#flora + fana

[xartwrk]

flora + fana by Fana Hues

[lilybug-02]

bug video games are peak honestly we really need more. you can never have enough bug friends . Hollowknight & bugfables <3333333 Arthropoda for the WIN!!!! beetles are my favorite insects and probably some of my favorite animals, they are so widespread making up a vast majority of land animal life and come in more varieties than many can even imagine they are also so cool and many are absolutely gorgeous. i love expressing my love for these insects absolutely wonderful animals what a wonderful world.

Oh thank you! I’m always so happy to spread light on the wonderful Flora and Fana here on Earth. It’s a shame that bugs and the like gets so much negative attention.



Here’s a video I took today of a female Eastern Carpenter Bee!

Fun Fact: Apparently these bees are known to "rob" nectar by boring holes in the sides of flowers like you can see in the video. Very naughty.

[satan-chillin]

I think alot about headcanons where Sauron liked children.

It wasn't a conscious thing for him, not really, but he had this inexplicable fondness for new growths, fauna and flora alike. It wasn't until Eönwë flew down one time in the middle of Valar's festivities where almost all the Ainur were in attendance, where he had with him five small beings that he claimed were brought about by Eru as new maiar. They came late, much later than their brethren, that they became novelties, small in stature and might but unmistakably one of them.

They presently stood as tall as Mairon's knees, and he was told by Eönwë that they were different in a manner in which they would grow into their fana, something which Eru designed for the future incarnates that He called Children.

They were happy to be led by the other maiar, and, vaguely, Mairon noted that one was certain to serve Aulë. And yet it wasn't that one who came close to him where none would, bright eyes with the light of the trees peering up at him in wonder and amazement.

The little one called himself Olorin for it was the name Eru had given him, singing it to Mairon for the gift that it was.

"You're made in flames," he said, voice strong and soft with youthfulness. "Eönwë said he has a brother like fire."

"That I am. I serve Lord Aulë the Smith, and I work his forge fire and smelt his stones and metals."

There was no confusion on the little maia's face, only that of delight, guileless and wondrous that had Mairon felt some kind of rare consciousness. Mairon suspected that the new maiar had not come to awareness yet of who they were to serve and wondered how that would work. At the moment, Olorin was fascinated by Mairon's hair the most, where he had worn a net of luminescent stones shaped in the form of moths that oft lit the parts of Aman that were barely touched by the light of the trees.

Mairon weaved his fingers through his hair and took some of the scarlet stones in his palms. He crouched down on Olorin's level with enclosed fists, and with a gesture of blowing into them, he opened his hands to let the fireflies flutter around the young maia and into the wind.

Olorin's delightful giggles at the display were something Mairon would still remember for a long, long time.

...

In Angband, there was no child prisoner.

It seemed true that none of the Eldar, enlightened or otherwise, would deign bring a new life in times of strife. Which was why when the controlled experiment he had conducted on copulation between an orc and a female Avari resulted in an offspring, Gorthaur was quick to take it under his care, to raise and observe closely.

It was a deformed thing, at infancy as little as the runt of his smallest wolf's recent litter, with four limbs of different proportions. Its height was stunted, eyes bulbous and with an oddly bulging stomach. Its heartbeat was an erratic, uneven sound, and its breathing came in harsh pants when awake and noticeably slow and low when not.

It did not grow any better, barely as tall as his calves. It lumbered and crawled, mind and coordination undeveloped.

And yet it had not known Gorthaur's signature cruelty, had not known his harsh grip and tearing touch. To it Gorthaur sang, with a voice and song that rang within the black halls of Angband. In the quiet stillness of obsidian walls, the lullaby reminded Melkor dimly of the Beginning, of his once mighty Song that would have easily mingled with that of a bright flame's to create something beautiful entirely.

The creature had defied the nature of the Eldar and the Natural Order, and if that was not a miracle in of itself, Gorthaur knew not what would be.

His fondness for it ebbed toward a perilous territory that Gorthaur had yet to tread, but enough that when the creature died abruptly, his fury echoed within the dark halls.

And some, in hushed voices and whispers unheard, would also say grief.

...

