#dude i can't read any fic i wrote about them anymore because of how my view of them changes

[cutter-kirby]

well fellas i thought about chara dreemurr for one second and now i need to replay undertale

[amyisherenowitsokay]

*stares very aggressively , I’m foaming from the mouth.*

Howdy-hey! I’m here to pester you abt your works! So I reread “From your memory” and I was like wowza and then I wondered…

What was your inspiration? That concept was just entirely new to me and in the good old year of 2011 I was practically ascending bc I was so invested in the story and it was actually the first fic I ever read from you. (and I fell in love teehee) So what made you write that or inspired yo to do so? Did you have an original storyline that was scrapped, and or changed ?

You don’t have to answer any of this if you don’t want to btw :)

I answer all my asks (eventually lmao) fish! Especially yours!

Long answer under the cut because I'm incapable of giving a short answer. Information about my own fics are constantly on the tip of my tongue ready to be spilled out at their first opportunity, and I'm incapable of resisting.

From Your Memory was actually genuinely inspired by the song mention in the A/N of the first chapter, which is Paramore's Ignorance. This is also where the title comes from.

"I'm not the same kid from your memory Well now I can fend for myself"

I listened to the original and acoustic version on loop. Basically what happened in teenage me's brain did was have an animatic in my head about how this song could figuratively apply to a fanfiction, developed the premise, and went from there.

This is gonna be really funny to explain because there's like legitimate scenes developed around individual lyrics in this song.

Ignorance sounds and sounded a lot to me like a dialogue. It sounded, to me, like one person was saying some parts, and one person was replying in a sort of escalating argument, but at least one party was 'ignorant' (huehuehuehue) of all the details about why they were even fighting in the first place. Based on that premise, the song will (hopefully) make more sense. I'm going to write the lyrics 'assigning' lyrics between two people, and tag them (1) or (2), depending on who I am is talking/replying, with 1 being Zim, and 2 being Gaz. I vividly imagined two people interrupting one another while fighting, hence a lot of the weird breaks.

This is gonna be so convoluted and I'm sorry ahead of time lmao.

Lyric Breakdown

(1) If I'm a bad person— (2) You don't like me (1) Well, I guess I'll make my own way (1) It's a circle, a mean cycle (1) I can't excite you anymore

Just on that dialogue, it's basically like. Zim starts off the story blaming himself for not being there when Gaz was injured, and wars between doing the easiest thing for Gaz, which is to shut up and pretend not to know her, or what he wants, which is to tell her the truth and re-involve himself in her life. Gaz is meanwhile obviously oblivious to his turmoil and is like "why are you even talking to me, you hate me." Zim of course originally chooses to aid her from the sidelines, but he's not happy about it. He essentially is "not allowed" to involve himself in her life anymore.

(1) Where's your gavel? Your jury? (2) What's my offense this time? (1) You're not a judge, but if you're gonna judge me (1) Well, sentence me to another life

Zim's resentment about the situation continues, especially with Dib being irritated about Zim choosing to keep secrets and forcing him to go along with it. Gaz is still like "dude what the fuck is your problem??" while Zim continues to be extra pissy, wishing things were different.

(1) Don't wanna hear your sad songs (1) I don't wanna feel your pain (1) When you swear it's all my fault (1) 'Cause you know we're not the same (no) (2) We're not the same (no) (2) Oh, we're not the same (1) Yeah, the friends who stuck together (1) We wrote our names in blood (1) But I guess you can't accept that the change is good (hey) (2) It's good (hey), it's good

At this point, Zim's dealing with being incapable of helping, desperately wanting to help Gaz, but not actually able to do so. He's just constantly watching her suffer without ever being able to help ease her pain.

Mentally, this was also just more arguing, but with Zim being forced to swallow the fact the meaningful friendship and borderline-relationship he and Gaz had developed is gone, and she's not interested in developing a new one the way he is. Things are different now. They simply aren't friends. He's done nothing for weeks but try to save her life, has had her literal blood on his hands, and now it doesn't even matter. He's got to move on, and he's got to continue to convince Dib that their situation has changed, and his idea is for the better. Lacking context, Gaz meanwhile is like dude take your angst and fuck off. She's also trying to convince herself that whatever is clearly happening behind the scenes, it doesn't matter, and she's better off keeping her head down.

(1) Well, you treat me just like another stranger (1) Well, it's nice to meet you, sir (1) I guess I'll go (1) I'd best be on my way out (2) You treat me just like another stranger (2) Well, it's nice to meet you, sir (2) I guess I'll go (2) I'd best be on my way out

(1) Ignorance is your new best friend (x2)

This is also another parallel back and forth, with Zim still coming to terms with Gaz genuinely not knowing their formerly intense, meaningful relationship. It's more resentment about what he lost. It's meant really sarcastically and snidely. Gaz, for her part, means it really literally. She doesn't have any relationship with Zim aside from 'that guy my brother hates,' and blows him off.

And of course, "ignorance is your new best friend" is pretty straightforward in its meaning. Gaz isn't Zim's best friend anymore, and all she has to keep her company is her new amnesia.

For this next part, queue Membrane (3). The really fun part is after this analysis, if you wanna go back and listen to this song nearly entirely from a Gaz vs Membrane perspective, it also can fit! From a Membrane-centric perspective, if you think of Membrane as he sees himself (aka not in the wrong), needing praise from the public, shrugging off criticism since it's "for the greater good," etc with Gaz (and Dib) shoving back at his preconceptions, it's easy to hear the dialogue. But continuing on, this part was mentally Membrane for me:

(3) This is the best thing that could have happened (3) Any longer and I wouldn't have made it (3) It's not a war, no, it's not a rapture (2) I'm just a person, but you can't take it (2) The same tricks that, that once fooled me (2) They won't get you anywhere (2) I'm not the same kid from your memory (2) Well, now I can fend for myself

This was more later in the story and/or right before Gaz lost her memory during her confrontation with Membrane, where Gaz knows what's going on, and Membrane's trying to convince her to cooperate anyways. Membrane is convinced this isn't something that needs to be difficult, while Gaz is warning him that she's dangerous now, has backup, and isn't going just hand over her independence at his whim.

Further Development

From that context, you can see that the story just kind of happened from there. I filled in the gaps. Why was Zim so mad at Gaz, and why wouldn't she know why he was mad at her? Originally, I wasn't sure who the (3)rd person in the lyrics was that Gaz was fighting with, but to me, it sounded like an authority figure. There's not a lot of those in the IZ universe, let alone one that Gaz would legitimately be threatened by, and eventually, it started to sound like an argument with someone gloating, and then someone who didn't even notice their gloating was actually cruel. They'd also have to be someone who Gaz knew since she was little. Someone she was invested in. Someone exactly like Professor Membrane. But then what would Gaz be arguing with dumb, well-meaning Professor Membrane about?

And thus, a metamorphosis occurred:

This is a meme I made awhile ago for my Discord friends when we discussing From Your Memory. It also makes me laugh every time I see it because it's really spot on to the vibes.

I started to consider the angle that Membrane was actually the bad guy, which, when you consider how many times 'evil mad scientist who think they're in the right' was fed to kids as a trope (and still is, tbh), it was an easy jump. And THAT was when the story really started kicking in.

This was around the time I started to hear the 'Dib is a clone' theories. If Dib was a clone, why couldn't Gaz be? If you were a scientist whose entire life was dedicated to advancement for the betterment of mankind, why would that just be relegated to advancement in technology? Why wouldn't someone just a liiiiiiittle off find themselves stumbling right into advancing the evolution of mankind as a species, too?

So then Gaz and Dib became experiments. And if you were going to make a boy and a girl, you could argue it'd just be the typical white picket fence dream of having a son and a daughter. But if you're me, and grew up in a religious environment, the creation of a man and woman as a pair sound less like siblings and more like Adam and Eve. And that's where the whole 'Gaz is an angel with wings' things came from.

The origin of evil!Professor Membrane was mostly that I thought that no one would ever see that twist coming, but reading back through it, I can definitely see small-me taking digs at my own super-scientist parent lmao.

Evil Membrane is also so incredibly fun just in and of itself. Professor Membrane is the guy above all guys in Invader Zim. He's respected, well-loved, commanding, imperial in so many ways.

I simultaneously started formulating this idea that Gaz had amnesia to keep her from being too OP and dunking on everyone. So the story pretty much fell into place after that. Obviously, the amnesia had to be caused by Membrane, to reset his 'experiment.' Dib and Gaz, as his own form of Adam and Eve, were abominations. Abominations tend to be malformed in some way, meaning they were imperfect creations. Dib was first, and therefore more of a prototype. It'd explain why he lacked Gaz's powers, why she tended to be smarter, stronger, etc in the show.

I also deeply loved the idea of Zim being in love with Gaz, while Gaz is completely indifferent in a way that was atypical than usual ZAGR stories (including MHNY). Zim wasn't fantasizing for a relationship that could be, but pining for a relationship that had been. It made their will-they-won't-they dynamic painful instead of lovey-dovey-ooey-gooey-sentimental, and ya bitch is always down to mix a good dollop of pain into my stories lmao.

Changes Down the Line

This one I'm gonna preface with to anyone reading this: don't go digging through my reviews. I'm too old and my bones are too tired to stir up shit, or incite drama.

I lost focus/desire to finish this story somewhere around I think when Gaz got kidnapped the first time (ch 19ish). I had a whole (now lost to time/deleted) chapter of her being in a warehouse, losing her shit, and breaking free via her powers.

ORIGINALLY, in a world where that version of the story happened instead of what's published, this was going to lead to Gaz being an actual, active threat to humanity incapable of controlling her powers. There was going to be a scene where Dib has to really debate on killing his own sister, or let her destroy the world in a fit of grief. Zim and Dib turned against one another because of it, with Zim fully willing to let her destroy as much of the Earth as he needs to as long as she stays alive.

It was undecided whether or not I was going to make Gaz kill Membrane, or just get really close. Most of the end of From Your Memory was me winging it and losing steam, so I was going back and forth on it.

However, I did know Dib would eventually manage to get close enough for the 'moment of truth,' so to speak, but find himself unable to actually kill his little sister. That moment of humanity would snap her back to cognizance. She'd realize just how much both Zim and Dib care for her in their individual ways, and sort of collapse. They'd eventually disappear, and the rest of story would play out pretty similarly to the published ending (assuming Membrane didn't die).

This all was scrapped legitimately because of one singular review.

Someone, and I genuinely do not remember who but I vaguely remember getting into it in my A/N's with them a few times, wrote this really rude review about how predictable the story was getting, and wrote out basically that it was obvious that Gaz was about to have a power freakout, how played out that was, blah blah blah. In 2011/2012 however, I was like 15, so instead of rolling my eyes and/or patting myself on the back for leaving enough narrative hints that the entirety of my story could be devised from what was already published, I got really mad lmao.

So in an effort to not be 'predictable' and prove that person 'wrong,' I deleted the entire chapter and rewrote it to what's now ch 20. That whole storyline was gone just cause one review really rubbed me the wrong way on the right day lmao. I think there's even an A/N even at the end of 20 that mentions offhand the scrapped rewrite.

As a reminder, this fic was finished over 10 years ago. I am not interested and would in fact be really irritated by anyone digging up the review to go harass someone who probably isn't even active on fanfiction anymore (I mean god, is anyone? Lmao). But that is what happened, and it is relevant to the question, so there.

Additionally, I was debating on writing out a few prequel chapters and inserting them somewhere in the story. Maybe 1 - 3(?) chapters written out, with a beginning, middle, and end of how Zim and Gaz's relationship developed. Like a lot of small, detailed flashbacks of when Zim first started treating Gaz, some middle bits when they stared falling for one another and really began to allow themselves to lean on one another, and then the final kiss scene, just before Gaz lost her memories.

I don't know quite remember where I intended to put that. I had vague ideas of Gaz being knocked out, those 1 - 3 chapters of flashback, and then her 'waking up' right after she slips into a coma, back in the present. These chapters were never written, partially because I couldn't figure out where to put them, and then by the time I got to scenes that could work for that kind of transition, I was really burning out with the story and just wanted to be done with it.

.

I think that's everything! Hopefully somewhere in this mess was a cohesive answer that answered your question! If I missed anything specific you were looking for, please let me know, and I'll be happy to answer! <3

[scyllas-revenge]

💘🎙️🌈

Thanks for the ask!!

💘Is there any posted fic you want to rework/re-edit/re-write?

I've actually been planning to go back and do some light editing to the first ten chapters or so of Burn Like Cold Iron. No changes to the plot or really significant edits, but I wrote those parts in 2016 or so and my writing has improved a lot since then.

But other than that? I'm pretty happy with everything else I've posted- that or I just can't be bothered to worry about them anymore.

🎙️which one of your fics would you like someone to make a pod-fic of?

Well Burn Like Cold Iron is my only long fic, so I think I'd say that by default. Although I'd also love an audio version of What Could Possibly Go Wrong? which is my four-chapter TRSB fic from last year. I'm really proud of that one and I think it would read out loud pretty well, considering the fun dialogue and the sheer amount of dramatic irony I've squished into it.

🌈is there a fic that you worked *really fucking hard on* that no one would ever know? maybe a scene/theme you struggled with?

