#five stages of reality au

[wonderjanga]

Little British Boy

The Batsons were both British people who immigrated to America. As a result of this when Mary and Billy were born, they gained British accents causing them to sound like little Victorian children.

Store Owner: “Thanks for the help, young man.” *hands him five dollars*

Billy: “Thank you sir!”

Store Owner: “No problem-” *has to do a double take at that accent* “A Brit?”

Billy: “No sir. But my parents were. I was raised in America.”

Yeah… It confused some people at first, but after a while of the little British kid coming around and doing odd jobs for money, most store owners got used to it. Then came the time Billy wanted a stable job a.k.a. being the Whiz kid.

Mr. Morris: “So you want to be a radio host?”

Billy: “Yes, sir. I need the money.”

Mr. Morris: “Wow… It’s been a long while since I’ve heard a British accent.”

Billy: “Ah, sorry.” *tries to make himself sound more American, but it comes all across as more transatlantic* “Is that better?”

Mr. Morris: *heard the transatlantic accent and was immediately interested* “Very. Why don’t we have you do a trial run and then we’ll go from there?”

Billy: “I’d really appreciate that, sir.” *thinks he thinks his American accent is good, but doesn’t realize he’s doing a perfect transatlantic*

The Britishness also bled into his Captain Marvel form. Though like with Billy, he tried to sound more American and ended up coming across as more transatlantic. People in the 60s loved it, and when the time bubble popped surprisingly people from the 2000s loved it too. And because in this AU the bubble popped in the 2000s, this was when most heroes were first starting out. He ends up meeting a young Batman. Billy had originally gone to Gotham because they wanted to see if the city was still cursed to heck and sure enough it was.

Batman: “You sound just like the old Gray Ghost movies…”

Marvel: “What was that?”

Batman: “Nothing.”

Somehow, about a couple years after this, they ended up developing a friendship. Marvel was even allowed down in the Batcave on the condition he doesn’t touch anything. (Bruce literally saw the man touch something with his pinky and it short fused. He is not taking any risks until he is sure the Batcomputer can handle enough volts of electricity to take out a power plant.) One of these days while Bruce was working, and Marvel was in the cave pacing and chattering incessantly to Bruce about something random, Alfred came down. The butler distracted the Captain and after a bit, all Bruce could hear was unintelligible words.

At first, Bruce just assumed it was him zoning out of the conversation and thought nothing of it, but then Robin tiptoed over:

Robin!Dick: *pokes Bruce to bring him back to reality* “What are they saying…?” *points to Alfred and Marvel*

Alfred and Marvel: *speaking in Welsh*

Batman: “I… don’t know.”

Robin!Dick and Batman: *stares*

Ah… How could he have forgotten? Alfred’s Welsh. Though, the butler now speaks in a different English accent, likely due to his time as a stage actor. Bruce remembered the man telling him that long ago when he was still a boy. How… unprepared of Bruce. He should’ve learned Welsh by now. He’s a little embarrassed he hasn’t. As for Marvel, Bruce was a little upset he didn’t know the man was from England, let alone the same place as Agent A. But then where did the transatlantic-ness come from?

Robin!Dick: “I still can’t tell what they’re saying…”

Marvel and Alfred: *switched back to English at this point, but the accents are still strong*

So yes, Billy has three accents folks. His mother Marilyn was Welsh so he knows how to mimic the accent and speak the language because I say so. His father had a classic London accent which Billy defaults to most of the time. So, Billy’s double British, or just British and Welsh is you want to separate the two. Then there’s the fail-to-try-to-sound-more-American-accent or accidental transatlantic accent.

[changbunnies]

Angel of Music (18+)

♡ Pairing: Phantom!Minho x Opera Singer Fem!Reader

♡ Genre: phantom of the opera inspired au, horror themes, dark romance, age gap, smut, dead dove? read the warnings carefully and come to ur own conclusion on what you're willing to read before engaging pls :'), the ending is also a lil dark, sorry!

♡ Word Count: 5.8k

♡ Summary: A phantom exists in the opera house– he controls every production from the shadows, lurks around every dark corner, always watching. In your dreams exists an angel– a guardian that sings to you, guides you, and comforts you. When The Phantom appears before you in your dressing room mirror, you begin to realize that he and your angel may be one in the same.

♡ General Warnings: slightly less extreme age gap than the source material that inspires this fic but it's still fairly large (reader is ~mid 20s and minho is ~40), briefly described attempted murder of minor characters, implications of stalking, hypnotism, hallucinations + doubts of reality, so much usage of the words "phantom" and "angel" it's not even funny, this fic is not an accurate representation of how hypnotism works irl but it's fiction so i'm taking liberties!

♡ Smut Warnings: dubcon (due to reader being hypnotized), additionally to not being in their proper state of mind, there are also moments in which reader does not feel to be in full control of their body, light dom/sub dynamics, soft pleasure dom!minho because i want more of him !!, mask kink (does it still count if the mask doesn't cover his whole face?? idk i hope so!), some biting, oral (f rec), overstim, multiple orgasms

♡ Notes: i've known for ages that i wanted to write a phantom!minho fic, and my kinktober series gave me the perfect reason to finally write it! also the fact that both my uploaded minho fics are age gap romances?? that was not intentional i swear lmao

♡ Disclaimer: please read responsibly, and remember that this work is fiction and meant strictly for imaginative fun. the idols used in fics are more accurately faceclaims and personality outlines for imaginary characters, and should not be interpreted as factual representations of existing people.

All inhabitants of the opera house have been on edge these days– consequence of the new owners of the Opera Populaire, who decided to disregard all of The Phantom's demands.

The Phantom, as the name suggests, is a ghost story of sorts. According to your castmates, he has been here since long before you joined the Opera Populaire's trainees last year, but his activity has begun to increase since your arrival.

He controls all in the opera house, and his demands of the previous owner were always quite simple; perform what shows he instructs you to, follow his casting down to the letter, and keep the seats in Box Five free at all times. Evidentially, Box Five is his favorite place to watch the shows from– and sometimes, his dark silhouette can be spotted in the shadows of the booth, indiscernible but unmistakably there.

No one has ever truly seen The Phantom beyond a shadow, nor have they heard him speak. He communicates with notes, always left within feet of the recipient without anyone having seen him come or go. His notes will even appear in broad daylight, with not a single person having caught a glimpse of him despite all the eyes in the room.

Well, more accurately, no one has seen him apart from the Madame– an older woman who used to be a performer for the Opera Populaire herself, but has taken the role of choreographer since her retirement from the stage. In the 15 years it's been since The Phantom made his presence known to the opera house, she's the only one who's ever seen him, or heard his voice.

A brief encounter, she explained when asked about it– had barely seen him for more than a few passing moments. He spoke little, but the beauty of his voice was striking, completely unlike any other she’d ever heard. And all he asked of her, in that fleeting moment, was to remember that the Opera Populaire is his home– and as long as the inhabitants respect him, he'll respect them in turn.

The previous director, the Madame, and The Phantom all had a mutual understanding of what was to be done. As long as they listened to him, shows would go off without a hitch; but refuse, and there'd be dire consequences. As such, the Madame has been doing her best to express the importance of listening to The Phantom to the new owners.

The Monsieurs view it as no more than silly superstition– every opera house has their own beliefs and customs, things they consider good and bad luck before a show, things they view as omens of a show's future success. The Phantom is simply one of those things– and with a guiding hand, they can dispel such superstitions, show the cast and crew that there is no shadowy phantom to fear.

The first note left for the Monsieurs went disregarded– a barking laugh leaving the elder of the two before he tossed it in the bin. The instructions on the note were clear enough– you were to take the role of Eurydice in the opera house's production of Orpheus and Eurydice, and not Carlotta, as they originally casted.

You were just as baffled as everyone else to learn that The Phantom wanted you to take such an important role– you'd only been here a year, were still so new to your opera training. It's true enough that you have a good voice, and your dancing has improved with all your diligent practice, but you're still young, and the tragic role of Eurydice is not so easily performed.

Natural talent for bringing emotion to performance aside, you lack stage experience– experience that you can easily gain from background roles. To make you such a crucial stand-out role after only a year of training was simply unheard of– no opera house would do it!

This is to be your first production, your first time on stage in front of an audience; and so regardless of what The Phantom wants, Monsieur Reyer opted to keep you strictly in the supporting chorus roles, where you would go from shepherdess, to nymph, to spirit as the acts progressed. Not a glamorous, shining position in the cast by any means, but more than enough to help familiarize you with the reality of performing with hundreds of eyes watching.

It wouldn't take long for The Phantom to make his displeasure with the decision known. And what started off as just small accidents and stage mishaps quickly turned violent and dangerous as each week passed with you still not given the role that The Phantom felt you deserved to have.

The first violent turn came during rehearsals for Act 3, right in the middle of Eurydice's climactic aria, when the chandelier above the stage came crashing down. Carlotta was standing directly beneath it just before it fell, and it narrowly missed her– purely because she happened to take a few steps forward whilst singing.

“An unfortunate accident,” the Monsieurs said, “it had nothing to do with The Phantom!” But the veterans of the opera house knew better– and the conductor swore he saw a dark shadow on the scaffolds just before the chandelier fell; a shadow that could belong to none other than The Phantom.

Carlotta screamed as it crashed just mere inches away from her, right where she's just been standing, and cried as everyone rushed to her side to ensure that she was unharmed. Again, the Madame tried to persuade them to heed The Phantom before another such “accident” occurred.

"Good God in Heaven, you're all obsessed! These things just happen sometimes– there is no phantom!" Reyer cried in exasperation over everyone's insistence, still unwilling to give in to the idea that the opera house's ghost was real.

And tonight, just after rehearsals came to a close, another terrible stage accident occurred– this time happening to Monsieur Reyer himself. He was up on the scaffolding when it happened, making sure all the stagehands properly rigged the lights in preparation for tomorrow night's premiere of Orpheus and Eurydice.

He was bent down, inspecting the bulbs and wires, when a dark figure appeared behind him. The shadow wrapped a noose around his neck faster than anyone could even react, pushed him off the scaffolding before swiftly retreating back to the shadows.

Reyer almost didn't survive– he was lucky that the nearby stagehands were quick on their feet and in their wits, managing to grab his arms and pull him up while another cut the rope that served to hang the poor man. And as if the message from the accidents alone weren't clear enough, another note was left behind right in the middle of the stage.

It was astounding, really, that not a single person saw The Phantom leave the note behind– and while some could argue that it was because all eyes were on Reyer, or because the stage became chaos as they worked to save him, the Monsieurs realized that maybe they should start to believe that there really is a ghost inhabiting the Opera Populaire.

The moment the note was noticed, the Madame picked it up, and read it aloud for all to hear. "Again, I remind you that Y/N will play the role of Eurydice. As I instruct, Box Five shall remain open for my use. These seats will not be used by another. This is my final warning– disregard at your own risk."

Realizing they had no choice, lest they wish to continue putting themselves and other cast and crew in danger, the Monsieurs begrudgingly declared you the new Eurydice, right then and there.

Given that you're at every rehearsal, you know Eurydice's lines by heart, and are confident that you can sing them well– but still, you're nervous. It's your first production, the premiere is sold out, is set for tomorrow night, and suddenly you're in one of the most pivotal roles in the entire opera.

You don't even understand why The Phantom is so adamant about giving the role to you; what is it about you that he likes, what is it that he sees in you? You wish you could ask the Madame, but she met him so fleetingly, and so many years ago– she has no way of knowing The Phantom's heart beyond an educated guess.

Sitting before your dressing room mirror, you sigh, utterly exhausted– now that you're Eurydice, it was vital that you do a last minute costume fitting and makeup test. As such, you've been in the opera house hours past the time you'd normally be here. The moon hangs high in the sky now, you're sure; you wonder if you should just spend the night here, sleep in the dressing room instead of making a late trek home.

Regardless, you hope your angel comes to you tonight. You know no one would believe you if you told them, but you really do have a guardian angel; and in your dreams, he comes to you– always when you are most lost and in need of guidance. He's a gentle, calming presence; always comforts you, talks to you sweetly when you're filled with self doubt, sings to you in the most beautiful of voices.

You've never actually seen your angel clearly– only heard his voice calling your name and whispering, singing, in a way that could only be described as angelic in its serenity. In your dreams, he's nothing but a vague, blurry image– even at his most clear, you can't define any of his features.

Still, you think of him fondly– and you suspect that as an angel, you aren't meant to be able to fully perceive him. And your angel always, always, knows when you need him– you suspect that even now, he's waiting; waiting for the moment you fall asleep, so that he can come to your side.

You look at yourself, still dressed as Eurydice. A beautiful, off shoulder bateau gown in the prettiest, purest ivory. There's lace appliques throughout the gown, has a beautiful cinched bodice before the tulle skirt fluffs out. It's elegant, makes you feel like a bride waiting to walk down the aisle.

Your makeup shimmers– extra glitter applied on your eyelids to make sure the stage lights catch it. Your jewelry too, is extravagant– made to sparkle and shine every time a light shines on you, to twinkle with each subtle move you make. It's a shame you have to take it all off just to put it all back on tomorrow– but the effort to make sure everything fits you was necessary.

You reach your hands up to one of your ears, prepare to remove one of your dangling earrings when you hear a voice you know all too well call your name– your angel's voice.

You look around the room, bewildered, but see nothing and no one. And surely you were mistaken– you're still awake! Your angel only comes to you in dreams, and you haven't fallen asleep... right? You are still awake, aren't you?

Again, you hear his voice, another whisper of your name. You rise from your chair, look around the room once more– no one. You turn back to the dressing room mirror, and jump in surprise, realizing that the view reflected in it has changed. You no longer see yourself, or the reflection of the dressing room around you– instead, you see a man.

He looks just as the Madame described her memory of The Phantom– dark hair, and even darker eyes, with a white mask that covers the right half of his face. Not completely– just from his hairline, down to his pretty, plump lips. Every inch of his skin is covered, head to toe, all of his clothes pure black apart from the ornate red vest.

Sleek boots and dark trousers, a tall collar that obscures most of his neck, long sleeves that cover his arms, even gloves covering his hands. He wears a cape, long and as dark as the rest of his clothes, and it blows behind him as if there’s a breeze rolling through.

You’re confused, a little frightened, but you can’t tear your eyes away or will yourself to flee– and as the figure speaks your name, you gasp; he truly has the voice of your angel. But he’s The Phantom, isn’t he? 

The blurry, vague scenery behind him begins to sharpen, coming more distinctly visible to your uncertain eyes. A dark corridor full of candelabra, glowing in dull yellows and shades of orange, held by incorporeal hands with no discernable origin.

What little of your dressing room you see in your peripheral shifts and warps as you stare at him, blur together into dark shadows as the table holding your hairbrush and makeup begin to fade and disappear, leaving the view through the mirror as the only thing you can see.

The figure– your angel, The Phantom?– holds his hand out to you through the mirror, as if the glass that should separate you no longer exists; perhaps it doesn't. Smoke– or maybe fog, mist? you can't be certain– pours into the room as you approach the mirror.

As if under a spell, you reach out to take his hand, thinking not of logic as you follow the beckoning call of your name. Your angel; you trust your angel. He smiles as you place your hand in his, and carefully, you step through the mirror, into the corridor.

Entranced, you stare at him; even with half a mask covering his face, he's utterly beautiful. He appears to be older than you, hints of fine lines beholden around his mouth and eyes, and even that adds to his mysterious charm. He holds your gaze as he takes a step back, a candelabra in his hand now, beckoning you to follow him down the corridor.

You squeeze his hand as you follow, and finally he turns around, walks with purpose as he guides you, glancing behind every so often to look at you in what you think to be adoration. You too, glance behind– and where the mirror once stood is now a desolate, barren wall.

You do not see any hint of your dressing room, or of the mirror you stepped through. And as you continue further down the corridor, the candelabra that were once behind you slowly begin to blink out and vanish from sight, leaving only pitch black darkness behind. A spiral staircase made of stone manifests, and you descend it, hand in hand with your angel.

You're so enchanted and bewildered, you can't seem to find your voice– all you can do is follow, let him guide you along to where it is he wants you to be. Even the staircase dissipates when you've finished descending, and for just a moment, you wonder– is any of this truly real?

Finally, you stand in the middle of a beautiful room, lit candles both resting in more candelabra and strewn about the floor, with dark, intricately woven tapestries hanging from the stone walls. There’s a grand piano, sleek black with gold accents, with even more candles resting atop it, as well as a sheet of music sitting pristine on the music desk, black ink seemingly freshly dried, just waiting to be played. 

There are several mirrors, though only one remains uncovered– the rest are obscured by cloth, for reasons you do not know. There is a bed, in what you suppose would be called a “corner” in this otherwise circular space, inviting and plush in its appearance, with blankets colored a rich red. Naturally, candles surround the bed as well, covering it in a beautifully soft, yellow-orange glow. 

“Where are we?” you finally find your voice to ask, and the man smiles as he beckons you to follow him towards his bed. “We are home,” he replies, and though it’s a strange answer, you feel you understand– yes, you are home. This is home. 

You gaze at him curiously after you sit on the bed, just as comfortable as you expected it to be, and he mimics the way you’ve tilted your head at him. “You’re.. My angel, aren’t you? Or are you The Phantom?” you ask, and the man laughs ever so softly, melodious and beautiful. 

“I am Minho,” he responds, as if that alone is a sufficient enough answer– in a way, you suppose it is. What else is there to know? He is Minho. That is enough.

“I have longed to touch you, to bring you here,” Minho whispers as he reaches one of his gloved hands to your face, strokes your cheek slowly, gently. The sensation, though simple, feels so tender– it sparks something inside you, fills you with a warmth you’ve never felt before. You close your eyes, bask in the comfort his touch provides you. 

You feel his hand move, travel down until his fingers are under your chin. He tilts your head up, and you open your eyes to see him gazing down at you warmly. “You are so beautiful,” he whispers, speaking to you as gently as he always does. He’s said it before, in your dreams– that you are beautiful, talented, deserving of all you wish to have.

He never lets you linger on self-doubt, never allows you to think you are lesser than someone else, or undeserving of the opportunities you’ve been granted. Your angel knows you– you think he’s appearing to you now, like this, because he knows you are uncertain of playing Eurydice; he must think that he needs to remind you of just how special you are. 

All of your doubts about tomorrow’s premiere– he will dispel them from your mind, as he always does. He kneels before you, gazing at you carefully as he inches closer to you, his hands softly rubbing over your shoulders and down your arms. His attentive stare as he caresses you makes you breathing quicken, your heart starting to pick up speed.

“Do you trust me?” Minho asks suddenly, and with not an ounce of hesitation, you nod. You’ve no reason not to trust him– in the year it's been since your angel first appeared to you, you’ve always trusted him. There is no one else that makes you feel so secure, so at peace, so.. Loved, cared for. Yes, your angel, Minho, loves you, cares for you like no other. You trust him. 

“I wish to clear your mind of worry and doubt– to make you think only of me, and the music we can make together. I wish to touch you, to kiss you, to hold you," he says, and oh, he knows he shouldn’t be pouring his heart out like this, for it’s too soon, much too soon. But he’s been enamored with you since the first moment you stepped into the Opera Populaire, has been infatuated with you since first hearing the passion in your voice.

He can’t help it, it seems– now that he has you here, in his lair, his defenses falter, all of his desires pouring out of him. To have you here, and to touch you like this, even so simply– it’s everything he’s wanted. And instantly, unconsciously, you reach out to him. Your angel sees you, knows you– you wish to know him too, to understand him the way he does you.

Your mind is somehow as clear as it is hazy– clear, because you know what it is that you want. Regardless of who he is, what he is, you want Minho to have you. Anything he wants, you feel compelled to give, as if it’s all you know; and in this moment, perhaps it is. In the very back reaches of your addled mind, a reminder blares– The Phantom always gets what he wants. 

And what he wants now, most of all, is you; and despite what logic may tell you to feel, you trust him to have you. He sees all that you feel in your expression alone, knows all that you think as if he’s seen into the depths of your mind. Even now, perhaps more than ever before, he sees you. 

Sees all that you are, and all that you want– and a charming smile plays on his lips as you gaze at him with wanton desire to let him take you. To let him have, to give yourself over– you wish to offer yourself wholly to your angel’s desires.

Your eyes flutter closed as he kisses you, a soft press that you could almost call chaste, his hands slowly moving over your body, each soft touch lingering. You don’t feel his gloves anymore, you realize– did he take them off without you noticing? You suppose it doesn’t matter– his hands are warm, a bit rough and calloused against the soft skin of your arms, and you like it.

Even as his kisses become less chaste, deepen as his hands travel to your hips, they remain slow and purposeful. His hands eventually find the bottom of your dress, begin to lift it ever so slowly up your thighs– not to expose you, but so that he can slot himself between your legs. Somehow, innately, you understand this– and easily, you spread your legs for him, allowing him to find his place between them.

His arms wrap around you after, pulling you closer, pressing your body to his. Your chest is rising and falling rapidly by the time he pulls away, breathless as you look to him with eager, impassioned eyes– a gaze that heats his otherwise cold heart. You reach up, bring your hands to his face; he nearly flinches when you touch his mask, though he knows you mean no harm. 

Minho feels himself ugly under his mask– too scarred and disfigured to be appealing to you in any regard; at least like this, with only the good parts of his face on display, you may find him handsome. Your touch is as soft as your gaze, and though perhaps you should, you make no move to remove his mask; you simply rub your thumb over the cold porcelain.

It’s a vulnerable thing, really– how softly you touch his ugliest spots. It doesn’t matter that you can’t see them from beneath his mask– the tender regard you seem to feel for him, even without having seen the scars that mar him, is more than enough. It’s ironic, in a way, that you seem to think he’s an angel; in reality, the only angel in this room is you. 

“I want to please you, if you'll let me,” he breathes as his fingertips ghost over your thighs. It makes your breath hitch, blinking at him slowly as you process his intent. There is much your angel wants– but chasing the pleasure of his own flesh isn’t one of those things. He doesn’t need it to feel satisfied; your pleasure will more than suffice him.

His dark eyes bore into yours as he awaits your answer, can tell from his wanting gaze how serious he is about pleasing you, and it makes your cheeks slowly bloom with heat. And it’s not just what he wants– it’s what he needs, really; when you surrender yourself to him, he wants it to be for your pleasure, not his own. 

“Oh, please– touch me,” you answer, plead– because something from deep inside you screams for it, wanting it beyond all comprehension. Your darkest, most innate desires manifest for him; desires that you didn’t even fully realize you had. They possess you, drive you to kiss him again, urgent and passionate. 

Minho returns your kiss with equal fervor, lets his tongue slip past his lips to meet yours. They share a dance, swirl around each other until you’re breathless again; and then he’s guiding you back, urging you to lay down as he hovers over you. He pulls the skirt of your dress further up your body, until your thighs are entirely exposed and he can see your dampening panties. 

He lowers himself to you, but doesn’t go immediately where you expect him too– he takes his time trailing wet, lingering kisses over your thighs instead. Your inner thighs are sensitive, ticklish, and you can’t help but squirm from each kiss he grants you.

You also can’t help but jolt each time the cool porcelain of his mask presses against the hot skin of your thigh, and again when he carefully sinks his teeth into your pliant flesh. He doesn't do it hard enough to hurt, or even fully leave indents of his teeth behind– just enough to leave you panting and squirmy; and he lets out a soft, airy laugh every time he succeeds in the endeavor. 

Your bunched up skirt is so full that you can hardly even watch him work you up; but there are times, while kissing and biting over your trembling thighs, that he lifts his head just enough to let you catch his gaze. It makes your heart skip a beat, butterflies dancing in your stomach every time he locks eyes with you while kissing around where you need him most.

You reach a point where you’re no longer squirming because his attention tickles, but because you’re becoming desperate, impatient; and the way he stares at you as he does it all doesn't help in the slightest. “Minho, please,” you whine, shameless; and you can feel him smile against your skin before he lifts himself up from his place between your legs. 

“Needy are we, angel?” he asks, grinning as you pout and nod. “Need you,” you mumble, but he hears you loud and clear; he’s attuned to you, your angel is. He lowers himself between your thighs once more, kisses your pussy over your panties– and it’s not quite what you need, but it’s enough to have you gasping and quivering. 

Again, he takes his time, as if not a single ounce of urgency resides within him. And make no mistake, it does– but Minho knows how to restrain himself. He’s a stubborn man, that is certainly true, but he’s also perfectly in control of himself; for now, anyways. 

And he likes the way you whine for him when you feel his tongue lick you up over the fabric of your panties. It’s not a full enough feeling for you, or a full enough taste of your pussy for him, but the desperate, whiny sounds it draws out of you are delicious enough to satisfy him.  

Still, while he’s enjoying the way his soft kisses and kitten licks over your panties is making you writhe and cry for him, he also can’t deny how badly he wants to finally taste you directly on his tongue. He’s been patient enough, he thinks, and so have you– why not indulge just a little sooner than planned?

In contrast to how sweetly he’s treated you up to this point, he’s quick to tear your panties away from your body. The sound of the fabric ripping makes you gasp, and maybe later he’ll apologize– but for now, lapping his tongue between your folds is of more importance. You moan when his tongue finally meets your bare pussy, as does Minho– and despite the hunger that he feels, he continues to lick you over slowly. 

The languid pace makes you crazy– you want more, so much more, but your angel has been waiting for this; he needs to take his time with you, needs to embed the taste of your dripping sex on his tongue, needs to make sure it’s something he’ll never be able to forget. And he isn’t trying to tease you by keeping the slow pace– well, maybe he is a little; he does enjoy it, after all– but he’s sincerely craved this for too long to let the moment quickly pass him by. 

He brings his hands to your thighs, squeezing them in his hands and preventing you from closing them around his head. You’re sure it’s partly so he can keep you spread out for him, to keep enjoying the easy access to your pussy, but it’s also so that your trembling thighs don’t cause his mask to shift, and fall from his face. 

You gasp when the cool, smooth and rigid porcelain covering the right side of his nose bumps your clit as he shoves his tongue into your hole. And while he isn’t purposely trying to get you to cum just yet, his slow but diligent ministrations are getting you there regardless– with his tongue dipping in and out of your heat, always pushing in as deep as he can make it go, and his mask-covered nose nudging your clit. 

You let your head fall back against the bed, your every high pitched whimper and moan echoing off the stone walls surrounding you. You try to tell him you’re going to cum, but you fail miserably– all that leaves you is a quick succession of whines before your eyes are rolling, back bowing off the bed as release on his tongue. Minho moans with you, hums happily as he licks the mess from your pussy like the cat that got the cream. 

He laves over your clit when he’s done licking up your cum– and it's sensitive, swollen from your orgasm; but that doesn’t stop him from swirling his tongue around it, and positively knocking the air from your lungs. The sensation is overwhelming, he knows it is even without you telling him, but it’s still so good that you don’t want to squirm away, or ask him to stop– or perhaps you can’t. 

You get the distinct feeling that even if you tried, your limbs would resist, would fight to keep you in place– despite your best efforts, you would remain just as you are now. Spread open and trembling, exactly how Minho wants you. “You make the prettiest music, angel,” he separates from you long enough to speak, “want you to keep singing for me.”

And sing for him you do when he dives back in, flicks your clit with his tongue a few times before wrapping his lips around it, sucking it like a piece of hard candy. Your moans, the smacking sounds of his lips, the way he hums when he returns to your hole to collect the cream– it’s an orchestra, just for the two of you.

You cum again in record time, of course you do. Minho finds it cute, the way you incoherently babble away as you let go for him again. And he isn’t done just because you came again– no, he’s far from finished with your pussy. He doesn’t tire in the slightest, ceaseless in the way he lavishes with you his tongue and suckles with his pretty, perfect lips. 

When you cum for the third time, you don’t even know if you truly ever stop cumming at all– the pleasure just keeps coming in waves, never fully receding before it builds again, washing over you like a tsunami before it all repeats. You writhe and twist, back repeatedly bowing off his bed before falling back, but your thighs stay spread for him, even when his hands stop holding them down. 

His hands have found their way beneath you, cupping and squeezing your ass as he eats away. Your hips wriggle, and he helps grind you up against his face, moaning and humming all the while. It’s too much and not enough all at once; your body screams that it can’t take it, and yet your mind screams that it needs more, and God, you can’t think straight– but is there any point in this night that you were?

You’re hot and heaving, sweat dripping from your brow as you tremble and bend. Minho is hot too, of course– his hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, his face red from his cheeks to his ears, and even down his neck. And were you not so far gone, you’d have noticed that his mask has shifted and fallen from his face. 

It was because of you, too– when another high took you and tugged on his hair hard, crying as your hips jolted and bucked against his face. He should’ve swiftly put it back on, lest you see his scars, but he didn’t– he just shoved it aside, against his better judgment, so he could keep licking you up without interruption. 

You feel positively delirious by the time he’s finished, eyes heavy and bleary, body utterly limp and boneless. He crawls his way up to you, and your gaze is unfocused, blurry; you can hardly distinguish his features anymore– similar to the way he always appeared in your dreams before now.