When Annatar arrived in Eregion, its lord had taken an Edain for a ward.

A child who, for all that it was yet to take its first word and step, could all but command Celebrimbor's attention away from his making with a mere wail.

Its namedays were celebrated, its cries soothed and its laugh encouraged. Celebrimbor adored the child as dearly as one would the Children their offsprings. Annatar puzzled over this, at first, at how an Eldar could treat a child not even of his own blood nor race as if it was his own. Sentimentality of the Incarnates, he realized, and pity, too, toward someone who came to Arda weak and powerless and orphaned.

Celebrimbor named it Theo; a minute resemblance to the sire's name, he had said. And when Annatar could see how tenderly and lovingly he held it, he knew then what he could hold over Celebrimbor as a primary weakness.

Still, it was a glaring distraction from Celebrimbor's works, a wailing thing that earned more of Celebrimbor's time better spent in working with Annatar toward their goals. The logical thing to do was to eradicate its existence, purposeless that it was in the grand scheme of things. Annatar set a semblance of a plan that very same eve, with soundless footsteps on his way to the nursery.

The child was awake when Annatar saw him under Tilion's meager light, with eyes glittering in recognition toward Annatar's face. His lengthening shadow covered its form, a dark shade from the moonlight.

Until tiny fingers gripped Annatar's long nails, taking them as if a toy to nibble and gum on. When sharp claws were a hair's breath away from soft cheeks, they returned to their previous shape of blunted nails and calloused skin.

Theo studied Annatar's hand as curiously as he did the infant who remained unafraid but just as quickly turned dismayed when Annatar pulled away. The small face reddened and crumpled, and came next the strong wails from deceptively tiny pair of lungs.

He was on Annatar's arms when the spread of his palm went on his small back and making slow circles that he recalled Celebrimbor doing once. The cries easily reduced to sniffles and hiccups until the little body went slack, forehead knocking against Annatar's shoulder.

He could count wisps of blooming dark hair on the soft back of head. A bit of force and with a finger he could touch the stem connecting the brain and spine of soft bones. Instead, Annatar ran a knuckle from the nape to tailbone, careful of the delicate skin.

Celebrimbor stumbled upon them in that manner, a weary but fond smile playing on his lips. Annatar suspected he had been there long enough to watch him put Theo back to sleep, letting Celebrimbor's assumptions run as his ruse.

When Annatar gingerly put him back down to his bassinet and exited with Celebrimbor, the latter's smile hadn't left his face even until the next day and the next.

Three days later, it occurred to Annatar that Celebrimbor liked seeing him with Theo.

His main guise was to come to Eregion as an emissary of the West, but if Annatar had to adjust around the idea and take on the role of an accidental guardian and mentor to a rapidly growing Edain, well.

That could only endear the Lord of Eregion to him, couldn't it?

And it did, though what Annatar least expected was to find a surge of fascination on how Celebrimbor's mind work in return. He was a genius as his Grandfather had been, but a rare prodigy who refused to be hindered by his own pride. He welcomed all knowledge and wisdom, and to Annatar's teachings he had none but an open ear.

His ward adopted his voracity for learning, devouring languages that Annatar could teach him, of theories and paradoxes that challenged his young mind, and of the magic of Arda and beyond. Theo was yet to leave the grounds of Eregion on his own, but already he was worldly for a child of ten. And where there was a fascination for Celebrimbor's mind, there was pride for Theo, a pupil whose curiosity couldn't be held back by his short years and youth.

Celebrimbor liked that the three of them get to spend their time together at certain hours of the day, and Annatar... Annatar grew to like them too, he supposed, both the occasional tranquil silence and the passionate debate at times.

He contemplated on what it would mean, if this would be what Annatar would have from now on—for as long as time allowed Theo—and found that it wouldn't be so bad.

They made the rings, given freely but carefully to people they had chosen. Leaders and healers and farmers, they were, people known for their nobility and compassion. Annatar had thought that it would be the one to break his ruse, the darkness that marred their creation showing itself without any prompt.

But while Celebrimbor claimed to not be an impeccable judge of character over a short span of time, he had been fairly confident in their chosen ringbearers, and Annatar, in a spur of impulsivity, decided to put in his trust.