Hmmmm I've answered this one already, but I have a new answer this time around! The Ent-wives in Burn Like Cold Iron gave me so much grief. Gah. That's what you get for starting a fic without outlining the entire plot first. I'm really proud of how I worked the Ents back into the fic (and how the whole thing is ultimately going to pay off 10 or so chapters down the line!!!!) but it's definitely hiding a lot of panicking and grief behind it because UGH those tree dudes gave me a hard time

[kingofbodyrolls]

Better late than never, right? 💕 (joke aside, you really didn’t have to respond but I adore you so much for taking the time to respond and I don’t care that it took some time 💜 also ØÆDFLDLJÅØÆ for the energy you matched it with was amazing, so here some more good energy back ✨)

This made me laugh in the absolute best way. 10/10 way to start a review, so ASKØÆÅVFÆÅFØLDB right back!! 😂😂

Maybe I should start all my reviews by screaming in Danish 🤣 I’m glad you liked it, and that it gave you a laugh 🥰

Lissa I'm finally able to respond to this with matching energy so SAME TO YOU MY GOOD DUDE(gn). You absolutely spoil me with your love and I dont deserve it 😭😭♥♥♥

First off, I love the energy you’re matching me with, and— OF COURSE YOU DESERVE IT!!! I will yell about you and this fic from the top of a hill until you hear me 💜

SOBBING CRYING. I literally am so so happy you enjoyed it. It was my first time really going in on like. Lore and fantasy and smut so the fact that it hit so hard for you just makes my heart freaking soar dude.

Soar. Fly. Fly high into the clouds, because this was seriously one of the best fics EVER for me. I read a lot, but I can easily put this in my top 10, or even top 5 ✨ And I fucking LOVE lore and fantasy! All the recognition you’ve gotten for it is so deserved 💎

Re-revisit???? SPOILED!! I AM SPOILED!!!

I am going to spoil you ROTTEN 😝💜

I whole heartedly that Mr. Min as Mr. Underworld wholly just does something for me. IDKWTH that says about meeeeeee. But I see you. I see you. OC makes my heart happy because she (unknowingly to me at the time of writing) stole all my gryffindor like traits and then turned them up to 11, and I love her for that. I love how brave and unbothered she is by everything. I just. Adore her. I debated for all of 4 seconds on which member I wanted to make OC's bartender coworker bestie and Tae just fit because he's sooooo the type 😂😂. I thought for 2 seconds to make him Jimin but then I figured Jimin would suit a Banshee better and forevermore Tae was decided to push OC's buttons in the ways she needed. I do have theories in my mind for more of this universe with the other members, and hell even if i wanted to, with other groups even. But I know what the other members are in the universe, and I have a rough (very VERY rough) couple of ideas what could happen for each. Who, knows, I've gotten so much love from this oneshot that series is starting to sound much nicer. And I gotchu! I know a lot of folks take praise as demand but you dont gotta worry about that with me. As someone who was and remains a reader before a writer, I getcha. I do.

OMG reader was totally displaying peak gryffindor behavior!!! I adore her so much for that too! Omg I could also have pictured Jimin as her bartender coworker, but I’m glad you decided with Tae because he certainly pushes her buttons— and Jimin makes a perfect Banshee! OMG, OMG, if you ever do write more to this universe with any of the other members, please do tag me! 🥹💜

God this is consistently relieving to hear. I can't read it myself anymore without cringing but my mum has read the story so maybe thats why. I did put a lot thought into word choice and actions and such, but trying to ~write~ and trying to make it hot at the same time is such a talent and so for my first time really trying to write it I think I did okay. My point being, every time someone as lovely and kind as yourself tells me this it's such a nice relief to know it's only cringey to me (because ~i~ wrote it) and the experience is different for people who didn't have to sit there and think "should I use cock or dick here??? Is folds okay still or is it starting to become cringe as hell??? Shit why are there only like 3 acceptable words for clit!!??" 😂😂😂

Okay, okay, first— YOUR MOM READ IT??? How was that experience? 🤭 And I totally get you, as a writer I cringe at my own smut scenes, which is why I like to praise writers for it, because I know sometimes we’re just insecure or feeling “is this even good?”, so when I feel like it’s good and/or amazing, I’ll comment on it!! It’s just cringy to you, don’t worry!

And lol, my mom has never read any of my stories, but my husband has 😂 It is a very fun bonding experience 😂 And YES! The struggles of a writer “I’ve used this word 5 times now” and oh damn, sometimes when I edit, if i’ve just written cock, I’ll write dick next, and then reserve it next 😂

*cries while looking up from my bowing position at your feet* T-thank youuuuuu😭😭😭♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥

You deserve it!!!!! 💜 And you’re welcome 🫂💜💜💜

Ramble always! I don't know a single writer out there who doesn't love it!!!! And I agree on terms of principle. Yoongi is just.. fucking hot.

That is so true!!! Yoongi is bias wrecking me so hard, every single day 🥵

I've never seen supernatural but I have seen Lucifer XD. Yin and Yang you and me! And now that I've googled crowley, he's a cutie pie!! So I'm good with that!

Hahaha 🤭 He is!!! And he’s super funny (most of Supernatural is just crack, truly). Maybe I should give Lucifer a chance— I saw some when my husband watched it! (but I know I’m not going to lol, I have way too much on my plate)

I really loved this gloriously kind and loving review. Folks like you are the reason fandom persists, thank you for your efforts ♥♥♥

No— thank you! But also thank you for acknowledging my efforts and then also taking them time to respond to me with the same energy 🥹 That really means a lot to me, and not many writers do that anymore 🥲 (and you're welcome (I'm bad with compliments))

*continues sobbing a puddle the size of the pacific* Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you. For the review, the patience you give and for your existence <3

Thank YOU; for responding to my review, for writing the story in the first place, for keeping your promise (🥹) and for your existence 💜

I wish you all the best and loads of good energy to you ✨

*flying high into the sky with a lot of love*

The Devil Wears Valentino | MYG

Title: The Devil Wears Valentino  

Pairing: Devil!Min Yoongi x (F)!Reader

Rating//Genre: (M) | One Shot, Spooky AU, Supernatural Creatures AU, Not Quite Friends to Lovers, Age Gap, Technically Slice of Life, Angst, Smut and Fluff

Summary: Having known him for years—from a small mistake on your behalf, and a favour on his—you’re one of the only people he seems to be able to put up with for company. Certainly the only one he’s half-way decent with. But what’s more surprising to you is that despite his name, reputation, and the fact he’s always joked he’d have killed anyone else by this point, is that he’s never once tried to cause you harm. 

Actually, he’s almost…protective of you. In his own weird way.

And obnoxiously flirty.

Warnings: language, violence, tae is a menance, drinking and alcohol, Min Yoongi as the Devil -> Lucifer Morningstar? we dont know him, mentions of murder, mentions of torture, mentions of rape -> Sal's an ass and he deserved what he got, somewhat graphic gore/horror (yoon tries her best but she's not very good at spooky), slight POV switches, one (1) mention of reader having hair, fluffy in parts,

Explicit warnings under the cut.

Word Count: 10,488

Release Date: October 31, 2023, 12:00PM

A/N 1: Ahhhh! Welcome to my very first halloween special!!! I wanted to do something for my favourite holiday this year, and I've had this title written down without a plot for maybe just over a year? So I'm really excited to finally use it!!

A/N 1.5: Thank you to my absolute darling @katykatmeow for beta'ing this for me so late in the night. I adore you so much

A/N 2: The whiskey glass and whiskey are hand drawn vectors because I'm a glutton for punishment. Why do I keep doing this to myself.

Explicit Warnings: ahaha uhhh, unprotected sex (dont be stupid) kissing, breast play, fingering, oral (f rec), groping, pet names (sickening amount), dirty talk, praise, slight degredation, hair pulling (m rec), spitting, handjob, body worship, cowgirl, from the back, missionary, a lil bit of crying, spanking, size kink, voice kink, hand kink (look, he's a lot okay, don't blame reader), sl*t/wh*re mentions, multiple orgasms, creampie, I think thats it? Yoon went a little bananas with this one.....

Slow jazz floats through the air of the club, wading around the modestly-sized venue. You’d say it was almost cozy, but with the expensive feel of the place, cozy just didn’t seem like the right word. 

Intimate. That would be a better choice. 

From behind the bar where you stand, to the velvet couches in the back covered by decently dressed lesser demons, piano plays alongside gentle drums. Dark navy cushions soak in their conversation of effective torture methods, discussed like stock market trends, they dissect the best way to decapitate someone so you can instill the most pain and suffering. 

The answer is always with a dull knife and from the back, blindly. Never knowing when the next cut will be is half the agony. 

You try not to pay attention to that though, because the only thing you need to know is that they drink Vodka Tonics and lesser demon number four’s glass is looking to be on the emptier side.

He’ll be back for another soon.

While you wait for his arrival, the rhythmic notes continue on, gliding along shiny, black floor tiles. They pass the burgundy leather booths that face the stage, full of vampires trying to relive long lost youth in the old melodies played. They turn to stone just a little bit more with every passing minute they’re forced to live, keeping no company besides the pleasant burn down their throats and ever present melancholy. 

Banshees listen in from the mezzanine, only ever soft spoken when they’re here. Covered by velvet draped ceilings that dampen sounds to the outside world, the women of three distinct ages sit at tall tables. The young in heels and short dresses, proudly showing off their youth, while the elders choose more elegant wares, content as they can be in their skin, considering their blood soaked pasts. 

Banshees tend to discuss privately amongst themselves, ordering walk up service so as to never mingle with the men on the floor. You can’t blame them, especially knowing how they all got here in the first place, but they’re polite when they enter, greeting you kindly despite what you are to them. The trays you bring up for them never waver from their drink of choice, The Irish Sour.

And then there are the Djinn, who come in mostly just to pass the time. Sitting by themselves at the bar, or in no more than groups of two at a far table, they never interact with anyone other than the bartender or themselves. Djinn are increasingly solitary creatures of the night, with the fear of their kind lessening in mortals, you’re starting to see less and less of them as the days pass, and you’re almost sad to see them go. 

Djinn are your favourites. They come in, order, keep to themselves, and then leave. It’s a nice change from the usual light conversation you’re forced to keep with patrons. Plus their orders are always easiest, as they only drink virgin. It’s a bit of a blow to the bar aspect of the establishment, but they come for the atmosphere, grateful to have a place they can exist with like minded folk—even if they don’t interact. There’s a comfort in familiarity, you guess.

Occasionally some other creatures of the night mix into the masses; fae, chimera, leprechauns, goblins, et cetera. All dressed in their nicest clothes to accommodate your work's dress code, all here for peace from their day jobs, to drown their sorrows, or somewhere in between. 

Some come for an hour, others come for the night, but it’s mostly just your regulars who tend to remain, as do their drink orders. It’s a relatively easy job, and you don’t mind the company. 

Most of the time.

You’ve just finished serving the lesser demon from earlier when your coworker bugs you for the hundredth time tonight. 

“I don’t get why you're so hellbent on this, Y/N. If you’re closing, he’s coming. Because he always comes when you're closing. It’s simple math.”

“No he doesn't,” you dismiss Taehyung, a cocky but rather beautiful incubi, annoyedly. Taehyung is the type that knows he’s pretty and uses it to his every advantage, including being able to say whatever he wants and get away with it. And it would piss you off except it works on you too.

Fucking incubi demons…

You were one of only two mortal bartenders, the other being Lia, a cute blond who only works here for the tips. The boss likes to keep a couple humans on staff in case any wanderers stupid enough to come inside a den of nocturnal, evil creatures didn’t catch the vibe and immediately fuck off. 

You’d be surprised at how shitty some people's self preservation instincts are.

You asked your boss once—a very large, very well built, very well connected vampire—why he bothered having a layer of protection for them. His only response was: “Business is business.”

Plus he knows he can’t have a trail of bodies that lead directly to his club's front steps, so he keeps a couple of mortals around just in case. This way, with you two here, there was always someone who knew all the drinks the humans could have, and someone to keep all the greedy eyes around the venue in check, as you have banning and kicking out privileges. 

Because where you saw Kin, your regulars saw food, a hunt, or a job. They saw something to be taken advantage of or killed. They saw poor, weak, pathetic little mortals that should’ve been eradicated centuries ago had their ancestors been smarter. 

They are the superior beings in their eyes, your race is just a bug to be squashed under their proverbial boot. 

It makes you worry what they think of you. Is the only thing that stops them from devouring you whole the fact that you make their drinks just the way they like it, that you have a use in serving them? Or do they respect you enough now that you understand how to act around them and know what they’re like? What they are. 

You worry, but you’ll never know the truth because you aren’t stupid enough to ask and show weakness. They can smell that shit from a mile away, and all it does is paint a 30 foot wide target on your back. 

“Yes he does. I bet you tonight's tips he’ll be here in the next two hours,” Taehyung presses. 

And ooohh, a night’s worth of tips, bragging rights, and winning a bet against Tae all sound way too good damn to pass up. 

“You’re delusional,” you say, holding out a hand. Tae grabs and shakes, as you agree to his terms. “And you’re on, don’t come crying when you lose.” 

There’s no way he’ll show up. It’s Friday night, the night of sin, he’s going to be up to his eyeballs with work…stuff.

“Easiest money I’ve ever made,” Taehyung grins, and with the confidence in which he does, you begin to second guess your own.

It’s not that you did or didn’t want him to show up, it’s just that your relationship with him is…complicated at best. You never really knew how to navigate a conversation with him outside of surface level banter and jokes, but it’s always been like that with you two.