Regardless, you smile at him before you close your eyes; a weak, but content one that Minho finds oh so endearing. You’re beyond fatigued, but also feel an unmatched sense of elation as your angel strokes your head and whispers sweet nothings for you to fall asleep to. “You belong to me now,” you hear him say, just before you drift off– and you know it’s true. 

You think, perhaps, you’ve always belonged to him. From the very first moment Minho saw you, he knew he was never going to let you go. And just as Orpheus had done for Eurydice, he’d gladly walk into the depths of Hades itself if that’s what it took to keep you by his side. 

He gently caresses your cheek as you fall into a deeper sleep, presses a soft kiss to your lips and whispers a final soft utterance of love before he covers you with a blanket, and your mind goes completely dark for the night. 

You wake the next day with a struggle– at least, you think it’s the next day; it’s too dark in the room you’re in to tell for certain. You reach out for Minho, but don’t feel him anywhere– and as you sit up, and your eyes adjust to the darkness, you realize that you are alone. Your brows furrow as you look around; you’re still in his room, but it doesn’t look quite the same. 

There are no candles, not on the floor or in the candelabra that now lie empty. The tapestries adorning the walls are torn and dulled in color, the piano dusty and the gold decorating it chipped. The sheet of music that sits on the piano’s music desk, that last night looked so fresh and pristine, now appears weathered and yellowed.

As you grab the blanket to pull it off you, you realize it isn't a blanket at all that is covering you, but a cape– Minho’s cape. And on the bed, just an arm’s reach away from you lies a note– the same kind that The Phantom always leaves behind inside the Opera Populaire.

Your hand trembles as you pick it up, eyes straining to read it in the darkness. The message he leaves behind, when your eyes focus on the words well enough to read them, is quite simple. “To my beloved and beautiful Eurydice; welcome home.”

[gloomwitchwrites]

Task Force 141 Metal Band AU x Backup Singer Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): swearing, alcohol, brief blood, tending to a wound, flirting, bratty behavior, flashback scene w/ Ghost x Reader

Word Count: 4k

Years ago, you venture into London while traveling across Europe. At a punk show, you cross paths with a balaclava-wearing stranger named Ghost.

Chapter Two // Chapter Four

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // second act masterlist

THEN

Condensation from the plastic cup you hold drips onto the back of your hand. Bringing it to your mouth, you lick the water up, questioning why it vaguely tastes of juniper. It might be the gin in your cup, or the lack of integrity to the plastic.

The gin and tonic you purchased from the bar for a single pound note is likely all water anyway. Or the liquor is bottom-shelf shit with a resale value of mere pennies. The later is more likely. You’ve consumed three, and you’re downing your fourth. And why not? It’s not like you have anywhere to be, or that you have anyone waiting for you.

Those hostel girls were not your fucking friends.

Clearly. Fucking clearly.

Where are they? Not here. They left you to drown in the mud.

Bringing the straw to your lips, you lightly bite down on it, sucking down more of the cheap beverage. Before you is a crowd and a stage. Punk music blares from old speakers that are barely holding together. You are on the fringes, watching from a distance, steering clear of the pit. Bodies thrash about, and those that do emerge are bruised and bloodied.

You were brought here by the three young women you met at the hostel you’re staying at.

The Foundry.

And fucking surprise, the place used to be exactly that. According to one of your wayward companions, this place use to be the epicenter of British firepower during the World Wars. Now, like the bullets it used to manufacture, the place is a gutted shell. There are no more massive smelters or superheated molten metal—just empty infrastructure used as a music venue.

Another sip, and the buzzing beneath your skin intensifies. There’s that hum you’ve been chasing. Why feel anything right now except the music and your alcohol-fueled boldness? It’s all you have left other than the cash in your purse.

This European trip was fun while it fucking lasted. Blowing the rest of your cash and sanity in this deadened metal factory is the reality check you need. Just jump on a plane tomorrow and be done with it.

Sucking down the rest of your drink, you dump it in the nearest bin, finding the bar and ordering another like you’re not starting to feel the effects of the alcohol. You keep to the outskirts of the crowd where groups of people and couples gather. There are a few individuals standing by themselves enjoying the music and not paying anyone else any attention. Your gaze sweeps over each person, and then freezes on a familiar face.

Two nights ago, you were in this exact venue watching a metal show unfold. Different vibes and different energy, but just as enjoyable. Five bands came on stage for forty-five minute sets each. Of them all, Spawn caught your attention. Every member of the band covered their faces with either a mask or a painted balaclava. None of them spoke, simply moving from song to song during the entirety of their performance.

After they finished, Spawn up and disappeared. Poof. Fucking vanished.

But one of them is here. Gin-addled brain aside, you have zero doubt.

It’s the drummer. Though you only saw him on stage in brief glimpses, you got a good look at him when the set was over and he exited the stage. It’s the height and broad shoulders that give him away. All four members of Spawn were tall and built, but there is a thickness to him that’s more than simple exercise at the gym. His day job might be construction, or something requiring hard labor.

He’s off by himself, surrounded by a flock of five women. Their mouths move but his gaze goes right over their heads. The man is focused on the stage, clearly uninterested in what they have to say.

Why not add one more to the mix? Stir the pot. Fuck shit up and piss someone off.

With a fifth gin and tonic fueling your steps, you shift direction, gunning for the drummer of Spawn as if he’s expecting you. The gaggle of women keep chattering on, and as you near, a few turn in your direction, clear annoyance forming on their faces as they realize you’re heading for him and not passing by.

Good. Fuck them. Their makeup is so overly done you’d mistake them for Republican women if they were State-side.

As you draw closer, the women quiet, shoulders straightening as they form a wall. You push right through, popping a hip and staring up at the drummer of Spawn like you’re ready to go toe-to-toe with him.

Slowly—so achingly slowly—does his gaze move from the band on stage to you. Behind the balaclava, he cocks a singular eyebrow. Could mean anything. But to you, it’s a goddamn dare.

“Saw you perform the other night,” you say loudly.

“Excuse me. But we were having a conversation,” interrupts one of the women.

You blatantly ignore her.

“Lots of people did,” he replies.

“Yeah, well, it sucked,” you retort.

One raised eyebrow becomes two. His head tilts slightly to the side.

Before he has a chance to reply, you bring the straw to your lips, sucking on it until all the liquid is gone, and still continuing to do so long after. The moment you stop, his head tilts toward you, as does his upper body. But there is nothing intimidating or repulsive in the move. There’s too much gentleness to the way he shifts, like he’s suddenly interested.

“You—” he begins, but you immediately start sucking on your straw again, filling the air with the bubbled gurgling of an empty glass.

You give it a few good seconds before stopping.

“You fucking done, dove?”

No. He’s not mad. Not in the slightest. Here you are, a complete stranger, telling him his band sucked, and he finds it amusing.

“Did you get better at the drums?”

“No.”

“Pity.”

He chuckles, a short, clipped sound like he’s astounded at your audacity.

The woman behind you scoffs. “Bitch,” she mutters.

His gaze quickly darts over your shoulder to glance at the woman standing behind you. The middle of his brow pinches, but when he returns his attention to you, the crease softens.

“Didn’t catch your name.”

You shrug. “Didn’t give it.”

There’s a smile. It’s hidden behind the balaclava but you know it’s there. It’s in the way the skin around his eyes crinkle.

With a shift of his shoulders, he leans in like he’s telling you a secret. “Ghost.”

“Boo?” you shrug.

He chuckles the same way he did seconds before. “That’s my name.”

You nod. Keep nodding. “Cute.”

“Thank you,” whispers Ghost, ending it with a wink.

Jesus Christ.

Goddamn.

“Where’s the rest of your band?” you ask. “Are they here?”

“Looking to tell them how rubbish they are?”

“Absolutely,” you reply with a smile. “Point them out to me.”

This time, Ghost’s chuckle isn’t clipped. It’s deep. Amused. And the quality of it is like amber whiskey. “You’re cheeky. Soap will love that. Enjoys a good banter.”

Taking a cautious step, you move to the left and forward, saddling up beside him. Ghost hasn’t looked anywhere else this entire conversation. All his focus—all of his regard—is for you.

It’s a hand on your shoulder that shatters the peace. “It’s rude to chip in.”

You turn slowly, staring daggers into the women grasping your shoulder. “What conversation?” you retort. “The one where you all were jabbering on and he blatantly ignored you.”

You watch as their faces go red.

With a huff, she releases your shoulder. “Come on girls,” she mutters, walking off.

Ghost waits until they’re gone before speaking up. “She’s right.”

You roll your eyes. “Yes. But were you really having a conversation with them?”

“No.”

You lightly punch his shoulder with the empty cup. “Exactly my point.”

Those dark eyes of his are assessing. Though they are focused on you, they scan your face and body constantly, lingering only when you’re speaking.

“Is Ghost really your name?”

“No,” he replies bluntly, and you laugh out loud. “But it’s the one you’re getting.”

“Fair,” you giggle, bringing your drink to lips and then groaning when you remember that it’s fucking empty. “Damnit.”

Ghost plucks the empty plastic cup right out of your hands and tosses it into a nearby bin. “Still haven’t told me your name.”

“It’s because I’m making one up in my head,” you mutter.

He shakes his head. “No, love. Out with it.”

“You gave me a false one.”

“Not false,” he corrects. “Just not my real name.”

“Think I’d be worried for your mother’s sanity if she named you Ghost.”

“My mum’s dead,” he deadpans.

“Fucking Christ,” you gasp, almost choking on a bit of air. He chuckles again, and you smack his chest. “That’s foul.”

“She is dead.”

“Why are you Brits so grim?”

“Between the constant rain and Thatcher’s—”

“Forget I asked,” you say quickly, holding up your hand.

But the two of you are laughing. Not robust or loud but familiar, like two friends reuniting after a long absence. The realization boils up quickly, slamming around in your skull, melting away all the alcohol-fueled boldness.

You don’t know Ghost. He doesn’t know you. What are you doing?

It hurts, but you step away. Ghost clocks the movement immediately, some of that lightheartedness slipping away.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” he asks, clearly confused about why you’re apologizing.

“I pushed in where I wasn’t invited.”

Ghost considers you for a moment, his reply coming after a few moments of silence. “Glad you did.”

You take another step away from him. Then another. “I should go.”

Ghost matches the steps. “Should you?”

Now you’re the one who’s flustered. Heat flares up along your spine and seizes your neck. A wanton coil curls in the pit of your stomach—low in your belly and scarily close to your pussy.

“Yes,” you breathe, backing away.

As you turn to go, his hand shoots out, encircling your wrist. With a quick jerk, you’re pressed up against him, balaclava-covered face close, the coarse fabric scratching against your skin.

“What are you really like? Without the alcohol to amp those nerves?” His voice is a murmur, and there is a primal quality to it that cuts you open, threatening to expose old wounds.

The little bit of tenacity still within you wiggles up from the depths, giving teeth to your words. “You’d love me if I opened for you.”

Ghost sighs, and it almost sounds like a groan. The muscles in his shoulders relax, and that release of tension gives just enough room for you to snatch your wrist free of his grip.

You don’t even say goodbye. Not verbally.

It’s all in your gaze. In the way you hover, walking backwards for a few seconds before giving him your shoulder—only to allow the man one final glance.

Then it’s a burst of sound of noise of thunderous banging. Every voice in the room, every sound that bounces off of The Foundry’s walls, every music note, and every staticky screech from the speakers comes roaring forward like a charging animal. It smashes against you until your head throbs, and the room spins slightly.

“Fuck,” you mutter, heading to the bar for water. “Didn’t need that last drink.”

As you head in that direction, the crowd only thickens. Did more people arrive? You didn’t notice. Then again, you were to be busy flirting with Ghost. Well, flirt is a strong word. More like harass.

You turn sideways, wiggling between two people, only to be spit out directly into a packed crowd. The more you try to navigate, the thicker the bodies become. It doesn’t make any sense. Did you get turned around on your way to the bar? It seems impossible, especially since you’ve visited it five times now for a beverage.

You’re heading in the right direction. You are.

“Excuse me,” you yell over the music, attempting to pass in front of someone.

They take a step back, but the person in front of them also moves, knocking right into you. You’re pushed forward and into a body.

“Sorry,” you gasp, catching yourself and straightening.

But no one responds. More people have pushed in—shoving forward as the guitar shreds to an impossibly loud crescendo. You try to twist—to try and find a way out—but you’re kept immobile, shepherded toward the unknown.

Your heartrate quickens, the thumping in your chest radiating all the way to your ears until it pounds in your head. You cannot get enough air, enough space, enough—

The crowd roars, and then you’re vaulted forward into flailing bodies. Arms and hands lash out. Legs kicks. Fists thrown.

A young man in front of you swings outward, his hand connecting with a face. You hear the crack of his palm over the music. See a few bright droplets of blood shoot upward.

You purposefully avoided the pit for this very reason.

Even as you scramble backward, the wave crashes, barring your escape. Frenzied, the crowd screams and roils, and you have nowhere to run to.

Hands are on you. Shoving. Shoving.

You topple forward. A body barrels into you, knocking the wind from your lungs. Thrust to the left, you crash into more people, only to be pushed off—away.

Another shove. Hands. Pulling. A jab to the stomach.

The music is distant. Suddenly muted.

As if moving through muck, you turn your head as if you have a collar around your neck, and the person with the lead has given it a tug. You see it then, a fist. Silver rings on the fingers. It’ll hurt when it strikes your face. You know it.

But there’s a catch.

A body blocks your path. All you see at first is the leather jacket and the incoming fist disappearing.

There’s a— “fucking wanker”—followed by a crunch. Followed by a yelp of pain.

Your savior turns, and you come face-to-face with a familiar balaclava-wearing drummer.

“Ghost?” you breathe.

He doesn’t reply, only moves in, creating a protective barrier. Taking the brunt of the blows, Ghost manages to push the two of you through the crowd and out into open air. Your lungs rejoice, sucking down air like they’ve been starved.

“Are you all right?” asks Ghost, voice full of concern.

He checks you over, gaze darting over your face before moving lower. His hands caress your cheeks, tilt your head one way and then the other.

“I’m fine.” Then, “I’m fine,” you repeat louder, reaching for him.

You heard that crunch and that yelp of pain. But he doesn’t appear to be injured. Even as he grasps your upper arms, keeping you upright, you place both hands against his covered cheeks. Under your right hand, you feel wetness.

Drawing back, you find red.

“Ghost. You’re bleeding.”

You show him your palm, and he shrugs. “Should see the other bloke.”

“What happened to the other guy?” you ask, voice wavering slightly in panic.

“I’m aces, love.” His hand is still on your cheek, thumb resting just shy of your mouth. “A bit of blood won’t hurt none.”

“No. You’re hurt. Should have it looked at,” you insist. Ghost sniffs and then winces, the sound of it congested. “Did they hit your nose?”

“Maybe,” he coughs, trying to brush it aside like it doesn’t matter.

“Ghost,” you chide, returning your hand to his cheek.

This time, you lightly press against the balaclava, searching for where the injury might be. It’s not like you can fucking see it, and trying to convince him to remove the balaclava here may only result in resistance on his end.

He sighs, the sound warm and with a hint of growl. “Like how you say it.”

“Not the time to be flirting,” you mutter.

“I’ve just rescued you. Think it’s the perfect time,” he counters.

You drop your hand from his face and scowl. “You really need your face looked at.”

Ghost’s hand against your cheek slides down to rest at the base of your throat. “No hospital. But you can take a look.”

“Fine,” you concede.

“Fine.”

The two of you stand there, simply staring at each other. There is a softness in his stare, one that sends a little happy tingle through your limbs. You feel…seen, and it’s entirely debilitating.

“I’m staying at a hostel. Not sure that’s the best place.”

“We can go to my flat.”

You laugh. “It’s a ruse, isn’t it? To get me to come home with you.”

Ghost inclines his head. “Is it working?”

“Yes,” you begrudgingly admit. “Lead the way.”

Ghost’s hand at your throat shifts, sliding to the back of your neck and then over your shoulder. He drapes his arm over them, keeping you close against him as the two of you exit The Foundry and head out into the night.

There’s a short walk, and then a ride on the Underground. Few people glance your way, but it’s late in London, and anyone out this late is either heading home or looking for trouble. You and Ghost chat about nothing and everything, the conversation slipping between topics fluidly.

And he never stops touching you. Out on the street, it’s an arm draped over your shoulders. On the Underground, it’s a hand on your upper thigh, resting there like a sign of ownership, as if you belong to him.

It’s the walk up to Ghost’s building that’s silent. The street is empty. The building a little rundown and derelict. There are a few bins of trash that are overflowing, and a dog barks somewhere in the distance.

Ghost remains glued to your side, his head on a swivel all the way up to and upon entering the building. Once inside, he seems to relax, his mood improving as the two of you ascend.

“Bit messy in the flat,” he mutters, digging around in his pockets for his keys.

“How many people live with you?” you ask.

“Including me. Four.”

“All bachelors?”

“Yes,” he laughs.

“Would explain the mess,” you muse as Ghost inserts the key and opens the door.

He steps aside, allowing you to enter first. Shutting the door behind him, Ghost removes his jacket and offers to take yours.

“Thank you,” you whisper, giving it to him along with your purse.

He hangs up both.

The flat itself is fairly sparse and the only mess you notice is what you’d expect from four single men. The coffee table in the living room has a few empty bowls and cups, but that’s it. The sofa appears clean if fairly worn, and the television is large. Nothing about it stands out to you.

“Want something to drink?” he asks, heading into the kitchen.

“Water. Please.”

He returns with water for you and a whiskey for him.

Taking a sip, you place it down on the table. “Should really look at the injury.”

Ghost inclines his head and then drops onto the sofa. “This good?”

“Great,” you reply, glancing around. “Have a first aid kit anywhere.”

“Cabinet in the washroom.” Ghost indicates the door with a nod of his head. “Just there.”

Entering, you dig around, finding sterilizing alcohol, clean washcloths, and bandages. Instead of selecting a few things, you grab the entire storage basket, heading back out into the living room.

“I’ll need—”

You stop dead in your tracks.

Ghost leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. In one hand he holds the whiskey glass while a lit cigarette dangles from between his lips. The balaclava is gone. It’s on the table. Discarded. Ghost turns his head in your direction. There’s blood all under his nose, over his mouth, and smeared across his chin.

While the gore surprises you, it’s that the balaclava is gone. You’re seeing him.

“What?” he prompts. “Like what you see?”

Yes.

“Just—” You wave your hand in front of your face. “The blood.”

Ghost snorts, and takes a long drag on his cigarette. “That bad?”

“You’re covered,” you affirm, approaching him slowly.

He exhales the smoke. It curls around him, hovering—then melting away. He ashes the cigarette and returns it to his mouth.

Sinking down onto the sofa next to him, you lay out the supplies. Grabbing your water glass, you dip part of the washcloth into the water.

“Look at me,” you command, but there’s no authority in it.

Ghost turns his head, and you bring the wet washcloth to his face. With gentle dabs and light passes, you remove more and more of the blood. The washcloth turns pink but you pretend not to notice.

Once his chin is clean you move to his lips. Ghost removes the cigarette and places it in the ashtray. You keep dabbing away, clearing blood. And the whole time, his gaze lingers on you. You pointedly keep your gaze averted from his, but it’s difficult. His stare drills into you, and with every passing second, the urge to make that connection grows.

Lips clean, you start in to wipe away the blood underneath and around his nose.

The washcloth makes contact with his skin, and Ghost winces.

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

Folding the washcloth in half, you place it over your knee, and then reach for a clean absorbent pad.

“Just want to check something. Stay still.” Ghost does and you press around his nose. “How does that feel?”

He shrugs. “Uncomfortable. Tender.”

You test the area, but he doesn’t flinch again. “Don’t see any swelling. Doesn’t feel swollen either. Might have some bruising though.”

“I’ve looked worse.”

“Somehow, I believe that.” You set the absorbent pad down and then run your finger lightly over the bridge of his nose. “I don’t think it’s broken.”

“I didn’t think so,” replies Ghost.

You drop your hand. “You know what a broken nose feels like?”

He smirks, and brings the whiskey glass to his lips. “It’s bloody worse than the pain I feel now.”

“Suppose that’s a good thing,” you reply, digging through the basket of supplies.

You’re not looking at him. When Ghost curls a finger under your chin and turns your head toward him, you’re momentarily stunned. At his touch, you surrender, sitting up straight and giving him your full attention.

Ghost’s gaze lingers before dropping to your mouth. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip. There’s an appreciate look there.

“You’re sweet,” he whispers.

“Surprised?” you counter, and Ghost smiles.

With one more pass over your bottom lip, Ghost drops his hand. He sets the whiskey glass aside, and then gently takes the washcloth off your knee. It folds it four times, creating a square, and then he places it on the table.

“Simon.”

“What?”

“My real name,” he says. “It’s Simon.”

“Oh. Well.” You swallow. “Hello, Simon.”

“Hello,” he croons.

The two of you stare into each other eyes. He’s searching for something, and whatever it is, you long to give it. Shifting closer, he cups your cheek just like he did at The Foundry. Simon leans in, and there is an ask in that movement.

Say yes, it says.

His eyelids grow heavy, those pale eyelashes reflecting the light from the tableside lamp like tiny halos. You lean in, and then you’re kissing him, accepting the silent question.

One becomes two becomes three becomes infinite.

They are small and innocent at first, developing into deeper strokes. Wanton. Honey-laced. The hand on your cheek shifts to the back of your neck, and that one touch changes everything. His fingers drag against your skin, and you gasp against his mouth.

But it is Simon who draws back, who creates the faintest hint of distance. His lips tease another kiss and then he’s reclining, legs spreading wide as he drapes an arm over the back of the sofa. Simon grabs his thigh, squeezing, then patting the spot in invitation.

Your core clenches. A new desire crawls forward, nails digging in, dragging you toward a singular mindset. He is offering, providing an opening. And why not take it? Why not find out what it would feel like to have him deep inside, stretching you deliciously.

Simon must know your inner turmoil because he smirks as if knowing what you’re about to say.

“Come here,” he purrs.

taglist:

@glitterypirateduck @suhmie @z-wantstowrite @kylies-love-letter @keiva1000

@iloveslasher @ravenpoe67 @sadlonelybagel @nishim @arrozyfrijoles23

@voids-universe @itsberrydreemurstuff @sageyxbabey @glassgulls @miaraei

@weasleytwins-41 @eternallyvenus @chaostwinsofdestruction @cherryofdeath @ninman82

@fern-reads @waves-against-a-cliff @beebeechaos @smileykiddie08 @whisperwispxx

@jianyi22 @sethell @atpeacee @konigssweatyhood @dreamingoftomorrow

@katerinaval @morguethemagpie @galactict3a @sarah-the-bird-nerd @mikachu-bitez

@unclearblur @kurochan3

[inseobts]

Can you make CEO Law?? (I need him be my sugar daddy)

Sugar & Scalpel

ceo!trafalgar law x gn!reader

a/n: I'm not that good at smut or similar so I hope it's like you wanted it, if not let me know, I'm always open to constructive criticism to do better next time!!

tags: ceo law, sugar daddy au, slightly spicy

word count: 1.3k

masterlist || ko-fi

The first time you met Trafalgar Law, it was at a high-profile gala you had no business attending. A friend snuck you in, promising free champagne and an escape from your dull reality. What you didn’t expect was to lock eyes with the most dangerously handsome man in the room... tall, dark, and exuding power in a sharp, custom-tailored suit. His tattoos peeked from under his sleeves, a contrast to the cold elegance of his demeanor.

“You’re not on the guest list” he murmured when he finally approached, voice deep and smooth like aged whiskey.

“Neither are you” you shot back, emboldened by the champagne.

That earned a smirk “Is that so? Then how about we make a deal?”

And just like that, you found yourself entangled with Trafalgar Law, the elusive CEO of Heart Industries, a multi-billion dollar medical tech empire. He didn’t just buy you gifts, he owned your time, your presence, your pleasure.

Now…

Law sits across from you in the penthouse suite of a five-star hotel, long fingers tapping idly against a glass of expensive whiskey. You know that look, calculating, possessive, teasing. He’s been watching you all night, like a predator deciding when to strike.

“You’re getting too comfortable” he finally says, tilting his head.

You raise a brow, reclining on the plush velvet couch “Isn’t that the point? You said I should ‘relax and enjoy the benefits’.”

He scoffs, setting his glass down before standing. In two slow strides, he’s in front of you, leaning down, trapping you between his body and the couch “I meant that in moderation” His voice drops lower, almost a growl “You’re not supposed to make me want to keep you.”

Your breath catches “And if I do?”

He exhales sharply, his tattooed fingers brushing along your jaw before tilting your chin up “Then you’ll have no choice but to be mine. Completely.”

The warning in his tone sends shivers down your spine. Because with Law, this was never just about money or luxury. It was about control, temptation, and the undeniable fact that no matter how dangerous this game was—you wanted to play.

Trafalgar Law isn’t just rich—he’s dangerous. Not in a violent way, no. But in the way he looks at you. The way his fingers linger on your skin, the way he owns every room he walks into.

And right now, he’s looking at you like a man who doesn’t just pay for what he wants, he takes it.

“You still haven’t answered me” he murmurs, thumb stroking along your jaw. His touch is deceptively gentle, but his golden eyes are anything but “What if I don’t want to let you go?”

Your heart pounds. This was supposed to be a simple arrangement. Lavish gifts, fancy dinners, a little fun behind closed doors—nothing more.

But Law has never been the kind of man to settle for anything halfway.

You swallow, licking your lips “Then what happens to our ‘business arrangement’?”

A smirk tugs at his lips “Oh, sweetheart, we passed that stage the second you let me touch you.”

His hands slide down, fingers ghosting along your waist before gripping. Firm. Possessive. Your breath hitches.

He leans in, lips grazing the shell of your ear “You still think I’m just your sugar daddy?” His voice is low, teasing “Cute.”

Your body burns under his touch, anticipation curling in your stomach “I—”

But you don’t get to finish. Because Law kisses you.

Not soft. Not sweet. But deep, slow, intentional. Like a man who’s already claimed you and is reminding you of the fact.

Your fingers tangle in his silky black hair as he presses you against the couch, his knee slipping between your thighs, forcing you to feel the heat of his body against yours.

“You belong to me, y/n” he murmurs against your lips, voice dark and dangerously addictive “And I don’t share.”

Your head spins, but you know one thing for sure.Trafalgar Law doesn’t just want to be just your sugar daddy.

He wants to be your everything.

Trafalgar Law doesn’t love halfheartedly.

He doesn’t do meaningless. He doesn’t do casual.

So the moment you let him in, let him touch you, kiss you, own you in all the ways that mattered. You should’ve known he wouldn’t let go easily.

And right now, as you sit in the passenger seat of his sleek black luxury car, you feel exactly how trapped you are.

His hand rests on your thigh, thumb idly tracing circles against your skin. It’s a simple touch, but it burns. Because Law doesn’t touch just to touch, he touches to claim.

“You’ve been avoiding me” he finally says, voice low, calm. Too calm.

You exhale “I haven’t...”

His fingers tighten ever so slightly on your thigh. Not painful. Just enough to remind you who’s in control.

“Don’t lie to me, y/n”

Your breath catches. He’s not angry, not exactly. But there’s something dangerous in the way he’s looking at you, golden eyes sharp beneath the glow of the city lights.

You swallow “I just needed time to think.”

He scoffs, drumming his fingers against your skin “Think about what? Whether or not you actually want me?”

Your silence answers for you.

Law exhales through his nose, jaw ticking as he stares out at the road ahead. And then, without warning, he pulls over, parking the car on a secluded stretch overlooking the city skyline.

Before you can say anything, he’s leaning over, his presence overwhelming as his hand cups your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“Let’s get one thing straight” he murmurs, voice soft but deadly firm “You can try to run, you can tell yourself this is just a game, but we both know that’s not true.”

Your pulse pounds “Law...”

His thumb traces over your lower lip, silencing you.

“You’re mine, y/n. You know it... I know it.” his eyes burn into yours, daring you to argue “So if you need time, take it. But don’t pretend you don’t already belong to me.”

Your breath shudders. He’s right. And that’s the problem.

Because you were never supposed to belong to anyone.

But with Trafalgar Law… you never had a choice.

You should walk away.

Every rational part of you screams it—tells you that getting tangled up with Trafalgar Law is dangerous. That he’s too much—too intense, too possessive, too utterly consuming.

But as he stares at you in the darkened car, fingers still resting on your chin, you realize something terrifying.

You don’t want to.

“You’re scared” he murmurs, not as an accusation, but as a fact.

You swallow hard “You’re not exactly the easiest person to deal with.”

A smirk tugs at his lips “And yet, you’re still here”

You hate that he’s right. Hate that you do still want him, even knowing that once you truly give in, there will be no escaping.

Law doesn’t do temporary. He doesn’t do casual.

He keeps what he wants. And he wants you.

He leans in, his breath warm against your lips “Tell me to stop,” he whispers “Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll let you go.”

Your heart pounds. He’s giving you an out. A chance to run.

But you don’t take it.

Instead, you exhale shakily and whisper “I don’t want you to stop.”

His eyes darken “Then don’t run from me again”

And before you can second-guess yourself, before doubt can creep back in, his lips crash onto yours.

It’s not a kiss—it’s a claim.

You don’t know if this is love or something far more dangerous.