Trust that paid off once he saw the fruits of their labor: new vegetation and new growths, all borne from the pure will of the rings to make way for new life, for new beginnings.

He grew ever tired, a gradual but sure thing, but the weariness over his skillful deception had began to chafe in moments where he had learned to adore Celebrimbor's dreams, his conviction... his admiration that Annatar couldn't exactly say unreturned.

He thought back on the days when he had been offered the choice of repentance, how he had balked at kneeling at his once Masters' feet. He had spurned the path to forgiveness that Eönwë had generously given, but now he wondered if it had been a test instead, a test of his true resolve to tread the path of absolution.

Annatar dared not to think that it would be this easy for such great a crime he had committed, but knowing that there was a glimmer of chance still, with hands that retained their craft for beautiful creations, he wanted to hope.

It did nothing but solidify itself each passing days, in the turning of years that marked Theo's age. He grew bright and tall, not unlike his Celebrimbor with his smiles and laughs freely given. Dimly, Annatar noted, too, that it wouldn't be long until he grew past his foster father's appearance, and where the people he grew up knowing around him would remain timeless and ageless, he would eventually feel the thinning and stretching of worn skin over brittle bones.

"I can stop it," Annatar told him the night of his fifth year since coming of age. When the years started to feel unstoppable for Theo. "You need not age. You need not leave Eregion, your home."

You need not leave your father. You need not leave me.

"You do not have to answer now but know that it is a choice you can make," he added when Theo merely stared at him, as if Annatar wasn't offering him a gift preciously coveted by his brethren since their wake in Arda.

But Theo had the keen senses of his father to not notice the hint of desperation in Annatar's voice, that in the face of it he held forbearance that Annatar should have expected.

"No," was Theo's firm reply. "Do not get me wrong. If you had asked me when I was six, I would have agreed, naive as I was. But you wouldn't give me a gift, only," he paused and trailed off. "One day, I will grow old, taken slowly by time on my deathbed but surrounded by those I have loved throughout my life. I think some of them would still look like how I knew them as a child, while the rest will age like I did.

"It might be difficult to understand, but I know. I think I know the moment I became aware that I'm living on a borrowed time, but living and knowing love in spite of that are what make the years of the Edain worth it.

"And I'm not afraid to leave, not when I'm certain that I'll leave those who will come after me to people who will love them the same way I was loved."

Theo left no room for doubt, so certain that Annatar would still be here in the future and the next. And what could Annatar do against the face of hopeful optimism?

"You made him wise, of course," Celebrimbor would tell him later in the comfort of each other's company, a wry but rather amused smile playing on his lips. "He most certainly didn't get it from me."

"I have made peace with it, you know," he would tell Annatar next, once sobered. He didn't seem conscious of his hand laying atop Annatar's. "It's not easy, and I doubt it ever will be, but acceptance will come. Slow, but you know it will be there. And if nothing else, I know it will be nothing short of honoring his wish to let him go when the time comes."

Annatar wished, not for the first time, that he could bend as easily as those around him. To be as easily susceptible to change and acceptance of things that he could and could not change. But with the assurance of having Celebrimbor, if not for eternity then in the face of impending loss at the very least, Annatar thought the hurt wouldn't have to linger just as much.

It was the final nail to his ultimate decision, Annatar would reflect when it was time for him to leave Eregion. Not for forever as he had planned originally, no. Not anymore. Only to settle his affairs and start his own mending beginning from Mordor. Then he would be back and Celebrimbor would know it all.

"Write to us, and soon, if you can. Theo would hate to miss your messages while abroad." Annatar understood enough that the hint of grief on Celebrimbor was not solely for his departure; Theo was at the age where he had expressed a desire to wander and see more of Arda beyond the walls of Eregion. Celebrimbor had let him go on his first journey half a year ago, and knew that it would be the start of numerous journeys where Theo would come back a bit older every time, the mark of years ever more noticeable.

"I cannot give a definite time, but I will be here and it will be to stay." There was an overwhelming squeeze inside Annatar's chest at the bright hope that surged in Celebrimbor. "If you will have me."