Having known him for years—from a small mistake on your behalf, and a favour on his—you’re one of the only people he seems to be able to put up with for company. Certainly the only one he’s half-way decent with. But what’s more surprising to you is that despite his name, reputation, and the fact he’s always joked he’d have killed anyone else by this point, is that he’s never once tried to cause you harm. 

Actually, he’s almost…protective of you. In his own weird way.

And obnoxiously flirty. 

But you could never. Not with who and what you are, and who and what he is. 

Regardless of how you fight the heat down in your cheeks every time you see him, and how your heart flutters against your will in multiple places in your body at even the thought of being near him.

Regardless of the fact that you shut him down every time he suggests anything more than an over the bar conversation, and the way your panties seem to always dampen in his presenc–fuck. 

It’s happening again. Stop thinking about it, stop, stop st–wait. You turn, seeing the violet ichor in Tae’s eyes and you know the bitch is using his power on you. You flip the asshole off and he chuckles.

He’s been trying to get you to change your mind ever since the first time he saw you deny yourself. 

“You know I can tell when you’re hot and bothered right? Incubus, remember? It’s literally part of who I am.” 

To which you think again, fucking incubi…

Your most infamous regular is, to quote your favourite tv show, ‘the bane of your existence and the object of all your desires,’ and you will never, ever entertain his annoying, disgustingly hot ass more than you already do. Not after everything you went through the first—and last—time with a creature of the night. 

You learned your lesson.

So instead, you try to think of him more like an old friend. The kind that’s actually really old already, but looks amazing for his age. The kind that makes shivers run up your spine when he talks to you in the deepest, most gravel turning voice you’ve ever heard, that you also ignore out of pure self preservation. He’s the kind that you shove out of your thoughts at night when your alone and in desperate need of relie—Fucking Taehyung! 

You whip your head around to search for the violet eyed incubus, only to see him across the bar helping some stocky vampire. And you’re about a hair's breadth away from ripping him a new one in front of said vampire when the idle hum of chatter in the bar ceases and the band’s calming music falters into missed notes and a cymbal crash that's too hard; awkward, painful silence remaining.

From behind you, you can hear the front door close, followed by light footsteps that grow louder and louder. Only once the seat directly behind you creaks with the sound of being occupied, does the chatter and music resume.

Which can only mean one fucking thing. 

You just lost all your tips for the night. 

Tae’s shit eating grin as he looks over your shoulder confirms it. 

Fuck. 

“Excuse me,” the bottom of the ocean floor speaks and you make a conscious effort not to react.

“Ardbeg Single Malt, neat?” You throw over your shoulder, not bothering to look just yet. 

You know precisely where he sits. And he knows you know. 

“Sounds perfect,” he responds, and you focus on ‘looking for the bottle.’ 

You know exactly where it is.

No one else will touch it. 

Taehyung busies himself with bringing an order of Bloody Mary’s down to a booth on the floor, knowing he’ll be burned alive if he so much as looks at a whiskey glass. 

No one serves him but you. 

But more importantly, nobody disrespects you in front of him. A lesson your ex–see: dead–coworker, Sal, learned the hard way. His burn mark is still seared onto the floor behind you. 

You’d almost felt bad that day, but he was a lust demon who touched you without your permission, hit on you every five minutes, and when you said no, treated you like shit.

You’d been close to dousing him with vodka and lighting him up yourself, but the man tapping his fingers on the bar behind you beat you to it 15 seconds after sitting down one night last year. 

After shoving Sal off you for the fourth time that night, he was pissed. Whispering obscenities to himself loud enough so you would hear,

“Fucking stupid mortal bitch, maybe next time I’ll just drag you into an alley do whatever the fuck I want. Nobody here’s going to stop me. And maybe then you’ll learn to shut up with this dick in your cunt and my fingers down your throat, huh? Leave you to rot with the garbage where you belong after you’re all used up.”

He didn’t take another breath. 

A single burst of blistering flame had Sal reduced to ashes in seconds. You’d felt the heat from it, but your skin remained burn free, safe from its dangerous blaze. The lust demon from then on only existed as a smudge on the ground to be walked over.  

“Thanks,” You’d said.

“It’s where he belongs,”  he responded. 

Grateful for his kindness, you entertained him more than usual that night. Engaged in an actual conversation, about your birthday of all things. You had no idea why he wanted to know, but you considered the information his reward for helping you, and he seemed pleased with it.

But he was more than pleased. 

After years, you’d revealed something to him. Something personal.

He took it as a sign that he might be able to get you to change your mind one day, if he did everything just right. Having played the long game before, this was no different. The only thing different this time, was you. 

Maybe it was the way you walked with such confidence, or the way you never cowered in fear around him. Not the day you met nor any day after. Or maybe you were sent by his father just to mess with his head. He didn’t care. All he knew was what he wanted, and that he was more than willing to wait as long as was needed to get it. 

A nursery rhyme from your childhood plays in your head every time you see him. It never wavers, just like the eyes you can feel on the back of your neck, watching your experienced hands make his drink. 

Quietly, you recite it to yourself while you grab the bottle;

‘One for sorrow,

Two for joy,

Three for a girl,

Four for a boy,

Five for silver,

Six for gold,

Seven for a secret never to be told.’

You pour, steady hand making it last as long as you possibly can to gain a few more seconds to compose yourself. 

‘Eight for a wish,

Nine for a kiss,

Ten a surprise you should be careful not to miss,

Eleven for health,

Twelve for wealth,’

You put the bottle down and cork it before returning it to its place on the shelf. Taking a deep breath, you turn to finally face him, and change the wording of the last line to fit your situation better.

“One Ardbeg Single Malt neat, for the Devil himself.” 

He snickers, “I always liked that nursery rhyme. It’s cute. Like you, Angel.” 

You roll your eyes. To anyone else that would sound like a compliment. But coming from the Devil it’s more of an insult. One you know is meant in a playful way after all these years, crass in his humour, just like you. And you know he can take a little heat back.

“Wow, that’s a classic,” you grab a glass to polish, keeping your hands busy so they don’t do something stupid while you’re distracted. “Got one of those for you too, ‘Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?’” 

He chokes on a laugh before straightening on the barstool and putting on a face. “I don’t think that joke’s appropriate.” 

“Oh come on Yoongi, you come at me with ‘It’s cute, like you, Angel’ and I can’t poke back?” You ask, knowing full well his uncomfortable look is all an act. “I thought you didn’t have any feelings besides rage, lust and currently; insufferable flirting.”

You know the entire club listens in to your conversation. 

No one calls the Devil by his first name. 

Nobody speaks to the Devil unless spoken to. 

And no one makes jokes at the Devil’s expense and lives. 

No one except you. 

What a funny little exception you are.

Yoongi drops the act, a sly smirk that sends bubbles to your brain, replacing it. “So you admit my flirting isn’t always bad. Must be doing something right then.”

You force yourself not to slam a palm into your forehead. Of course that’s what he got out of your sentence.

You aren’t going to make his ego any bigger than it already is. 

“It isn’t working,”—fuck, yes it is—“if that’s what you’re asking. Can’t say I’m surprised though, I hear you’ve been out of the game for a couple millenia,” he quirks a brow at that. 

Ooo, that means you’re nearing thin ice, haven't been there in a while…Let’s see if you can slide around a bit more without falling in. 

“I mean, I’m sure you’ll get there eventually. If you stay consistent at your current rate of progress you could hit me up in,” you suck air in through your teeth and look at the ceiling, before checking a watch you don’t wear, pretending to think, “a thousand years?” You tease, a lilt in your tone. Because if Yoongi was going to make your shift this fucking difficult just by breathing near you, then you sure as Hell can do the same for his night. 

He chuckles like the coals of a fire and you cross your legs behind the bar. Motherfucker… 

“Someones got a mouth on them tonight,” he says, looking directly into your eyes as he takes his first sip, savouring the taste before swallowing. His tongue dips to his bottom lip for any remnants and you gulp, vision dropping for a millisecond—oh for the love of—and you finally notice what he’s wearing.

Much to your dismay and dwindling willpower, he looks fucking good. With only a white scarf to accent, the all black Valentino suit fits in perfectly with the bar’s dress code, as well as the long slicked back hair he’s only recently started to grow out. Just seeing it like this makes you want to run your hands through and mess it up. 

You’ve always had a thing for men with long hair, ever since you were young.

Jack Sparrow, Madmartigan, even The Winter Soldier. And come to think of it, none of them were exactly the good guys in their respective universes either…

Nope! No. You can’t. You can’t.

You can’t for so many reasons, so many good and bad and everything in between reasons. You’re nothing more than a flimsy human while he’s the Great Immortal Evil. The person people whisper the name of for fear of incurring his wrath. 

The King of Hell. 

He’s the person that walks into a room and everyone balks under his gaze, terrified of what he may do. He’s killed millions with no mercy. Doesn’t so much as think twice to horrifically burn someone where they stand to ash in hellfire for breathing the wrong way near him. He lavishes in the screams of sinners, punished in their own blood and bones, beaten into a shell of who they were in the nine circles of Hell. Left gaping, broken and sobbing in agony for their suffering to end. 

Yoongi is walking nightmares and visceral terror. He is merciless violence and brutality abandon. 

Yoongi is living, breathing, unyielding death wrapped up in deceivingly beautiful packaging. 

He is the epitome of someone you should not like, should not go near, and definitely should not want in the way the thrumming in your bones is telling you, you want him.

You have to stay away from him. 

But that doesn’t mean you can’t flirt back a little.

As salaciously as you can muster, you whisper low, “But it’s nothing you can’t handle,” and you swear you see a hint of surprise in Yoongi’s eyes, followed by something so much deeper that you have to look away under the guise of checking for any newcomers. 

It’s a dangerous game you’re playing. One you need to move the pieces of very, very carefully. 

There’s a handful of people waiting to be served, but none disturb Yoongi’s service. So you’re forced and relieved to cut the interaction short. For both the waiting patrons, and your sanity. 

“Enjoy the whiskey, Yoongi.”

Yoongi doesn’t bother you for the rest of the night, instead he watches you help the other patrons and make drinks. No one dares sit within three seats of him on either side, so the booths and tables fill more than the bar does, forcing you to do more tray work than you like. And you think you can feel those eyes on the back of your neck travel elsewhere.

Soon after he takes his last sip, Yoongi leaves far too much cash on the table to cover a single drink, and you know Tae won’t include it in tonight's bet. He rather enjoys being alive. 

The first time he did this you tried to give it back, insisting it was too much. But one threat to Tae’s life had you accepting the outrageous amount he left you every time. Despite how much he gets on your nerves, you rather enjoy Taehyung's company on your shifts. And you didn’t want to risk having a new coworker like Sal again. 

Thank you, Yoongi. You silently think to yourself every time he does. His tips are one of the only reasons you’re able to take care of yourself so well. 

You live in an apartment you should not be able to afford on a bartender's wage. Eat well, buy all the brand name products for the skin care routine you could only dream of having as a teenager, and you’re able to get yourself a little treat every once in a while. 

All thanks to the one man the world claimed was the purest entity of evil there was. 

And maybe he is. 

But not to you. 

The rest of your night, and closing go smoothly. The journey home passes by in a flash and soon you’re flopping into your bed, asleep before you hit the pillow. 

You dream of Yoongi and Hellfire and things only your subconscious will let you. The thoughts that you force away every time you see him. 

The burn of his hands on your skin and his lips on your neck. The warmth that spreads over your entire body at the mere mention of your name from his lips. His tongue in places you wouldn’t dare allow him to even think about in the waking world. 

And you wake from an orgasm he wasn't in the waking world to give you. 

It’s the last Saturday in October, which means it’s also your birthday.

You found it rather funny that the one person the Devil could stand to conversate with was born on his night. Maybe that’s coincidence or maybe that’s fate, either way you didn’t care, because you had it booked off work and you were going to a bar and dancing with your friends, dressed up in the sluttiest costumes you could find. 

Your recent visit with your birthday's namesake inspired your costume this year. Wearing the shortest, blood red leather dress you could find, the slits up the sides ran almost to your hips, and a corseted waist that made you feel sexy and fierce. You’d paired it with some velvet horns, a tail, pitchfork, crimson lace stockings and your most recent edition; red bottomed strappy stilettos. 

They’d been your birthday present to yourself, courtesy of Yoongi’s most recent tip. And needless to say, you felt hot as shit. No one could tear you down tonight.

All your friends met at your house before ridesharing down to a club. It’s loud, hazy, and filled with other Devil’s Night party goers as you arrive, smoke lingering in the air and you can feel the wave of dancing coming from further inside. 

Someone buys you your first round within a minute of being let in, lemon drop filling your taste buds as you knock back the shot. Another is ordered immediately after the first, it runs smoother and tastes like chocolate as you make your way to the dance floor. 

Aside from you, your friends are dressed up as a wild mix of characters. Rey is dressed as Daphne from Scooby Doo, Yaejin is Nezuko from Demon Slayer, Bryce is a gender bent Legolas from Lord of the Rings, Declan is Donatello from the Ninja Turtles, Cam is a ghost, and Trin is a character from a book you’ve never read. Something about dragons and magic and vermin—or was it venin? Whatever. But they were in all black and had used silver hair spray on the tips of their hair.

You let the alcohol make its way through your veins as you dance, loosening up. The DJ mixes songs together in a way that never has the crowd thinning out and you laugh as you move with your friends, swaying and rocking and grinding. 

You needed this.