But as he pulls you closer, fingers threading through your hair, you realize it doesn’t matter.

Because Trafalgar Law has you.

And he’s never letting go.

[bbina]

alone together masterlist

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 synopsis ── taking comfort in the thought that you are together in aloneness through late night talks, heartfelt confessions, and a genuine connection. with your shared experience of recent heartbreaks, you wonder if getting together would be all worth it. in which you find solace in each other's company, that you are alone together.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 pairing ── park wonbin x reader.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 genre ── college!au, fluff, angst | ☾ - written portions

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 status ── completed.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 taglist ── closed.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 notes ── the second wb smau i was telling y'all about while btl was still going on... tackles life and struggles in finding love in college so maybe this will be a bit more serious than lighthearted.. will contain mature content. somewhat based on a true story so minors do take note on what you consume on this hellsite. will take my time with this btw lol.. hopefully bbina will deliver... enjoy! + let's save our time together by making sure your blogs are visible for me to be able to tag you!

p.s if you came from my main blog saeist, this used to be nagi's fic :x

chapters . . . ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 𖡎 introduction 𖡎 one . . . ghosted 𖡎 two . . . he's hot 𖡎 three . . . close friends 𖡎 four . . . you're drunk 𖡎 five . . . K.O 𖡎 six . . . new me 𖡎 seven . . . boys night 𖡎 eight . . . speak of the devil 𖡎 nine . . . love sucks ☾ 𖡎 ten . . . seunghan's friend 𖡎 eleven . . . close 𖡎 twelve . . . intrigued 𖡎 thirteen . . . don't shoot the messenger ☾ 𖡎 fourteen . . . pinky promise ☾ 𖡎 fifteen . . . see you later 𖡎 sixteen . . . take a hit ☾ 𖡎 seventeen . . . exchange numbers 𖡎 eighteen . . . boundaries 𖡎 nineteen . . . deal 𖡎 twenty . . . someone 𖡎 twenty one . . . yearning ☾ 𖡎 twenty two . . . lullaby 𖡎 twenty three . . . big favor 𖡎 twenty four . . . blind date ☾ 𖡎 twenty five . . . muse 𖡎 twenty six . . . fell asleep 𖡎 twenty seven . . . ponyo 𖡎 twenty eight . . . happy birthday seunghan 𖡎 twenty nine . . . different ☾ 𖡎 thirty . . . worse 𖡎 thirty one . . . make things weird 𖡎 thirty two . . . dispatch sideline 𖡎 thirty three . . . just a friend 𖡎 thirty four . . . chismosavirus 𖡎 thirty five . . . location 𖡎 thirty six . . . keychain ☾ 𖡎 thirty seven . . . proof of life 𖡎 thirty eight . . . safe space 𖡎 thirty nine . . . just in case 𖡎 forty . . . stay ☾ 𖡎 forty one . . . intrusive thoughts ☾ 𖡎 forty two . . . good friend 𖡎 forty three . . . stage fright 𖡎 forty four . . . friend stealer 𖡎 forty five . . . girl best friend ☾ 𖡎 forty six . . . flirting with their eyes ☾ 𖡎 forty seven . . . don't they? ☾ 𖡎 forty eight . . . left on delivered 𖡎 forty nine . . . just us two ☾ 𖡎 fifty . . . backtracking 𖡎 fifty one . . . release the kraken 𖡎 fifty two . . . situationshiptitis ☾ 𖡎 fifty three . . . since when 𖡎 fifty four . . . better this way ☾ 𖡎 fifty five . . . why 𖡎 fifty six . . . i don' care 𖡎 fifty seven . . . out of sight, out of mind 𖡎 fifty eight . . . reality ☾ 𖡎 fifty nine . . . just another girl 𖡎 sixty . . . casual ☾ 𖡎 sixty one . . . dickmatized 𖡎 sixty two . . . back like this 𖡎 sixty three . . . i'm sorry ☾ 𖡎 sixty four . . . updates 𖡎 sixty five . . . old habits do die hard 𖡎 sixty six . . . people change 𖡎 sixty seven . . . enough 𖡎 sixty eight . . . end of beginning 𖡎 sixty nine . . . ready now 𖡎 seventy . . . alone together ☾

⋆｡꩜˚ asks | lore | official playlist ˖𖤐

[war-of-hormoan]

a touch of silk (m)

You have been working with wolves long enough to recognize trouble the second it walks into the bar but there was something about Jungkook that made you forget everything Namjoon told you about the dangers of lone wolves.

pairing: werewolf!jungkook x f. human!reader genre: werewolf!au, smut, angst with a happy ending word count: 10,160 warnings: language, explicit content (oral and penetrati, non-graphic violence, and mild blood author's note: i posted this on an old tumblr back in 2019/2020 and it has been crossposted on my ao3 since then. i wanted to repost it as i have (after almost five years) have picked writing back up and have decided to continue to work in this universe. i have not edited this since it was originally uploaded. i can't guarantee it still holds up after all these years, but i wanted to post it anyway!

Your dressing room in the back of the club didn’t have any windows, but that didn’t stop the sound of the rain pelting onto the structure of the building from sounding like it was about to burst through the drywall. Night’s like this that made your job difficult as no one would want to leave the comfort of their own warm and dry homes to come to a smoke filled bar to hear you sing. But you were due on stage in 5 minutes and if your performance tonight was cancelled, Namjoon would have popped his head in to tell you to just go home.

So here you are, fixing the red lipstick that had smeared along the edge of your lips after taking a large sip of tea for your throat. You lean towards the illuminated mirror to make sure nothing else on your face was out of place, double checking the bobby pins you had carefully placed to see if they were still secure. It wasn’t like you were much of a dancer, you stood neatly in front of a grand piano for most of your shift, except for the moments when you walk through the crowd in hopes that one of the men who had a little too much to drink felt like leaving you a tip.

You reach down towards the drawers of your vanity, fingers hovering over the handles as you decide which drawer to open. You close your eyes, letting fate decide and open one of the two you had been debating between. It was the first drawer, filled with the flashiest of your stage jewelry. The pair of earrings were covered in crystals and gems that made it seem like a disco ball was hanging from your ears. Some of them were gifts from your fans, given to you in hopes they would somehow get them an “in” with you. As if your love and affection could be bought with something simple as jewelry.

You decide on a simple pair and secure them to your ears. The tips of your fingers brush against the skin of your neck, making you shudder as you remember the way his lips used to kiss the sensitive flesh. You take a deep breath, trying to push the memory to the back of your mind and focus on the reality in front of you.

You look at the time on the clock, it’s hands were pointing to just before showtime. So you disrobe, placing the fluffy pink material onto your vanity bench. Your hands smooth over the ice blue silk fabric in attempts to hide any of the creases that formed when you were sitting down.

There is a soft knock on the door just as there is every night at this moment.

“You can come in.” you call out after hearing a muffled “Y/N?” travel through the door.

Namjoon opens the door just enough to slip through the cracks without exposing anyone to your hideaway. He gives you the once over, running through his own mental checklist to make sure you were dressed for the occasion.

“Are you ready?” he questions, looking at your face through the mirror.

You gesture him to your back to take a look at the bow you had tied with the straps. “Is it even?”

Your friend sighs, recognizing your question was an attempt for him to forget what he was really asking you.

“You’re going to have to talk about it one day, Y/N.” he reminds you as he double knots your bow.

“About what?”

“Him.”

You turn around to face him, trying your best to keep your poker face in tact as it would do you no good if you came apart at the seams just before you were due on stage.

“Not now.” you warn him, squeezing past him to start your shift.

You were surprised at the amount of people in the bar this evening as you were sure the weather would turn the night into a dud but almost every single seat was filled. Yoongi was already sitting at the piano and arranging his sheet music neatly in order even though the set you were about to sing was almost always the same, and he had memorized it long ago.

Involuntarily, your eyes scan for him in the crowd and you are unsure if you want him to be among the faces or not. You know that the entire situation was for the best. And that his presence in your life had only brought trouble. The disappointment you’re feeling doesn’t last long however, as you see the president of the largest cannery in town sitting at a booth with a bunch of his friends that looked like they had taken a shower in cologne.

He would be your target tonight.

You flash a grin to the audience as you make your way onto the stage, making sure they all believed the act you were about to perform.

“Are you ready Yoongi?” you tease in your performance voice.

The pianist nods and starts to play the first song on your list.

By the second song you know you have the president wrapped around your finger. He was leaning forward onto the table, his fingers holding onto the glass of scotch he hadn’t taken a drink from in several songs. It was amusing how easy it was to get them eating out of the palm of your hand. All it took was a combination of eye contact and your hips to send them into a frenzy.

You enjoy watching the way men wrapped themselves around your fingers. Maybe this was the reason you were unable to give yourself fully to someone else, knowing how each of your exes felt about your career. They would be fine at first, completely understanding and accepting of the fact that you flirt with men for a living but then after a few months it would start to turn. They get “protective” but jealousy was all the same no matter what you tried to call it.

So you make a promise to yourself, that as long as you were performing on stage for a living, love would be the last thing on your mind. It was easier that way, at least so you thought.

You reach the point in the night where you engage with the crowd and you step down from the stage and make your way through the crowd, watching as they all hold their breath in hopes they’re the lucky one you chose tonight. He is waiting for you, straightening his posture as you make your way towards his booth, scooting towards the edge so he can get a better look at you. You go through through your calculated motions, making his cheeks deepen with a mixture of alcohol and unfulfilled lust.

He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a crisp bill in the largest sum they make. He slips it between two of his fingers, offering it to you with a smirk on his face like he’s got it in the bag.

“Thank you.” you tease, winking at him with a smile as you grab the money from his hands and slip it into the bust of your dress.

Yoongi rolls his eyes the second the two of you make eye contact as you head back towards the stage, his fingers never leaving the piano.

“I’ll share with you.” you mouth to him, making the pianist wrinkle his nose.

“I’m afraid I only have one song left tonight.” you apologize to the crowd in disbelief yourself that it had already gone by so fast.

The men in the audience protest, encouraging you to keep going.

But your attention isn’t on them as the door to the bar slammed open with a thud.

Jungkook stumbles in from outside. His clothes were soaking wet, sticking to his bones as he makes his way through the crowd. He doesn’t apologize as his limbs crash into other patrons of your work, leaving a trail of men yelling various curses and forms of protest in his path. He was almost to your dressing room when you notice that his shirt used to be white. The button was swirling in shades of crimson.

“Why is he always bleeding?” you think to yourself as you try to remain composed, keeping yourself together as you finish the last song of the night.

“Thank you everyone for coming out tonight!” you smile as Yoongi’s fingers grace the last of the notes on the piano.

The audience around you claps and whistles louder than you deserve and you bow slightly, careful not to expose yourself before heading towards the back of the stage.

“Did you see him?” Yoongi asks just loud enough so that you would be the only one who hears him.

“Yes.” you take his hand as he offers it, holding the skirt of your dress in the other and the two of you head down the stairs in sync.

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Three months ago.” Almost to the day, not that you were counting.

Yoongi sighs, “Please take care of yourself, Y/N.”

But you wave him off, “I always do.”

You head towards the back of the bar, reaching behind the large oak counter top to grab a few bar towels as you had used the last of the ones in your dressing room to dry yourself off from the elements. Out of the corner of your eye notices the metal first aid kid tucked in between Namjoon’s personal items. You were unsure if the contents of the kit would even be able to help him as it looked like he had been bleeding a lot, but you grab it anyway. Just in case your self-taught skills could come to use.

“Where are you going, beautiful?” a low voice asks you as soon as you start to make your way towards the dressing room.

You turn around to no surprise and see the man who had tipped you earlier in the evening. He is staring at you with dark eyes and you know how he wants you to answer his question. But that wasn’t going to happen, especially when there was a bleeding werewolf in your dressing room.

“I’m off to freshen up.” you smile, drawing out your syllables slowly.

“Would you like company?” he asks right on schedule.

You shake your head. “No boys allowed.”

His eyes flash with lust. “I’m not a boy.”

“I can see that, but this lady needs her privacy for a few moments, alright? Why don’t you let Yoongi make you a strong drink and I will be out shortly, okay?” You put a compromise on the table even though you know you might not be able to hold up your end of the offer.

But it was enough to satisfy the man, and he takes a step back, but before reaching out for your hand to place a gentle kiss on your skin.

You rip your hand out of his and gently wipe your hand on the back of your dress before putting distance between the two of you.

“Come back soon.” he winks, making it almost impossible for you to not visibly gag in front of him.

Every step you took made your heart skip further and further into your throat, feeling as though you could almost choke with anticipation for what is waiting for you on the other side of the door. You stare at your hand reaching out for the door knob, wondering how one part of your body could be more courageous than the rest of it. You close your eyes, taking in a breath as far as your lungs could go and hold it until you start to feel a rush in your head and turn the handle.

Namjoon’s back is the first thing you see once you find the courage to open your eyes. His hands are at his hips, balled into fists as he hovers over Jungkook. His body was hunched over the back of your chair, arms hanging loosely as though the blood loss or alcohol had made him lose total control over his limbs.

“It’s almost a blood moon, Jungkook.” Namjoon growls deep within his chest the second you close the door, locking it just in case any of the patrons decide to give themselves a private tour of your dressing room,

“Do you know what kind of risk you’re putting everyone in this bar in? What kind of risk you’re putting Y/N in? Huh? Or are you so fucking selfish that you don’t care about who’s life you destroy?”

Jungkook doesn’t answer, his gaze remains glued to the ground as if he was trying to summon demons to the hellmouth your town was sitting atop of.

“Don’t worry.” you hear Jungkook eventually mumble. “I’ll be gone soon.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” you question him.

Jungkook looks at you through rain soaked hair. The dark black strands stick to his face, making the werewolf in front of you look even more disheveled than he does on a day to day basis. You must have been the last person to run a pair of scissors through his locks as they were hanging in his face, hiding the scar on his cheekbone. You hated how he looked at you, making you feel vulnerable and raw as one glance could tell him everything he needed to know about how you’re feeling at that very moment.

Namjoon steps aside, pinching the bridge of his nose between frustrated fingertips as he knows exactly how the scene in front of him is going to unfold. He takes a deep breath before looking at you with eyes full of pity.

“Y/N, please don’t forget what happened the last time he stormed in here.” he warns you of that night three months ago.

He had found you curled in a ball underneath your vanity, crying into your dressing gown. You were convinced that night was going to be the last time you ever saw Jeon Jungkook. Three months later, here he was, almost exactly where the two of you had left off.

“I won’t.” you reach out to squeeze your boss’ hand, letting him know that you had it under control and he could leave the two of you alone.

Namjoon hesitates, pressing his tongue into his cheek as he debates whether or not it’s a good idea for him to leave.

“I think that’s your cue to leave.” Jungkook snaps at the older wolf.

Namjoon scowls, looking at the lone wolf in disgust. “You are lucky I didn’t throw you to your former pack the first time you walked into my bar and you’re lucky I’m not going to do that now. If you lay even one finger on her, I’ll know and I’ll make sure that Jimin knows exactly where to find you. Got it?”

The threat makes Jungkook laugh, rolling his eyes at the threat. “Whatever you say, boss.”

“I’m sorry.” you whisper as Namjoon turns around to leave.

“I’ll be right outside.” he tells you, eyes flickering over to the panic button he had installed a year ago. “Jus-”

“Just press the button and you’ll be right in.” you nod your head. “I know the drill.”

One last sigh of disapproval leaves Namjoon’s chest before he leaves the two of you alone, closing the door tightly behind him.

Jungkook’s eyes follow your every move as you make your way towards the large cherry boudoir. You open the bottom drawer, pulling out the large first aid kit you and several pairs of surgical gloves.

“Lean back.” you not so much tell him but push his shoulders back into the chair and push his chin up towards the ceiling.

You try your best to keep the long shaggy hair out of his face, but the blood soaked strands have a mind of their own, forcing you to bring out reinforcements. You wander over to your vanity, opening the top left drawer and pull out a pink ribbon before resuming your place in front of the bleeding wolf.

Silence begins to settle like dust around the two of you as you get to work, pulling on the latex gloves to make sure everything you’re doing is as sanitary as it can be in this situation. You collect the hair on the crown of his head and tie it messily in the pink ribbon, making you laugh at how ridiculous he looked.

“What’s so funny?” Jungkook cocks an eyebrow.

“You look absolutely ridiculous.”

“You should see the other guy.”

That joke was funny the first few times you heard it, but after hearing it hundreds of times, all you can do is sigh.

You ignore it, choosing to give all your attention to the task at hand and pull out the large brown bottle of antiseptic.

Jungkook’s lips press into a thin line as he watches you unscrew the cap and pour the clear liquid onto a cotton swab. He was usually a man of many words and countless brags about how he fucked someone up or how he managed to leave the scene of debauchery without getting caught.

Tonight was different. There was something in the air, bubbling under the surface as it waits for its chance to breach the surface.

He winces as you dab the wound on his eyebrow, cleaning up the excess blood so you assess the damage. It didn’t seem to be very deep, only needing a few stitches and he would be as good as he could get.

“Where did you learn how to do this?” he asks, trying to ease some of the tension that had been growing between you.

“Here. I’ve just had lots of practice over the years.”

“So I’m not the first?“

There is a hint of jealousy in his question, making you roll your eyes as you finish your handiwork, and take a seat on your vanity stool.

"Yoongi was the first.” you take off your gloves, throwing them in the trash before you search through your first aid for the last few items you need.

You can’t help but laugh as the memory of that night plays back in your mind. “It was two, maybe three years ago? I can’t remember, but it was a really slow night. There might have been one or two customers inside the bar all night long. I had given up on my set, so I was seated at the end playing a card game with Namjoon while we tried to pass the time. Maybe an hour before last call a group of very drunk and very obnoxious vampires came crashing into the bar.”

Jungkook shakes his head. “When are vampires ever not obnoxious?”

“Sit still, I’m not done yet.” You hold his head in place “Namjoon let them order one more round before he cut them off, which the youngest didn’t seem to like. The others apologized for his behavior, trying to excuse the fact that he was a brand new vampire on his inability to control his temper. But that just made him more agitated so he started to scream nonsense about how he was perfectly able to take care of himself and he threw his empty blood bottle and it smashed right into Yoongi’s face on the piano.”

You take a deep breath. “It was a complete disaster. The second that newborn smelled Yoongi’s wolf blood, he went ballistic. He tried to drain him and it took every single one of his friends to hold him back. Namjoon kicked all of them out before anything else could happen and banned them from entering. Luckily Yoongi was fine, and it wasn’t anything serious but for whatever reason he refused to go to the hospital and made me stitch him up in my dressing room even though I had no idea what I was doing. And now he has that giant awful scar on his left eyebrow. Haven’t you noticed it?”

Jungkook looks at you as your re-gloved hands rub antibacterial ointment on his stitches and place a band-aid over his wound. “No, you’re the only thing I’ve noticed since the first time I walked in.”

His words catch you off guard, making you slam the lid to your first aid kit shut as you attempt to not let your emotions get the best of you.

“That dress looks amazing on you, by the way. I’m glad I got to see you wear it, if it’s just this once.” he tells you, tracing your body with his pupils.

You look down at the light blue silk, feeling exposed underneath the smooth fabric that covers your body.

────────────────────

It was the first and only time you have ever seen Jungkook while the sun was still hanging in the sky. He showed up at your apartment in the middle of your morning coffee and toast. The loud thud of his fist against your front door made you grab the large baseball bat you kept near the umbrellas just in case. You were ready to swing as you watched the doorknob jiggle back and forth, making you freeze in place.

Whoever it was, had a lot of nerve to break into your apartment in the middle of the afternoon. You raise the bat as if you’re ready to swing the second they cross the threshold. You take a deep breath, closing your eyes as your front door swings open.

“Y/N! What the hell!” Jungkook hisses as he grabs the bat in his palms before you could make a dent in his forehead.

Your eyes open wide. “Jungkook? What the hell! Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?”

“You’re hot when you’re about to get violent.” he teases, using his wolf strength to take the piece of wood out of your hands.

“What the hell are you doing?” you refuse to drop the subject despite his attempts of making you forget by taking you in his arms and kissing down your neck.

“I wanted to see you.” He purrs.

“And you couldn’t have called?”

“I didn’t think you would have answered.” he finds amusement in the goosebumps rising in your skin.

You push the wolf off of you, standing your ground. “I’m not in the mood after the stunt you just pulled.”

“I’m not here to fuck you.” he grins, clearly pleased with himself for getting you worked up.

“Then what are you here for?” you fold your arms across your chest.

“I want to take you somewhere.” he reaches out to take your hand, but you recoil.

“And where is that exactly?”

He leans forward, flashing that boyish grin you hate to love. “It’s a surprise.”

You roll your eyes. “Let me grab my purse.”

Jungkook waits for you by the door like a puppy who just heard the word “walk”. And it was moments like these that made it easy for you to forget what he really was. This was a side he seldom shared, letting it slip through the cracks in bits and pieces before he put his big bad wolf persona back on. A part of you wants to ask him to stay and to never let him out of your sight. That question wouldn’t be fair and you know that. Jungkook wasn’t meant to be tied down, especially not to a human like you.

The feeling that was growing in your heart is cursed but that doesn’t stop you from taking his hand and let him lead you out onto the busy streets.

“Why are you in such a hurry?” you ask him out of breath, barely able to keep up with his large footsteps.

He immediately slows down. “Sorry, we’re running late.”

“Do we have an appointment?” you question as he pulls you closer to his side. The gesture makes you nervous as you wait for his warm to wrap around his waist but the ringing of a bicycle bell brings you back to reality. Jungkook was only making sure you didn’t get run over.

“I’m not telling you.” he teases, nodding his head to the right. “It’s this way.”

He leads you down a busy side street, one you had never walked down on your own. Mostly because it’s length was full of stores that were way out of your bar singer price range. Jungkook stops in front of a large store almost at the end of the street. You stare up at the sign, realizing he had brought you to a dress shop.

“Jungkoo-” you begin to protest but he is already two steps ahead of you and holding the door open for you to follow him.

You feel immediately out of place as soon as you step onto the large marble floor of the store. Everywhere you turn are clothing racks full of dresses you had only seen in editorial spreads in magazines. It took all your strength not to reach out and touch every single one.

Jungkook’s eyes were following your amazement, watching you as you walked passed each rack. “Do you see anything you like?”

“You mean everything?” you laugh, your eyes focused on an emerald green velvet dress.

“You can try it on if you like.” he suggests, catching up to your strides.

“I-I couldn’t.”

“But you can.” he whispers.

“Mr. Jeon Jungkook, look how you’ve grown!” a loud voice calls out suddenly, making the two of you turn around immediately.

A small woman covered in needles, thread and tape measures approaches the two of you. Jungkook greats her warmly, leaning down so she can plant kisses on each of his cheeks.

“Oh! I got lipstick on you.” She starts to wipe off her lip prints but Jungkook waves her off.

“I like them.”

“Wolves like you keep me young.” She smacks him playfully on the chest before turning her attention to you. She looks up at you, pushing her large black glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Now who do we have here?”

“Hello, I’m Y/N.” you smile at her warmly.

She looks at Jungkook with an amused look on her face. “You didn’t tell me she was this pretty.”

Jungkook’s cheeks turn a deep shade of red. This was the first time you had ever seen Jungkook blush and you were enjoying the fact the shoe was on the other foot for once.

“Come with me darling and we can get started.” she begins to pull you by the elbow towards a small podium nestled between a three sided mirror.

She urges you to step up as Jungkook takes a seat in one of the large plush pink chairs. Without another word she starts to take your measurements, reaching from your head to your toe, scribbling them down in a worn out notepad.

“Now what were you thinking as far as the design goes my dear?” she asks, blinking several times through her thick frames.

“I’m sorry?” you ask in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“What about a thin strap and maybe a slit that goes up to here?” she places her finger on your mid-thigh. “Jungkook? What do you think?”

He looks up from his phone, “I’m sure any design you come up with will look great.”

The woman nods her head before handing you a large binder that seemed to weigh almost as much as she did. “Take a look through these swatches and I will be back in just a few minutes, alright my dear?”

You nod before taking a seat next to Jungkook who was furiously typing away on his phone.

“What is this for, Jungkook?” you ask firmly, making him slide his phone into his pocket.

“I just wanted to say thank you.” he stares at you.

“Thank you for what?”

“For taking care of me all this time.”

“Someone has to.” you whisper, looking up to stare at him.

Your eyes locked onto his. His pitch black irises were unreadable as you stared at him. Both of you were unsure where to take it from here. This was uncharted territory after all. The first time the two of you had been outside the confines of your work. You hadn’t even fucked in a bed, yet alone go out in public with each other.

“What do you think about these?” you ask, opening the book of swatches to a random page of fabric.

Jungkook’s chest falls as he exhales, directing his attention to the book in your hands. He points to a swatch of ice blue silk. “That one is pretty.”

“Have you decided, my dear?” the seamstress returns to the dressing room.

You nod, pointing to the swatch of silk. “I think I’ll go with this one.”

A large smile spreads across her face. “Delightful! That color will look amazing on you.” ────────────────────

“This is the first time I’ve worn it.” you admit, looking down at the silk dress, playing with the seam of the large slit in your fingertips.

“Then I have perfect timing.”

“That’s an understatement.” you mutter under your breath.

Jungkook takes a deep breath as if he was pulling your emotions from the air around the two of you. His chest rises as he inhales deeply, preparing himself to face the bitterness in your words.

“What is that supposed to mean?” he finally asks you, pulling out the ribbon from the top of his head.

There is silence as you watch him run his fingers through his hair. The dark strands have started to dry, making him look more like a wolf than a rain soaked puppy. The loose curls that were starting to form were new, but maybe they had always been there and you just never noticed they existed.

You were starting to realize how vast the depth of the unknown was when it came to Jungkook.

“Y/N?” he nudges your knee with his palm.

You stare at him, trying to read between the lines of his features for any sort of clue as to where you should go from here. Yet the longer you stare, the larger the fire in the pit of your stomach grows.

“Do you remember the first time you stumbled into this bar Jungkook?”

“Barely.”

“Well, it wasn’t much different than this. You were so drunk you could barely keep your head up. I remember watching you from the stage as you crashed into one of Namjoon’s pack members. I had never seen Hoseok as angry as he was when you knocked his bourbon out of his hand. I thought he was going to rip your head off before Namjoon could intervene. They were going to toss you in the dumpster in the alley and let the rats eat you, but I begged them to let me look at your injuries, to make sure that you weren’t going to bleed out. Hoseok tried to warn me then that you were bad news, that a lone wolf without a pack could only bring trouble. I think I’ve finally realized now what he meant by that.” you try to hold back the tears as the memories of every single stitch you sewed into Jungkook’s skin threatened to make this ten times harder than it needed to be.

“What are you trying to say?” Jungkook asks, pressing his palms together in the way he always does when he is annoyed.

“Once I finally got you stitched back together, I stepped out to get you some ice water. It was last call so Namjoon was busy behind the bar so I helped him out with a few drinks. I was gone for only a couple of minutes but by the time I got back to my dressing room you were already gone. You had managed to sneak out like a thief in the middle of the night.” you laugh. “I mean, I guess you technically are.”

“I’m not a thief, Y/N.” he corrects you.

“How am I supposed to know that, Jungkook?” you ask, unable to hide the hurt in your voice. “Ever since you stumbled into this bar the first night, everything has been on your terms. You show up when it’s convenient for you and disappear like smoke. If it weren’t for Namjoon and Yoongi, I’m not even sure I would believe that you’re real.”

“I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“But not for long, right? Isn’t that what you told Namjoon?”

You’ve backed him into a corner with your words. He looks at you like he is completely lost, unable to understand the ice in your voice.

“Y/N-” he reaches out towards your hands, making you back away from his reach.

“I don’t want to hear it Jungkook, whatever excuse it is this time.” you sigh. “I just don’t want to hear it.”

Out of the corner of your eye you see Jungkook’s hands tighten into fists, his knuckles go white as he squeezes the tension into his joints. “You know what I do, Y/N.”

“No, Jungkook. I don’t. I barely know anything about you. That’s the entire problem! Everything has been on your terms since the day we met. You come here it’s convenient for you and leave once you’ve had your feel. Have you ever stopped to think about how that makes me feel?”

His lips press into a thin line and you have your answer.

“You’re a selfish son of a bitch.” you shake your head, leaning forward to rest your elbows onto your vanity.

“Do you think I’m doing this because I want to hurt you, Y/N?” his voice comes out like a low whisper.

“If you’re saying you do this to protect me you can walk out right now.” you hiss, staring at him through the mirror.

“What do you want to know?” he asks you, folding his arms into his chest.

“It’s too late.”

Jungkook leans forward and grabs the back of your stool. You wish you had locked the wheels as he pulls you towards him, but you know that wouldn’t be enough to stop him from using his wolf strength.

He spins you around to face him, “Something tells me that’s not true.”

You scoff, crossing your arms before you turn your head to stare at the rack of dresses, wishing you had worn anything other than this.

“I’m not like Yoongi or Namjoon. I wasn’t born a wolf. I didn’t grow up in a pack. I was a human up until three years ago.” he takes a deep breath, his voice shaking as if this was the first time he has ever told anyone else this story.