"Of course I will." Celebrimbor gave him an incredulous wet laugh, as if that was as question anymore. "And when you come back, I will ask only this: let me know you. Let me know all that you are and I will love it all the same."

Pretty words that Celebrimbor seemed to believe himself. He wouldn't be, once he knew.

"You won't like it," he said still, as incriminating as he could get.

"Maybe," Celebrimbor allowed. "But I will be there to try."

Annatar departed Eregion at dusk, bearing with him the last light of the sun and wanting to keep it within himself for as long as he could until there would come a chance to give it to Celebrimbor and Theo.

He rode with the wind, a foreign anticipation consuming him until he could think of nothing else but coming back to Eregion, to his and Celebrimbor's forge, to the study where he had first taught Theo his numbers and letters, of histories, of—

Annatar came upon a distant burning, visible from the glade he paused on. Vaguely, he recalled hearing within the previous village of Men a smatter of concerned whispers about what was suspected to be bandit raids on nearby villages.

He would wonder later if what had spurred him was an ironic sympathy for the Men who had worried for their safety, or the idea that Celebrimbor would think it kindness from him. Or perhaps a mere idle curiosity and not the odd ringing urge from a terrible intuition.

Later, he would remember it for what it was, the same feeling from an age back when Eärendil had flown with a ship from the Valar, the light of a Silmaril gleaming bright from his head.

A young man, hanged alone for all to see among the ruin of the burned and dead, with limp and matted hair, dark skin awashed pale, the dull eyes that no longer held brilliance nor life.

A rattle of a howl begged to escape Annatar lest it ate him from within his core. A name spilled out from his lips instead, and it would be the last that Annatar would speak of it.

Theo.

He could see it now, could see himself with the same eyes of his prisoners, and acknowledged that this was how it was, how it had been to fall prey under his and his Dark Master's evil.

The one who presently occupied the tower of Mordor called himself Adar, and he had amassed a number of Melkor's previously scattered orcs to make up his own force. Annatar remembered Adar's face with vivid clarity; first from the sea of unsuccessful experiments in his laboratory in Angband; next among the unwilling assistants that he had, those he had deemed precious to die on a table; and finally, finally, the last face that the form of Gorthaur had seen before it died under a stolen knife from Eönwë forces.

There had been an oath stumbling from Adar's lips then; a curse that promised him to be the blight of Gorthaur's immortal existence, an Avari who would not see rest until he himself destroyed Gorthaur's heart. A far crueler oath than Fëanor's, one that should have seen an impossible fulfillment.

And yet, and yet.

Adar laughed as his being disintegrated in Annatar's hands, uncaring for his death and only for his victory.

There was no rest for him when he set Mordor and his forces to right like he meant to. The fires of his forge raged at his return, when it thought it was about to be diminished as Annatar had intended.

And he could, and Annatar could leave it to the orcs, for ruin or for good as what he had envisioned not so long before, when there was still the certainty of home to come back to.

There would be none of that, now. Not when Theo's death was as much as on his hands, not when he had created Adar. Oh, how Celebrimbor would grieve, for their boy's death and Annatar's supposed betrayal.

Annatar threw it all away as carelessly as he threw the gold ore in the pit of liquid fire, and watched it crumple and thin down, forming what it was supposed to be before Annatar became fond of playing house and allowed himself to fill his mind with crafty illusions that fooled even him.

And as it formed to its desired shape, molded with his own will and a piece of his being, Annatar knew that he had given away something that he could never get back.

They were not both whole, the next time he saw Celebrimbor, walking in his half-dream muddled with loss and pain. Annatar could still recognize them despite his willingness to part with that aspect of him that used to comprehend those complexities.

Celebrimbor recognized him, too, in spite of it all, and for a short moment looked at Annatar as if he was his salvation. And then nothing, nothing but the hollowness of realization of who he truly was.

Annatar could forget about the taste of betrayal from the three rings created without his knowledge. He offered him a place, a power to wield by his side. Celebrimbor grew distant the longer Annatar spoke. The sweeter his words become, the farther Celebrimbor heard them.

