pretty simple.

I was fine with that. I was even judgmental towards victims, once I saw how they were dressed when they were attacked. Or if they were drunk or walking by themselves on areas widely known to be dangerous.

And then I grew up, entered the nasty-ass world of adults, and the Universe took pains to kick my ass in so many ways during 30 years that have finally lead to this post today.

So, I'm a list person. I like making lists. So here goes my one and only...

CONSENT LIST

• Dudes get raped too. Yeah. I know it's basic, but I scoffed at the concept for years. I know many people who still do. Dudes get raped too, get it into your mind. And no, it doesn't happen when they are effeminate weaklings. No. Any man can get raped. And they deserve to be treated as proper victims, with respect and compassion. The few times I've seen testimonies of male rape survivors, they reported even the police was skeptical or treating them like pussies or jokes.

• If your partner is sleeping, it's not consent. No, I don't give a fuck if you guys have been together for 20 years. No, I don't give a fuck if they wake up in the middle of it and decide to continue. I don't even give a fuck if they say they like it. If you touch, penetrate, make whatever sexual advance on a sleeping person, you are raping them. Any unconscious person is unable to give consent.

• If you're in the middle of it, having a good time, and suddenly your partner wants to stop... guess what, it's time to stop. You don't stop? You ask them to hang in there for just a while more until you're done? You power through it? Yeah, no. That's not consent, buddy.

• If you're ABOUT to do it, and the foreplay was great, and they were so into it, but when the time comes to actually go all the way, they change their mind... time to go home. Or put on a movie, or do whatever the fuck you want that is not forcing or trying to persuade your partner to go on.

• Subtle denial is a big-ass NO as well. They have a headache? Leave it. They are tired? Leave it. They have to wake up early the next day? Leave it. They fear a phantom clown is gonna haunt the bed if they indulge in intercourse that night? Leave-it. Don't persuade your partner to have sex if they don't feel like it. You know why? Because they DON'T want to have sex. Persuading or wearing someone down to say yes is not consent. It's pressure. Which takes us to the next bullet...

• If you insist that YES always means YES just like NO always means NO, I will smack you in the head with a frozen lamb leg. YES can be induced. Can be pressured. You can actually intimidate, scare, threaten and bully a person into saying yes. Maybe they are not ready. Maybe they are not sure about the relationship. Maybe they are not feeling well. Maybe they are fucking scared of you. It doesn't matter. If you have to lobby for it, leave it. You're being a creep.

• Drunk people. Good God. I can't believe this has to be an item. Leave drunk people alone! And I don't even mean passed-out drunk, I mean intoxicated but still dancing people, still talking people, I even mean, yes, dizzy or tipsy people. A person under the influence is not able to consent. Why do you think we drink, why do we call it a social lubricant, and other funny jabs? Because alcohol fights the restraint and common sense we'd had otherwise. It's a fun way to loosen up and get relaxed, but if someone has been drinking, don't hunt them for sex. I can't believe the number of movies and series that broadcast dudes trying to hit on drunk women. It still happens today, and not in a Law and Order episode, in your common everyday rom-com. This applies to every person under the influence of whatever substance they took that clouds their judgment.

And no, I won't hear it. They didn't put themselves in a position of danger. You are the danger, a threat that should not exist in the first place.

• So far so good, right? Well, tell me what you think about this. Let's say your partner doesn't want to have kids. And you do want them, for whatever reason. So, what do you do?

You mess with their birth control. Or you lie about you taking birth control. Or you lie about using a condom, or about the physical integrity and expiration date of said condom. Bam, presto manifesto, a bun in the oven.

That is fucking rape. And if you still need to ask why, because for whatever reason that was not creepy enough for you, I'll spell it out. It's rape, because the other person did not consent to that.

And now, if you still don't feel the need to go and take a shower until December, I have yet another list.

Are you in doubt? Are you not sure you are a rapist or not? Worry not! Below you'll find a funny little questionnaire ready for you to clear your mind and heart:

CAN I RAPE SOMEONE IF...

• ...they are dressing provocatively?

Answer: They could be walking down the busiest street of the city during rush hour completely naked and with a big, red silk bow on their ass, and still, nothing in the fucking world gives you the right to touch them. You are not entitled to another person's body because of what they choose to wear.

• ...we are dating?

Answer: Not if you are dating, not if you are married, not if the zombie apocalypse finally wiped out humanity and God himself descends from Heaven to pronounce you Adam & Eve 2.0 and gives you the task to repopulate the world. Dating only means you two are seeing each other on a regular basis for fun or to explore the possibility of a future together. It doesn't mean that your partner's body becomes your property, ergo, you have no rights whatsoever over it.

• ...they are seducing me?

Answer: Half of the time, nobody was seducing you, genius. If I have to hear another anecdote of how a bartender or barista o waitperson were throwing themselves on someone, I will barf in my own mouth. Servers are required to be nice, it's on their job description. But anyway, let's say for the sake of argument that yeah, they are indeed seducing you: no. Showing interest in someone is not an invitation to fuck, nor a provocation to fuck, so let things go their way and don't be a creepy jackass.

• ...I have done nice things for them?

This one I actually heard from a former, and I can't emphasize the former enough, friend. Their case was something along the lines of, I took her to dinner and a movie, later coffee and dessert, and one other lame activity I can't remember (probably drinks), paid for everything, took her home on my car... and then she refused to let me go upstairs!

Dude. Duuuuuude. And dudettes too, of course. No. If you want to get your money's worth, go to a proper sex worker, who will charge you accordingly for their services. Don't expect the other person to feel obligated to pay you with their body just because you fed them and threw a movie ticket in the package!

I had one friend go on a date with a guy. The date didn't work out, so they went their separate ways... until the guy showed up on her doorstep asking her to reimburse him for coffee and a donut. I shit you not. She was so dumbfounded she actually paid him back so he would leave, and I'm glad she did, because that, my friend, is rapist material on the making.

• ...they are a sex worker?

Answer: No, you creepy freak, absolutely not. Every single point I mentioned above applies to every human being on the planet and active or inactive Space stations. You cannot force yourself on anyone, you cannot violate consent ever. It doesn't matter if you're fooling around with the biblical whores of Babylon or the entire cast of Full Monty after a round of the blue pill. Consent protects everyone, no matter what they do for a living.

I'm so happy that all these points are not gonna be news for most of you. Awareness is spreading and the new generations are taught about consent since they are little kids. My generation, and most of all my generation in my country, dominated by a traditional patriarchal society, heard nothing of it. "Rape is bad, avoid rape" was taught mostly as a warning tale for girls. It was the girls' responsibility to prevent rape. Don't walk alone at night. Don't use slutty clothes. Don't be provocative towards men. Don't drink too much. Don't stare too much. Don't go to non-respectable places. Don't put yourself in danger.

I think things would significantly change if the song was played differently. Don't teach girls how to prevent rape. Don't teach boys that rape is bad and that "real men" don't need it.

Teach everyone about consent. Rape is only one of the grim consequences of violating consent. There are thousands of different traumatizing situations that could be avoided if we only respected consent all the time, if we were taught about healthy boundaries and personal integrity since kids.

But hey, we're getting there. I hope. I wish.

• Disclaimer: actually, I think disclaimers like this should not be needed, but still. In case you feel the urge of accusing me of speaking from theory... nope. I speak from experience. Personal experience. Experience I wish I didn't have, and that I had a very hard time harvesting to learn and become stronger. So yeah. Shut the fuck up, go out there and respect the shit out of people.