“What happened?” you ask, turning your attention back to him.

“When I told my dad that I didn’t want anything to do with the spot in his company he had been saving for me since I was born, he kicked me out. I was sleeping on couches, working shitty jobs in the back of restaurants or anywhere that would take me. Eventually I started to work for Heejun down at the shipyard. At first I was only loading and unloading the containers from the ships. I didn’t know what was inside of them, they were all under lock and key. And heavily guarded.”

He takes a deep breath. “I was there really late one night as a ship from Japan had arrived late due to a typhoon. There was something off, a thickness in the air that made Heejun anxious. He didn’t stop pacing until the ship was fully docked and even then he kept checking over his shoulder as if he was worried someone was going to attack him. Eventually they did. We were ambushed as soon as the first container was loaded into the warehouse. The only thing I remember is one second I was talking to Heejun and the next I was flat on my back, bleeding out.”

“When I woke up, everything was different. My vision was sharp. My sense of smell was so strong I could smell the rotting garbage coming from the dumpsters on the street despite the fact that I was six stories up in an apartment. And that’s when I realized that I wasn’t dead, but something had happened to me.” he starts to stutter through the last words.

“Heejun turned you.” finish for him.

Jungkook shakes his head. “No, Heejun and the rest of my coworkers were slaughtered that night. I was turned by the pack who attacked us. I guess there was something about me he liked, so instead of dumping my body into the harbor he decided to turn me at the last second.”

Jungkook lifts the sleeve of his shirt to expose the bite mark you had seen hundreds of times. He watches your hand move slowly from your lap towards the scarred tissue and closes his eyes the moment your fingertips make contact. You trace the jagged outline, barely able to wrap your head around what it must have felt like for him to go through that, alone.

“It’s funny how I was running away from a life I had no control over, but it still ended up that way anyway. I don’t know how much Namjoon has told you about wolves and their packs but you’re under the alpha’s control. You have to listen to every order. Your body obeys every command. If you’re not a top dog, you’re fucked. I was forced to join his company. To earn my living through his business. The containers weren’t full with what the documents said they were. They were full of drugs, weapons, whatever Siwon and his pack could get their hands on in order to make money on the black market.”

“Is that why Namjoon doesn’t like you?”

Jungkook smirks, “I don’t think that’s the only reason. Haven’t you ever seen how he looks at you?”

“We did fuck once, one night after a really busy night and the two of us had way too much to drink. But we both agreed that it was for the best that it never happened again.” You shake your head. “But don’t try to change the subject.”

“I’m not, just pointing out the obvious.”

“Continue.” you encourage him courtly.

“The beef between Siwon and Nmajoon goes way back, before I was ever turned into a wolf. It’s rare for a city of this size to contain two wolf packs. They were one pack at one point, but Siwon wasn’t happy with how Namjoon ran things. He didn’t understand why wolves were forced to work for the enjoyment of men. Eventually they got in a huge fight and Siwon was able to separate himself from the pack although no one came with him. So he started to turn people like me into wolves. And eventually the company and his pack grew into what it was.”

"If they hate each other then why have I never seen Siwon around? He’s never shown up at the bar.”

Jungkook shakes his head. “Siwon knew that if he causes trouble he can lose everything. That Namjoon has the connections to take him and his entire operation down. So he kept the peace. The two packs acted like they had no idea the other existed. ”

“So why did you leave?” How did you leave? Namjoon told me it’s almost impossible for a wolf to leave his pack.“

Jungkook chews on his bottom lip. "I killed almost all of them.”

You know enough about pack dynamics to understand the weight of Jungkook’s actions. “ How?”

“We were at the docks, like always, doing Siwon’s bitch work as we waited for a shipment of cocaine. It was one of the largest orders we were receiving so Siwon had almost every single one of us there that night. My pack had a long history of violence, killing anyone they thought was a threat to their operation. That night a woman was out late with her child. The boy must have been no older than two. You could see in her eyes that she was exhausted and that he must not have been able to fall asleep so she brought him out for a late night walk, hoping that would be enough to get him to go to sleep.”

You interrupt him. “I don’t want to know the rest.”

Jungkook nods. “That was when I realized how far I had fallen. I had realized that this wasn’t how I wanted to live my life. I knew that the only way I was going to be able to escape was to kill them. So I did.”

“You did what?”

Jungkook looks at you with a devilish grin. “I killed his entire pack.”

“Is that why you always leave?”

Jungkook’s eyebrows furrow. “I always come back, don’t I?”

You avoid answering his question. "How did you end up in Namjoon’s bar that night?”

Jungkook nods. “I knew this was one of the only places that his mean wouldn’t cross. A lone wolf wasn’t as much of a threat as a whole pack. But I also know that Siwon would eventually seek out his revenge. That he would come looking for me if he knew I was still in town. So I left. I come back when I know he is out of town and leave once he returns.”

“If your paths never cross then how did you end up with his?” You point at the gash on his eyebrow. “Who was it?”

“There was only one thing left for me to do to gain total freedom.”

You look him in the eyes, staring into his dark irises as you finish the rest of his story. “You killed Siwon.”

“I did what I had to do to protect myself. And to protect the things I love.”

You stare at him, trying to keep the beating of your chest silent as you hope you aren’t reading too much into his words.

Jungkook leans forward, a red flashes across his irises, illuminating the black pupils for only a second before the color disappears. You know that he is on the verge of his senses. That soon the two of you will cross a line into territory you had told yourself over and over again that you would not step back into. His breath tickles your neck as he hovers above your sensitive flesh. You take a deep breath, trying to control your body’s urges every time the wolf is this close to you.

"Are you scared of me, Y/N?” he asks, chuckling in amusement as he hears your heartbeat start to race.

“You’re not the baddest wolf I’ve ever met.” you counter, watching in anticipation for his reaction.

He looks at you out of the corner of his eye, hesitating for a second before diverting his attention to your lips. Jungkook’s chapped lips press into yours with a several month long hunger. Each of you starved for the other’s affections as you re-learn how each other moves. Although it doesn’t take long for the first moan to slip from your lips as he uses his sharp canines to nibble onto your bottom lip.

The touch of his skin has always been warm, but in the dead of winter you know you don’t stand a chance. His fingertips trace a pleasurable burn down your body as he runs one hand down your back and uses the other to tangle his fingertips into your hair. Jungkook’s arms wrap around your waist tightly as if he is scared you’ll disappear if he lets go. As if you could do anything else but kiss him back.

“Come here.” he breathes, giving you a chance to breathe as he lifts you out of your chair, keeping a firm grip around your waist as he clears the bottles of skincare and tubes of lipstick off the top of your vanity. It all falls to the floor with a thud, leaving him with enough space to prop you up against the mirror, letting your head fall gently against the glass before he returns to kissing every inch of skin he can reach with his lips.

“You look fucking amazing in that dress.” he growls in his lower register. His hands traveling across the light blue silk as he tries to control the wolf inside of him. He has already ruined too many of your prettiest dresses and he knows you might actually try to kill him if he destroys this one too.

“Well, you are the one who bought it for me.” You remind him, taking in as much oxygen as you can as he moves from your lips to your neck. His kisses trailing the plunging neckline.

Jungkook’s hands make their way down to your thighs and your whole body shudders. He swiftly spreads your thighs far enough apart to allow his body in between your legs.

“Fuck.” you moan at how assertiveness turns you on as he is the only man who can make you compliant. Your body listening to every word he says, reacting to every single touch, he had you under a spell as if you were a wolf and he was the full moon.

“Can I touch you?” his hands hover over the top of the slit, waiting for permission.

“Please.” you breathe, spreading your legs even further apart to make things easier for him to access.

He doesn’t waste a second more before his fingertips find their way to the lacy fabric of your underwear. Jungkook looks down at the light colored fabric, smiling as he traces the floral pattern.

“If you destroy them, I’ll kill you.” You warn, mourning the countless pairs of underwear the wolf had ripped to shreds over the years.

“It looks like you already have.” he teases, as his finger swipes along the damp patch growing at your core.

He teases his calloused fingertips up and down your clothes slit, making you whimper in anticipation for what he is about to do you, as he has done countless times before. But there is something different about tonight. A sense of urgency filling the room as he hastily grabs onto your underwear, pulling them down and off your ankles before discarding them somewhere into the depths of your dressing room.

The dulling ache of your position against the vanity mirror is nothing in comparison to the heat starting to spread across your body. Jungkook’s fingertip has made its way to your clit, teasing the sensitive bud with quick flicks that make your bite, nibble and moan in the werewolf’s mouth. He starts to pull away, but you quickly grip the back of his head with your hand, keeping his mouth close as he wanders down your throat, licking along your pulse.

A loud moan escapes your lips as you feel his canines graze your skin carefully. Jungkook was reckless, but he was smart enough to know better than to bite you, knowing the implications of leaving his mark on your skin. He takes your moment of vulnerability to sink a finger into your center, groaning as he slips the digit in your wet heat. He starts to move his finger back and forth, mimicking the motions of what he wanted to do to you later.

“I don’t have much time.” you warn him, reading his mind as he slips in another finger into you. You would love nothing more than to lay him on his back and fuck until the two of you were a panting mess on the floor, but the night was still young. And as much as you loved fucking the wolf in front of you, you had bills to pay.

Jungkook leans back to look at you, removing his fingers to take a glimpse at the mess he was making out of you. He asks. “Is that a challenge?”

You roll your eyes at the wolf coming out the man. “Are you going to pay my rent?”

“I can, if you let me.” he scoffs.

You reach out towards his shirt, pulling him as closely as you can. “Touch me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

Jungkook pushes your legs a part, staring into your eyes as he inserts two of his fingers back into you. He revels in the way you close your eyes, letting your head fall back against the mirror as he fucks you with his digits. He knows your body like a map, knowing where and when to apply pressure that makes you see stars behind your eyelids. You used to be ashamed at how easily he unraveled you with just a fingertip, blushing at how easily he made you come undone. But it had been months and you had missed this (although you would never admit it out loud).

“Fuck!” slips out of your lips as he uses his thumb to apply pressure to your clit, rubbing circles on the sensitive bud as he continues to fuck you into bliss with his hand.

“Come on, baby.” He encourages, recognizing the change in your breathing pattern. He quickens his speed, allowing his muscles to take over as he fucks you closer and closer to the edge.

“I’m gonna cum!” You breathe, rolling your hips to take his fingers in as far as they can and it all becomes too much. You turn into a gasping mess as you grips onto the wolf’s shoulders, bracing yourself as waves of pleasure take over your body. Jungkook’s fingers refusing to stop until the last one finally settles in your toes.

“Come with me.” Jungkook whispers as he rests his forehead against yours.

You laugh. “I’m pretty sure I just did.”

The werewolf shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what do you mean, Jungkook?” You ask him for clarification.

“Tonight. Come with me tonight. Leave with me.” There is a desperation in his voice that shocks you, making you realize that even throughout all the times you have stitched up the man in front of you, you had never seen him this vulnerable.

You reach up towards the mess of dark waves on his head and run your fingers through the strands, gently pulling out the knots that somehow always seem to form. The growing silence between the two of you is your answer, but you know you need to say it out loud. “Jungkook, I can’t.”

His eyes flutter open, staring into your soul with their dark irises. “Why not?”

“I have a job!” You cannot hide the frustration in your voice. “I have an apartment. My friends are here. I can’t just leave them Jungkook.”

“I will pay to have someone pack up your things, to ship them to wherever we end up. Or I can just fucking buy you new things.” He starts to plead.

“Jungkoo-”

“Please, Y/N. Please let me protect you. Let me take care of you.”

You wrestle your wrist out of Jungkook’s grip, neither one of you realizing he had a hold on you. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, choosing to focus on the rack of dresses in the corner instead. You blink several times, refusing to let the wolf see you cry over him.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” He asks in defeat, sinking back down into the chair you had stitched him up in.

The truth is, you want you. You want more than anything to believe that he would take care of you. That he would be able to keep you safe from the constant supernatural threats that have entered your life since the moment you stepped foot into this shitty seaside town. Except the responsible part of your brain was screaming at you to remember Namjoon, Yoongi, and the rest of the wolves you had in your life that kept you out of harm’s way the second Jungkook disappeared again. You had a life here, and while it may not be much on paper, you loved it.

“I don’t know what to say.” You admit out loud.

Jungkook immediately stands up. “You don’t have to say anything. I-I-I just thoug-.”

“I’m surprised you thought I would go with you, Jungkook. How am I supposed to believe anything you ever say to me? How much time have we actually spent together outside of this room? How many times have you told me you would come back only to disappear again. Do you have any idea how that makes me feel? How worried I get about you? I am terrified that one day you’re going to end up dead and I am only going to find out about it months later. So how can you expect me to just drop my entire life and run away with you?”

He turns away, giving you the cold shoulder as he can’t bring himself to answer your question. His shoulders shudder slightly and for a second you think the wolf in front of you is crying. But Jungkook quickly turns around without a tear in sight. The warmth in his eyes were gone, leaving nothing but blank empty spaces in his irises.

He was shutting down.

“I guess that’s it then.” He tells you coldly, straightening his back to remind you how much taller he is.

“Jungkoo-”

He interrupts you. “I don’t want to hear it. I think you have made your feelings clear. I apologize for everything I put you through, but after tonight I won’t bother you ever again.”

You clamp your mouth shut as you watch him dig through the pockets of his pants. He hands over a small purple velvet pouch. “Take it.”

The taste of blood fills your mouth as you bite the inside of your cheek as you try to distract yourself from the pain filling in your chest as you take it from his hands. You open it, revealing a silver chain and pendant. A heart shaped locket hung at the end of the chain, but it was too wide to be an ordinary locket.

“You don’t have to open it.” He tells you just as your fingertips reached for the hinge. “It’s full of herbs that will keep you safe. Vampires, demons, witches. Even wolves.”

You can feel the tears start to break from your bottom lash line. “Thank you.”

Jungkook shrugs. “It’s the least I can do, after everything I have put you through. Please, take care of yourself, Y/N.”

The sound of his footsteps are the final straw and you feel your heart break into a thousand pieces as he closes the door behind you, leaving you alone to pick up the pieces once again.

You don’t know how much time has passed or how many tears you have cried before you can finally feel the pain in your chest turn into a dull ache. You sniffle, reaching towards the tissues to wipe the mascara tears away from your cheeks. If you go back out into the bar Namjoon and everyone else will know you’ve been crying. That tonight is just like every other night when Jungkook was involved.

With a deep breath you try to pull yourself together. You powder your face and touch up your lipstick before running your fingers back through your hair and putting each strand back into place. You don’t bother trying to find the underwear you had been wearing, choosing instead to pick a fresh pair from the stock you kept in your vanity. It was after the third time you and Jungkook had slept together that you realized you needed to keep extra clothing in stock as he couldn’t always keep the wolf inside of him in check.

You turn around, taking your time as you look around the dressing room. There was nothing that he hadn’t touched. That didn’t have a memory attached to the man that had just walked out of your life for the last time.

What really was keeping you here? The seaside town was never meant to become your home. It was supposed to be temporary. A place where you could find your footing after leaving college. You were only supposed to stay for a few months, but then it became a few years. Sure, you loved your job. Namjoon, Yoongi, and the rest of the boys took care of you. They made sure you had what you needed but there wasn’t room for growth. It’s not like you could get promoted. This is all there was. And you knew that.

Maybe it was time for you to leave, for you to figure out what the hell was out there in the rest of the world.

“God damn it, Jungkook.” You mutter under your breath.

You lift the light blue silk off your frame and quickly change into your every day clothes. Your fingers fumble with the buttons of your jeans as you try to get them on. The sweater gets stuck on your head, making you question if this was the universe telling you to stay in place.

You take a look around your dressing room, trying to figure out if there was anything else you couldn’t leave without. You yank a few dressed off the hangers, shoving them and the light blue dress into your bag that becomes full to the brim.

“That’s it.” You say goodbye to the room, smiling at all the memories you’ll hold dear in your heart.

As soon as you open the door and step out into the bar, now full to the brim with customers, you make eye contact with Namjoon. The glass he was washing in his hand comes to stand still as the two of you stare at each other from across the room. He shakes his head knowingly, telling you in his own way that he knows exactly what you’re doing and just wants you to be safe.

“If he hurts a single hair on your body, I’ll gut him alive.” Yoongi whispers as he walks past towards his piano.

“You and me both.” You smile before weaving your way through the crowd and out the door.

The rain had stopped, leaving behind puddles and pavement that that reflected the dim street lights. The smell of smoke drifts through the night breeze from the docks and Jungkook’s handiwork. You hope that there wasn’t too much damage to the piers surrounding Siwon’s. Those people didn’t deserve to have their source of income damaged. They were innocent.

You look around, trying to figure out what direction the wolf could have gone. It certainly wasn’t towards the dock, so you turn around and walk in the opposite direction. You steps quicken as you cross every deserted street. There was no one around, not a single wolf in sight. You reach the end stretch of town and have to make a decision. You can turn left and go home or you can turn right and see what lies ahead of you on the outskirts.

The overwhelming fear of being too late rises in your chest and you hope that this wasn’t the case. You back a decision and turn towards the right and immediately slam into what feels like a brick wall.

“Why are you walking home late at night, by yourself? Have I not told you a hundred times to be smart?” Jungkook growls.

“I was looking for you, you asshole!” you cross your arms in front of your chest.

“Why? So you can tell me how fucking terrible I am?” Bitterness lace his words.

You smack him as hard as you can in the chest, but his body barely moves. “Jeon Jungkook, if you ever leave me like that again, I am going to gut you myself!”

“Okay, Yoongi.” The wolf rolls his eyes before finally processing the words you had just said. He takes a step closer to you, hesitantly reaching out to hold your waist. “What did you just say?”

You stare at him, reaching up to brush his hair out of his face. “I said that if you ever leave me like that again, I am going to gut you myself.”

He presses his forehead against yours. “I promise, I won’t.”

You take a deep breath. “I want to believe you, Jungkook. I really do.”

“I’ll prove it to you.” He pulls you in closer, unable to hide the eagerness in his voice.

“Please don’t make me regret this, Jungkook. Please don’t make me regret falling in love with you.” You stare back at him.

“I won’t. I love you too much to ever let you out of my sight.” he places a gentle kiss on your lips before whispering. “Now where do you want to go?”

You take a second to think as a gust of cold air sends a shiver through your spine and gives you your answer. “Somewhere warm.”

Jungkook smiles. “I think I know the perfect place.”

[eternalbuckley]

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ WISTERIA VINES. (an aemond targaryen series)

— chapter one: Your Romeo. Your Juliet.

SUMMARY: You and Aemond find out that you got the roles of Romeo and Juliet but didn't know yet about the other one. You only found out that Aemond will be Romeo through a phone call with Helaena. And Aemond got the news about you from his older brother. How do you both react to these news?

word count: 4,415

genre: just some tiny angst i think? | no specified reader, queer!reader, bipoc!reader and plus-size!reader friendly

warnings/tropes: modern au, Y/N and they/them pronouns are used a few times, english is not my first language, slightly proofread and edited — if I forgot something, please let me know!

a/n: i'm more than excited to finally share the first chapter of this series. i've been working on this whole project for a while now and i really hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as i enjoy creating it! this will be my last fanfic this year, so i hope you'll have a great start into the new year or had a great start (whenever you're reading this) <3 reblogs, feedback and comments are highly appreciated and welcomed! ♡

disclaimer: please do not repost or try and take ownership of my work or post this anywhere without my consent. i don’t give you my permission to use my writing for any ai related things, don’t do it. do not translate my work and post it anywhere — i give you no permission to do that. i only post my stories here, so if you find my work anywhere else please let me know!

dividers by saradika-graphics

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ navigation | wisteria vines masterlist | main hotg masterlist | series taglist

You nibbled nervously on your nails while you sat on your couch in front of your opened laptop, rocking with your leg as you waited for an e-mail from the production team that produces the ballet show of Romeo and Juliet of the upcoming ballet season. Ever since you’ve first seen a performance of this production, you wanted to be a part of the ballet as well, especially in the role of Juliet. You’ve always dreamed of it and worked hard for your dream.

You’ve already worked with the choreographer before and would love to be able to work with her again. You’ve worked with her on two different productions before; the Nutcracker and Sleeping Beauty. You loved working with her and were fascinated by how she was able to put her visions into reality.

You first got into ballet shortly after you turned five and started having ballet classes. It didn’t fill you with joy in your early stage of being a ballet dancer, you sort of disliked it, but you grew to love the art of this dance over the years. One of the main reasons for falling in love with ballet was a performance you saw with your family in a theatre when you were almost seven years old. You were fascinated by the dancers, the costumes and the whole representation of the stage. It was magical for you and since then, you were determined to get better each day, hoping you’d be as good as the dancers you saw on stage. Eventually, you were allowed to use pointe shoes for the first time when you were thirteen years old – causing you to be the happiest person.

Officially, you have been a professional ballet dancer for a few years now. When you were seventeen, you had the opportunity to be able to dance in a bigger role in a Nutcracker production, which changed you into a better person and was a big step for your ballet career. It was one of your favourite times you’ve ever had, thanks to different people who were involved in the whole process.

“Come on…” You whispered to yourself and refreshed your e-mail inbox for the hundredth time today, hoping there would be an e-mail for the production. You wished there would be a positive message – a message which would tell you that you were a part of the production in the next ballet season. You’d be happy enough to be a part of the production in general, but your main aim was to get cast as Juliet. But after all, you would be happy either way.

You stood up with a sigh and walked into your kitchen to get yourself a glass of water. While you poured the water into your glass, you got a notification on your phone – an e-mail.

‘Casting Results for Romeo and Juliet’

You widened your eyes and immediately sat down your glass on the counter to sprint to your laptop and refresh your inbox to read the e-mail. Your pulse increased and your palms started sweating as your nerves almost exploded. You deeply breathed in, opened the e-mail and read the first lines.

“Hello Y/N,

we are more than happy to tell you that you have been selected as our Juliet for the Romeo and Juliet ballet of the following season. Congratulations!

The complete casting list will be released in the following days. The date for the first rehearsal will be sent to you with the official casting announcement – please make sure you’re prepared for everything!

Until then, relax as much as you can. We’re sure everything will be more than perfect this season! We’re very excited for it.

See you at the first rehearsal,

your production team :)”

You reread the lines multiple times, you couldn’t entirely believe it yet that your dream has just come true. “OH MY GOD!” You happily screamed out loud, jumping on the spot multiple times – you were more than happy. A few tears slipped out of your eyes while you unlocked your phone to call your best friend – Helaena Targaryen. Your hands shook a bit from feeling overwhelmed by the news.

You met her through ballet classes you took together when you were nine and ten years old, and you became best friends very quickly, grew up together and were inseparable. You were thankful to have her at your side. You were there for each other whenever you needed each other and built each other up whenever the other one wasn’t doing well. Especially when Helaena had a knee injury when she was eighteen and sadly had to give up on ballet. She wasn’t doing well mentally and lost her love for it. For a while, she tried to avoid it at every cost after her injury. Even you. You never blamed her for acting the way she did, you understood her. You would probably act the same way if you had to stop the thing you loved because of an injury.

It wasn’t an easy time for Helaena, but over time, she found other interests, and slowly got happier again when she discovered her interest in fashion and designing. It filled her with joy to create her own clothes and bring her ideas to life – it was Helaena’s passion. Being able to design clothes in the way she wanted brought her self-confidence back and gave her a voice. While you thrived in the world of ballet, she thrived in the world of fashion. You support each other in every step and success you’re able to make. Over the years, she had designed your costumes for different performances you were a part of. Seeing you in her creations whenever you danced on stage made her proud. Both of you moved in together shortly after your nineteenth birthday and had been living together for six years by now.

Your phone rang a few times until Helaena eventually appeared on your display. She wasn’t home because she was currently in Winterfell for a design job.

She smiled at you and leaned against the bed headboard in her hotel room. “Hi babe, what’s–“ Helaena began to speak but immediately sat up and gasped as soon as she saw your happy expression, “Did you get a part?!”

You nodded quickly while you walked over to the couch in your living room and sat down cross-legged. “YES! I will be a next Juliet,” you grinned proudly and excitedly while you put your phone against the plant pot that stood on the coffee table.

She clapped, “Oh my god, yes!! Congratulations, babe, you deserve it so so much,” she matched your excitement but then became a bit more serious for a moment, “Wait… Do you already know who your Romeo will be?”

You shook your head, “Not yet, the e-mail said that the complete casting list will be announced soon. I don’t know when, but I hope soon, and I hope it will be someone who’s…” You noticed her serious expression and how she nervously bit down on her lip, “Wait… What do you know?” You furrowed your eyebrows – you were confused.

“Nothing…” She cleared her throat to hide the nervous tone in her voice, but you knew she was lying because she wasn’t looking at you anymore.

“Helaena,” you said warningly, “Tell me what you know?”

She sighed and nodded her head. “Aemond just called me before you did,” she began, and your face faltered for a moment – you knew what this meant, “He will be your Romeo.”

“Oh… Uhh,” you cleared your throat in surprise, “That’s fine. Really. I’m sure it will be fine, I mean… He’s a wonderful dancer, and I adore his passion, but…”

“You’re afraid it will be weird between you? Considering that you’re not together anymore?” She interrupted you without a second thought. Her face showed sympathy as she asked you a question you tried to ignore for yourself.

Your shoulders were slightly slumped, and you nervously bit down on your lower lip. “Yeah,” you nodded slowly and shrugged. “But we’re professionals, and I’m sure we’ll be able to work through it in the next months. I doubt there will be any problems; we ended on good terms. In some way. We agreed to stay friends, remember?” You inhaled and put a few hair strands behind your ears.

“Babe,” she tilted her head, “You two can’t really be in the same room with each other. Every time you stare at each other like two lovesick puppies that obviously still love each other. When was it the last time you actually saw each other?”

You were aware that you and Aemond were extremely professional and wouldn’t let personal feelings ruin any experiences for your careers. But even if you agreed to stay friends and that you wouldn’t let any personal feelings between you, you had to stop dancing with him entirely. The weird tension between you was too heavy after your breakup. You and Aemond used to be dance partners, even before you got into a relationship. You only hoped it would end well.

“I don’t know. It probably has been a few months by now.” With an apprehensive sigh, you leaned against the backrest of your couch and placed a cushion on your lap to play with the fabric. “And besides, the moments you mentioned probably happened shortly after we broke up. I’m sure he and I moved on and can be professional. You know how important our careers are for us.”

Helaena hummed teasingly and nodded her head, “Of course, of course…. I’ll pretend I believe it now.” She chuckled as you rolled your eyes and huffed. If she were here, you’d have thrown the cushion at her. “Whatever! This only means that I’ll finally be able to design another dress for you,” she smiled and clapped excitedly. You chuckled and smiled at her through the screen, her excitement made you happier.

You talked for a few more minutes with her before she had to end the call because she got called by one of her clients. You sighed after the call ended. This was not what you had planned. This was not what you thought would happen. You weren’t exactly sure how to feel about it that you’d be dancing together with Aemond, especially in such a story as Romeo and Juliet. If you were honest, it didn’t bother you that you’d have to dance with him, but you were nervous. More than nervous that something might not work out in the way it should be.

You weren’t lying when you told Helaena that you and Aemond decided to stay friends, but she wasn’t lying either. You barely saw each other or were able to stay in the same room for long without staring at each other when the other one wasn’t looking. There were still feelings between you. Feelings that both of you tried to ignore and deny, even if it was obvious that they were still there. Especially to Helaena – she knew what you and Aemond still felt for each other. She deeply hoped that you would get closer again someday and maybe be honest with yourselves and each other.

You met Aemond and the rest of Helaena’s family when you were having a sleepover at her place for the first time when you were ten – it was like a little celebration of your friendship. During the first years of your friendship with Helaena, you barely talked with Aemond or any of her brothers, you barely knew them, only the things Helaena had told you about back then. The interests were too different, even if Aemond was into ballet and a ballet dancer as well. You couldn’t really find a way to connect with him.

Surprisingly, you had talked with Aegon more than with Aemond, despite the slight age gap. Aegon was like an older brother to you and treated you like a second sister – even if he technically had two already. He was happy to see that Helaena had someone who shared her interests and didn’t judge her for the way she was. You had met the other half of their family only a handful of times so far. Even if everyone tried to be polite with each other as much as they could, you were able to notice the tension between everyone – some had more and some had less tension, but it was there.

But over the years and the older you were, you grew closer to Aemond and became friends. You found interest in each other and realised that both of you had sides inside you that neither of you were aware of. You had been spending more time with him after Helaena had her injury and wasn’t able to dance anymore. Whenever you weren’t with her, you spent your time in the studio with her younger brother. You started to like him more after you got to know each other better. You trusted him, he trusted you. Both of you motivated each other for your dancing and after some time, you tried to dance together, and it was like you were made for each other. Dancing with him always seemed more than easy and the chemistry between you made it even more magical. You supplemented each other, which resulted in both of you being able to dance in a Nutcracker production together when you two were seventeen. It was the start of the best time of your lives.