A night out just to let go, have fun, forget everything and hopefully get lucky by the end of it. It’s been a while since you’ve taken anyone to bed, and birthday sex sounds amazing the more the lemon drop, and what you finally learned was a tootsie roll shot, settle into your system. 

You aren’t drunk by any means, but you are buzzed and having a blast. An orgasm sounds like the only thing that could possibly make this night any better. So you make your way around the dance floor, keeping one eye open for any potentials, but mostly just dancing with Rey and Cam. The others either grabbing another drink back at the bar or resting their legs in a booth. 

“Babe,” Rey says, hands around your neck with Cam behind you, hands on your hips. You all sway to the beat of the admittedly sensual song playing. 

“Yeah?” You ask, opening your eyes to meet hers and she leans in closer. 

You can hear the smile on her lips, “Major tall, dark and handsome at 9 o'clock has been eyeing you for at least a half hour. I say you ditch me and Cam and go enthrall the man with your company for a little while. We’ll be fine on our own.” 

Heating at her words you’re excited to see who’s gone and done half your job for you tonight when your eyes stop dead on target. 

In a private booth in the VIP section, blending in far too well with the mortals around him, he wears a button down black satin top and dress pants. Thick silver links adorn his neck, complimenting the hoops in his lobes as well as the mouth watering rings on his fingers and you’re quite sure the bottoms of his black leather shoes match the red of your own. 

Yoongi. 

God he looks good. Unfairly so. And he carries that knowledge with him in his movement. His confidence never wavering like a mortal’s would.

Aside from two twisting black horns you’ve never seen before protruding from his deliciously tousled hair—hair you still want to pull on until he’s making sounds no ones ever heard come out of his mouth before, now moreso than ever—Yoongi is a darker version of yourself. 

Except for him, it isn’t a costume, it’s real, real, real. 

And he looks like sin incarnate. 

Fitting. 

Fuck, you’re so screwed. What were all those reasons it could never work again? The ones that explain why you shouldn’t take the Devil home and let him fuck you into next Sunday?

Suddenly, you can’t remember any of them. Not when Yoongi’s eyes never leave your red-clad form as he sips on what you know to be subpar whiskey. Your core melts into lava at the way he looks up and down, taking all of you in like you’re the one thing on this planet he needs to survive, and he’ll stop at nothing and spare absolutely no one until he gets you. 

Rey gives Cam a look and their hands drop, allowing you to almost float over to where Yoongi lounges, maneuvering between bodies undulating to music that’s being deafened by the heartbeat in your ears.

When you reach him, you leave a somewhat respectable distance between you two, a step down from the dias the booth sits on. 

Seeing him so much clearer now, you almost whine. How does he look even better up close? You want to sit on his lap, his face, have him bend you over the table then flip you over and feast like a man starved. 

Fuck! No, you can’t. And you also can’t blame Tae for those thoughts either, he isn’t here.

They were all you. 

Maybe his plan was working after all…

“What are you doing here?” You manage, grateful that you hadn’t had more to drink, but even more grateful for the ones you did. You needed a little liquid courage right now, even if it turned your thoughts into gutter sewage.

What he doesn’t know can’t hurt you…right? You just have to keep a lid on it. The one that’s loosening the more you look at him.

“It’s your birthday,” he says, producing a small black box wrapped with a bow. “I have a gift.”

He…he got you a present? He’s never done that before. But then again, before last year, he never knew when it was.

“You remem—I—you didn’t have to get me anything,” you stutter ungracefully, mouth trying to keep up with your racing thoughts. “I already got these shoes with the tip you left me last time,” you say, extending your leg to show off your newest purchase. The action reveals more leg than you meant it too and he catches the garter you have pulled around your thigh.

A fire ignites in his eyes at the sight, and you can feel their sparks everywhere he looks. Starting at your toes and moving all the way up back to your pretty irises. 

“I’m flattered by the way,” he says. “In your costume choice.”

Huh? You look down and heat rises to your cheeks in a way it never has before. Oh fuck, oh fuck. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!

Here you stand, before the actual Devil—horns out in all their glory—dressed as him on his namesake night. 

Of course this would happen to you, of course it would. This is what you get for fucking around. You found out. And you don’t know whether to be mortified, beg for forgiveness, or laugh yourself hoarse. 

Going with none of the above, you choose to play it off instead, the way you always do when he manages to fluster you. “Consider me inspired by how recently I last saw you,” you say, taking the single step up the dias and twirling for him. 

You show every angle of your costume you can, letting the booze in your system do its job of making you more confident than you currently are.

“What do you think?”  

Yoongi stands, taking the two strides needed to be face to face with you, his voice is quiet and even, so only you can hear.

“May I touch?”

You don’t hesitate. 

“Yes.” 

Yoongi reaches behind you and pulls the fake tail from the back of your dress, then the pitchfork from your grasp and throws them into the booth, not caring where they land.

“Mmm,” he hums, placing his hands on your hips and spinning you once more. Lightning strikes every single nerve ending where his fingertips meet your body. 

This time when he speaks, his voice is touched with the bit of demon that’s inside of him, dragging its claws along the floor of the 9th circle of Hell as he growls, “You’re perfect.” 

Your heart does backflips and cartwheels and nose dives all at once. You’ve never heard him sound like that before, and if your panties weren’t wet before, they definitely are now. 

Tugging gently, he guides you to the booth, sitting first before dragging you over his lap, knees meeting his hips. One of his hands rests on your thigh while the other reaches for something you can’t be bothered to figure out because oh my god, oh my god, you’re straddling him. Your straddling the Devil, dressed as the devil and probably already looking semi-fucked out while you do. This is probably a bad idea—no. This is definitely a bad idea. But you also have absolutely zero plans to stop literally anything that’s happening. 

The gift box makes a reappearance, and he hands it over to you. 

“Thank you,” you say automatically, trying and failing to ignore the fact that both of his hands now rest on your thighs. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck…..

Undoing the little black bow, you open it, revealing a delicately simple necklace. Its light weight chain holding a small pink stone pendant. 

Beautiful. 

“Pink Tourmaline,” Yoongi says. 

“My birthstone,” you reply.

“Your birthstone.”

You stare at the little crystal, cut and polished to perfection. Not a single flaw.

“Yoongi I—I don’t know what to say. It’s incredible…Thank you,” you take it out of the box, profoundly grateful you decided not to wear a necklace tonight. “Could you help me put it on?”

“Of course, Angel,” he agrees. But this time when he says your nickname, it’s different. Like an unholy vow made only to you. 

Makes you wonder what he promised.

Regretfully removing yourself from his lap, you turn around, only to be dragged back down by strong fingers. 

Your ass is now flush against his dick, and it’s taking everything in you not to tease. Whether you’d be teasing him or yourself, you don't know, nor do you care. All you know is that friction can be a good thing if you want it to be. And you're starting to want it to be.

Lifting your hair for him, Yoongi fastens the necklace around your column, and to your complete and utter doom, places a gentle kiss at your nape. The simple contact makes you quietly moan, and you feel a twitch under you. 

Ohhh, this is bad, this is so bad. But you can’t bring yourself to stop him. Not when his hands roam up and down your back, your sides, your hips. Exploring, feeling, learning. You dissolve into the touch, welcoming every whisper of pleasure they bring. 

What is he doing to you?

“Angel,” Yoongi purrs in your ear. 

“Mmm?”

“Would you like to dance?”

Fuck would you ever, but wait— 

“Are you asking me if I’d like to Dance with the Devil?” you muse. 

Yoongi chuckles lowly, understanding the meaning behind your ask.

“Is that something you’d be interested in?” 

“Yes.”

You feel more than hear the dark rumble coming from his chest before he gently taps on your thigh. And you get up quickly. 

“That’s a good girl,” he says, and fuck could you ever get used to him saying that to you.

Fingers laced in his, he lets you guide him to the dance floor.

Both of you ignore what the DJ plays, instead moving to the rhythm you feel like. Slow, sensual, a hand on his neck while you grind into him. Fast and heated, bodies touching any and every place you can get contact. You’re putting on quite the show for anyone brave enough to watch. And you know at least a handful of the eyes you feel on you are your friends’. 

They don’t know about Yoongi.

They don’t know about the nature of the clientele at your job either, like every other human. They don’t know you're dancing with the most dangerous and volatile man in the room. And it’s better that way, because if they did, your ass would’ve been hauled out of the club and in a rideshare the second anyone saw him. 

You’ve never been more thankful for the figurative wall between worlds. And the fact that you stand on both sides. 

You brush up against his hardening dick and fuck, that’s it. 

You’ve decided. 

To hell with your reasons. To hell with the constant flirting and overuse of will power. 

To hell with letting your anxieties and your moral compass and your conscience get in the way of the one thing you’ve been denying yourself for years. 

You spin in Yoongi’s hold, looking straight into the darkened eyes of the most forbidden man you could ever want for yourself, only to see pure desire staring right back. It’s all you need before you’re crashing your lips to his, taking anything and everything you can get before one of you comes to your senses and pulls back. 

But his grip on you tightens like a vice, pulling you closer, bodies flush amidst the dancing crowd. He’s magnetic in his want, lifting a hand to the back of your neck and tracing the seam of your lips with his tongue.

You let him in without hesitation and he nearly swallows you whole with how he invades your mouth, claiming it for himself. It makes you moan and he lets up, if only to let you breathe for a moment, and you take this reprieve to whisper in his ear, finally giving in to what you crave more than anything.

“Let’s go to yours.”

“We should go to yours, Angel, mine’s a bit harder to get to.”

Because his is on another plane of existence. Not exactly a taxi ride away. At least not one you can get at the curb of the club. 

“Riiight.” A small dose of water washes over the fire in your core, and it’s like he can sense it because immediately, he’s pulling you back in. Nothing but teeth and lips and tongue, animalistic in the passion you’re displaying for everyone to see, the flames increasing tenfold.

Fuck, you don’t want to wait. 

And apparently neither does Yoongi. 

“Do you trust me?” He asks.

“Yes, but what does tha–”

“Close your eyes for me, Love.”

Any and all arguments fade on your tongue at the new pet name. So much warmer than Angel, so much more affectionate. 

So you close your eyes for him, no questions asked. Because you trust him. You trust the Devil. 

You trust Yoongi. 

“That's a good girl.” 

One hand goes to the back of your neck, the other your lower back as he kisses you gently. So gently you think it means something more, but the sounds of the club are fading away, and he’s leaning you down like he’s going to dip you before your back meets something soft. 

Are you closer to a booth than you thought? Is he really going to take you here in front of all those people? 

But when you open your eyes and your bedroom at your apartment fills your vision, you stiffen immediately.

What?

“I—but we were just—and now we’re he—and you—,” you stutter, amazed and unable to get the thoughts out fast enough before another takes its place. You manage a, “How?” and he catches on. 

Not halting his actions, “Consider it a job perk,” he explains, nipping at your neck. You let out a groan as he continues his way down your column towards your chest and you relax into his touch.

“Teleportation, in simple terms, but it’s a bit more complicated than that.”

Despite his mouth on your skin, you somehow find the clearness of mind to ask, “Did anyone see?” Thinking about your friends and the potential hundreds of onlookers.

Yoongi’s hands rest at top of the zipper that goes the entire length of your dress, allowing for both easy putting on and quick removal. Fingers tug gently on the slider, eyes meeting yours for consent. You nod, and he answers your question as he drags it down your body torturously slow, savouring every moment he’s worked so hard to get. 

He’s going to earn this privilege you’ve given him, if it's the last thing he does.

“No. And your friends won’t worry either.”

You don’t care how he knows that, not when he’s pulling off hot leather and devouring your curves with coal burning pupils. The cool air of your room causes goosebumps to rise everywhere, and your arms fly to your head, covering your eyes as you’re reminded you’d forgone a bra tonight. 

There was no room for one without it squishing your tits too much and ruining the look. So with your dress gone, Yoongi has a front row seat to your nearly nude form, a blood red lace thong the only thing keeping you semi-decent. 

Years of pining and denial have led up to this moment and Yoongi almost doesn’t know where to start now that he finally has you exactly where he wants you. That feeling doesn’t last long though.

Wasting no more time, he takes a breast into his palm, squeezing and massaging while he lowers himself to the other, lapping the nipple of the one neglected. His tongue swirls over the pert bud, sucking it into his mouth fully and you arch into his touch, reveling in the warmth he spreads across your chest. Hands reaching for the sheets above your head for something to ground you.

“Shit,” you can already feel your pulse in your ears, thundering behind your sternum, and booming lower. He’s barely touched you and you’re already so gone.

He switches his hand and mouth, soothing the other breast with the sinful muscle he’s teased you with after all these years drinking whiskey. And by god if you don’t immediately think what it could do in other places. He’s had thousands of years to practice and the gush you feel in your panties lets you know exactly how you feel about the idea. 

Using his free hand, Yoongi traces down your back, rounding your ass and squeezing hard enough to make you hiss in pleasure before settling on the back of your thigh. 

You can barely stand having his hands so close to your molten heat without having any contact, and it leaves you begging, “Please…Please…”

You feel the curve of his lip quirk as teeth gently scrape the sensitive bud, gasping when he pulls off. 

“Please what, Love?”

“More,” you pant. “Please. Anything. Everything. Please just touch me.”

“Mmm,” he’s back at your neck, inhaling your scent, one hand still on your thigh while the other holds him up by your ear. “Pretty Girl has manners after all, huh?” 

“Oh fuck you.” you bristle, but it seems to be the reaction he’s looking for. A deeper, sluttier part of you awakening at the words you want to prove both wrong and right.