Both of you were able to turn your hobby into your career and danced together in many productions, even the teams behind every production were mesmerised by the chemistry between you. Many times, you were asked by other dancers if you two were in a relationship – which you had to deny every time. Although, you had a crush on each other, but you never told each other, even if everyone around you seemed to notice the underlying feelings between you.

Especially Helaena noticed it, then and even now, and she loved teasing you about it. Even Daeron and Aegon seemed to notice something after some time. They cracked jokes about it many times before, about how well you’d fit together. Both of them didn’t even notice the glares Aemond gave them or how his and your cheeks heated up. Nevertheless, it took some more time until Aemond got the courage to officially ask you out on a date when you were rehearsing for a production. You didn’t realise in the first place that he was asking you out but once you did, you agreed happily.

You were the one who was able to bring out a happier and more cheerful side of Aemond, one he mostly only shared and barely let out due to different things that had happened in his life. Especially since he was ten years old and got into an incident with his younger nephew and lost his left eye to it. Since then, he has been wearing a prosthetic eye, which brought him his own difficulties from time to time. There had been days when the pain would be unbearable for him, and nothing could help him to ease the pain. Before he had been with you, he wanted to get through this alone and show everyone that he was strong enough, but he slowly let you comfort him and be there for him, the more he trusted you. But even then, there had been days when he pushed you away and wanted to be alone.

In your presence, he was mostly able to forget about his burdens and worries and could feel peaceful because of you. Especially whenever you danced together, he was much calmer and able to forget about his problems during these moments. He may have gotten rude comments about him being a ballet dancer from different people throughout the years, but he paid them no attention. Ballet saved his life in a way only you could understand.

Luckily, your relationship didn’t end because anything negative happened between you. It was rather a decision the two of you had made together almost a year ago, so both of you could focus more on your careers as ballet dancers without any distractions. You had been quite busy with your schedules and barely saw each other that much anymore, given that you and Aemond had to work on different performances and were busy with your training, classes or rehearsals all day. At the time, it was the better decision to part ways and stay friends.

Even if that worked in some way, neither of you wasn’t truly able to move on. Even if you had agreed to stay friends and act normally, it wasn’t easy to see each other afterwards. You kind of grew apart even more and only saw each other rarely. Before and during your relationship, Aemond used to visit you and Helaena a lot, but after your breakup, he rarely stepped into your and Helaena’s apartment. Only if he knew that you weren’t there.

It hurt Helaena to see her younger brother and her best friend growing apart like that, she felt kind of helpless. She didn’t want to get between you, but she understood your decision and tried to be there for each of you as much as she could. Even if it could be difficult for her sometimes – she tried her best, and so did you and Aemond.

After a while of thinking about old memories, you cleared your throat and got up from the couch to distract yourself. You didn’t want to spend the rest of your day thinking about your ex-boyfriend and what you experienced together. You wanted to focus more on being happy that you were finally going to have the opportunity of your life – you were a next Juliet in the ballet world.

You walked into your kitchen and took a sip from the glass you poured yourself before you received the email with the news of the casting. Your phone lit up with a message from Aegon – he congratulated you on getting the part in the production. You smiled and shook your head, Helaena must have texted or called him after her call with her client. You quickly opened the message and replied to him before you started to cook yourself dinner.

Meanwhile, Aemond cut some vegetables for his dinner and was on the phone with Aegon. He just told him that he got the part of Romeo and was more than excited to start the rehearsals – but Aemond didn’t know yet that you were going to be his Juliet. He hoped that the other dancers he’d work with would be as professional as he was.

“How was the first concert, by the way?” Aemond asked his older brother and got a pan out of his kitchen counter – fully unaware that Aegon was texting you.

Aemond furrowed his eyebrows when Aegon remained silent, “Brother?” He placed the pan on the stove and continued to cut the vegetables.

“Hmm? Yeah?” Aegon cleared his throat on the other side of the phone, “Sorry, what did you say?” He changed the position of his body while lying on the couch of his hotel room, a quiet groan leaving his lips as he tried to find a comfortable position.

“Your first concert… How was it?” Aemond repeated his question with a short sigh and added the vegetables to his pan and turned on the stove. But he didn’t get a reply again, which caused him to snap slightly, “Aegon, are you even listening, or what are you so busy with?” Aemond hated it when his brother wasn’t listening or was only half-listening.

“I’m just–“ Aegon paused and thought about his next words for a moment before he continued, “I’m wondering… How does it feel for you to know that you’ll dance with Y/N again?” He furrowed his eyebrows in contemplation.

Aemond stopped his movements, and the grip on his knife tightened with Aegon’s question. “I have no idea what you mean?” He hoped that he just misunderstood Aegon, that it was just some mistake, but how could it be a mistake? Aegon used your name, he must mean you, it could only be you. The words echoed in his mind as he gulped with the consideration that Aegon was telling the truth – that he’d have to dance with you again after everything that happened.

Aegon chuckled nervously. ‘Didn’t he already know that he’d have to dance with Y/N?’ He asked himself and cleared his throat. “I uhh…,” he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, he couldn’t save himself anymore, “Helaena called me before you did and told me that Y/N got the part of Juliet. And you’ll be Romeo. So… They’re your Juliet. I thought… You already knew.”

Aemond stared at his cutting board, did he hear his brother correctly? You were going to be Juliet? No, he must have misheard something, right? This newfound information caused him to stay quiet for a few moments. He wasn’t sure what to do with that information. On one side, he was happy that he got the part of Romeo, but it meant to dance with you. He felt conflicted about it, he knew that dancing with you always felt magical and easy, but he wasn’t sure how it would be after everything that had happened. Even if it has been a year since the end of your relationship, he didn’t know what to expect. He should’ve expected that this could happen, but he didn’t.

“I certainly didn’t know that at all. I only got the news of my part…. They’ll announce the complete list of dancers soon, but I didn’t know about Y/N.”

“Sorry, I–“

Aemond cut him off and shook his head, even if Aegon wouldn’t see it. “Do you know if they know that we will... You know,” he cleared his throat, he felt somewhat tense, “Dance together?”

“I don’t know, perhaps?” Aegon replied, quite unsure of his answer, “If you already have told our sister about it, then I’m quite sure that Y/N knows too by now.”

Aemond hummed and pursed his lips. Should he text you and congratulate you on getting the part for Juliet, or should he wait until you see each other for rehearsal? But what if you didn’t know yet that he would be your Romeo and that you’d find out because of him? It could be strange. After all, he knew what the whole Romeo and Juliet ballet meant to you, so it wouldn’t be weird to congratulate you for getting the role you always wanted, right? But he wasn’t sure if he should reach out to you after all.

“We’ll talk later. I’ll prepare my dinner now. I’m sure that you… Must prepare for your show tonight. Bye,” he quickly ended the call and let out a desperate sigh. This wasn’t how he thought he’d spend his next months.

You haven’t seen each other in months, how would things be between you two? He was excited about the production if he was thinking about his career, but he was nervous about his personal feelings.

Later that evening, you found yourself sitting on the couch of your living room, one of your favourite blankets wrapped around your body while a movie was playing on the TV in the background. You shivered a bit, even if the room was warmed up by the fireplace. But you weren’t sure if you shivered because you were cold or because you were feeling nervous. You stared at the screen of your phone, eyeing the chat with Aemond – you were considering if you should text him or not. After all, you were about to spend your next months together, almost every day until the last performance at least. It wouldn’t hurt to text him quickly, right? But did he even know about you being his Juliet?

Your thumb hovered over the chat with him, your nerves causing your hands to sweat a bit, and your pulse beat strongly in your ears. It was just a simple text; it shouldn’t be anything you should worry about. But your pulse was still beating strongly, your mind flooded with a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions.

Little did you know that Aemond was in the same situation as you while he was lying in his bed. His blanket covered half of his body while only the small lamp on his nightstand brought some light into his bedroom. One arm was placed under his head while he held his phone in his other hand. His thumb hovered over your chat as well. He desperately wanted to text you and let you know how happy he was for you that you were going to be Juliet. He was happy for you, but the thought of dancing with you caused his nerves to hit him deep inside. Aemond rarely felt nervous, but if it involved you? Completely different. You made him feel things no one else could, even after your breakup and not having seen each other in a while. The thought of you increased his pulse immediately.

After some more thinking, both of you tossed your phones away, letting out a long and exasperated sigh. Both of you covered your faces with your hands while your shoulders relaxed. This wouldn’t be easy. If you couldn’t even text each other a simple ‘Congrats’, how should things go when you would dance together? How were you supposed to spend your days together in such intimate moments? You’d have to be close – very close with each other and trust the other one. You were sure you could trust each other, but you were afraid of what else might happen.

And that’s when it hit both of you all of a sudden – he immediately sat up, his shoulders tensed while yours did as well as you both realised what it meant to be dancing as Romeo and Juliet.

You’d probably have to kiss each other.

On stage.

In front of so many people who would watch the performances.

It would most probably be a part of the choreography, and neither of you could change it, even if you could – neither of you wanted it to be changed, either. It is such a delicate moment between the characters and displays the feelings between them – it would be foolish to erase that moment. The next months surely would be interesting.

[xinfinityl0ve17]

MALICE MIZER - M-Gazette - November 1998 Vol.21

“Merveilles” Tour Final 98.7.22 Yokohama Arena

There was a castle, on stage, as if time was flowing backward only there… A scene encountered in the distant memories of a faraway past, evoking such an illusion… Is that place truly a part of the real world?

Does MALICE MIZER truly exist in reality?

In the world of collective imagination, where the unreliable five senses of humans mistakenly perceive, is it all a dream? Standing by the seaside where a gentle breeze flows or walking cautiously through a dark forest with no lights, always aware of what’s behind… In that instant a stage existed that could transform the scenery dramatically like the lighting that thundered fiercely in the dark night. And from above, no, as if sent from a different dimension their figures appeared in that space. And through sound, vibration, and light… everything about MALICE MIZER began to flow into our brains through every sensory organ.

“An integrated arts group,” MALICE MIZER.

Artists have their limits, musicians have their limits, directors have their limits. However, what need is there for “chic” in conveying things, events, emotions, and the world to people? “Is this a false space created by them? Are they false on stage?” Such trivial thoughts almost arise, but there is a world there. Yet, it is perhaps just showing what they can express. They have the authority over the “time” of this world.

And the lights in the castle began to fade, revealing a night sky adorned with countless stars… And the door to that space closed, while outside, the rain poured down heavily. Too many things unfolded in that brief moment and remained.

On the way back. “There’s no rain like this in a storm… maybe it’s still continuing from that place earlier.” I thought about such things as if I were running over a river in the car.

Text: Nobue Ishibashi

M GAZETTE Original MALICE MIZER Card-Type Calendar

50 readers will receive a gift.

50 readers will receive a 6-piece set of the M GAZETTE Original “MALICE MIZER Card-Type Calendar.” For details, please refer to the “Treasure Release” section on page 112.

“merveilles” — The End and Return ~TOUR-98 7.22 Yokohama Arena SET LIST

S.E. Bois de merveilles (instrumental)

M1. S-concious

M2. ILLUMINATI

M3. Np.s Ngs

M4. mana közi/Solo

M5. Gackt kami/Solo

M6. Syunikiss ~ The Second Mourning ~

M7. Nocturne Under the Moon

M8. Vel Air ~ In the Moment of Emptiness ~

M9. Dance of Death

M10. Aegean ~ With the Wind that Passed ~

M11. yu-ki/Solo

M12. Je te veux

M13. Madorigal

M14. Brise

M15. au revoir

M16. ma cherie

en. Le ciel

[spacemothsota]

how do humans who get cyberformed usally react to finding out what their cybertronian freind is doing to them?

the reaction guess is probably different from person to person but what usally happens?

Hi Anon! (Thanks for the question, I'm so glad!)

In fact, the reaction of different people is really extremely diverse, but all this can be combined into "five stages of acceptance".

It's not that there are five of them, basically there are only three reactions and they depend on whether the person had anything to lose in life, what kind of relationship he had with his parents and other factors.

The initial reaction of those who react to their situation is extremely aggressive. Anger, misunderstanding, confusion, all of it is deeply entwined in their chest, pressing like a weight and intensifying with pain. They do not understand why their cybertronian friend and trusted comrade decided to do this to them, they cannot accept reality for some time and deny what is happening (deny the situation). For the most part, this is the reaction of those who have families, or those who see that they had a duty to "humanity", or those who are afraid of leaving behind their achievements (in my AU, however, the cyberformed later face alienation from their former human brothers). People who initially flare up with anger are simply going through the five stages of acceptance of the situation. From deep denial and disbelief (lasts a short period of time), a furious outburst (anger), an attempt to understand whether it is possible to reverse the process (bargaining), numbness (depression) and then acceptance of the situation, an attempt to get used to the new reality (resignation). Adaptation is difficult for such people, they can be stubborn, flare up with irritation, as a rule, their Cybertronian friends provide support, knowing that it is difficult and unusual for them. It is because of them, for the most part, that Cybertronians try to unite the cyberformed into groups, thinking that this will help them come to terms faster and accept the idea that everything is not so scary, because next to them there are friends and those who have gone through the same process.

The second reaction, those who are confused, but mostly calm. I wrote in the "Second Part" that usually these are the people who tend to be more observant, they are calm and attentive in themselves. They understand what is happening earlier, they may have a flash of misunderstanding at the beginning (a short quick anger), but such people are more inclined to listen to their Cybertronian friend. To understand what exactly prompted him to act this way. Of course, they can be irritated or sad for some time, but resignation to the situation comes faster for them. Usually people with such a reaction can be stubborn for some time in adapting to the Cybertronian society, but their way out is studying sciences and professions. The feeling of order and consistency calms them down, and the support of Cybertronian friends gives them time to accept life in a new way at their own pace (some of these people are deeply inspired by the idea of ​​​​exploring everything in a new, more advanced way, as a rule, they are flexible in their thoughts)

The third reaction, enthusiasts in general. They may seem frivolous in their joy of becoming a Cybertronian, even if it means going through pain. However, these are the ones who know that they had nothing more to lose in their previous human life, or, on the contrary, they are running away from the life they had. For them, becoming a Cybertronian = starting life from scratch. Being yourself and not being ashamed of your character, not being constrained by rules, traditions or other things. Probably, the number of people with the third reaction includes those whose life has been permeated with Cybertronian culture and bots since childhood (and there are such, for example, like Daniel). In the case of this group, adaptation occurs so quickly and naturally that they rush to soften the reactions of the first group and help the second to reveal themselves.

Usually, Cybertronians take the cyberforming human to a safe place, they have one (at least for the Autobots, rest in peace to those chosen by the Decepticons). There, the former humans are surrounded not only by safety and security, but also by support from other cyberformers and their guardians and friends. I will write about this place later, as it is important for understanding both the reaction of the human government and the place that the former humans themselves have taken in the world.

That's all, just three categories, of course it all depends on the person and a little later I'll make a post with a list of characters that are present in this AU. If you want to know how this or that character reacted, you can write to me, I'll be happy to answer :).

Part 3 Character List

[paradiseinternet]

I Hate Tony Stark: Chapter One

pairing: Tony Stark x Soulmate!Reader

word count: 4.4k

triggers: war (hinted at), death (mentioned, not detailed), childhood trauma, poverty, out-of-body-experience.

author's note: Ayo, waz up. If you see this fic pop up in ao3 at some point it'll probably be me. I've got three chapters done so far but not gonna post them all right away. If you don't like world building, slow burns, and a touch of enemies to lovers, then this fic isn't for you. If you like soulmate au's, somewhat realistic character interactions (not "omgomg y/n I love you!!! <3"), and heavy main character setup, then this is for you. Seriously, I'm afraid of commitment so that slow burn gonna come in h a r d .

Enjoy luvs. --Missy

Chapter One: Merely a Suggestion

��           Although it is a controversial topic, you are one of the few who believe soulmates are only really a suggestion. This naturally wasn’t your original hot take on soulmates; in fact, you swore to marry your soulmate the moment you found them. However, the world is sweeter to a five-year-old and reality doesn’t really daunt on the youth until at least eight. Marriage is a beautiful thing and by the time you were six you’d concluded that although you and your soulmate would get married, it didn’t have to be immediately. When you were seven and outside during recess, you would tell your schoolmates that you couldn’t wait for the day you could meet your soulmate. Don’t get it twisted, you weren’t entirely ignorant—your mother and father had told you that many people got a soulmate, but few met them. This didn’t damper your optimism and everything was sunshine and rainbows until you turned eight. It was at this point that you became more self-aware and less self-absorbed.

            Your mother, bless her heart, was a kindred soul who worked two jobs: one as a waitress at a restaurant down the street in the evenings, and the other as a childcare worker for a local pre-K daycare. On the other hand, your father worked only one job as a mechanic for his own business (of which was slowly going bankrupt). They are soulmates and you love them just as much as they love you. However, love doesn’t mend all holes. When you turned eight, the entire world seemed to flip on its head. Quickly you became aware that living in a single-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of California wasn’t typical for a family of three, never going out to eat isn’t necessarily common, and working more than one job in a two-income household isn’t normal. It was at this point that when your birthday came, you’d ask for fewer, less expensive things in hopes of being less of a financial burden. Your family was not rich, well off, or even content. Instead, this loving family was so poor that your father would need to occasionally go to food pantries sponsored by local churches to even put sustenance on the table.

            Even with such a financial burden, you’d made sure to do your best in school in hopes that one day you can be successful and care for your own parents when they reach retirement. And so, by the time you became eight, your fantasy of marrying your soulmate went onto a backburner as more pressing matters took stage.

            By the time you were almost ten years old you’d accepted that maybe you were part of the 40% of the population that didn’t have a soulmate; or more dauntingly, the 27% that would never meet their other half. Not that the former number is necessarily terrible, it’s certainly better than the other side of the 27% that typically results in death.

In reality (and taking historical facts into consideration), only 6% of the 60% who are supposed to find their soulmate actually do—and live. So, when your tenth birthday came and no new soulmate identification aid popped up on your skin, in your mind, or with your vision, you’d thrown in the towel with grace and accepted your placement in society.

            In this universe, an unknown power assigns one person with another and declares them soulmates. The most common pairing is between a man and a woman; however, it isn’t uncommon for there to be a same-sex bond, a bond with multiple people, or a bond that is simply platonic. Something more consistent are the Soul Identification Aids (SIAs for short). These are the aids given to each soulmate as a sort of guide on how to find the other. Not all SIAs are immediately noticeable, but they tend to be on the more obvious side. Additionally, a new SIA is given to the person when they turn ten. Typically, the old SIA will be replaced by the new SIA (since many aids are not compatible). In the event both identifications can work smoothly together, the soulmates keep all pre-existing SIAs. Everyone is given an SIA at birth as many doctors and nurses exclaim with joy when a baby is born and they are first to witness the name, phrase, etc. of a lifelong future partner. There is however a small caveat to identification aids-- if your soulmate has yet to be born, you are stuck with your initial SIA from birth until your destined person comes into the world. In which case, the younger soulmate will receive two new SIAs (if compatible) and the older soulmate will gain one new aid on the day of birth of their soulmate. Many scientific investigations have also speculated that if your soulmate is not born by the time you turn ten, you do not receive a new SIA until your soulmate enters the world.

            So, when you were born late into the night and there was no physical sign of a SIA, this didn’t worry your parents. Afterall, not all SIAs are visible, and non-visible marks tend to run in the family. Your mark would eventually show up, and even if it didn’t, there was always a new one that would come when you turn ten. Thus, when you turned ten, your parents began to worry. You had woken up excited to see in what way you were going to find your soulmate, only to see not an inkling of a sign. The rest of the day was spent with your parents testing, prodding, and scanning for any sign of a new SIA. When nothing came to a head and you began to feel low, your parents told you everything was going to be fine and that they loved you no matter what. Then, with a little hope, your mother reminded you that you were an evening baby, so perhaps the new marks wouldn’t kick in until you were officially ten.

            That night, emotionally exhausted, you’d slept like a rock. There was only one point where you were rustled awake by the feeling of falling. Like your room, everything was dark; so, when you opened your eyes and couldn’t see a thing, you reminded yourself that you were in fact not falling, but instead sleeping in your twin-sized bed. Attempting to go back to sleep, you resituated yourself and cozied up with a pillow and cuddled up to the person beside you.

            What?

            You bolted into an upright position, trying to see what was going on. Stumbling out of bed, you turned on the lamp light to see no one in your vicinity other than your mother and father on the other side of the room cuddling each other on their full bed. At your hasty and loud movements, your father raised his head to look at you.

            “What is it?” He mumbled, still half-asleep.

            Looking around again, you decided to brush off the odd event as a physical hallucination and yawned, “Nothing, just felt like I was falling.”

            He nodded his head before going back to sleep, only for you to turn off the light and do the same.

            Christmas Day came, and the holiday was slowly losing its charm the older you got. With the new information that there isn’t a Santa Claus, you’d fell into a world of horror—not at the idea that there wasn’t a large man sneaking into the apartment every year, but that your parents, without fail, have been paying for your extensive wish-list every year. That was a bandage that was ripped off the same year that it was determined you didn’t have a soulmate. You were twelve now and had come to terms with becoming unnecessarily excited with gifts you felt so-so on. So long as your parents believed you were happy with the inexpensive present, you were truly gifted with the joy of relief in knowing you’d saved them a few bucks. This, to you, was enough.

            Although this year was a little different. In recent news, your father came home a few months ago saying that his business will go bankrupt soon and so he’s looking for other jobs. With the new financial stress, you’d done everything you could to cut down on costs. Shorter showers, walking home instead of being picked up, finding little things you could do to lessen their burden. So, when this Christmas came around and your father made the announcement, you were overjoyed.

            “I have found a job!” He declared joyously.

            Not only had he found a job, but it would pay more than what he was initially doing at the auto shop. The catch however was that it was a job with the military, and he was required to go into basic training for a few weeks, away from home.

            Your mother, the strong-willed woman that she is, held down the fort as you both gave your goodbye’s as he left for training. In the weeks that he was gone, time was a little strained and schedules were jumbled. The apartment was becoming more of a mess as there was now only one parent in the house. However, you both pushed through and welcomed your father back with open arms when he was finished.

            He wasn’t stationed immediately; in fact, it wasn’t until you were 15 years old that he had gotten a call. The army had found a placement for him somewhere in Afghanistan and he was to be deployed for about nine months. This time around your mother was a bit more hesitant. Afghanistan? At his age? He was already close to the max age of deployment, and they had limitations for a reason. It took a few days, but with the hope of giving you a better means of living and perhaps putting some more money in the already lack-luster college fund, she reluctantly confided.

            Unfortunately for you, when your father was expected to be deployed it would mean he would miss your birthday—the sweet sixteen. But with promises of trinkets and memorability, you smiled with tears in your eyes and waved goodbye once more. The two of you would have a father-daughter date when he came back to make up for the lost time.

            The day had arrived, the day that you’d never forget. Your 16th birthday. There were no big parties and no equally big plans. Just you and mom having a nice at-home dinner with a small gift ceremony. In the morning you were treated to sleeping-in and then given breakfast in bed with your favorite breakfast items. A small lunch came later in the day with plenty of sweet snacks to accompany you throughout the special event. Time was spent watching movie marathons, panting nails, writing letters to your father, and a variety of other activities you enjoyed. As the memorable day came to an end it was topped off with a Skype call with your father, having him wishing you a wonderful birthday, and an even better year. You’d hadn’t even gone into the bedroom until after eight in the evening, and so you began your nightly routine. Shower, pajamas, brushed teeth, water on the bedside, along with some extra routine things you do. By the time you had gotten done with preparing for bed, your mother had already dozed off, having put on an eye mask and earbuds in to allow you ease of movement as you got ready for slumber. The day was certainly memorable.

            But it didn’t end there.

            Almost as soon as you laid your head down onto the pillow, you felt the sensation of falling. Except this time, you were awake opposed to sleeping, and your eyes hadn’t even closed yet. Light had filled your vision so fast that it was as if the sun decided to take a detour back into the sky, pushing the night away. This wasn’t the only sensory overload however, as the audio of the quaint bedroom seemed to be blasted with dozens of voices—voices that did not match the tone of your mother. Next you had realized that you were no longer laying down, but instead standing up straight with a hand tucked into your dress pant pocket.

Dress pants?

            It was then that your eyes focused, not looking at something, but more everything in hopes that some sense can be made. Your heart was beginning to beat rapidly, and your brain took laps within your skull. Confusion molded your facial features, your brain having not a clue as to what was going on, but somehow something inside of you understood. “Understood what?” is a good question, a question you were about to come to the answer of.

            “—are you okay?” Asked a voice to your left. You twisted your head to track the voice, only to see multiple mouths.

            Another person spoke, this time possessing a higher pitched tone, “Mr. Stark, do you need a glass of water?”

            ‘What?” Was the thought that passed through your mind.

            Someone tapped your shoulder, and you looked towards the direction of the touch.

            “Sir, are you alright?” A man was in your face. You looked up at him, he was only slightly taller which would make him rather short for a male. He was pudgy with brown eyes and slicked back hair that was a little longer than what would be typical for a man.

            You breathed and formulated some form of a word out of your lips, “Where . . .”

            Then you stopped without even continuing the sentence, a look of surprise cased along your features as you were startled by your own voice. Except it wasn’t your voice. This voice was a lot deeper in comparison. Had you not felt it come out of your throat, you’d have assumed someone was right next to your person and said the word instead.

            You licked your lips as a strange look passed through the features of the man in front of you as he tried to make sense of what was going on. When your tongue exited your mouth, however, you felt little hairs move on your face. Now that you think about it, your mouth doesn’t taste how it did a moment ago. It felt drier and there was a linger of something that had a potent after-taste. Something was different, a lot of things were different. As the few seconds ticked by, a dawn of realization casted across the man’s face.

            It was at this moment that you’d come to the realization that the room was a bit quieter than it was a few moments ago. You had turned your head to where the initial parade of noise was coming from only to find some faces. Correction, many faces. Each one showcasing a similar expression to the one the man beside you displayed a few moments ago. Then, as if following a script, the faces started to change into the same form of realization the man had given you.

            That’s when the room roared to life with questions ranging from “Who are you?”, “How old are you?”, “Where are you from?”, and so on. There seemed to be a never-ending assault of words pointed in your direction that came so quick you could feel the exhales of the people warm you up slightly as it touched your skin.

            Then it dawned on you, a realization that could be titled ‘Better Late Then Never.’ This situation, this body, these people, this is not your setting. Not your room, not your mom, and certainly not your body. That man beside you is not short but instead you happen to be taller. The only thing that you knew in this situation was that this is the body of your soulmate. A man, standing on a slightly elevated stage with a minimalistic microphone in front of him, addressing dozens of people in what can only be assumed to be a press conference. A man you thought didn’t exist, a soulmate you previously believed you were not destined for.

            You glanced back at the man beside you as he hastily grabbed and dragged you into a particular direction. Where you were being taken off too was unbeknownst to your knowledge as you blink and find yourself back in the apartment standing in the middle of the kitchen.

            The time could not have been more than five minutes since your initial, unexpected bodily switch, and yet your entire world has changed. Focusing your eyes again and feeling the cold vinyl below your feet, you took a shallow breath. This felt like your body. Your mouth tasted familiar, and your fingers felt leaner than the ones you had just moments before.

            Looking down at the counter you faced, a torn piece of paper and a well-used pencil was before you, as were a combination of letters and numbers that filled the off-white sheet. Gently grabbing the paper, in fear of tainting its viability, you slowly read the note as you process what it says.

            10880 Malibu Point, California, USA

            An address. Your soulmate gave his address.

            Suddenly your mind swirled with the next course of action as your heart started to speed up again in excitement. However, you stopped the trail of thought as a smile crept onto your face.

            ‘I have a soulmate,’  you’d thought in endearment.

            Had it not been for your sleeping mother you would’ve squealed. That thought was quickly swept away as worry settled in.

            You don’t have a phone book with adresses, so you’d have to go to the library and use the computers there. Additionally, you’re 16. If he has his own address and is a speaker at a conference, he’s probably an adult. The Global Soulmate Registry Association (GSRA) isn’t particularly favorable towards the joining of an adult and minor soulmate after breaching the threshold of a particular age gap. Additionally, if he had immediately left the room to look for something to write on, he probably doesn’t realize how old you are.

            ‘A letter it is then,’ you had concluded.

            A letter is the most viable step. You wouldn’t need to go to the library in that case to see how long it would take to get to his home, you’d just need to get a letter and a stamp. A letter would be able to inform him that the two of you would need to be separated for the time being until you’re a legal adult. A letter is a harmless form of communication that can keep the two of you in contact without actually seeing each other. This way, you get to know this “Mr. Stark” without breaking any rules set in by the GSRA. And to be completely honest, you were very interested in learning about this man and why his name sounded so familiar.

            The news had been on fire for at least a week. Talk was going around about the recent happenings of the “2003 Tokyo-Stark Conference” and how world-renowned Tony Stark does in fact have a soulmate. Video footage had been released of the entire ordeal staring you and your awed expression. While watching the news you couldn’t help but flush in embarrassment as your eyes darted everywhere within the video and facial features contorted constantly—most being a sign of confusion and disorientation.

            You’d yet to get ahold of the letter and stamp—still frazzled by the whole ordeal. If the press is this attentive to a single man, how would they react to the news of who you are? Nerves shook your body as doubt laid on your mind. Perhaps this letter needed to be re-thought.

            Another week went by, and you’d finally calmed down your nerves. Regardless of the repercussions, you would let your soulmate know that you got his message. A smile made its way on your face once again at the thought of having a soulmate.

            Sitting beside your mother, the two of you were chatting away with the TV on in the background. You have yet to tell her the exciting news, but tonight that was going to change. The most recent broadcasting was still on the “Soul-Stark” mystery; however, now it was highlighting the many women who have come forward claiming to be Tony Stark’s soulmate. Initially you were worried that he would believe them, and that your soulmate would be ripped away from you; but, after Tony released a press statement, your worries melted.

            “She knows how to find me. Figured she’d find me sooner, but hey, patience isn’t my strong suit,” he had stated with a sly smirk on his lips.

            That’s right, he gave his address to you. No one has his address other than the ones he trusts. No one can prove their reliability unless they possess the note that you have. That’s why a letter is perfect. It’s effective, reliable, and prevents any bundles of nerves from forming if you two were to meet in person. Because to be honest, you’re not entirely sure if you could meet him face-to-face right now. The very thought makes something in the back of your brain twitch. It wasn’t anything bad, just that this person who has all the fame and fortune anyone could want, was your soulmate. You. Acne-infested, poverty-stricken, popularity-lacking, you. There wasn’t a doubt in your mind that he would take you at face-value, but considering your face is one big zit, that’s a hard pass. Perhaps after some time you can accept the man the universe has given to you, and you expect that time will come in about two years when the GSRA won’t breathe down your neck.

            Suddenly, your mother grasped her chest in pain.

            “Ahh!” She groaned.

            Your eyes widened in shock, unsure how she could be in pain without anything physical around her to be threatened. Swiftly you held the hand that was on her chest and put the other on her back, rubbing small circles.

            “Are you okay? What’s wrong?” You asked in worry.

            She shook her head, seemingly unable to speak. This carried on for a minute or two as she caught her breath.

            Releasing some air she huffed, “I don’t know, it just felt like something stabbed my heart.”

            In that moment she looked at you in the eyes and your own widened in shock.

            “Mother!” You yelled, unintentionally recoiling from what you looked at.

            Her features molded into that of confusion as black tears rolled down her cheek. Almost simultaneously she seemed to be aware of the liquid feeling on her cheek as she went to wipe the tears away, only to see the gunk that came out of her sockets. The two of you stood still not saying a word, trying to understand what was happening.

            It was during this moment that the TV flashed blue and red as it had the words “Breaking News” on the screen. Then a woman’s face appeared as she began to give the people the latest scoop.

            Without a breath the newswoman began, “Break news: We have just received reports of an airstrike in Afghanistan. The attack, carried out by opposing forces, targeted a U.S. military base. Details are still emerging, and we will continue to monitor the situation closely. Stay tuned for further updates.”

            That’s when it occurred—the realization.

Your father is stationed in Afghanistan. Your mother is crying black tears. There was an attack on a U.S. military base. Those tears weren’t bizarre, they were signs of a soul break. Your father is dead.

Unsurprisingly, your mother derived the same conclusion but was not willing to accept it without proof. She quickly got off the couch and ran to get the home phone, dialing a number you didn’t know. The next few moments were spent with her waiting as she got past the operator who connected her call only for the other end to speak out:

“Sorry, but all available representatives are currently on the line. Please wait as—.”

She fell to her knees, no longer able to take the strain on her brain and on her heart. It was when she fell you heard a sound you’d never forget, as the most soul-sucking sob left her lips. Mothers have a tendency to take all the weight of any situation, standing strong so that their little ones have something to look up to and aspire to be. Therefore, when the very woman who has raised you with an iron fist and soft heart completely fell apart, you were confused. You were worried. You were devasted. How does one fix a hole that is too big to mend?

Taking tentative steps to the corner your sob-filled mother fell, you were about to get down with her when the TV made an announcement.

“This just in: Our latest sources have confirmed that the weaponry used in the attack on the U.S. military base in Afghanistan was manufactured by the domestic company, Stark Industries. More details to follow as we learn more,” the woman said in haste.

A far-taken picture was displayed on the screen detailing a missile on course to the base with the logo of Stark Industries plastered to the side.

The only thing close to a representation of your thoughts after the announcement was the word “numb.” Your mind drew blank as your breathing stopped. Any movement made to aid your mother was quickly drawn to a halt. A few seconds passed by as the sound of your mother’s sobs only increased with the new information—having the attack being worse coming from your own country. As for you, your mind began to piece it all together.

Tony Stark, CEO of Stark Industries and the mind behind the weapons, killed your father. Your soulmate killed your father. Fuck the idea of indirect actions—one man is dead because of another. The man you have loved your entire life was killed by the one you’re destined to be with for the rest of eternity.

At this revelation you have made your decision. One that you will argue was not made as an act of emotion-clouded judgment, nor a means of revenge. It is simply because of the bad taste that enters your mouth when you say his name.

And here it is, the moment that defined everything:

“I hate Tony Stark.”

So yes, even though it is a taboo perspective, your opinion remains stagnant.

To you, soulmates are only really a suggestion.

[redrandomposts]

feeling embarrassed writing this. anyway, have some lukaivan before R7

idol/actor au (...not quite like off the record)

=====

luka watched, with empty eyes, his two juniors. it was almost amusing how ivan chased futilely after till. it made luka... want to control him? not in a creepy way, but rather, take care of ivan. his heart seems rather fragile for someone like till to take hold of it.

is it the heartbreak reflected in ivan's eyes, his words, his every action? luka can't quite decide, but he's sick of seeing it. they're being put in the same group, and he can't have any of that near him. and, well, if the best way to do that is make ivan fall out of love with till...

luka looks at ivan again. he's alone, now, looking at the pencil he'd stolen forlornly.

...then isn't he a perfect candidate for a "second chance at love?"

of course, that's not easy to say. luka has three easy steps for this, though.

getting his contact was easy. knowing that they're being put in the same group together, no guards were raised for that. a good morning text here, a good night text here, a check-in during lunch...

finding his schedule was even easier. considering the amount of time ivan spends alone with till chasing after mizi, luka integrated himself in quite well. two coffees in the morning for himself and ivan, a break in practicing with two cold drinks, and spending a late lunch together.

hanging out outside of the company building was unnecessarily difficult. luka supposed it was because of their upcoming debut; their workload was gradually increasing, from practice to photoshoots. he managed to pull ivan on a "dinner date" to discuss their duo. then three days later, they were going to the park. in gradually settled into a dinner once or twice a week.

===

ivan has found that his routine had changed imperceptibly yet entirely one night. his thoughts and knowledge, too, had expanded to include another person; luka.

he isn't sure how it happened. in the morning, a bit after he first gets to the building, luka will show up with two coffees. if it's an "important" date, there'll also be pastries to share. they started to practice together in preparation for debut, and they'd have a five-minute break chatting. (previously, ivan had saved that time to take a look at till a few floors below.) they'd get a bit too engrossed in their practice and have a late lunch down the street, luka somehow able to eat two people's servings of food during the fifteen or twenty minutes they spend eating. they'd practice for a while, and normally on fridays or tuesdays they'd have dinner together discussing their upcoming debut.

ivan's grown to know that luka prefers cold, sweeter drinks like frappuccinos, he can eat really well, and has the flexibility of a gymnast. he knows classical literature but would rather hear ivan's interpretations of it, and he writes songs to reflect a distorted reality. he's taken ballet classes when he was younger and had had chronic migraines up until a few months before joining the company.

it's... unnerving, how easily ivan got that information. with till, he's had to keep careful watch since they were children to know that his favorite food were any combination of meats and spices, that he drew breathtaking scenery and flowers, and that he's composed music since he was five. with luka, it was as natural as breathing.

it was refreshing.

as months passed, ivan found himself on stage, side-by-side with luka, overlooking fans the company had gathered pre-debut. he found that this was what he wanted in the future; back to luka's, or next to each other, or looking at each other, sharing the same love for music or whatever else they may be.

===

it was a marketing gimmick by the company. as the world grew more tolerant, the company naturally had to follow; even if that meant taking a newly-debuted idol pair and smushing them into boyfriends for the stage.

it's not as if they had to kiss, though. his manager had made sure that ivan wouldn't be forced to do more than heartfelt gazes if he didn't want to. curiously, ivan wanted to feel what luka's lips would be like on his.

he had never kissed another, after all. between till and school or work, there wasn't a carnal need.

so, one night while they were livestreaming, ivan had asked luka. and, five minutes later, he knew;

luka's lips were soft yet cold, tasted like the dinner they had together, and he was quite domineering. he didn't only kiss with his lips - he used his hands and pulled him in, caressed his hip or thigh or face or whatever he could grab ahold of. he didn't care for an audience, but would rather not get ivan implicated by turning them so that only the back of luka's head could be seen.

as luka pulled away and looked in his eyes, ivan could tell. ivan had fallen in love, yet again, and this time it was reciprocated.

===

till stared at his phone, stomach churning. his timeline, the traitor, had been filled with ivan's new relationship as if it were a dedicated page for it. from debut to now, he'd seen ivan less and less. gritting his teeth, till turned off his phone and looked at his most recent composition. he'd lost all inspiration.

[yoursinisforgiven]

IF I COULD WRITE YOU A SONG TO MAKE YOU FALL IN LOVE ──

pairing: elias x reader (boss/non listener)

cw: smut, afab reader, pwp (lots of plot), piv, no use of condoms, public indecency-ish, multiple orgasms, edging(?), mentions of panty stealing, band au, elias is the bassist, reader is the band manager, a few sexual jokes, reader is implied to be slightly older than elias.

previously ! / next !

 you are responsible for your own media consumption.

 "ROCK REBEL ELIAS SHOCKS FANS: LACY LINGERIE SPOTTED DANGLING FROM HIS POCKET MID-PERFORMANCE!" "BAND HEARTTHROB ELIAS: WHOSE UNDERWEAR WAS HE REALLY WEARING ON STAGE?!" "FROM MUSIC TO MISCHIEF: ELIAS STIRS CONTROVERSY AS INTIMATE ITEM FALLS FROM HIS POCKET!"

You didn’t bother flipping the page. You had read enough.

With a sharp flick of your wrist, the glossy pamphlet landed on the polished wooden table, its pages fanning out in disarray. The headlines screamed up at you in bold, exaggerated lettering, each more ridiculous than the last. You knew without reading further that the contents would be nothing but speculation, sensationalized nonsense crafted to stir social media into a frenzy. But knowing that didn’t make it any less infuriating.

Your fingers tapped against the armrest of the chair as you let out a slow breath. The hotel suite was dimly lit, city lights filtering through the half-drawn velvet drapes that framed the panoramic windows. It was an opulent space—all of Elias’s accommodations were—with marble floors that gleamed under the soft glow of the chandeliers and a mahogany sideboard stocked with top-shelf liquor. The air smelled of cedarwood, aged whiskey, and faint traces of Elias’s cologne. It was the kind of luxury that had long since lost its appeal to you, though it still served as a reminder of just how far removed Elias was from reality.

Your phone buzzed against the table for what felt like the hundredth time that evening. You ignored it, though the persistent vibration continued like a wasp trapped in a jar. Turning off the sound had been a mistake. It hadn’t silenced the chaos—it had only made it more apparent how relentless it was.

Fifteen missed calls in the last five minutes alone.

Your patience was wearing thin.

With an irritated sigh, you snatched up the phone and glanced at the screen. 

UNKNOWN CALLER.

Not unknown to you, though. You knew exactly who it was.

“If this is about the tabloid—”

A slow, amused exhale crackled through the speaker.

“Oh, sweetheart,” a voice drawled, rich with condescension. “This is about so much more than the tabloid.”

Your jaw tightened instinctively. 

Marcus Reynolds.

Elias’s agent. The so-called crisis management expert. A walking, talking thorn in your side.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, already exhausted. “I don’t have time for this, Marcus.”

“You don’t have time?” His scoff was thick with amusement, laced with just enough bite to make your blood pressure rise. “That’s adorable. Because I have an entire lineup of very important people who seem to think otherwise. Want me to start listing them? Management? The label? Maybe the sponsors who are currently blowing up my phone, demanding to know why their ‘brand ambassador’ decided to parade a pair of mystery panties in front of a live audience?”

Your grip on the phone tightened. “It’s not—”

“Oh, don’t even try.” Marcus cut you off smoothly, his voice like silk stretched over steel. “I don’t need an explanation. What I need is for you to get Elias under control before this turns into a full-blown PR catastrophe. And right now, sweetheart, you’re failing spectacularly.”

You pressed your fingers to your temple, trying to stave off the headache that was quickly forming. “I’ll handle it.”

“See that you do.” His tone was all sharp edges now, his patience thinning. “And fast. Because if I get one more call from a sponsor threatening to pull funding, I will personally drag Elias’s ass into a press conference so fast he won’t even have time to wipe that smug little smirk off his face.”

The line went dead before you could reply.

A slow exhale escaped you as you dropped the phone onto the table. The rhythmic pulsing behind your eyes intensified, and you rubbed at your temples, willing it away.

“Bad news?”

You didn’t startle.

You had grown far too accustomed to Elias’s habit of moving soundlessly, appearing out of nowhere like a shadow.

Lifting your gaze, you found him leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His dark hair was damp from the shower, strands curling slightly at the ends. A loose-fitting T-shirt hung off his frame, the fabric wrinkled like he had barely bothered to put himself together. His sweatpants sat low on his hips, and he looked, as always, completely unbothered.

“You tell me,” you said flatly, nodding toward the tabloids littering the table. “You’re the one who decided to take my underwear and not even bother securing them properly.”

Elias’s smirk widened. “It was a statement piece.”

You leveled him with a deadpan stare. “It was a goddamn disaster.”

Unfazed, he pushed off the doorframe and made his way toward the couch, moving with that effortless confidence he carried like second nature. He stretched out along the cushions, arms draped lazily along the backrest, legs crossed at the ankle.

“You’re acting like I pulled a Kanye and stormed someone’s stage,” he mused, tipping his head back against the cushions. “It was a ‘wardrobe malfunction’, that’s all.”

You dragged a hand down your face. “The sponsors don’t see it that way. Management doesn’t see it that way. I don’t see it that way.”

Elias studied you for a moment, then tilted his head slightly. “Do you?”

Your stomach twisted. “What?”

His gaze lingered on you, his amusement tempered with something quieter, something unreadable. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, threaded with something that sent a flicker of unease through you.

“Do you care?” His eyes didn’t leave yours, holding your attention captive. “Not about the sponsors. Not about management. You.”

The air shifted, the tension between you palpable.

You hated when he looked at you like this—like he saw through every carefully constructed wall you had spent years building. Like he knew exactly how to slip past your defenses, slipping under your skin with ease.

Elias shifted, pushing himself up from the couch, moving toward you with slow, deliberate steps. His gaze flickered, briefly, to your lips. Barely noticeable. But enough.

Your breath hitched.

And then—

“Dude, I swear to God, you’re delusional—”

The door slammed open, and Milo and Kai stumbled in, mid-argument.

You jerked back so fast it was embarrassing. Elias blinked, momentarily thrown off, before exhaling through his nose in silent amusement.

Kai stopped short, glancing between the two of you. “…Are we interrupting something?”

Milo barely looked up. “Not now. This idiot thinks pineapple belongs on pizza.”

You groaned, pressing your fingers against your temples.

Elias grinned, amusement flickering in his dark eyes.

This was going to be a long night.

 ──

“You know,” Kai mused, his voice cutting lazily through the steady hum of the tour bus engine, “maybe this whole thing isn’t all that bad.”

The sheer audacity of the statement made you look up from where you were slouched against the cracked leather seat, exhaustion dragging at every joint, every tendon, every miserable inch of you. The flickering streetlights outside cast passing, ghostly patterns over the bus’s worn interior, briefly illuminating the half-finished pizza boxes, a sticky bottle of lukewarm soda someone had abandoned, and the half-crushed packet of cigarettes perched precariously on the edge of the table.

Across from you, Kai was stretched out like a damn Roman emperor, his legs kicked up onto the table with the kind of ease only someone both chronically unserious and morally unburdened could manage. The cold, blue glow of his phone screen cast sharp highlights across his angular face, catching the smug little curve of his lips as he scrolled. His leather jacket was half shrugged off, one boot missing, one sock sporting a hole at the toe, and yet he looked as pleased with himself as a cat that had knocked over a vase just to watch it shatter.

You shifted, the cracked leather sticking unpleasantly to your arm as you tried — and failed — to lean away from the warmth pressing insistently against your shoulder. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Just… an added inconvenience to an already miserable night.

A soft breath ghosted against your sleeve, followed by the tiniest, most pitiful snore.

Lex.

You exhaled sharply through your nose and risked a glance down, only to find the drummer’s head tipped against your shoulder, dark curls mussed and sticking slightly to the sweat at his temple. His face was slack in sleep, the kind of deep, oblivious slumber reserved for toddlers and morally questionable drummers with zero regard for social or professional boundaries. His lips parted slightly as he let out another tiny, unconscious sigh — and honestly, it would’ve been almost endearing if you weren’t actively considering a one-way bus ticket to literally anywhere else.

You gave your shoulder a tentative, half-hearted shrug, trying to dislodge him without fully waking him. No luck. If anything, Lex just mumbled something indistinct and burrowed further into the crook of your arm like you were some glorified, long-suffering human pillow.

Unbelievable.

With a weary sigh that felt more like a battle cry, you turned your attention back to Kai, narrowing your eyes. “And why, exactly, do you think this isn’t a complete catastrophe?”

Kai didn’t even glance up from his phone. He just flipped the screen toward you, the sharp blue glow momentarily burning into your retinas as a flood of notifications scrolled by in rapid, twitching succession. The faint gleam of triumph in his eyes made your stomach clench.

“Because,” he said, tapping at the screen like the answer was obvious, “I just gained ten thousand followers in the last hour. Even this model, look how hot she is!”

You stared. Waited for the punchline.

When it didn’t come, you frowned. “You’re joking.”

“Nope.” He sang the word, light and smug and utterly unapologetic. He gave the screen another flick with his thumb before shoving it closer. “It’s all over Twitter. ‘#EliasLingerieGate’ is trending worldwide. People are losing their goddamn minds, and guess what? They’re all flocking to our pages now.”

He let out a short, incredulous laugh and shook his head, like even he couldn’t quite believe how far things had spiraled. “I swear, man. A little scandal does wonders for engagement.”

You tilted your head back against the seat, dragging a hand down your face, your fingers catching on the sweat-damp hair at your temple. “Glad to see someone’s benefitting from this dumpster fire.”

Kai, predictably, looked entirely unbothered. “Hey, a PR nightmare for you is a career boost for me,” he said, all faux sympathy and half-lidded amusement. “I mean, if Elias wants to start some new trend of performing with mystery lingerie falling out of his pockets, who am I to stop him? Might as well lean into it. Milk it for all it’s worth.”

You shot him a withering look. “You cannot be serious.”

“Oh, I’m dead serious.” His grin widened, teeth flashing sharp in the low light. “Controversy sells, babe. The numbers don’t lie.”

A deep, guttural groan slipped out before you could stop it, and you let your head fall back again, eyes squeezed shut, thumb absently rubbing at the throb steadily building between your temples. Between the tabloids spinning increasingly unhinged theories, Marcus breathing down your neck via passive-aggressive texts, and now this bullshit… you were two seconds away from abandoning the entire band in a Denny’s parking lot and assuming a new identity in Nebraska.

Lex stirred again against your shoulder, emitting a sleepy little grunt before resettling, his cheek warm against your sleeve. Another faint snore followed.

Fantastic.

Kai chuckled, clearly reveling in your slow descent into madness. “Yeah, yeah, I know you’re stressed,” he teased, voice almost pitying but far too smug to actually qualify. “But hey, look on the bright side — at least you’re not the one caught with someone’s underwear on stage.”

You slowly turned your head to glare at him, your expression a blank canvas of pure, simmering exasperation.

He grinned wider. You could practically hear the grin in his voice as he leaned forward, elbows on the table, phone still clutched loosely in one hand. “Y’know, I think this whole situation could be salvaged if we spin it right.”

A sense of dread twisted low in your stomach. “Kai—”

“No, hear me out. What if we leak a story that Elias is launching his own lingerie brand? Call it something edgy. Rebel Lace, or like, Bad Habit. Market it to sad girls with septum piercings and dudes named Ash who vape.”

You inhaled sharply, willing yourself not to engage.

Kai saw that as an open invitation to continue. “Or maybe — and I’m just spitballing here — we pretend it was all part of the act. Say it’s performance art. A profound commentary on, I don’t know… the commodification of sexuality in post-capitalist society. People eat that shit up.”

Before you could conjure a scathing enough retort, a new voice cut through the thick, humid air of the bus.

“Uh, hey boss?”

The words made you visibly flinch. A full-body, fight-or-flight flinch. You didn’t even have to look to know who it was — you’d recognize that tone from a mile away, a particular brand of sheepish nervousness that practically radiated bad news.

Elias.

You closed your eyes. Counted to five. Considered throwing yourself bodily out the nearest emergency exit.

The summer heat clung stubbornly to the cracked leather of the seats, making your skin stick unpleasantly despite the supposedly ‘state-of-the-art’ AC unit sputtering overhead. It didn’t help the knot of nerves twisting somewhere beneath your sternum.

“What is it, Elias?” you muttered, the words coming out like a death sentence.

There was a beat, and then:

“My dad just texted me. He wants to have a meeting with you. Well, technically all of us. In person.”

You could feel your heart drop straight to your ass.

Had Lex not been half-passed-out and using you as a human pillow, you might’ve allowed yourself to faint dramatically. But alas — head injuries were a no-go one week before a major performance.

“Avox!” you barked toward the front of the bus, the name — or what passed for one — rolling off your tongue with the bitter ease of long habit. You still had no idea what his real name was. Some bullshit moniker Elias had given him two years ago when they hired the guy, and for reasons entirely beyond your comprehension, it stuck. He never spoke. Not once. Not even when you nearly sideswiped a gas station ice freezer in Colorado. At some point, the silence just became a weird, slightly ominous normal.

The man at the wheel lifted a hand in acknowledgement.

“We need to take a stop,” you ordered.

Behind you, Kai whooped softly under his breath. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”

 ──

The drive had been long and exhausting — though, if you were being honest, it wasn’t actually that long at all. An hour, maybe. Less, if you discounted the fifteen-minute detour where Avox, in what could only be described as an act of quiet rebellion, pulled off at a sketchy roadside gas station without warning. No explanation, no words. Just the hiss of the bus’s brakes and the low rumble of the engine left running as he disappeared inside.

In hindsight, it wasn’t the hours on the road that made your stomach twist and your skin itch. It was the nerves — planted deep in your gut like some insidious, burrowing thing — clouding any sensation of comfort, replacing it with that anxious, crawling feeling you got before a confrontation. A storm you couldn’t outrun. You could’ve been rolling down the Amalfi Coast with the wind in your hair and a drink in your hand, and it wouldn’t have made a damn bit of difference.

So when the bus finally lurched to a halt, the brakes groaning like an old man standing up too fast, and the sight of a painfully luxurious restaurant came into view — all dark wood paneling, gold accents, and the kind of valet stand that looked like it charged by the sneer — you immediately wanted to lean over and puke into your purse. Right there. Maybe on Kai’s shoes for good measure.

Because a boy band tour bus sticking out in this parking lot was the kind of sight that warranted a restraining order, or at the very least a pointed phone call to security. The sleek, black-windowed building practically shimmered with wealth, the air around it seeming heavier, stifling. Even the flowers out front looked rich. Not healthy — wealthy. And here you were, hauling out a drummer who probably still had pizza grease on his cheek and a guitarist who thought Rebel Lace was a good business idea.

You stood with a deep, bracing breath and turned to face the others. “Alright,” you snapped, instinctively falling into boss mode because it was easier than letting the nerves show. “Elias, with me. Milo, Kai — you’re on damage control duty. I swear to God if you bother Avox or start a flash mob in this parking lot, I’ll leave you here to hitchhike home. And Lex—” You glanced at the half-asleep, barely-upright figure slumped in the booth. “—keep him conscious. Or don’t. Actually, yeah, maybe let him sleep through this.”

Kai shot you a lazy salute. Milo gave a thumbs-up without looking up from his phone. Lex let out a soft snore.

Good enough.

You turned on your heel, stepping down off the bus into the heavy, perfumed air. The smell of gardenias and car exhaust mingled in a way that made your head swim. Elias was at your side a second later, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his  jeans, hair slightly mussed from the drive. He always looked like he’d just stumbled out of a music video at dawn, some impossible mixture of tousled and effortless, like the universe itself had a crush on him.

You ran your hands through your hair, nerves warping into something closer to insecurity, adjusting your shirt, smoothing out your jacket. “Does my hair look okay?” you muttered, voice tight with the kind of panic you usually reserved for IRS audits and hotel bookings gone wrong.

Elias barely looked at you before answering, as if it was instinct, an involuntary muscle. “You look hot.”

The comment landed like a sucker punch, and for a moment you forgot how to breathe. You choked back a scoff, but the corner of your mouth twitched. He hadn’t said it to be flirty — not intentionally, anyway. It was just Elias. His brain-to-mouth filter hadn’t existed since ‘03.

You cleared your throat, focusing back on the point at hand. “Do I look appropriate to meet your father?”

There was a pause.

And then, to your mild horror, Elias actually gave you a once-over this time — the kind you could feel, slow and thoughtful, like he was assessing not just your clothes, but your odds of survival.

He winced. “Uh… I mean, you look great,” he hedged, scratching the back of his neck. “But like… it’s my dad. He wouldn’t care if you showed up in a ballgown or a garbage bag, he’s still gonna look at you like you’re the hired help who parked in his spot.”

You stared at him.

“Cool,” you muttered darkly. “Comforting.”

Elias flashed a grin, though it was smaller than usual, a little tight at the edges. “Hey — for what it’s worth? I’d rather have you here than anyone else.”

The words hung there between you for a second, strange and too honest for the moment.

You swallowed hard, trying not to let it show.

“C’mon,” he said, bumping your shoulder lightly with his own. “Let’s go survive my dad.”

And with that, he started toward the doors. Leaving you, for one quiet, desperate second, to pull in a breath, steel your nerves, and follow him inside.

. . .

The inside of the restaurant smelled like jasmine, fresh linens, and the kind of old money that made your skin crawl. Everything gleamed in that unobtainable, deliberately understated way — soft golden lighting, crystal glasses so clean they sparkled, waitstaff gliding by like ghosts in tailored black. It was one of those places where even breathing too loud felt like a crime, and you were already out of your element.

You ran a hand through your hair one last time, trying to subtly check your reflection in a polished wall panel. You didn’t belong here. You knew it, and more importantly — they would know it too. That thought clung to you tighter than your nerves did, wrapping itself around your ribs like a vice.

Then, as if summoned by your misery, a sharp smack landed against your ass.

You jolted, spinning around with every intention of flattening whoever was bold enough to try it — but of course, there was Elias, wearing that same infuriating, boyish grin, smug and unrepentant.

“What?” he teased, as if he hadn’t just invited death upon himself. “Move any slower and he might leave before we even get the chance to meet him.”

You scoffed, shoving him out of your path with a hand to his chest, though your face burned hotter than you’d ever admit. “Touch me again and you’ll be singing soprano on your next tour.”

His grin widened, clearly satisfied with himself, but he fell in step beside you as you both wove your way deeper into the restaurant. The clink of cutlery and low murmurs of moneyed conversation filled the air, making your footsteps feel louder than they were.

And then you heard it — someone calling Elias’s name.

Your stomach dropped. Please not a fan, you thought bitterly. Not now, not while he’s still viral for having my goddamn panties hanging out of his pocket in front of fifteen thousand people and half the internet.

But as you turned, bracing for disaster, you were met with three faces you didn’t expect — and yet, it was obvious, instantly, who they were.

The man sitting at the head of the table was attractive in a way that felt dangerous. Salt-and-pepper beard meticulously trimmed, a tailored suit with a dark pocket square, and eyes that could probably talk a person into bankruptcy and make them say thank you for the privilege. It wasn’t just that he resembled Elias — it was the way he held himself, like the room bent around him whether it wanted to or not. That easy arrogance that said he owned this table, this restaurant, maybe the whole damn city.

Beside him sat a woman with softly curled brown hair that fell just past her shoulders, though the gentle cut was a careful lie. There was nothing soft about her. Her eyes were sharp, lined with something cruelly elegant, and her manicured nails — painted a deep, blood red — rested on the table with the casual poise of someone who’d been raised to draw blood and call it diplomacy. She wore an ivory blouse, expensive pearls, and the faintest smirk. You were almost embarrassed by how badly you wanted to ask who did her nails, but the words lodged themselves in your throat like a swallowed stone.

And finally — seated opposite them — was a girl.