“There she is.”

Diving back into your neck, Yoongi trails wet, open mouthed kisses down, down, down. And even though you’ve never been so wet, so in the moment, and so unbelievably turned on before, the human part of you wins for a second, as you try to close your legs. 

They’re pulled back open in an instant, his eyes never wavering from yours as he says, “Don’t you dare get shy on me now,” a kiss to your inner thigh. And then the other as he kneels before you. 

Yoongi places each foot on either of his shoulders and you’re surprised he’s kept on your garter, stockings and red bottoms, their heels digging into his flesh. You wonder if that hurts at all, but by the way his eyes flutter and almost roll into the back of his head at the pressure they place on his frame, you think he actually likes their sting.

“You’re the most exquisite creature I have ever seen. Absolutely no part of you could ever be undesirable to me.” 

His earnest tone makes you believe him, convinces you, and you’re once again pliant in his hold, opening up for him.

“Look at me,” he says, and you do. You stare directly at the Devil between your thighs. The King knelt before your lowly mortal form. “You are the most powerful person in this room, understand?”

You nod, but that’s not good enough for him. 

“I need to hear it.”

“I understand.”

“Understand what?” He pushes.

“I’m the most powerful person in this room,” and it feels bold to say in front of him. But watching the way Yoongi’s expression fills with pride makes it also feel good. He wants you to feel like you’re the one in charge. 

“Remember that,” he says, before ripping your underwear off and throwing them on the floor, feasting his now wholly black eyes on the sight of your dripping pussy.

The more he loses himself in you, the more of his true form reveals itself.

“Fuuuckk,” he whispers more to himself than anything. “So wet…”

Your core is tormented and throbbing at the back and forth between the cold night air and Yoongi’s hot breath and you whine, “I just bought those!”

He spares you one completely unsympathetic look. 

“Don’t care. I’ll buy you more,” a deliciously ringed finger slides along your drenched folds and you’re gasping. “I’ll buy you the entire fucking store if it means I get to see you like this.”

Your voice is airy as you give in, any and all outrage gone. “Oka—ohhh!”

His mouth is on your cunt before you can breathe in the oxygen you so desperately need. He’s not holding back and your movements are not your own as you squirm. An arm rounds your pelvis holds you down, keeping you there as he devours you whole and shows you no mercy.

“Fuck, fuck, oh my god Yoongi,” you cry out, having never felt anything like this before. His tongue circles your clit as he sucks, then glides down, penetrating your opening with thrusts that make you lightheaded. 

Your hands fly to his locks, pulling and pushing him down further until you're pretty sure you’re drowning him in you. Your fingertips graze his horns and it’s just a reminder that this man is definitely not human. Definitely not someone you should be letting suck your soul out through your pussy. And that makes this whole situation that much hotter. 

If he minds where you touch, he doesn’t say anything about it, only groaning as he repeats his motions to get you near your peak, again and again and again until you're quaking against your will and your body is vibrating with every throb from your core.

Every single nerve ending you have is awake and being put to good use, he’s making sure of it. The dam that holds your release is starting to crumble and you don’t know how much longer you can last like this before you’re screaming bloody murder under his grip. 

“Yoon…Yoongi—fuck,” you stutter, staggered breaths from your trembling chest loose as you try to verbalize, “C-close. S-so close.”

He hums, and teases a finger around your entrance, circling a few times before pressing in and up to your g-spot. The simple action undoes you and you're coming with a force you can’t even begin to describe. The waves crash down, over and over and you're moaning and cursing his name at the same time, knowing it’s going to be the only one you’ll think of in this situation from now until forever.

He guides you through the last shockwaves as you come down, and when you’re too sensitive for him to continue, you drag him up to your lips, tasting his efforts on your tongue. 

“Need you now,” you rush out between kisses.

“Not yet, Love,” he says, pulling back just enough to reach a hand between the two of you.

He slips two fingers inside and swallows the resulting moan from your lips as he goes so deep enough you can feel his rings proding your opening.

“Gotta stretch you out for me first.” 

Your hands are back in his hair, nails scratching the nape of his neck as he begins to scissor you open expertly. He growls into your neck at the sensation and that confirms your suspicions of him liking a little pain with his pleasure. So you scratch further down his neck, onto his shoulders and back and you dig a heel into his thigh.

“Fuck, Angel,” fingers stuttering for a second. “Don’t do that unless you want me to come right now.”

“And if I do?” 

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because the first time I come, it’ll be with you around my cock, soaking the sheets with your own.”

Head rolling back, his words going straight to your clit. “Fuck, okay.”

“Now give me another one, Pretty Girl,” he says, picking up speed with his digits. “I know you can, pretty little slut takes my fingers so well.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck…

You can feel it coming this time, building and building. He uses his thumb to rub over your sensitive nub and it has you unraveling under him, screaming out and almost sobbing at the convulsions your body makes. He takes your mouth with his again, consuming your pleasure in every form he can get. 

And once you come down, you’ve had it. If you don’t have him inside you within the next 2 minutes you’re going to lose it. 

Ripping at his shirt, you're fumbling with the buttons. “Fuck, take this off, and those,” you say, abandoning his shirt for his belt. 

Yoongi chuckles, low and sinful, “Bossy,” but gets up, and begins removing the outfit that got you into this situation in the first place. You take off the remnants of your costume as he spares you no peace of mind, the way you did him, taking off his pants and boxers in one go, freeing his mouth watering bulge from its earthy confines. 

“Oh fuck me,” you say at his size. He’s big, girthy and you’ve never wanted someone inside you so badly before. 

Yoongi smirks as he crawls over you, but you stop him with a hand. “Wait,” you throw a leg over his hip, and flip the two of you so you’re on top. “Let me do this.”

“Whatever you want, Angel.”

Picking up his cock, it sits heavy in your hand as you give him a couple strokes. He hisses at the contact and it only spurs you on, gathering as much saliva as you can, you open your mouth to spit, rubbing it all over his shaft and head, mixing it with the precum dribbling out of the tip. 

“Fuck—”

Your 2 minutes are up. Lifting your ass, you guide yourself onto him. 

“Oh my fuck, oh fuck,” you say as you slide down slowly, the stretch still very much there as he bottoms out. “Big—ohh, shit—so big.”

Yoongi’s not faring much better, eyebrows pressed together, but eyes devouring the spot where your bodies meet. His breathing is so laboured you’d think he just ran a marathon.

“So tight, Love...Fuck, look at you.”

The delicious sting subsides and you start to move, slow but purposeful thrusts that have him kissing your cervix every time. Fuck he’s so deep, deeper than anyone else has ever been. And once you get a rhythm going there’s no stopping you. You become a force of nature as you bounce on his cock without abandon, taking this for yourself. You don’t know why, but you feel like you have a point to prove and by god you’re going to make it. 

Because if the Devil chose you, you’re going to make damn sure he doesn’t regret it. 

“Fuck, fuck you’re doing so good,” he rasps, throwing his head back into the pillows, eyes shut in pure bliss, murmuring. “Feels so good.” 

His praise pushes you farther, riding harder, grinding your clit against his pelvis, owning both your pleasures. 

You’re the most powerful person here. 

You are the one in control despite being on top of arguably the most powerful man on the planet. It makes you feel safe and strong and invincible. 

And you want to continue, you really do, but your legs are starting to give, so you let him know. 

“Ass up for me then,” he says, and you listen, climbing off of him and wincing at the feeling of him slipping out. He gets behind you, lining himself up again and this time it’s much easier as he sinks in, both of you groaning at the contact. 

Yoongi hands go to your hips, gripping and squeezing and molding the globes of your ass as you anchor your cheek to the bedsheets. 

“That’s it, Pretty Girl, all the way down for me.”

His first thrust has you seeing stars. You're nothing and everything as he continues, but you need more. You need to not be able to speak. To walk. You need to have every thought fucked out of your head. You need him so deep you’ll feel it for a week afterwards.

“Faster,” you beg. “Harder, please.”

“There are those manners I was looking for,” he says and picks up his pace. 

You’re incoherent, saying things you’ve never dared to utter out loud before, making admissions you swore to take to your grave and Yoongi is eating up every single last one of them. 

Because this is about you. This is about proving years of your denial’s fruitless. This is about him and how you make him lose every ounce of self control he has when he’s around you and how badly he’s wanted you since the day you met. This is about ruining every other man for you, making sure you know what true pleasure feels like, know how you deserve to be treated, and hearing his name on your lips when you come. When your cunt clenches so hard he has to fight tooth and nail to milk every ounce of bliss from it.

This is about him wanting to hear him make you feel good. Needing to hear him make you feel good.

This is about you. 

And he can feel you starting to clamp up again, can feel you getting close. So he wraps an arm around your waist, fingers going straight for your pussy.

You shriek, body consumed by the even strokes he delivers as well as the smooth circles around your most sensitive spot, and he revels in it. This is what he’s been dreaming of, what he’s desired over everything else. 

You, underneath him in so much pleasure you’re almost non-verbal. 

Perfect in every single way. 

“Taking me so well, dirty girl. Love the feeling of my cock splitting you open?” he hears a muffled cry and you nod your head. “Knew you would, knew you could take me.”

He delivers a smack to your ass and he feels you clench, so he soothes the battered area before handing out another, soothing that one out too. 

“You’re so good for me, pretty little whore so greedy, sucking me in. Why’d you make me think you didn’t want me all these years, hmm? Was I not good enough for you?”

You bury your face in your sheets. Well that certainly won’t do. So he slows his fingers as he reiterates. “Was I not good enough for you then, Angel? Am I good enough for you now?”

“Yes,” you mutter, barely loud enough to hear.

“What was that?” he slows again to a near burningly slow pace, soaking in the feel of you around his fingers and dick. It feels like a place he once called home.

“Yes!” you bellow. “So good…so good to me…more than enough.”

The praise fuels him, and he picks up the speed of everything, cock pounding you into the mattress, fingers rubbing an achingly mind-blowing pattern on your clit. It pushes you over the edge for the third time tonight, your fluttering cunt around his dick almost has him losing it. Almost has him coming undone with you, but he manages to hold it back. 

Not yet. 

You're silent in your screams this time, overwhelmed with the feelings, fingers nearly ripping your sheets in half at how hard it hit you. How hard you contract around him.

Oh he’s never going to get sick of this feeling. 

Ever.  

And instead of guiding you down this time, he removes himself quickly, flips you over on your back and inserts himself once more. 

He needs that feeling again. Needs you again. You claimed him for yourself whether you knew it or not all those years ago, he was simply following orders. He was yours the second your eyes met for the first time and he’s never looked back since. No one was ever good enough from that moment on, not a single creature on any plane of existence. 

There was only you. 

Yoongi’s never felt anything so pure and so sinful and so right as you pulsing around him does. He exists only for this feeling. Only for you. It took a couple thousand years, but at least now he knows. 

And so he doesn’t slow down, pushing you through your oversensitivity.

It’s time for him to finally claim you back.

“I can’t,” you beg, “it hurts.”

“Not for long, Pretty Girl” he says in his lowest registar. “You can take it, I know you can. Give me one more, I know you have it in you.”

Yoongi’s noticed his words have almost the same effect on you as his motions, so he uses them to their full potential. And as he can sense your fourth orgasm about to land, you surprise him by whispering directly into his ear and raking your nails down his back as hard as you can.

“Only for you, Yoongi.”

His thrusts stutter.

“Fuck!”

He’s coming. 

He’s coming hard. With you, with your name on his lips. It's violent and visceral and vicious and vibrant. It’s beautiful. You’re combined divine deliverance. 

It’s the first time he’s said your name.

And it’s something he’s going to keep locked away in his memory for millenia to come as he covers your inner walls in the most sickeningly sweet shade of white. 

You’re relentless, milking him over and over and over for all he’s worth, not letting up until your body is ready too, ruthless in your quest for ultimate euphoria and he takes it.

Whatever you want. Whatever you need. 

It’s yours. 

He’ll make it so.

At whatever cost to him, you'll get it. There isn't a doubt in his mind as you finally come down, body lighter, eyes glazed over, devastating smile on your lips.

He’s the first to move, going to the bathroom and grabbing a warm, wet cloth to clean you up. You’re blissfully spent, unable to get up even if you wanted to, limbs like jelly, still in a brain fogged haze. 

You got exactly what you wanted.

He cleans his release from your form, naked save for the pink stone he gave you around your neck. Then tosses the cloth in your hamper and lies back down, covering you both with sheets. You cuddle up to him, tossing a leg around his torso, and lying your head on his chest. Contented. 

And he’s silent until he can’t stand it any longer. He has to know.

“What changed?” 

“Hmm?”

“What about tonight made you change your mind?”

You take a deep breath through your nose. “I…stopped fighting it. The feeling like we would never work, the feeling that I would never be good enough, that we were too different,” he listens intently as your fingers trace patterns on his chest, explaining. “And I was sick of denying myself. It’s my birthday. Shouldn't I get whatever I want on my birthday?” 

That seductive smirk makes an appearance.

“Yes.”

“Plus you looked to damn fine in that outfit. A girl only has so much willpower, you know? It’s easier at work when there’s a bar and my job between us, but there was none of that tonight. Just the shots in my system and my unwavering desire to ride your face.”

Yoongi laughs, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen something as beautiful as his smile before. 

“Next time,” he says. A promise.

You fall back into a comfortable silence that has you thinking. 

“What about you?” you ask.

“What about me?”