Wavy brunette hair, slicked back into a high ponytail that screamed ‘stylist appointment,’ and a face that prickled a strange kind of recognition in the back of your mind. You’d seen her somewhere before. Her features were pretty in a way designed for stage lights and magazine covers, with a pair of perfectly glossed lips and eyes that scanned you like you were an email attachment she hadn’t wanted to open. There was an easy smugness in her posture, one elbow hooked over the back of her chair as if she was already part of the family.

Words had been exchanged while you were still catching up, but it wasn’t until the woman — his mother, you realized with a quiet jolt — addressed you directly that you snapped back into focus.

“I’m Elias’s mother,” she said, standing just slightly enough to extend a hand toward you. Her smile was sharp as a knife dressed in silk. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

You managed to find your voice before Elias could jump in. “You too,” you replied, your palm cold against hers for the brief moment it lasted. Her grip was light, but you’d bet good money it could shatter bone if she wanted.

Elias gestured to one of the two empty seats, and you sat down next to him, acutely aware of how your every movement suddenly felt broadcasted, like cameras were trained on you even though there weren’t any in sight. Elias, for his part, flopped into his chair with the relaxed indifference of a man either oblivious to tension or so used to it he’d learned to ignore it.

“Well,” his father drawled, his voice a polished, easy thing that carried weight, “let’s get straight to it, shall we?”

You barely had time to brace.

“I’m sure you’ve seen the… incident.” The older man’s eyes cut toward Elias with a look you couldn’t quite decipher — part amusement, part disappointment, part PR calculation. “And while your… wardrobe mishap might amuse the internet for a news cycle, it does us no favors long-term.”

You swallowed, forcing yourself to stay impassive, even as Elias let out a barely concealed groan beside you.

“So,” Elias’s mother chimed in, adjusting a diamond bracelet that probably cost more than your apartment lease, “we’ve come to a decision. We’ll be redirecting attention before the week is out. Press will get a new story — one more flattering. And less…” she paused delicately, “…intimate.”

Elias raised an eyebrow, skepticism plain as day. “Meaning what?”

His father’s grin was slow, wolfish. He gestured toward the girl across from you — who, to your horror, was already watching Elias like he was a prize she’d won before anyone else showed up to the competition.

“Meaning you’ll be attending the charity gala this Friday with Elara.”

That’s where you recognized her. Elara Hart. Rising pop star, tabloid sweetheart, the kind of girl who trended on Twitter for sneezing. She’d opened for Elias’s band once. And now, she was giving him a slow, practiced smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

Elias blinked. “Wait — like a date?”

“Like a date,” his mother confirmed. “It’ll be good press for both of you. A clean, wholesome image. The scandal gets buried, everyone wins.”

You felt it then — a sharp, hot little pang low in your chest. Not quite jealousy. Or maybe exactly jealousy. But you schooled your face into neutrality, pressing your tongue against the roof of your mouth to keep from speaking. It didn’t mean anything. It was PR. That’s what people like them did. Traded rumors like currency. Staged kisses for a headline. You’d known this was part of the world when you signed on.

Didn’t make it any less irritating.

Elias exhaled, leaning back in his chair. “And what if I say no?”

His father’s expression didn’t waver. “You won’t.”

The tension spun tighter. Elara’s smile didn’t budge.

You glanced down at your water glass, fingers absently tracing the rim. You weren’t going to make a scene. Not here. Not in front of them. But the knot in your stomach twisted a little tighter, and God help you, you were already imagining how smug she’d look on every tabloid cover by Monday.

You forced a cool, polite smile onto your face and reached for your drink.

“Sounds like a lovely idea,” you said.

Even if it made you want to throw your glass at a wall.

 ──

Had anyone bothered to ask, you would have said — with a straight face, no less — that you weren’t avoiding Elias. You were busy. You had a job to do. There were rehearsals to oversee, calls to make, venues to confirm, a goddamn nightmare of a tour schedule to salvage. You’d buried yourself so deep in logistics and petty crises you could practically feel the pixels burning into your retinas from staring at spreadsheets for so long. If someone suggested you were ducking out of rooms the moment Elias walked in, you’d laugh, maybe call them dramatic.

But if anyone asked Elias?

“Absolutely,” he’d grumble, barely letting the question finish. No more stolen glances across crowded rooms. No more teasing remarks tossed like pebbles at your window. No more sneaking out the back of the tour bus for midnight cigarette runs you didn’t actually smoke, just to sit in the dark with him, shoulders brushing. It was like you’d vanished — replaced by a hyper-efficient, tight-lipped version of yourself that only existed in work mode. And it made him livid.

The fact that Elara had seemingly fused herself to his side in your absence didn’t help.

The rest of the band wasn’t exactly singing her praises either. Lex, whose temper rarely flared, still hadn’t forgiven her for the now-infamous incident where she’d used one of his drumsticks to apply lip gloss for a TikTok. Milo swore the only reason she was still breathing was because murder was bad for PR, and Kai had coined the nickname ‘Starlet Succubus’ within an hour of meeting her. The group chat — affectionately dubbed The Smiths on Crack — was a living shrine to every petty, unflattering thing she’d ever said or done in earshot.

Still. You had to admit, begrudgingly, that the PR stunt worked.

“ROCK BAD BOY GOES SOFT? ELIAS SPOTTED GETTING COZY WITH POP PRINCESS ELARA HART!” Fans left stunned as notorious stage menace Elias trades leather jackets for luxury galas! The unlikely duo made their debut at the McKinley Foundation Benefit last Friday, sparking dating rumors faster than you can say ‘PR move.’

You snorted. Stage menace. The only menace he’d posed at that gala was nearly tripping over a waiter’s tray and muttering fuck loud enough for a nearby debutante to faint.

Another headline:

“ELIAS & ELARA: THE INDUSTRY’S HOTTEST FAUX-MANCE?” Insiders claim the pairing is ‘all for the cameras,’ but witnesses at the benefit swear the two shared ‘serious chemistry’ during a slow dance to a string quartet rendition of Sweet Child O’ Mine. Are they fooling the world — or each other?

You clicked the article despite yourself, eyes skimming over grainy photos of Elias in a sharp black suit — no tie, of course, because some parts of him refused to be tamed — with Elara’s manicured hand resting a little too high on his chest. In every picture, his eyes looked flat, the corners of his mouth lifted in a careful, curated smirk. You knew that expression. It wasn’t joy. It was survival.

Your stomach twisted.

The last headline was worse.

“FROM PANTIES TO POP STARS: ELIAS CLEANS UP HIS ACT!” After making headlines for accidentally dropping a lacy surprise on stage, Elias has traded controversy for candlelit dinners. Sources close to the band say management pushed the pop princess pairing to ‘bury the scandal.’ But is it working, or is the rebel heartthrob losing his edge?

Your eyes lingered on the words lacy surprise a beat too long.

A new message pinged into the group chat.

Kai: bet u twenty bucks elara’s making him watch her tiktok drafts again Milo: bet you he’s considering murder Lex: Bet you both I could get away with it Kai: 😭😭

A short, humorless laugh slipped out of you. It should have felt good to see them ragging on her. Instead, you felt that same tight, dull ache settle in your chest — the one you’d been ignoring for weeks. The same one that came every time Elias’s name was mentioned and you had to act like it didn’t make something sharp and unmanageable rise in your throat.

You set your phone down and closed your eyes, willing yourself to sleep. But you knew it wouldn’t come.

Not with the way your mind kept circling back to him.

To the way he’d looked the last time you’d actually talked, properly talked — no PR, no Elara, no audiences. Just him and you, leaning against the hood of the bus at some nowhere stop, a cigarette dangling from his fingers, eyes gleaming in the dark. The unspoken weight of everything unsaid sitting between you like a third, uninvited guest.

You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t still care.

But God, you did.

You: go to bed, see you guys in the morning.

 ──

The next morning, you woke to the shrill buzz of your phone vibrating against the nightstand, a pale strip of light bleeding in through the heavy hotel curtains. Your head pounded, the telltale ache of too little sleep and too many thoughts kept at bay by scrolling until your eyes blurred.

Groaning, you reached out blindly, squinting at the too-bright screen. Seven missed calls from Lex. A text from your mom — “Hope you’re eating properly. Love you.” — which made you feel both touched and slightly guilty since the closest thing to a meal you’d had in 24 hours was a Red Bull and a stale granola bar.

And then, the one that made your stomach drop.

A text from Elias. Six minutes ago.

Elias: avox is sick. need u to drive me to rehearsal

You scowled, thumbs already flying over the keyboard.

You: why didn’t you go with the rest of the band? i’m your manager, not an uber driver.

The reply came immediately, like he’d been waiting for you to answer.

Elias: woke up late 🤷🏻‍♂️

Of course he did. Classic Elias.

You: how???

You already regretted asking. You could practically hear the grin through the screen before the next message even arrived.

Elias: was jerking off all night.

You gagged, rolling your eyes so hard it nearly hurt.

You: gross. seek help. Elias: too late for that.

You flopped back against the pillows, phone resting against your chest as you stared up at the ceiling. The hotel room was too quiet, which was its own kind of unsettling. No muffled bass line from Milo’s room next door, no Kai hollering about bad coffee, no Lex pounding on your door to borrow something random. If they were at rehearsal already, it begged the question — why the hell hadn’t Elias gone with them? And why was he texting you?

You threw the covers off, dragging yourself up to get dressed. You knew better than to leave him unattended for too long. The last time that happened, he ended up live-streaming himself trying to convince a roomful of fans that hot sauce made a great eye drop substitute.

You grabbed your keys, shoving your phone in your back pocket. It buzzed again.

Elias: i’ll be in the lobby. wear that jacket i like.

You didn’t reply. He didn’t need to know you were already pulling it on.

. . .

By the time you made your way downstairs, the city was already alive in that peculiar, restless kind of way — the streets humming with impatient car horns, old neon signs still flickering from the night before, and the sticky warmth of the early morning air clinging to your skin like something half-alive. You rubbed a hand over your face, willing away the ghost of sleep, and nearly gagged when your gaze landed on it.

Elias’s car.

A gleaming, pitch-black muscle car with seats the color of sin — custom Italian leather in some obscene shade of deep, bleeding red. The chrome trim caught the light like a polished blade. 

You scoffed out loud before you could stop yourself.

Fourth one this year, you thought bitterly.

The first one had been totaled after he tried to jump a median because "it looked doable." The second…well, technically it still existed somewhere in a lake upstate. The third met its untimely demise when Kai dared him to see if the speedometer actually maxed out at 220. Spoiler: it did not.

You checked your watch, and irritation curled beneath your skin like smoke. He was late, and it wasn’t like Elias to pass up a chance to lean smugly against the hood and bask in his own goddamn aesthetic.

It wasn’t until the driver’s side window rolled down with a soft mechanical hum that you spotted him. Elias, slouched in the back seat, of all places. Hair a mess of dark, careless waves, one hand lazily draped over the seat, the other holding a paper cup you could only assume was filled with something caffeinated and unnecessarily sweet.

He smiled when he saw you — not the charming, camera-ready grin he gave the press or the playful smirk he shot the fans. No, this one was a little crooked, a little smug, and dangerously familiar.

He reached across the seat and pushed the door open, like some rockstar prince in his ridiculous, gleaming carriage.

“Get in,” he drawled, voice soft and low, with a lazy kind of invitation.

You crossed your arms, refusing to budge. “We have places to go,” you said, sharper than intended.

“I just wanna talk,” Elias murmured, tilting his head against the headrest, his voice dipping into something honeyed and coaxing. “It’ll be quick — promise.”

You hesitated, the city moving around you, a blur of taxis and pedestrians and distant, impatient horns. Your phone buzzed again in your palm — Marcus Reynolds, no doubt already halfway to a coronary over rehearsal delays and tabloid headlines.

With a sharp exhale, you muttered a curse under your breath and climbed in, pulling the door shut behind you with a definitive click. You made a point of keeping your distance, pressing yourself against the opposite door, a full stretch of decadent leather between you.

“What,” you bit out, the single word a challenge.

Elias winced, clutching his chest in mock agony. “Ouch,” he said, dragging the syllable out, like he was savoring it. “You’re gonna hurt my feelings, sweetheart.”

You arched a brow, unimpressed.

And then — that smile again. Slower this time. A curl of his lips, a gleam in his dark eyes that was far too pleased with itself for your comfort. He let his gaze drag over you, not hurriedly, but like he was savoring the details: the curve of your throat, the faint smudge of tired eyeliner beneath your eye, the slight flush of your cheek from the heat. His voice lowered, not teasing this time, but something softer. Closer.

“You’re jealous,” Elias said.

It wasn’t a question.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes, though your pulse stuttered once, just beneath your skin. “Excuse me?”

He leaned in, a little closer now, the scent of his cologne — something woodsy, expensive, and faintly spiced — curling in the small space between you. His voice dropped further, taking on a silky, dangerous warmth, a dark amusement flickering in his gaze.

“Of Elara,” he murmured, lips brushing the word like a sin. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed, baby. You’ve been dodging me like I’m contagious. Throwing me those murder looks every time her name’s in the air.”

His smile was pure mischief now, but there was something else beneath it — something hungry. He let his gaze linger on your mouth for a beat too long.

“It’s kinda hot,” Elias added, softer now, a faint rasp to the words. “You pretending you don’t care.”

Your breath caught, a thousand curses caught in your throat. The air in the car felt suddenly heavier, the background noise of the city dimming to a dull hum. You opened your mouth to fire back — something scathing, something sharp, you weren’t sure what — but you never got the chance.

Because Elias was already moving.

It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t hesitant. It was the kind of kiss that spoke of too many almosts and too much tension left unchecked. His hand came up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as his mouth found yours — warm, insistent, and unforgiving. He kissed like he meant it, like he’d been waiting for an excuse, like he was starving for it. The press of his lips was slow at first, almost testing, then deeper, tongue teasing the seam of your mouth until it gave way.

And god help you, you let him.

The leather seat beneath you groaned as you shifted, your hand curling into the lapel of his jacket without thinking. His other hand slid to your waist, fingers splaying possessively against your hip. The city outside kept moving, indifferent, while inside the car it felt like the world had narrowed down to the taste of his mouth, the faint scrape of his stubble, the heat of his palm.

When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t by much. His thumb traced your bottom lip, swollen and slick from the kiss, his grin softer now, eyes half-lidded.

“Told you,” he murmured, voice a rough rasp against your skin. “jealously looks good on you.”

You swallowed hard, trying to piece yourself back together in the thick, too-warm air between you. Your pulse was still hammering in your ears, lips tingling from the weight of his mouth against yours. You forced a breath, sharp and uneven, then another — like you were coming up for air after diving too deep.

“We—aren’t doing this,” you managed to choke out, though your voice lacked the bite you wanted it to have. It came out thin, strained. Pathetic. You turned toward the window like it might save you, like the city and its neon blur could offer some kind of reprieve. Relief bloomed when you remembered — tinted windows. At least the world wasn’t watching you unravel.

But Elias was.

And apparently, that was worse.

Because before you could brace yourself, he hooked an arm around your waist and hauled you onto his lap like you weighed absolutely nothing. The air left your lungs in a startled rush, and you pressed a hand to his chest out of instinct — not that it did a damn thing. You could feel his heart beneath your palm, steady and maddeningly sure of itself.

“I’ve missed you,” Elias murmured, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear, voice dropping into that low, smoky register that made your stomach knot in ways you hated admitting. “We haven’t—”

“Elias,” you hissed, your voice sharp enough to cut. But your hand didn’t push him away. Not yet. Not when his fingers splayed against your thigh like they belonged there. Not when his breath was warm against your skin, and his thumb traced idle circles over the fabric of your jeans.

He grinned, the cocky bastard. That grin that made girls at shows scream and your temper flare in equal measure.

“Just one more time,” he said, coaxing, playful — but with that unmistakable edge. The one that said he wasn’t really asking. His fingers brushed a lock of hair behind your ear, his gaze locking with yours. There was something tender beneath the arrogance, something half-unguarded.

“Really quickly,” Elias coaxed, voice softening into a husky whisper. “Isn’t it your job to take care of me, boss?”

The way he said it — not teasing, not smug, but like it was a secret, a confession between only the two of you — made your stomach twist dangerously. His palm was warm against your back now, his other hand skimming the curve of your jaw, tilting your face toward him.

“You’re such an asshole,” you breathed, but it didn’t sound convincing. Not when your voice came out as a whisper, not when your eyes flicked down to his lips again like you hadn’t learned your lesson.

His grin crooked, softer this time. “Yeah,” Elias murmured, closing the inch between you. “But I’m your asshole.”

And then he kissed you again — slower this time. Less a claim, more a promise. His mouth moved against yours with an infuriating tenderness, one hand at your jaw, the other a firm anchor at your waist. You felt yourself melting, your body traitorously leaning into his, your fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket like you needed something to hold onto.

The tension in the car thickened like honey, slow and heavy, and despite every instinct screaming at you to shove him away, your body betrayed you. It always did with Elias. His hands knew too well how to map out the parts of you you swore you’d guard, and right now, the way his fingers were working the button of your jeans made your pulse stutter, breath catching in your throat.

You felt the slow tug, denim slipping down your hips, the chilled air against heated skin making you shiver — though it wasn’t from the cold.

He didn’t bother with his own, too absorbed, too focused, like you were the only thing worth touching. The pressure of his palm against your thigh made your stomach clench, and then — God — the first light, teasing stroke of his fingers over the thin fabric of your panties. You knew you were done for the moment you saw the shift in his face, the way his lashes fluttered and he groaned low into your mouth like the feel of you alone was enough to undo him.

“Fuck,” Elias rasped against your lips, the sound frayed and raw. His breath was warm, mixing with yours, and when he spoke again it was with that same voice he used on stage — low, edged in sin, made for unraveling people.

“You’re so wet for me,” he murmured, his fingers tracing over the damp fabric, teasing, deliberate. He kissed you harder then, tongue sliding against yours, drinking in the noise you made against his mouth. “Did she miss me too?” His words were filth, but his tone was velvet — dark and coaxing, the kind of thing you should be ashamed of how much it turned you inside out.

Elias pulled back just enough to watch your face, his thumb brushing over the slick spot his fingers had found, a smug little grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as you bit your lip to stifle a sound.

“You remember, don’t you?” he went on, voice dropping so low it was practically a growl, his fingers pressing just a little more firmly now, dragging slow circles through the soaked fabric. “Our little time before my performance? The way you begged me to ruin you in the greenroom when no one was looking.”

The memory hit hot and sharp — you against the wall, the distant pulse of bass from the stage, his hand around your throat, his grin all teeth when you came apart for him with only minutes before showtime. It was reckless. It was a disaster. And it had felt so stupidly good.

“I hate you,” you whispered, though it didn’t sound like hate, not with the way your hips rolled into his touch, seeking more.

“I know,” Elias murmured, leaning in to kiss you again, softer this time, like it meant something. His hand didn’t stop moving, slow and unrelenting, drawing wet heat from you in ways that made your toes curl against the leather seat. “But you still want me.”

Elias’ hand moved with unhurried confidence, fingers skimming the curve of your thigh before tugging your panties aside with a practiced ease that made your pulse stutter. The sudden brush of cool air against heated skin sent a shiver rushing through you, and you bit down on a curse — half because of the sensation, half because you knew damn well those panties were expensive.

Your sharp glare barely lasted a second before Elias’ mouth found the line of your jaw, his breath hot, voice low and teasing. “Relax,” he murmured, and the smirk in his tone made you want to slap him and kiss him all at once.

He shifted beneath you, undoing his jeans with a practiced flick of his wrist, the soft scrape of denim against skin filling the charged space between you. He didn’t bother pushing them all the way down — just enough. You hated how you knew exactly what he was doing, how familiar this was. How your fingers moved before you could think, slipping beneath the waistband of his boxers, freeing him with a practiced ease.

The sound he made was somewhere between a laugh and a moan, his head falling back against the seat for a moment, eyes lidded and lips parted. “So—fucking greedy,” he breathed, the words rough and ragged. “Not even gonna prep yourself, boss?”

Elias gripped your hips, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he guided you into position. The head of his cock brushed against your entrance, the thick tip nudging your slick folds teasingly. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the hard length throbbing with a life of its own.

With a roll of your hips, you sank down onto him, taking him inch by hard inch. Your walls stretched and yielded, accommodating his impressive girth as you enveloped him in your tight heat. The sensation was intense, bordering on painful, but you were too far gone to stop now.

Elias let out a guttural groan, his head falling back against the leather seat as you settled onto his lap. "Fuck, you're so goddamn tight," he grunted, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to leave bruises.

You started to move, lifting up until just the tip of him remained inside you, before slamming back down, taking him to the hilt. You set a hard, fast pace, riding him with a desperation that shocked even yourself. The car filled with the crude sounds of your coupling - the slap of skin against skin, the creaking of the seat, and your harsh pants and moans.

Elias matched your fervor, thrusting up to meet your downward motions, driving himself deeper into your clutching sheath. The car began to rock with the force of your lovemaking, the windows fogging up from the steam of your heated bodies.

"Shit, just like that," Elias snarled, his voice strained with pleasure. You could feel the tension coiling in your core, your climax fast approaching. Your thighs trembled, your walls fluttering around his pistoning length. You were so close, teetering on the razor's edge of ecstasy.

Suddenly, Elias flipped your positions, pinning you down onto the seat. He hooked your knees over his shoulders, nearly bending you in half as he loomed over you. "Gonna fucking ruin you," he groaned, before slamming into you with renewed vigor.

The new angle allowed him to drive even deeper, his cock kissing your cervix with every powerful thrust. The car shook violently, the force of his thrusts rattling the vehicle entirely.

He rubbed the swollen head of his dick up and down your slit, coating it in your slick arousal before slamming back in, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. You cried out, your fingers scrabbling against the leather seat as he began to pound into you with renewed fervor.

You could feel your orgasm building, your belly tightening and your thighs beginning to quake. Elias' fingers on your clit pushed you closer to the edge, your body tensing as you teetered on the precipice of release.

At first, you thought you imagined the sound — a faint, distant clatter barely cutting through the white-noise rush of your blood pounding in your ears. The height of your pleasure had stripped your senses raw, made everything outside the hot, frantic drag of Elias's body against yours feel muffled and unreal. Your thighs were trembling from the strain of keeping yourself perched over him, your hands scrabbling uselessly at the leather seat, your breath coming in broken, gasping little whimpers.

You were right there, aching, burning, your whole body tightening around him, when it hit you — a stuttering, frantic click-click-click sound, too familiar to mistake.

Before your brain could even untangle what was happening, Elias barked a breathless laugh against your ear, a low, wicked thing that shivered straight down your spine. "No fucking way," he said breathlessly almost as if he was laughing, still moving inside you, the slick, obscene drag of it making your toes curl.

He didn't even hesitate. One hand — rough, calloused, still damp with sweat — slapped the window button. The tinted glass purred down with an infuriating calmness, and the world exploded.

Flashes. Voices. Shouts. Your name — his name — screamed into the night like gunfire.

The burst of camera flashes was so bright it felt like someone had pressed a firework against your retinas. You squeezed your eyes shut instinctively, but it was useless — the inside of your eyelids were painted white with afterimages, and the noise was deafening.

You barely had time to gasp before Elias wrapped an arm under your ribs and hauled you up like you weighed nothing. Your back arched against his chest, still straining helplessly around him. You could feel him — every inch, every throb — still seated deep inside you, the friction maddening as you shifted and jolted in his grip.

"Time to make it official, boss," Elias drawled, his voice filthy with laughter.

You squirmed, instinctively trying to pull away, but he only grabbed your cheeks with a hand — squeezing until your lips puckered into a humiliating, sloppy little smile — and forced your face toward the cameras. The flashbulbs caught you mid-moan, mouth open, cheeks flushed, hair a sweaty, tangled mess clinging to your forehead.

And then, as if it wasn't bad enough, you felt him lean in — felt the hot, wet slide of his tongue drag an exaggerated, shameless lick up the side of your face, from your jaw to your cheekbone. The contact made you jolt in his lap, and he groaned low, bucking up into you just enough to make your whole body jolt, another ragged whimper tearing out of your throat.

You heard the photographers cheer like they'd just scored a touchdown. You heard the rapid, frantic click-click-click as they captured every humiliating, ecstatic second. You felt your thighs trembling violently, your whole body still begging, so close to breaking — and now completely ruined.

You should be upset about the ranch photos. You should be panicking about the scandal brewing just outside that window. You should be furious at Elias for making a goddamn circus out of something that was supposed to be yours, private and dirty and perfect.

But the only thing crashing around inside your skull, louder than the cameras, louder than your shame, was the raw, painful fact:

You’d lost your orgasm. You'd had it right there, cupped in your hands, ready to fall apart for him — and now it was gone, stolen away by the blinding lights, the yelling, the stupid fucking tongue against your cheek.

That was a tragedy worse than any headline.

. . .

Posted: April 27, 2025

By: Callie Monroe, Senior Gossip Correspondent

"BLOOD, SWEAT, AND SEX APPEAL: HOLLOW'S FRONTMAN ELIAS CAUGHT MID-TRYST WITH BAND MANAGER!"

Fans thought they'd seen it all — until last night's chaotic scene blew up across social media. Hollow’s wild-child frontman Elias was caught red-handed (and pants down) in a jaw-dropping, not-so-private moment with none other than the band’s longtime manager.

In photos too explicit to fully print (but easy to find online), Elias can be seen grinning like the devil himself, holding the blushing manager while flashing the paparazzi a lewd tongue-out gesture. Witnesses say Elias even rolled down the window himself to give the cameras a better view, unbothered by the public spectacle.

Sources close to the band claim "this has been a long time coming," while fans are already dubbing the scandal "The Great Hollow Blowout."

No official statements yet from Hollow’s label — but if the leaked photos and videos are any indication, damage control might be too little, too late.

One thing's for sure: the tour just got a whole lot hotter.

 ──

author's note: over the next few days I will be posting all the request ive been writing, if you're seeing this and it isn't your request check my blog! im posting multiple fics at the same time!

tag list: (small reminder if you'd like to be removed/added from the tag list just send me a dm, no i will not take it personal!)

@ysawdalawa @rain-soaked-sun @tanksbigtiddiedgf @sdfivhnjrjmcdsn @lil-binuu @colombina-s-arle @xxminxrq @souvlia @meraki-kiera

[epicbuddieficrecs]

Favorite Buddie fics of 2023!

Every single year at @epicstuckyficrecs I used to do a fic rec at the end of the year with my favorite fics. I figured I should keep the tradition going! So, without further ado, these are my favorite Buddie fics (in no particular order) published in 2023! (you can also check out some other favorite Buddie fics of mine here)

If you have any favorites that aren't in this list, don't hesitate to share them in the comments! :)

Complete

find a way to you (if it kills me) by foxwatson/ @eddiediazes (Post S6E13: Mixed Feelings, Pining | 19K | Mature): the one where eddie decides to start dating again, buck figures out his own feelings just a minute too late, and then he spends a week going through the five stages of grief

let the world have its way with you by fleetinghearts/ @shitouttabuck (Post-Coma AU | 54K | Explicit): or, a bucket list that’s really about buck needing to make a change and an eddie who’s ready to do anything to see him fall in love with life again. it takes some crossing off for eddie to realise—the thing at the top of the list in his own heart? it’s been right here all along

Being Eddie by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Time Travel, Post-Season 6, Getting together | 80K | Teen): When Eddie starts seeing a new therapist, he’s presented with the opportunity to revisit several days from his past and right regrets that still bother him. OR: Eddie goes through the time travel therapy process of the 2009 Canadian TV show Being Erica.

Evan Buckley & The Coma-Verse of Madness by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Coma AU, Multiverse | 58K | Teen): After being struck by lightning on a call, Buck experiences a plethora of alternate realities showing him different directions his life could have taken. Fighting hard to get home, Buck learns what, or who, is important to him in every lifetime.

like a dog with a bird at your door by fleetinghearts/ @shitouttabuck (Post-S6, Getting Together | 51K | Explicit): or, evan “i love you like a dog” buckley has only ever known how to love like, well, a dog, but maybe eddie diaz is the kinda guy to give a flea-bitten mongrel a forever home

Both Blade and Branch by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Post-S6 | 62K | Mature): The chances of being struck by lightning twice are incredibly minute, but Buck still manages to pull it off. During a double date with Marisol and Natalia, nonetheless. Eddie manages to resuscitate him, but as Buck recovers from yet another trauma, Eddie can’t help but notice there’s something very different about him. He’s not quite sure what version of Buck he got back.

where all of the people dancing and clapping would greet me with such warmth by trysetmeonfire/ @try-set-me-on-fire (Season 6, Magical Realism | 15K | Mature): In the fall, Buck begins to disappear. (Part 2 of All I Am, All That I Am)

Nothing Left But You by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars ("Blip" AU | 27K | Teen | Warning: MCD): In May of 2021, 25% of Earth's population suddenly disappears. Including Eddie. In May of 2026, they all come back. Eddie finds himself suddenly in the middle of a world he doesn't recognize, where the people he loves most have changed significantly.