“Why am I the only one you like? The only one you put up with.”

He ponders for a moment, thinking about how to phrase what he wants to say. 

“I think about the time we met often. There was something about you that was different that day, and I’ve never been able to pinpoint exactly what, but when I saw you I knew I would never think of you the same way I do everyone else. There was something special about your gaze in mine, your company, your soul.” 

“My soul?”

“Mhm.”

“You’ve never asked for mine before.”

“Never needed it.”

At that, you joke, “Is there something you’d sell your soul for?”

“You.” 

Before you can say all the nothing in your head at his answer, he takes a deep breath that has you rising and falling with it. Something about what he’s going to say next is going to have heavy importance to him. 

You just know it. 

“You… made me—make me…want to be better. Do better.”

You’re speechless. Not the kind you were moments before. No, you’re truly and genuinely speechless. 

You never expected anything like that. 

You knew your presence in his life carried a different weight than others, a different air. It’s why you could speak so casually, insult him, and exist near him without fearing for your life. It was something no one had seen from him in thousands of years. 

Kindness. Patience.

The man who’s job it is to run the universes torture capital, punishing those who deserve it without an ounce of mercy for eternity and killing those who looked at him the wrong way. The physical entity of the word evil, wanted to be better. 

Because of you.  

“I don't know what to say.”

“You don't need to say anything,” he kisses the top of your head, tender. “Having you with me is more than enough.”

You can do that. 

“Okay,” you say, craning your neck to kiss him. It’s long, languid, and full of emotions you don't want to acknowledge right now, there’s too many of them to sort through in your post four orgasms brain to be able to process properly. 

Tomorrow you can start. Right now you just want to bask in the afterglow of the most amazing birthday you've ever had.

“So this wasn’t a one time thing?” Yoongi clarifies.

“It definitely wasn't a one time thing,” not a chance in Hell. 

He was yours now. 

The Devil was yours.

King of the Underworld, god among men, catastrophe breathing evil was yours. And it brings the biggest smile to your face.  

“Oh thank fuck.”

“Not thank God?” you tease.

Yoongi groans. “Do not bring my father into this.”

A/N 3: As always, thanks for reading, loves. Xoxo, - Yoon <3

[sociallyawkward--fics]

HEY BACK AGAIN. idk how long its been cuz mobile is trash but me n my friend were talking abt how we were in a lot of the same fandom spaces as kids. Sanders sides being one of them. n i was like..... Long shot but do u know sociallyawkward--fics.. n at first they were like no i dont think so.. but then they looked u up n went OH MY GOD YEA??? ill send u a screenshot off anon but i told them we were friends n they said it was like finding out i knew a celebrity LMAO -H (ironic considering theyre prob more popular on ao3 than u😭 they briefly turned back into a 12yo fanboy)

its still so crazy to me ive known u for so long n met him like 3-4 years ago worlds collide ..... Also u can post this though im off anon if u want idc -H

ALSO. since im here. idk if i ever told u my age but when i sent my first ask to u i was probably 11. maybe 10 even. im turning 18 in a couple months now. its hard to bring myself to read some of the asks (ok most of the asks) i sent u over the years bc i was an incredibly anxious and awkward autistic kid. But u always treated me with so much love hahakjs at the time i was rly struggling n had very few friends n AS MUCH AS IT MAKES ME CRINGE TO LOOK BACK ON u were honestly the only older person i could talk to n it rly meant a lot lol. im so much more confident n comfortable in myself than i was all those years ago n ik i dont send u asks nearly as frequently anymore but tbh even if eventually its only once every few years ill always think back on u so fondly n gratefully. Neway i literally hate being sappy so ill shut up here but yeah. Thanks n such -H

ALSO IDK IF UR ACTIVE ON AMY SOCIAL MEDIA RLY?? BUT IF U R I CAN GIVE U SOME OF MY SOCIALS mostly i just tweet abt my day occasionally on twitter but i also have a sideblog where i post art. just thinking that maybe then i wouldnt have to be like 'and heres a quick summary of the past 8 months' n u could check up on me whenever instead of only seeing me when i send asks😭 -H (its also so less formal cuz when i send in asks u Gotta respond whereas if i post 'just ate a kickass burger' u can just. Like it. idk idc either way but lmk ^__^)

-----------------------------------

I'VE BEEN MEANING TO ANSWER THESE FOR MONTHS SINCE I'VE BEEN USING TUMBLR AGAIN AND MY LACK OF OBJECT PERMANENCE HAD ME KEEP FORGETTING I AM SO SORRY 😭😭😭😭

dkjfhkdhf omg that is so wild that you have a friend who also knows about me dkjfhdsf Sanders Sides (back when it was waaaaay smaller of a fandom lol) was the first (and tbh only, really) fandom where i had any real level of "popularity" as a fic writer, and i fed off that high for SO LONG lol -- hearing that people were obsessed with my work, both then and now after the fact, is genuinely so surreal dfkjhdjkfh like. i am just Here, i am just Some Dude who wrote some words that got them weirdly popular at 17-18 dkjsfhdkjfh (also cuz i try to gather all your asks into one post, you continue to remain anonymous just cuz i copy-pasted them into the post in the same order they were received lol)

Dude it is CRAZY that you are almost 18 (or, by the time i am finally managing to answer this with my Bad Brain Powers procrastinating it so long, already 18) -- I looked back and I was 18 when you sent your first ever ask to me dkjfhdf that's so wild. I am so honored that you saw me as an older person you could come and talk to, even if it was just through anonymous tumblr asks for the past 6+ years lol. I always think of you fondly too, and I am so proud of you for the way you've grown up and grown into your confidence

ALSO YOU CAN TOTALLY SEND ME YOUR SOCIAL MEDIA djfdjdsjkf you can absolutely send me any of your socials!!! I know your main blog because you've sent some asks without it (have I ever remembered to follow it??? I meant to but I can't remember, this is also a Brain Forget-y Accidental Procrastination thing), but I would LOVE to see your art sideblog and def feel free to send me your twitter!! I have not opened my twitter in like. 3 months, because i was having Unhealthy Habits so i tucked the app into a pocket out of site and stopped using it for a while, but I am doing better now and would definitely open it back up more often again to see what you were up to

Also!!! You can always feel free to DM me on any of my blogs/sideblogs here on tumblr, too! You don't have to wait to send an ask (though I love receiving asks from you, don't ever feel like you have to stop even if we connect elsewhere!), you can always DM me on any of my blogs (or on any other socials we may exchange, too!)

[clearwillow]

Hi! 😊 For the ask game: 🍓🥤❄️🌸

Hi @briefphilosophernight!

🍓 ⇢ how did you get into writing fanfiction? 

Oh god it was probably back in high school, I think? Somewhere around 2002-2003 cause I hadn't graduated, but I was reading a lot of fic at the time and thought "I don't see why I can't try". The very first one I ever wrote (it was LotR) was based around part of a dream I had, and I turned it into a oneshot (something I fail to do anymore). There was always plans for a second oneshot to follow it but the inspiration didn't hang around.

🥤 ⇢ recommend an author or fanfic you love

There's this Gundam Wing fic that I keep thinking about doing a reread of. (I know it's not IY but I'm so behind on IY reading I'm scared half my tbr list is deleted...)

Deprogramming by Scarlet Eve (FFN)

[Complete] Tucked away in old files, Heero discovers something about himself that Dr. J tried to hide, but made Heero who he was during the wars. But once the secret is discovered, already volatile world relations become worse, putting strain on the ESUN and those involved. Heero must stop it before the peace and structure Relena worked to create comes crumbling down.

There's one particular scene with Heero by himself that sticks out the most to me. It's kinda dark if you really think about it, but it works so well for his character. And I've never been for or against Trowa but he had me raging at my kindle when I first read it. Like I get why he was making those choices, but dude.

❄️ ⇢ what's your dream theme/plot for a fic, and who would write it best?

You know...I don't know? I guess the first one that comes to mind would be the enemies to lovers plot in Break Me, because InuKag are barely going to be civil when they first meet. They've both got a lot to work through, and when things start to turn it's going to be very satisfying...until it isn't. As for who would write it best, I have no idea, cause there's always something about it someone else would change. Inuyasha would be human (and that's frowned upon apparently), he wouldn't be the shy boy like in canon but a cockly billionaire that wears women on his arm like watches. Kagome's not much better; she's really gonna be a bitch, but she's got good reason. Money has made her spoiled but she's dealing with a lot of hurt. This was a fic that was supposed to have been cowritten but now it basically sits in my wips folder until waves of the mood to add to it strike me. So I don't know of who would write it best that's not the person I'd have been writing it with.

🌸 ⇢ do you have any pets? if you do, post some pictures of them

I answered this one here with the pics of Gidgit and Louie 💜

[redjaybathood]

Well, since you need a distraction. Salty ask, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 13, 14, 15, 26, 27.

What's trying to kill you? Point me in the direction of what I need to fight

1. It's not that I can't get them - it's just some popular pairings are my nOTPs or squick me out! Dick/Roy, for example. I mean, they have had a great friendship and all but, during that time, in Titans, Dick has Kory, and later had ambiguous relationship with Barbara (or maybe they dated? I am not big on their history), Roy had Donna, and then he had a baby with Jade. It just irks me to imagine them somehow getting together at that time. And they weren't really all that close, as a dating opportunity goes, afterwards.

Other pairing that I don't get, because I don't want to get it: Batjokes! Sweet Jesus. If there's a pairing from hell, it's this. I mean, the reason the pairing exist is obvious: to pair a hero and a villain, plus, Joker is fucking obsessed with Bats, plus, he often coded as flamboyant gay? I think? I only remember some panels so it's more of impression, don't ask me for evidence. Anyway, that's offensive.

Plus, the dude killed countless people - and among them, his son. If that's not an automatic reason for disqualification, I don't know what is.

Also, Joker/Jason. No. NO. Though this is not popular, thank God.

2. Jaytemis is brOTP. I mean, zero chemistry but magical friendship, hello?

3. Sure! I unfollowed and probably blocked a lot of people with dumbass opinions on characters, ships and morals. Coincidentally, most of them, though not all, were Dick Grayson fans. I tried to expand my knowledge of the character and followed a bunch of people - whoa was that a mistake! For a long time, it left on me a very deep impression and I even began to hate Dick Grayson by association.

I am sure you know how it is.

4. In addition to what I wrote earlier, it's Bruce/Dick and Bruce/Tim. Ugh. I know it's weird probably, given I wrote and read Brujay. I don't know, guys, it just feels different! Do I consider them as more real kids of Bruce than Jason so any romance is impossible? Or are they more fragile somehow and reading a dark fic with them is too much? I don't know, but that's how it is.

I don't know if they are all that popular, I try to filter it out on AO3.

5. I don't like Jaytims and Jaydicks anymore, and it's mostly about my attitude towards these characters which changed because of their fans. Them being together with Jason is just not believable to me anymore.

7. Reconciliation with Bruce. I mean, I loved to read and to cry about fics like that. But now, what's where to reconcile about? You have to let some things go, and Bruce is one of them, for Jason.

8. No! I am pretty low-key, I think, so nobody sends me hate. There were a few comments here and there, I think there was a comment or two on AO3 made either with anon or throw-away account, but at the end of the day, I am luckier than most in this regard.

9. Joker. DC please kill him off.

Even Bruce, who is one of my hated characters, I love to hate him, you know? You have to have an antagonist to your protagonist.

Whereas Joker is a useless piece of shit and you can just replace him with anyone.

10. Death of the Family. What fucking family? They're really not. Not to mention, it's obvious that Joker does know their identities and Bruce, what, convinces himself that he doesn't? Yeah, I am sure it will go swimmingly.

Also, anything that goes with Batman Who Laughs. Bruce mixed with Joker, who kills all of the Batfam? No. Just no.

11. Isabel Ardilla. I think she was underused by Lobdell, he created her with one function in mind, Jason's civilian girlfriend, and didn't develope her basically at all. So I get she's not loved. But hating her, calling her a gold-digger or a cougar, that's a bit too much.

I have a soft spot for Isabel, what can I say.

13. Alfred is not a kind good grandfather as the fandom paints him. And I don't think he really gave a shit about Jason, or Damian, or maybe even other kids.

14. I don't have any unpopular opinions on fandom itself. It's a pretty chill place most of the time. Or maybe my half a year hiatus just smoothed out all the rough edges.

15. Unpopular opinion about Titans TV series: Dick being the main character really fucked up the potential the show had. First season should have been focused on Rachel, but it was a Dick Grayson breaking off from Robin show. Second season should have been about the old Titans and Deathstroke and Rose - she should have gotten developed more and in a way that makes sense for her betrayal and redemption to have any weight. But no, it is Dick Grayson struggling with imaginary guilt and getting a new identity. Third season is supposed to be about Kory, right? Who wants to bet it's going to be Dick Grayson and a love triangle or something?

26. Of course Jason is the most shippable character (despite me headcanoning him as ace). No, I will not explain, except elaborate that he could be shipped with literally ANYONE, hero or villain, (except Joker), and even people from other media. Like uh, Deadpool? Dean Winchester? Derek Hale? You name it, I can come up with ~100-200 words idea for a shipping fic.

27. Joker. I can't ship him with anyone ever

[mooosicaldreamz]

(1) help! i don't know if i'm gay or not!! i don't have anyone to talk about this so im so sorry to dump it on you. you might not even answer this and that's ok bc i can't expect you to feel comfortable in answering. i won't be offended. i just need someone to read this. i read so much wlw fanfiction. i feel so comfortable being in fandoms that support wlw. when i masturbate i see myself as the guy pleasuring the girl.

(2) that line in your latest fic “animal” really stuck out to me, the one where lena was in the club and she goes “there was no disgust, only wonder.” that line is how i feel towards the lgbtq community. i have a few gay friends but i feel like im supposed to have more to be considered a “true member.” i feel like im a fraud bc i don’t dress like a gay person bc i don’t even know what that means. but i love being around women. i want to be around women for the rest of my life.

(3) i feel more comfortable around women than i do men. i’ve had a boyfriend in the past and that was not a good experience and ive been told i can’t jump to conclusions just because of one boy. i always want to kiss a girl and be with a girl but i feel like my attraction isn’t valid bc i haven’t been with a girl ever before. im so fucking shy. it sounds strange to say but i feel so goddamn ugly. too ugly for any girl to want to be with me. i just want to know that im not crazy.

(4) sorry for the spam! tl;dr, i feel in my heart of hearts that women have a special priority in my life that i just can’t put into words. i just don’t know how i fit in with the lgbtq community or if they’ll accept me, because i don’t “look” gay and i don’t have a lot of gay friends. if i want women to be my priority in life, does that make me a lesbian? gay? i like men bc sometimes they’re pretty, but that’s it. what the fuck does this mean? i’m terrified of being wrong about myself.

(5) for now i have no label for myself. i’m not straight. but i don’t even know if i’m allowed to be gay. thanks for reading. i know this was a lot. i don’t want to feel so confused anymore. i reached out to you bc i love the way you wrote lena’s journey in the “animal” fic. i feel like i have a lot of wonder for the lgbtq community as of now, but i’m dying to know if i have a place there or not.

i’m going to break down my response into little digestible numbered chunks which are hopefully somewhat helpful/reassuring

1) okay first i think i’d probably like to say that i am by no means an authority on what it means to be gay or bi or in general of the community~ so you know. don’t take me as word of god or anything.

2) you don’t have to know if you’re gay or not. when i was about 16 i started reading wlw fanfiction and realized i was like……super into it and it spiralled out from there for me. i’ve known ppl who have known they were for certain gay or bi since they were 10 and i’ve known ppl who’ve figured it out in their 20s and 30s. you don’t HAVE to know a damn thing. and it’s okay if you’re not gay too. people grow and change throughout the entirety of their lifetime and you have time to figure yourself out always and forever.

3) there are no rules to being gay (there are also no rules to being straight), so you don’t have to be a certain way ever and if anyone tells u you have to be then they’re stupid. you don’t have to dress a certain way or act a certain way to be anything. you can be you. you don’t have to fit into an exact category to be gay. you don’t have to have gay friends to be gay either. when i was working thru my major identity issues while i was a teenager, i didn’t know anyone who was gay either. there’s no rules in this way.

4) you don’t have to have been with a girl, either - theoretically, at some point, every gay woman has never been with a girl, but that doesn’t mean that who they are and how their attractions work aren’t valid. the very existence of your feelings mean that they exist and are valid. if anyone tells you you can’t be gay because you’ve never been with a girl tell me their address and i will punch them.

5) people who say that you shouldn’t base your opinion on dating dudes on one experience are stupid and are misunderstanding the root issue. if you want to date dudes, date dudes, and if you don’t, then don’t. that’s how simple it is. if you want to date women, then date them. you don’t have to have an exact label. just do you.

6) on a similar note, i can’t label you for you because that would be dickish! it sounds to me like you’re struggling with your identity and i support you exploring and understanding yourself. idk if you wanting women to be a priority in life means that you’re gay because only you can define that for yourself. ftr, i also think dudes are pretty. i would maybe date one 1 out of 10 times, but i still pretty much define myself as gay. and that’s cool. 

7) i want to address specifically your sentence "i’m terrified of being wrong about myself” because i really truly believe that no one can be wrong about themselves. you are yourself, you are the one who gets to make the rules about you and what you are and who you are going to be. you literally cannot be wrong. there are stupid ppl in this world who might tell you you have to be a certain way to be any one thing, but that is false. you can be what you are. that’s that. for real. i know i sound like a fuckin self-help book but i don’t care, it’s the facts. i understand about societal pressures and shit but when it comes to your mind and body, you are the owner of you. so you can’t be wrong about it.

8) you are super allowed to be gay. there’s no test. no one checks you at the door at pride and makes sure you fit in.

9) it’s okay to be confused. i, a person who has been pretty aware of my interests since i was 15, am still confused. you don’t have to know everything about yourself before you let yourself try something. in fact, there’s a likelihood you won’t know a damn thing until you try. i recently learned that i like red peppers! i thought for YEARS that i hated red peppers. i thought for a long time that dating a girl would be weird and uncomfortable because i thought - stupidly - that dating a girl would just be different than what love or dating was supposed to be. and it’s not. i tried it and i like it and i’m happy. but you also don’t have to like it once you try it.

10) the tldr version of my response to your questions is this: you can be you, whatever that is. you don’t have to fit a label or pass a test. it’s okay to be uncertain and anxious and confused; there are tons of people who have gone through things like what you’re going through. i’m one of them. so don’t be afraid. there is a place for you in the lgbtq community if you want a place. 

i have NO idea if that was helpful. but for real, i’m with you and support you, okay? you are valid whatever way you are. 

[corvid-knight]

Can't Stop Won't Stop

Hoo boy.

Instead of an attempt at a real summary, I'm just going to say a couple things here. One, this is an old fic. Either the second or third homestuck thing I ever wrote. Two, this was written when I was in maybe the shittiest mental state I've ever been in, so like. It's kind of straight out wish fulfillment ("hey I hate my life love me" kind of thing.) (Also I swear things have gotten a hell of a lot better since I wrote this. Like. Don't worry.)

There's self-harm in this.

There's also a rare instance of me writing Dave rapping. I'm still very proud of that even if it sucks.

Nobody dies and there's no blood spilt. I promise.

(Read it on ao3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14031870)

You are DAVE STRIDER. You're alone in your room, in the dark but for the glow of your computer screen. You're still wearing your shades, though—you always wear the shades, partly because your best bro John gave them to you, partly because you don't like people to see your eyes, and partly because your eyes are hella sensitive to light. Of course, if anyone asks, you wear them because you are the coolest dude on earth.

Not that that's saying much anymore. You, John, Dirk (not your Bro, no matter how much he looks and talks and acts like your Bro he's not), and Jake are probably the last male humans in this universe. And it's your fault, isn't it? You started the game that ended the world.

You push your shades up onto your forehead, rub your eyes, and settle them back into place again.

John's called you a hero, but you're...

You started the game.

You were too afraid to kill your own sleeping self and go godtier.

You were too slow and weak to help your Bro.

You started the game, and that's the one that repeats in your head, all the splintered versions of yourself murmuring it because in everything that you've done that's the thing that haunts you. You invited John into this, you entered as his server player, you were the one who didn't see the danger until it was too late, you were the one who ended the world. You were the one who killed everyone, really, John's dad and Rose's mom and your own Bro, and everything that followed was a result of what you did.

You are anything but a hero.

You shake off the dark thoughts, for a moment at least, and open a new tab in your browser, pulling up the question forum where you left a question. It was simple enough: Is suicide considered either Heroic or Just? In other words, if you're godtier and you kill yourself, will it take?

You went full-on anonymous. Plain black text, no username or anything. Nothing to show who you are.

There's a reply. Five words, in off-yellow text: dont bee a fuckiing iidiiot.

You stare at the words for a moment, then type in a placating reply: It's just a question. Don't get all uptight, dude.

You know who uses that color and quirk, but this forum seems to exist in a half-dozen timelines at once, and you've gotten answers from past and future versions of your friends before, so it might not be exactly who you think it is.

Before you even finish that thought, another message comes up: ii'm not beeing uptiight, youre beeing 2tupiid. death fuckiing hurt2, and the people you leave beehiind get hurt even wor2e.

Your fingers move across the keyboard, spelling out your thoughts and hitting the enter key before you can think about what you're saying: I deserve it, death can't hurt any more than living does, and no one cares enough to be hurt when I do it.

Reading your words onscreen, you realize that you wrote "when" instead of "if." It's really the first time that you admitted, even to yourself, that you're going to go through with this.

While you're still considering that admission, more words come up: 2top. just 2top, ok? ii dont care how much you thiink people hate you. even iif you think there i2 no one out there who care2, there ii2 2omeone, 2omewhere, who wiill cry when youre gone. dont you fuckiing dare hurt your2elf, 2triider.

You puzzle over the last word for a minute before you see that it's supposed to be your name. When you get it, you freeze for a second, then type: I'm not Strider. I don't know who you're talking about.

This time the reply comes back almost immediately: come on dude. we both know ii'm capable of traciing you back, and you diidnt exactly cover your track2. and ii mean what ii 2aiid. iif your hurt your2elf, youre hurtiing everyone who know2 you, and ii'm countiing my2elf iin that. ii dont have enough friiend2 to lo2e another one, dave.

"Damn it," you mutter. "Don't make this about you, Sollux." You type in: You don't know me.

You're about to close the tab and shut down your computer for the night, but before you can move the cursor to the X, another message comes up: 2triider, ii know you better than ii know my be2t friiend. ii know what iit'2 liike to know that your friiend2 are goiing to diie, and have to 2tand iidly by and do nothiing. ii know what it'2 like to 2ee your lu2u2—or parent, whatever—diie in front of you. ii know about your brother, ii know you thiink you kiiled hiim, and ii'm here to tell you that you diidnt.

You hit each key deliberately, but not as hard as you want to: dont talk about bro to me.

You wait for the answer this time, and it does come: you diid nothiing wrong. there wa2 nothing any of u2 could have done to 2ave hiim. to 2ave any of them. ii know, dave.

Your lip hurts from how hard you're chewing on it. It's a stupid nervous habit that Bro trained you out of when you were ten, and you've only started doing it again since he's been gone. You type: Shut up. You don't know anything about it, you weren't there.

The screen stays static after your text comes up, and you stare at it, biting your lip and praying that no more yellow text will come up, that you'll reach the point when you can shut down the computer and walk away. You think of walking into the bathroom, opening the cabinet in the dark and reaching up to the back of the top shelf, feeling around for the still-sealed box of razor blades—

But more words are appearing, under your last ones: ii kiilled my mate2priit wiith my own hands. my lu2u2 diied a2 ii watched. the giirl that could have been my mate2priit 2tepped iin front me and diied takiing a hiit that wa2 2uppo2ed to kiil me. ii wa2 almo2t 2 where you are now, and iit took a hell of a lot of repiitiion2 for my friiend2 2 get thii2 through my thiick 2kull: no matter what you diid or thiink you diid, you dont get to pa22 judgement on your2elf. you are not your own judge, jaiilor, and executiioner. you are not.

You stare at the screen. You honestly don't know what to say to that, what arguements you could use, because half of you can see the truth there.

After a moment, more words come up: 2triider? you 2tiill there?

"How can you know me this well?" you ask, leaning back and pulling your shades off, letting them dangle loosely from one hand, and in the same breath you say, "You don't know shit."

More yellow text comes up: goddammiit 2triider

"I killed everyone," you say, and every bit of your soul believes that statement. You let the shades slip out of your fingers, onto the floor, as you tip the chair back, finding perfect equilibrium and balancing it on two legs. "Every one of my friends, over and over again."

And more: dave fuckiing an2wer me

"I'm worse than useless." You close your eyes. "When I die, at least I can't kill them again."

You'll get up. In a minute, and you do mean in a minute, but suddenly you're tired and you want to sit for a sec. When you get up, you'll go into the bathroom. No need for the lights—you know where what you need is, and you know where the shower is. You can turn the shower on in the dark, that'll wash most of the blood away and make it a little less disgusting for whoever finds you.

Someone shouts—a hoarse inarticulate battle cry—and, from the sound of it, slams a battering ram into your door. Startled, you overbalance the chair. "Shit—" You swallow the rest of the sentence as you hit the floor, bite your lip, and taste blood.

The door's locked, but whoever's pounding on it doesn't seem to care, and after a second blow something splinters. For a moment, even the low light from the hallway is too bright, and you have to blink a few times before you can recognise who it is in your doorway.

Whoever it is short and dark, with nubby horns that almost hide under the artfully messy black hair. Karkat Vantas, you realize a moment before he starts shouting.

"Strider! Fucking answer me!" He sounds angry, he always sounds angry, but there's a current of worry underneath the anger that you've never heard from him before. "Dave!"

"Did you just break my door down?" You sit up, fingering your lip. It hurts, and there's blood staining your fingers when you take your hand away. "Haven't you heard of knocking?"

"You—" Karkat looks past you, higher than your head. At the computer screen behind you. "Fuck..." And he strides across the room and kneels next to you. "Sollux messaged me. He said he was afraid you were going to do something stupid."

"I'm fine." It's a lie, you can hear how bad a lie it is as you say it. You fumble around on the floor, looking for your shades in the faint light from the hall and from your computer. After a second, your hand brushes against them, and you scoop them up. Before you can put them back on, Karkat snatches them out of your hand.

"Don't you fucking lie," he growls, reaching back and setting them on the desk, out of your reach. "Don't you distance yourself like that. What the fuck are you thinking? You can't just die, it doesn't work like that. How the fuck do you think the rest of us are going to feel?"