Your Love is an Oil Slick (It Glows like Rainbows, It Stains My Soul) by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels/ @letmetellyouaboutmyfeels (Canon Divergent - Supernatural Elements, Ghost Buck | 67K | Explicit): When Eddie's son claims he has an imaginary friend, Eddie doesn't think much of it. Christopher is seven, it's what kids do. But then weird things start happening around the house, and Eddie starts dreaming about a handsome blue-eyed man. Turns out, Christopher's friend isn't so imaginary. Their house is haunted.

come with me, together, we can take the long way home series by allisonRW96/ @homerforsure (Canon compliant | 105K | T to M):

Get me through the night; Make me feel alright (Post-S3 Finale | 11K | Mature): After an emotionally-gutting reunion with Abby, Buck turns to old coping mechanisms. Eddie helps him find a better way. In Uncertain Times, The Uncertain Rules Apply (Pre-S4 | 22K | Teen): Covid comes to LA. Eddie copes. Or doesn't. Holding out for Something More (Stuck in Reverse) (Post S4E3/Lone Star Crossover | 26K | Teen): LA is coming out of lockdown and the world is returning to some sense of normalcy. But going back to the way things were hurts more than Buck expected. While his therapist challenges him to confront what he really wants, the team takes a trip to Austin... and El Paso. so far from being free (S4E4: 9-1-1 What's Your Grievance?, S4E5: Buck Begins | 46K | Teen): That’s Daniel. He was our brother. Buck doesn’t know what to do with the past tense. He never had a brother. He’s always had a brother. He gained one and lost one in the same breath and it feels impossible.

Kink Club AU series by Princessfbi/ @princessfbi (Canon Divergent - Different First Meeting, BDSM, Dom Eddie, Sub Buck | Complete | Explicit): Canon compliant one shots where Eddie works at a Kink Club as a side hustle and meets Buck there before his first shift in 2x01.

The Warmth (of You) (25K): aka where Buck and Eddie first meet at a kink club before the firehouse To Weather the Storm (With You) (21K): aka the fallout of Buck finding out the dom he met at a Kink Club is his new coworker Safe Here (With You) (20K): aka Buck and Eddie handle working a shift after their first scene The Building Pressure (of You) (15K): aka Buck reaches out to Eddie after he leaves Abby's place in 2x07 An Offer to Torment (You) (14K): aka Eddie is all twisted up inside about what to do with Shannon. Buck offers himself up for some much needed holiday stress relief.

like when the sun came out by spaceprincessem/ @spaceprincessem (Canon Divergent, Ghosts | 39K | Mature): Evan gave up trying to explain what happens to him after his parents forced him to have a talk with one of their friends, supposedly a pediatric therapist, and cruelly hinted that if Evan didn’t stop seeing and talking about his “invisible friends” as if they were real then his parents would send him far away to places where they lock children up in padded rooms. “Look,” Evan says quickly, forcing out the words before he gets too scared to speak,” I—I know this is going to sound crazy, but, um, ever since I was a kid I can see ghosts.”

tomorrow will always and forever now be today (tomorrow is our always and forever) by withmeornotatall/ @chronicowboy (Post-S6, Time Loop | 43K | Mature): eddie gets trapped in a time loop on the day buck marries natalia

All My Shattered Oaths by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels/ @letmetellyouaboutmyfeels (Vampires AU | 107K | Explicit): Eddie wants to stay away from his family’s legacy and give his son a normal life. Buck’s desperate to find a way to get over the love he lost. Fate has other plans for both of them.

Don't They Know It's the End of the World? by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Fallout 4 AU, Post-Apocalyptic | 32K | Mature | Warning: Violence): After being put in a cryogenic sleep for over a hundred years to wait out an apocalyptic event, Eddie Diaz wakes up, too early, to find his son has been stolen from his cryo-chamber. Scared and alone in a frightening world he doesn't recognize, Eddie is willing to do anything to get his kid back.

but i can see all along, love (it was you all the way down) by diazchristopher/ @captain-hen (Post-S6, Time Loop | 28K Mature): He puts his laptop away after a bit, and paces the length of his apartment as he tries to take stock of the situation at hand. One: The date is March 22nd, 2024. Two: It has been March 22nd for 3 days now. Three: Buck is trapped in some kind of time loop that is forcing him to relive this day. Four: Eddie is, apparently, in love with him. And. And. Five: Buck doesn’t feel the same way.

WIP

And here are my favorite WIP that I really hope will continue to be updated in 2024! 🤞

for all the haunts and homes of men by euadnes/ @kananjarus (Canon Divergent, Post-Apocalyptic, Station Eleven Crossover | WIP | 11/? | 96K | Mature | Warning: Violence): The year by the old calendar is 2025. Home is gone. Home is a failed rescue mission and an echo of a memory. Home is a lost boy living in a wooden house by the sea. But first, there was a promise. Christopher, when it's safe, I'll take you back to your father. Buck had all but given up on keeping it after the world had died and everyone in it. But just as some oaths refuse to be forgotten, so the same can be said about the endurance of love.

Things We're All Too Young to Know by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Canon, S1 through S6 | 104/? | 283K | Mature): This is a love story. Even if it doesn’t always look like it. Even if it doesn’t always feel like it. A look back on Eddie and Buck's lives up to now, and what led them to each other, interpreted from the current 9-1-1 canon.

Precious & Fragile Things by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Small Miracles AU, Angel Buck | 10/? | 25K | Teen): Buck is the Fallen Angel of Petty Temptation, who has been tasked with tempting human Eddie Diaz to sin and enjoy life, but just a little. He thinks the job will be easy - get in, get out, go back to Peru to continue messing around with eternity. But when Buck arrives in Los Angeles, he finds Eddie is harder to tempt than expected, and more compelling than Buck had hoped.

Right Where You Left Me by hyacinthusbloom/ @thebloomingheather (Canon Divergent, Post-S4, Angst | 89K | 20/? | Explicit | Warning: Rape/Non-con): "Therapy?" Eddie suggests. Buck almost laughs, but instead says, "I'll go if you go." Because he had fully expected him to be chicken shit, to disagree, and instead Eddie, the bastard, replies, "Deal." Or Buck never tells anyone that he slept with his therapist and deals with the butterfly effect years later.

Innocence died screaming, honey, ask me I should know by JJK/ @trenchcoatsandtimetravel (Demon Buck, Canon Divergent | 7/? | 12K | Teen): Buck is a demon with the power to help with pregnancy, childbirth, and infant health. When the Buckleys make a deal asking for someone to help 'save their baby', Buck leaps at the chance as it will give him what he's always wanted: a life on earth. But demon deals are tricky and neither of them gets quite what they're after. This is Buck's journey as he navigates growing up on earth and remembering how to help those in need.

[thisisourlovestory]

Safe and Sound

Finnick Odair x reader soulmate AU

Summary: you are a victor from district 4. The Quarter Quell has just been announced. How will you cope with the turn of events coming your way.

Word count- 2.8k

Notes: Merry Christmas! Thank you to everyone who’s read this so far and to my beta reader who has hyped me up about this whole thing. I’m going to try and update once a week but occasionally it may take a bit longer or less depending on how much I work on it since I am writing it as I go. Hope you enjoy! Also who here knows how to make the masterlist thingymajobs? Because I don't and I want to make one

Chapter 2

A scream shattered the silence and my hand was up in the air before I even knew what I was doing as I uttered those four dreaded words.

“I volunteer as tribute!”

The second I said them Lysander was practically jumping in delight, a grin spread across his face as wide as can be as he proclaimed loudly.

“I believe we have a volunteer.” I stepped forward, ignoring the shocked looks Annie and Mags were throwing my way. Lysander babbled on and on for a few minutes about ‘how exciting for a victor to volunteer’, how ‘he was sure none of the other districts would have tributes’. I felt like throwing up, looking out into a sea of faces, most of them open mouthed, a few simply confused as if wondering who the hell I even was. I saw a couple of people who I used to know, refusing to meet my eyes. My ballet shoes hung by my side, a heavy weight pulling down, anchoring me to reality as my mind drifted.

I turned to Lysander and gave him a pathetic attempt at a smile, lips tilting upwards slightly, a flash of white teeth for a second. “Please,” he said, “Shake hands.”

I didn't realise what he said until Finnick stepped forward and held out his hand to me. My eyebrows furrowed and I bit my lip, twisting the sleeves of my cardigan again, holding out my other arm to hold his hand loosely before pulling it back quickly as I felt my mark burn slightly. He looked confused for a moment before his expression cleared and he put on a charming smile, waving to the crowd. As for me, I stood there silently, chewing on my lip worriedly, wondering why I volunteered, why I didn't even hesitate.

“Your tributes for the 75th annual Hunger Games!” Lysander yelled to the crowd over their obedient clapping as peacekeepers pointed guns at them, threatening to shoot. All of a sudden we were herded off stage and I was dragged to the same room I had been in all those years ago, the paint still peeling, a splintered chair and table on dusty stone. I took a few steps in and collapsed on the floor, chest heaving as I tried to take in deep breaths. I curled my hands into fists, nails cutting into the soft skin of my hands, a few tears dripping down my face but I heard heavy footsteps down the corridor and quickly composed myself, brushing away the tears and standing up, elegantly sitting down in the chair as the door opened. Mags walked in, escorted by a guard who muttered.

“Five minutes.” And closed the door behind him. Mags stared at me for a second before walking over and placing a hand on my shoulder. I looked up at her and she mouthed one word. Why?

I smiled slightly as I answered.

“She doesn't deserve to die. She needs to live and I'll do everything I can to get Finnick out and back to her.” Mags looked confused so I rolled up my sleeve and showed her my wrist. “He's my soulmate,” she blinked quickly and I continued,”And he doesn't love me but he loves her and they deserve to live.” She looked angry and somehow managed to croak out a few words.

“What about you?” I patted her hand, standing up and looking out the window.

“I don't matter, I just want him to be safe and sound. I want him to be happy, even if it's not with me.” She looked at me pityingly, brown eyes filled with emotion as she folded me into her arms; I broke down, sobbing silently into her shoulder, tears soaking the fabric. “I just can't let him die, not if I can do something about it.” I managed to get out between hiccuping sobs and sniffles. She comforted me gently, stroking my hair with wrinkled hands and all too soon it was time for her to go.

The door swung open and Mags scurried out before they could drag her away, the last thing I saw of her was her long grey hair before another person walked in and the door was slammed shut behind them. Annie stood in front of me. Long auburn hair tangled, sea green eyes gazing at me curiously. She took in my puffy eyes and red face streaked with tears saying nothing as she kneeled down and took my hands in hers.

“Why did you do that?” She asked quietly, not looking me in the eye, “Why would you give up your life?”

“We aren't so dissimilar you and I.” I spoke, removing my hands from hers and laying them on my knees. “The games,” my voice cracked,”The games left us both broken beyond belief. The difference between us is that you had someone there to build you back up after you came out. I didn't. Or I did, but they didn't care enough to stay. We've both been dropped and shattered on impact but you've been fixed, mostly, the cracks are still there and with the right push it'll all come crashing down. But me, I've got nobody and nothing left, everyone left me to crumble to pieces as if I would just be fine, but I'm not, I'm just a pile of broken glass waiting for someone to finally care and put me back together. So I volunteered. Because you have everything to lose; I’ve got nothing left.” Annie said nothing, just watched me carefully,

“I'll get Finnick out for you,” I whispered,”You don't have to worry about him. I promise.” The door opened and she was led out, throwing a last glance over her shoulder at me, a strange look in her eyes as if she knew something I didn’t.

I was left alone to my thoughts again. Wrapping the ribbons of my shoes around my hands repetitively. Wondering what it would be like this time around. Would I even have a chance at survival? I dismissed that one immediately, with victors like the ones from districts 1 and 2, plus Katniss and Peeta from last year, I wasn't getting out alive. I was good but not that good. I could throw knives perfectly, fight in hand to hand combat and tie complex knots with lengths of rope, I was even half decent at using a bow and arrow. But compared to others I was weak.

The door creaked open again but this time no one entered except some peacekeepers in their white uniforms and masks, they dragged me out, gloved hands twisting my skin. I shook my arms out of their hold and glared at them, they let me loose and marched me along the corridor to the exit where a car would be waiting. They opened the side door and pushed me in. My head knocked against the metal and I hissed in annoyance but said nothing. The car pulled away from the justice building and I stared out at it for the last time, the carved marble flawless and perfect but oh so cold. My eyes trailed over the shapes of people outside, cheering my name; screaming for the games to stop. They hadn't even known who I was before, why did they care now? Why did they care just as I was sent off to my death once again? Why did they care when all they had ever done was pretend I didn't exist?

How could they stand there and scream my name, their beloved victor, when they had never before known me? How dare they pretend to care about me. How dare they think I wanted this. How dare they congratulate me on my actions when the choice didn't even exist to begin with. In those moments I was filled with nothing but disgust for the people of my district. We were supposed to be united against the Capitol yet here they were excited for me to go back in. Granted there was the idea that if they didn't then they would be made an example of by peacekeepers for not complying with orders. But behind every forced action there is a planted seed that was simply nurtured to form the fully fledged evil.

I sighed, propping my head up on my hand as we entered the station, reporters from the Capitol waiting for the chance to get a shot of Finnick or I. We jolted to a stop and Finnick stepped calmly out of the car in front, waving to people, giving them his charming smile, playing up to his persona as the Capitol darling. I took a deep breath as he disappeared from sight, people screaming for one last look at him, and pushed down the handle to open the door. I stepped out and was immediately assaulted by loud noises, too loud. They ripped through my skull and I flinched while I walked along the pathway that was cleared for me. They screamed my name and they wouldn't stop, it echoed in my head, their voices like nails as they raked down the walls I had built up in my mind to block out the bad and keep the good close. The peacekeepers surrounded my shaking form, tiny compared to the crowds gathered; herded me to the platform where the train was waiting. Sleek and silver, like a bullet, and just as fast as one.

I stumbled over the gap where the platform ended and the train doors opened, allowing me to topple to the floor in a graceless heap. I groaned and sat up, pressing a hand to the side of my head and frowning in annoyance as I felt the slightest of bruises there. My feet slipped out of my sandals so I picked them up in one hand alongside my pointe shoes and pushed myself to a standing position leaning on the wall of the train. I took a minute to calm myself, mentally preparing for the interesting conversation that was sure to come when I walked into the next compartment. I dropped my head forwards and wiped a hand over my face before sighing and reaching out to the handle, pushing it down.

I stepped in and three sets of eyes locked on me, standing awkwardly in the doorway.

“Hi.” I cleared my throat and they resumed their conversation. I relaxed in relief and dropped into a chair at the table, immediately reaching out for a plate. I filled it with all kinds of foods, meat, pasta, vegetables and more. A luxury I couldn't bring myself to afford with the money I had won, food I tended to steer clear of because in my mind it belonged to the Capitol and eating it made me one of them. But I figured I was going to die soon so I might as well indulge while I could. I speared a piece of fish and potato and it was halfway to my mouth when I noticed eyes on me again. Lysander was giving me a look of wonder as he leaned forwards onto his hands.

“So Y/N, tell me why did you volunteer? We need to know so we can spin this story to give you the best chance of winning that we can you see.” He smiled and bit into a leg of chicken, tearing the meat away with his teeth. My mind blanked, I couldn't exactly tell him the real reason I volunteered, that would not go down well with the current company, I glanced over to Finnick and my eyes widened as our eyes connected for a split second before I snapped my gaze back to my plate. I shrugged my shoulders and shoved the food in my mouth. Lysander’s mouth twisted into a scowl at my disregard for him and Mags, seated next to him, smiled down at her plate.

I swallowed my food and sipped on water in a glass next to me before I answered his question

“I didn't want her to die.” He spluttered in delight.

“I can work with that. A story of two best friends, one worried for the other's safety so she volunteers to save her from certain death.” I shook my head at his words.

“No. We aren't friends. I just didn't think she deserved to die and that's the only story you're going to tell.”

“But, but, but,” Lysander stammered under my glare.

“But nothing,” I said calmly, “There is no story, I volunteered because I felt sorry for her, nothing more nothing less. Now if you'll excuse me,” I shoved the chair back and stood up, “I'm going to my room and I don't want to see you, until morning.” With that I stormed out of the compartment, slamming the door shut behind me, rattling the ornaments and pictures hanging on the walls. My footsteps were heavy as I almost ran along the corridor, I finally reached the door I wanted and stared at it, remembering how seven years ago I had stood in the exact same spot.

My thoughts were pretty different about being in the Hunger Games now. Back then I had had no choice so it was just an unfortunate circumstance I found myself in with the added threat of death. Now it was more of an actual game and I suppose that was the point, throw previous victors into an arena together, seasoned killers, guaranteed chaos would ensue. They'd have the perfect show, death upon death that would look interesting and be absolutely brutal because the executioners would all know what they were doing. It would be the most viewed year of the games in history. They’d be making hunters into performers, fighting to stay alive for the cameras. Doing anything to gain sponsors. It wouldn’t surprise me if some people went too far. But most of all, we’d be angry. Angry that we had to go back, they’d promised we were done and now it seemed they lied.

I pushed the door open and stepped into the room. It smelled of fresh peaches and vanilla, the white bedsheet pulled tightly across the mattress, light green comforter spread across the duvet. I gently closed the door behind me and threw my sandals on the floor. I leapt onto the bed, sinking into the mountain of pillows piled up near the headboard. A headboard engraved with swirls of waves and shells to represent district 4, I looked closer and on every wave was a set of initials and a date, the initials of every other district 4 tribute in the history of the games and the date they were reaped. A tradition upheld by every new victim. I traced over my initials on one of the waves and picked up the knife I had taken a few minutes ago, I picked a new wave and ripped into it, my initials carved as deeply as possible. A message that I was not going easy. I would go but I would fight every step of the way.

I chucked the knife down and admired my handiwork. I was no artist but if I were this would be my best piece. Rolling over I stood up and made my way to the wardrobe. Opening it I found an assortment of clothes and night dresses. I picked out a white one that fell loosely to my knees and pulled my pointe shoes on, tying the ribbons around my ankles and standing up. Humming a song, I rose onto my toes, hands lifting above my head as I twirled around, the skirt floating around me. I kicked one leg into the air, leaning to the other side and bringing my arms close to my body, curving them in. I danced for what seemed like hours, lost in a world of my own as I spun around in circles, sweeping my arms above my head and out in front of me. Finally growing dizzy I stopped, one foot turned out in front of me, the other pointed behind me as I let my arms drop slowly to my side, my humming stopped and I opened my eyes. Remembering the reason I was here, to help Finnick. All urge to dance left me as I quietly undid the knotted ribbons, pulling the shoes off and staring at my feet, blistered and bruised. Plasters taped on them to stop the cuts being infected. I climbed into the bed, pulling the sheets over my body, shivering as the cold fabric touched my skin and then burrowing further into the warmth it provided. I yanked the comforter closer. Rubbing my cheek on the fluffy material, hand reaching out to turn off the lights, switch just in reach making a sharp clicking sound as I flipped it. My eyes started to drift closed in the darkness, my limbs tired from the exhausting day and I fell into dark oblivion.

Taglist:

@nekee-lilac02 @hinata7346 @bambikitten @the-lonely-abyss @mxacegrey @m-maxie-ie @not-aya @camatchoum @maw1dk @avoxrising @meri-soni-meri-tamanna @somdreamy @thehairington86 @millzluvrs @val-writesstuff @erindiggory @reader-bookling123 @elisa20beth @maxinehufflepuffprincess @user123453226780536 @littleanubis21

If the tagging didn’t work or you want to be added to the taglist just let me know!

[bidisasterevankinard]

Wip Wednesday

do I have the stage where I start new wips but barely write the one's I have because I'm super indecisive and not inspired? yes. let's hope soon I will be fine and work on my wips I want to work on. Anyway meet new wip where bucktommy will have long angst in their relationship because Tommy needs to grief "what ifs" with Sal he never thought about till he sees Sal as Captain of 118 (it's an au where Sal is a captain instead of Gerass)(it's only the start of the fic btw)

thanks to nonny @racerchix21 and this song (the title taken from the song and it's "I tried to go on like I never knew you"

Tommy knows it all should be in the past. In stolen kisses in bars they knew Gerrard and the team would never come too. In usually passionate and wild - almost never tender and sweet - sex. In secrets they shared under sheets, when they both knew that the moment their fabric cover was gone they couldn't talk about those moments of comfort and vulnerability they shared. In breakfast’s Sal made for him and his nonna's lasagna recipe Tommy cooked for the man. In wild dreams Tommy knew could never be a reality. Especially not when Sal changed stations and firstly their meetups were less and less frequent until they stopped after Sal’s wedding. 

And Tommy swears he thought he was over it. Over Sal. Over dreams of the future they could never share. But one look at the man whose appearance barely changed since Tommy last saw him five years ago, staying near 118 trucks the same way he always did, while talking with Chim, and all that got back at him. All the memories of stolen love and painful hope to be happy, proud and loved. Preferably by his “best friend”. By the one of the best men he ever met even if they could be rough with each other or rude or just wrong. Sal always came back with sorry, that Tommy knew was genuine. They were so wrong together, but also so wrongly perfect. So electric. Sal made him feel how almost no one could. Only his first crush Eric from the army, Sal and …

“Hey, handsome, sorry for the delay, Hen needed help to choose a present for Karen,” Evan kissed his cheeks, smiling like thousands of suns.

If Tommy didn’t know and was pretty acquainted with Evan’s quirks and little signs of his fatigue, he would never think the man just ended his 48 hour shift.

“It’s fine, baby.”

Tommy smiles and he hopes his inner turmoil of seeing an old friend is not shown on his face.

“Have you met my new captain yet?”

“No, but I don’t need to.”

Evan adorably tits his head and Tommy wants his heart to be so fast only because of it and the taste of Evan’s lip balm on his cheek, but he swears he can feel the taste of liquor he and Sal were drinking last time they kissed. Right before Sal asked Jennifer out on their first date.

“I worked with Sal. Even more than Chim and Hen,” Tommy says and Evan for a second frowns and then hits his face.

“And they were no less inseparable as you and Eddie,” Chim says, with the loud sound of gum bubbles breaking.

Tommy doesn’t know when he and Sal got closer to them, but he would really happy if they never see that Tommy was there at all. 

“God, of course. In my defense it was so long ago I just haven’t even thought that all three of you were a team.”

“Yeah, I left the station almost a decade ago and it feels like it was in another life, so it’s fine, Buck.” 

Sal smiles at his boyfriend and Tommy wants to make as much room between them as possible. Maybe it will help him to to separate all these feelings of worry and anxiety and love and confusion from the sight of the man he had loved for years, but had never had the opportunity to own his love completely for himself, never feeling that Sal had given him his heart, and a man who he knows is step away from get into his own chest and rip out his heart with all the vessels and give it to Tommy if he just says the word. Sal would never do it even if Tommy would beg

I was tagged by @tizniz @cal-daisies-and-briars @diazheartsbuckley @diazsdimples

Tagging @wikiangela @neverevan @hippolotamus @watchyourbuck @evnnkinard @evansboyfriend @evanbegins @evanbi-ckley @repressedqueen @rogerzsteven @racerchix21 @eddiebabygirldiaz @theotherbuckley @pirrusstuff @saybiwithme @steadfastsaturnsrings @devirnis @giddyupbuck @honestlydarkprincess @kinard-buckley @loveyouanyway @lonelychicago @bigfootsmom @bekkachaos @bi-buckrights @bewilderedbuckley @monsterrae1 and anyone who wants to

[jinnie-ret]

MY YOUTH | SKZ NINTH AU

stray kids x ninth member!reader (platonic)

<---------- back to my youth

<---------- back to main masterlist

chapter 1

genre: fluff content warnings: swearing (?) word count: 1.1k

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"Sunny... Lou, wake up, we've got to get ready for practice!"

"Give me five more minutes mum..."

"Yah! I'm not your mum!"

Louisa rolled over in her bed, squinting as she opened her eyes from the sun peeking through the blinds. Huh. Since when did she have blinds in her room? Blinking to adjust her vision to the lighting, she was shocked to the one and only Lee Know from Stray Kids.

"WHAT THE FUCK!!!" she exclaimed in shock at the top of her lungs, which clearly gave the same feeling to the man as he jumped back from her sudden and unexpected yell. The two of them could only wordlessly look at each other, both of them speechless but for different reasons.

Footsteps suddenly came piling into the room, which as she tore her gaze away from one of her idols, she noticed the room was something she could have only dreamed of. Her walls were painted a lovely sage green colour, tapestries hung up on the wall, wound from thick white string. There was an overall calming feeling to the room, Louisa noticed, which was added to by the soft fluffy rug in the middle of the floor and several variations of cat plushies scattered around the room.

"What's happened? Why is there shouting?" Bang Chan questioned hurriedly, looking over the two of his members and seeing no clear signs as to what just happened.

Meanwhile, Louisa was freaking out. All of Stray Kids were in her room, which wasn't her room but she would have to assume for now that it was. Maybe it was all happening in a dream? And she finally shifted like she saw everyone do on Tiktok.

Yes! That must be it.

Taking deep breaths to try and calm herself down, she did her best to act normal.

Easier said than done.

"Hey? Hello? Anyone in there, Sunny?" Seungmin waved his hand in front of the girl's face, bringing her back to reality. Or whatever this place was.

"Oh, hey, what?" Louisa wiped her tired eyes, clocking onto the fact that they kept calling her 'Sunny'.

Was this her stage name?!?

"You screamed in my face," Lee Know pretended to burst into tears, grabbing onto Han's leg in comfort from his position on the floor he hadn't moved from.

"My baby!" Han joined in, gasping and sinking to the floor as he cradled Lee Know to him and hugged him tightly.

Hmmm. At least they weren't acting differently from how she expected them too.

"Oh," Louisa said and let out a giggle at her two members. Wow, that would be something to get used to.

"Haha, she just said oh," Jeongin laughed pointing at the girl who still seemed dazed.

"Lou, why did you yell? Stays are right you really are like Minho," Hyunjin pointed out with a grin on his face, lazily brushing a stray hair from his face.

Wow, to be compared to Lee Minho.

"Oh, I umm, had a dream I was at home so I was confused when I woke up and saw Lino in my face," Louisa laughed, quickly coming up with a sketchy lie that could be covered up by her tiredness.

She saw a couple of the members pull a sad face at her and wondered why. It would have to be something she'd find out later.

"Ah Lino-ah, you gotta stop surprising Flo like that, we told you enough times already!" Changbin scolded him, arms crossed over his chest.

"Yah! I didn't want her to be tired for practise. You know she can be moody," Lee Know said back, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

"Moody?" Louisa held a hand against her chest in disbelief. She hoped she wasn't moody around her favourite people.

"Hey hey hey! Our sunshine is never moody!" Felix sat down next to Louisa and covered her ears to protect her from the words.

Louisa could feel her heartbeat picking up quickly. Was she this close with the members?

A sigh was let out, and everyone turned to Bang Chan to see him shaking his head.

"Guys, it's literally only gone 7am," he muttered shaking his head before he began to walk away, "such a handful."

The other members began to follow suit and continue getting ready and whatnot, when Han turned to Louisa.

"It wasn't a bad dream, was it?" he asked her quietly, a brow raised in concern as he became serious.

"No, it was a good one, probably one of the best ever," Louisa thought to herself as she recognised this dream of Stray Kids to be one of a kind.

"Okay, good, well make sure you're awake, we leave in half an hour," Han cheerily said, happy his youngest member was too as he went to hunt for some food for breakfast.

_____

On their way to the company, Louisa felt in her element being around the boys. It just felt so natural. Like she was meant to be there. She praised the gods above for letting her experience this dream.

"So your schedule today starts off with dance practice for Miroh, then you have vocals to record and some free time after that for producing or anything else you need to prepare," the manager that was in the car with them began.

So they were practising for Miroh? Gosh Louisa didn't even know what year it was until then. From her own knowledge they had just entered the summer of 2021, after winning the competition show Kingdom Legendary War where they participated with other boy groups. She wondered how it would work with her being in the group now.

At least this way she knew the dance quite well already, it would be just knowing how to fit into the formation.

Getting out of the car and entering the company was another thing. Louisa had no clue where she was going but as they walked past the café inside she couldn't help get excited - she had heard amazing things about the food. At least for now she could justify following after the other members as they all went in to practise the dance for Miroh.

Someone bumped her shoulder as they walked through the corridors, causing Louisa to stumble back a bit.

"Ugly slut," a girl muttered under her breath as she walked past.

"Huh?" Louisa questioned out loud.

She'd barely walked into the company and was already being faced with drama. Silly to think she'd live a life without it as an idol.

"Lou?" Jeongin turns around when he notices she wasn't walking with them.

"Oh, sorry, got distracted!" Louisa brushed off what happened and jogged lightly to catch up with the guys.

"Yah Lino-ah really must have startled you," Bang Chan laughed at the girl's expression.

"Shhhh," Louisa held a finger against her lips as she rolled her eyes.

"Kids, get to practice!" the voice she recognised as the manager's called out. Good to know there's someone keeping them in check when Chan gets in his cheeky moods.

First practise, this would be a breeze, right?

next chapter -->

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tagged: @skz-streamer @kiraisastay @hannahhbahng @kpopmenace143 @sakufilms @kai-lee08 @arloo00 @dunno-wut-to-do @splat00z @cheesemonky @his-angell @turtledove824 @2minstan @royal-shinigami @yangbbokari @lixie-phoria