You wipe your mouth again, and look at the faint streak of red instead of at Karkat. "I'm the reason you can count 'the rest of us' on your fingers," you point out quietly. "You'd be better off—"

"Fucking nooksniffer bulgebrain wriggler," Karkat mutters, and puts his hands on your head, the hollows of his palms at your temples. He pulls your head up, forcing you to meet his strange eyes, shockingly yellow and black with no sclera, framed by shadows darker than his grey skin. His hands are warm, further reminding you how alien he is. "Stop talking like you're fucking expendable. You're a person, not some piece in some cosmic fucking game, and you're not fucking killing yourself."

"I—" You have some arguement, you have it half-planned in your mind, but he runs his hands upward through your hair, like you're some small animal he's petting, and the strangeness of it—the amazing gentleness of his hands, so much at odds with his anger—drives everything else out of your head.

Karkat makes a noise that isn't anything like a word, just a incoherent expression of anger. "What do you humans even do without horns?" he mutters. "I don't fucking get how you people calm each other down. I...fuck." He takes his hands out of your hair—you find yourself oddly sad about that—and sits back on his heels, dragging one arm across his face. When he takes it away, you realize that he's close to tears. "I'm no fucking good at this shit," he says, reaching out with one sharp-nailed finger and wiping a last bit of blood off your lips. "I got fucking lucky last time, one time, and now Sol texts me...he knows how I feel about you, he knows I couldn't stay away and let you..."

"Wh-what?" Something about him is incredibly calming, it always is, even when he's shouting; it's like he's some soothing drug, making you feel like everything is almost all right. But sometimes, you find yourself listening to his voice so closely that you miss what words he's saying. He can't have implied what you inferred. "I don't—"

"You need a moirail, or a fucking matesprit," Karkat says bluntly, "and I wish it was me. And don't give me that 'not a homosexual' shit—number one, it doesn't make any fucking sense, and number two, I've seen how you look at Egbert." He shakes his head, meeting your eyes for a second and then looking down. "You...fuck, I don't know."

"I...this isn't about John. None of this is about him." You feel your face heating up, a blush that you know lights your albino skin like a traffic light. Karkat's right: you look at John, when he's not paying attention, and you had a crush on him, when you met him and before you met him, and you love him and always will, like a brother. But he isn't interested in you as anything else, and you know it, and the peeks that you sneak add up to nothing more than one more guilt to be thrown upon a pile already sky-high. "I never said I was straight—"

"I don't know what that means." Karkat shrugs.

"It means..." Staring at his lowered head, you get an urge to touch him, to feel the heat of his skin, and instead of finishing your sentence, instead of thinking of all the reasons you shouldn't, you reach out and run your fingers through his black hair. It's soft and a little tangled, and as you move your fingers you brush against one of his stubby horns.

Karkat makes a sound like a soft growl, deep in his throat, and his eyes snap up to meet yours. There's pain on his face, pain and sorrow and fear and hope and desire all snarled up together. He reaches out, laying his hands gently against your head again, letting his fingers get tangled in your white hair. He closes his eyes, growling so softly that it can't be called a growl, so softly that he isn't growling, he's...he's purring.

"Karkat," you say, connecting the noise that he's making with his name and forgetting everything in your life except this ridiculous coincidence, this lingual joke across two universes. "Karkat, like a fucking cat, you're a cat, oh my god—"

Karkat lets you go, brushing off your hands as you start to laugh. Fifteen minutes ago you were alone in this room, ready to end everything and force a personal game over, and now you're laughing at a dumb pun that no one in particular created. And that thought makes you laugh harder.

"You really know how to ruin the moment," Karkat grumbles, crossing his arms and looking away from you.

You're still laughing as you lean forward, put one hand under his chin to turn his face to you, and kiss him.

He hesitates for a second, barely long enough for you to fear that you're wrong to do this—and then he wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer and kissing you back.

Karkat tastes like salt and sweetness, like something foreign and exotic, something that you've been looking for your entire life and never found before now. His teeth are smooth as you run your tongue across them, nubby like his horns but wickedly sharp, sharp enough to make you feel like you're on the verge of cutting your tongue, that kissing him is flirting with danger like you'd love to flirt with him. He's growling—or purring—again, and it feels like your head is resonating with it, with him.

You slip your hands up under his shirt, touching his skin. Sliding your hands across his chest, feeling the ridges of his ribs, his heart beating faster than yours ever could.

Karkat moans, exhaling into your mouth, then pulls away. He doesn't let go of you, though. "Wait," he says, and you get an unreasonable flash of pride at how out-of-breath he sounds. "No...no pailing, okay? Not tonight. You...you need something to look forward to, and you need to sleep."

He shifts his grip as you're parsing that sentence, then stands up, lifting you like you weigh next to nothing. The pure shock of it holds you still for a moment—he's tiny, he barely comes up to your shoulders, how can he pick you up this easily?—and then you twist in his arms. "Karkat, c'mon, put me down—"

"Would you fucking cooperate?" The door to your bedroom is ajar; Karkat kicks it open and carries you through, depositing you unceremoniously on the bed. "There; you're down." He flicks on the light, then pulls his shirt off over his head, folding it in a few quick motions and laying it on top of your dresser.

"What are you doing?" You sit up, flicking hair out of your eyes.

"You think I'm gonna leave you alone?" Karkat glares at you, crossing his arms defensively in front of his chest. "And come back tomorrow morning, and find you fucking dead? No fucking way. Move over."

You don't, but he sits down on the bed anyway.

"Karkat—" You stop yourself. Take a deep breath, hold it for a second, let it out again. You don't know why you're arguing with him; you don't want him to go. "Okay."

And you do something that you wouldn't do if it were someone else sitting there, if it were John or Dirk or fucking anyone but Karkat—or if you hadn't seen the oh-so-faint scars covering his chest and back like spiderwebs, only a shade paler than his grey skin. You pull your shirt off, wadding it into a ball and tossing it off the end of the bed. It takes all of your self-control to keep your hands at your sides, to not cross your arms and try to hide what's on your skin.

"Wow." Karkat's tone is soft, not pitying but maybe a bit sad. He touches you lightly with one long-nailed finger, starting at your shoulder and following the tracery downward. "What are they from?"

Usually, you don't talk about your scars. Usually, you don't even admit they exist. Now, you take Karkat's hand and guide it to the worst and most noticable one, the thick vertical line dead center of your chest. "This one's from Jack Noir. When he...stabbed me. Killed me." You move his hand upward, to one running diagonally across your shoulder. This one's thinner, but longer as well, and you can still remember when it happened. "This one, I was sparring with Bro, and one of us fucked up. Probably me." To the other side, lower, a horizontal cut that's faded to almost nothing. "The first time I ever practiced with Bro, I didn't realize that blades bounce, and he...he didn't know I wouldn't know that."

Karkat pulls his hand down to your stomach, brushing his fingers against the close-set ladderwork of horizontal scars there. "How about these?" His voice is unspeakably gentle, so much so that he doesn't sound like the Karkat you know, and you know he already knows the answer to the question.

"Those—" You have to stop for a second. You've never admitted this, not to anyone, and as far as you know no one knows. "Me. Those are from me, okay?"

Every one of those cuts is for a memory of your Bro. After he died, after you knew he was gone, you sat in the dark and you went through your mind, searching out reasons you shouldn't miss him. For every one you found, you cut another line into your skin.

There were so many reasons.

When you turned the light on, you were kind of surprised by how much blood there was.

You're shaking.

Karkat growls in what sounds like annoyance, and stands up. You watch him, afraid that he's going to leave but somehow unable to call him back.

He steps over to the light switch and flicks it off. Your night vision is awful, and as soon as the room goes dark you are, effectively, blind, but you can hear the mattress creak as he sits down.

"Lie down, Dave." That strange gentleness is still in his voice, and as soon as you do what he says he rolls over next to you, putting one arm across your chest like an anchor.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, and you don't even know what you're apologising for.

"You didn't do anything wrong. It's okay. Go to sleep."

"I love you." You don't know why you say that. It's true, but you've never said it to anyone before, not that you can remember; you've always been too afraid to say it.

"Yeah. I love you, too, if it means what I think it does." Karkat sighs. "Go the fuck to sleep, Dave."

And you close your eyes, and you fall asleep, with Karkat lying warmly against you.

You are KARKAT VANTAS, and you can see a little better that Dave can in this darkness, which is to say that you can just make out vague shapes. You watch Dave in the dark, feeling the rythm of his breath slow and stabilize, fall into a calm pattern. He's asleep now, and you can stop worrying. For a minute, at least.

You're not going to leave him here. You're not going to go to sleep, either. Ever since this game started, ever since you first loaded that fucking game into your computer, you've been plagued with intense nightmares. Even before this all started, you had trouble sleeping sometimes; now that you're almost afraid of what waits for you in your dreams, you often stay awake until you physically can't keep your eyes open any longer.

And you don't like human-style beds all that much. Recupracoons make so much more sense.

You run your fingers across Dave's scars again, lightly enough that you won't wake him, starting with the worst one—Jack's—and working your way outward in a widening spiral. His scars show up so much worse than yours—human skin must not heal as efficiently as troll skin. Either that, or Dave's been hurt almost to the point of dying, over and over again.

You don't want to believe that, but you could—Dave looks and talks tough, seems cool and polished, but when he lets his guard fall, he's so fractured and fragile that it hurts your fucking heart. He's like no one you know; if he'd been a troll, he would have either been culled by now or been selected to train as an elite soldier. You'd like to believe the latter, but you honestly don't know.

And he's not a troll, anyway. He's human, uniquely beautiful and alien, different from you and from everyone you've always known. He is like a reflection of yourself in a cracked mirror, like the other half of everything you are.

You're barely awake, at this point. The realization alone should be enough to banish sleep, but all you can find the energy to do is mutter, "Fuck it," and squirm a little closer to Dave.

His skin is cooler than yours, you think as you close your eyes. Like a highblood's, or maybe not a highblood...Terezi? Equius? Not Gamzee, if you remember right (which you might not; it's been so long since you've touched Gamzee, and that though brings a pang of guilt), warmer than Gamzee's skin but only by a little...

You're still contemplating blood tempature when you fall asleep.

Sleep is as big a mistake as you knew it would be, fraught with blood like a liquid rainbow, pain that's only a shadow of what pain can be but still hurts like fuck, memories that are undeniably your own (no matter how much you'd like to deny them) and memories that are hellishly familiar and yet bewilderingly not-yours. Part of the time you know that you're dreaming, but you still can't force yourself awake.

When you do finally wake up, you do it with a stifled whimper, your hands closing convulsively on—

Flesh. Dave's shoulders. At some point, you moved even closer to him, draping yourself over him and curling against him, and now you're pretty fucking sure you just drove your fingernails deep enough into his skin to draw blood. And you're still in the grip of the nightmare, unable to breathe deep enough to apologise, unable to do anything other than shake and cling to him.

"Bad dream?" Dave's whisper is barely loud enough to be heard over your own heartbeat. "I know how that is."

You breath as deeply as you can, shedding some measure of the unreasoning fear, growl, "I'm fucking fine," and immediately regret saying it.

Dave is silent for a second. "Fine," he replies, thoughtfully. "I know I'm not fine, and I don't think you are, either. Not really. But that's okay." One of his hands comes up, stroking your hair but staying well clear of your horns—even though he's not troll, he seems to get that there are times when horns can be touched and times that they definitely should not be. "Right?"

You can feel the vibration that'll become a purr starting in your chest, and it makes you feel even more ashamed for snapping at him. "I'm sorry," you mutter.

Dave considers that for another long moment, fingers combing absently through your hair. When he speaks again, it's not in a whisper but in a low voice that has a cadence that you've heard from him before, when he's rapping with someone else. "So fine my line between loving and dying, in the nick of time you arrive and you strive to keep me alive, don't let me take a dive, you know you saved my life, broke me out of my strife, brought me relief and taught me belief with the words that you weave—" He runs out of breath, inhales sharply, and keeps going, although his voice goes a bit hoarser with every word, "Karkat, please don't leave, you're what I need and without you I'd bleed: words, blood, and pain, colder than death's reign, I would go insane, you're all that can tame the storm in my brain—"

Dave's voice cracks, and he stops rapping. You can hear his breathing, though, ragged and uneven, as he fights not to cry.

"Fuck," you say softly. You can feel your own tears on your face. "Oh, fuck, Dave, fucking..." There are no words, nothing you can find to say, so instead you reach out in the dark, finding Dave's face and wiping tears away as gently as you can. You're so bad at this, always have been, and you're afraid that you'll do something to hurt him worse as you try to comfort him.

Without even thinking, you run one hand through his hair, feeling for horns and not finding any. Dave sighs shakily as you mentally curse yourself.

"Don't leave me," he says quietly, and his voice breaks again on the second word. "Please—"

"You're fucking kidding me." You lean forward, pressing your lips against his forehead for a brief second. "I'd rather cut off my right hand than leave you alone, Strider, and don't you fucking forget it."

He exhales sharply, a gasp turned inside out, and pulls you down just a little, just enough that your mouth meets his. This kiss is even better than the first time, if that's possible. It lasts what seems like forever and like no time at all, and this time Dave's the one who breaks it.

"Are we—are we still on 'no pailing?'" he asks, and you can hear a wicked smile in his voice. "Because if we are, I might be about to have a problem—"

"Fuck that," you tell him, and find his mouth with your own again.

And he is smiling, and you swear on your soul that you won't ever let him stop.