After all the coaxing, Celebrimbor would ask, "Did you kill him?"

Annatar recalled a thousand thoughts before the ring, about a boy he held dear for a short while, one he held as a babe and molded into an ideal Edain, one who would have grown to love him unconditionally and would have taught the same brand of naive loyalty to his predecessors.

"I did," Annatar whispered, none of the honey and bare of anything at all. "You wanted to know all that I am. Then here am I."

"I see you," he said simply. Celebrimbor's gray eyes shuttered without tears, only resignation and a kind of understanding that, in this, Annatar was not lying. "I wish I had much earlier and saved ourselves the pain."

Celebrimbor wouldn't be the same, not when he was burning with the Fëanorean fury as he defended Eregion to his last breath despite not being the warriors that his uncles were. And even in captivity, the same fire remained, burning ever bright and hot.

He did not give up his rings, his body breaking first before his will. Sloppy, for Gorthaur's standards; unproductive, for Annatar's.

Sauron raised Celebrimbor as a banner, a warning against the Dark Lord's enemies. In the midst of the dark forces' deafening roar, a lone wail echoed from the Ring, ringing farther and farther as the impending war drew near.

...

The third and fourth sacrifices that he was presented by Pharazôn were a pair of a father and son, among the rare Faithfuls that remained on this side of the island, and in the face of their death they murmur the Adûnaic names of any Vala that wasn't Melkor.

When they both dared look up at his face that betrayed none of his giddy delight at the new blood he would feed at Melkor's feet, two pairs of gray eyes met Zigûr's.

Their features were striking and almost identical, and distantly Zigûr recalled a resemblance to the soft face of an Edain boy and the gentle gaze of an Eldar smith.

When Zigûr gifted them a clean death together without an ounce of hesitation, he met Pharazôn grave and deep-set satisfaction at the certainty of his next victory with a smile.

[outofangband]

Common Symbols and Motifs in Heraldry, Clothing and Art, Part 1/3

This post focuses on the elves of Aman! The next one will have the elves of Beleriand and the third will have first age humans! 

World Building Masterlist

Note this does not include my ideas for symbolic and simplistic representations of the Valar which will be another post 

More important note: I used canon wherever possible but these are also just my own ideas!

As always please feel free to ask more!

Vanyar: 

Birds (typically doves and eagles but a variety too)

Generally ascribed meanings: obviously association with Manwë but also flight, exploration and freedom, observation, 

Vanyarin architecture

Generally ascribed meanings: stability, culture, tradition

Diamond geometric patterns, circular geometric patterns

Generally ascribed meanings: cycles and eternity, light

Marigolds

Generally ascribed meanings: warmth and welcome

(later on)sun and moon imagery

Generally ascribed meanings: change and growth, devotion, faith

Teleri:

sea turtles

Generally ascribed meanings: innocence and freedom of youth, courage, the journey of baby sea turtles is sometimes likened to parts of the journey to Valinor (usually in lighter or playful settings)

seashells

Generally ascribed meanings: beauty, complexity

wave patterns

Generally ascribed meanings: boundaries

pearls

Generally ascribed meanings: growth, tranquility, resilience

Later on lunar patterns, the moon upon the ocean

Generally ascribed meanings: change, faith, mourning

schools of fish in varying complexity

Generally ascribed meanings: community and language

sea serpents

Generally ascribed meanings: the unknown, the wilder and more dangerous aspects of the ocean and comfort with it

swans and seabirds

Generally ascribed meanings: peace and prosperity, freedom, song

boats

Generally ascribed meanings: crafts and culture, balance between travel and exploration and the importance of home

Sea lavender

Generally ascribed meanings: gentleness, matrimony, connection

Bay leaves and flowers

Generally ascribed meanings:

Noldor of Tirion: 

Ivy

Generally ascribed meanings:

Possibility, ascension

geometric star shapes and patterns, certain fractal patterns, geometric flowers

Generally ascribed meanings:  Symmetry, order, reason, understanding

Fire, Sparks, later on rays of sun

Generally ascribed meanings:

Curiosity and discovery, learning and illumination, passion

Roses:

Commonly ascribed meanings: Variety and complexity

Note: Tulips which are also bred and crossbred for color and scent often have similar meanings in this regard

Aster species:

Commonly described meanings:

Darker colors: creativity, play

Lighter colors: fate, order, connection

Forget me not:

Note: the name in Noldorin Quenya refers to sapphires

Generally ascribed meanings: music, poetry, faith

Noldor of the Mountains (talked about here though I want to do a longer post about them:

abstract geometric designs and patterns

Generally ascribed meanings: similar to the Noldor of Tirion

constellations

Generally ascribed meanings:

Life, creativity and storytelling

simplistic representations of mountains

Generally ascribed meanings: family and community

The Noldor of Beleriand have most of these, in addition to others. The different realms that are established there will also have the road. Some of these I’ve talked about on individual flora, and Fana posts. 

Some brief examples:

Mountain aven and red clover represent spring and summer in Himring and thus come to the represent both prosperity and work.

Flowering species of Artemisia are common in the steppe regions of the Gap and Himlad. Riverside wormwood are used as a hallucinogenic tonic and in alcohol and come to have great spiritual significance. They come to represent this in later art.

Other notes:

The Vanyar and Noldor both use imagery of prisms and movement of light in their works as well as tessellations 

Next post

[noodlecupcakes]

Last Line Tag

I was tagged by @josephseedismyfather, thank you :D

Well I have three fics in the works So Im gonna post snippets from all three...

Salvation (TabithaXJoseph)

Joseph and I arrived at Seed Ranch half an hour early. He wanted to help set things up mainly so he could have everything exactly as he envisioned. I waited in the living room area, looking at the multiple taxidermy animals John had. It struck me as odd for John to have these here considering he didn’t do any hunting himself. If any of the siblings would have any taxidermy, I would have expected it to be Jacob as he loved to hunt. Maybe they’d already been here when John acquired the place, and he just hadn’t wanted to get rid of them.

Untitled Deupty Tabitha Murphy Fic

“Go fuck yourself,” I growled.

John chuckled before pressing the button again, which increased the vibrations' intensity. A soft sound escaped my throat, my cheeks burning with shame. My hips jerked slightly into the toy. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath doing everything I could to not focus on the slow-building pleasure. I wanted to close my legs and press my thighs together so I could force more pressure from the small toy, but the spreader bar restricted me.

“Does that feel good, little sinner?” John asked, his lips right by my ear.

A Royal Affair (CoraXKylo Ren, Arranged Marriage AU)

“We could always do both,” I replied.

Thomison smiled and looked through the dresses to determine which one would match the hairpin. She settled on the green dress that had small gold details across the bodice and sleeves. Happy with her choice, I let her search for matching shoes and other accessories. Eventually, the time came to get me ready. After the dress was on and Flora made sure my blade was completely concealed, Thomison led me over to the dressing table where she worked on my hair. She put half my hair up, holding it in place with the hairpin before working on my makeup.

There was an abrupt knock at the door, all of us pausing for a moment. Flora answered the door, and I watched in the mirror as she immediately became tense. She hesitated before stepping back and allowing General Hux into my quarters. My stomach sunk, unable to hide my displeasure at his presence.

“Good evening, princess,” he greeted.

I Tag: @jana-banana-fana, @kittyofalltrades and @sweetfictionalworld

[kickmag]

Fana Hues Going On US Tour

Fana Hues is kicking off a tour of the United States next month. The six-city outing will start in Brooklyn, NY, and end in San Francisco. The singer will tour three European cities before the North American dates. The deluxe version of her flora + fana album is available now with three new songs including a cover of Stevie Wonder's "Never Dreamed You'd Leave In Summer." Tickets go on sale today at 10 AM local time. 

[dislocatedskeleton]

MY TOP 100 ALBUMS OF 2022

100. Arcade Fire - WE

99. Julia Jacklin - PRE PLEASURE

98. Kurt Vile - (watch my moves)

97. Maggie Rogers - Surrender

96. Animal Collective - Time Skiffs

95. Let’s Eat Grandma - Two Ribbons

94. Kaelin Ellis - THE FUNK WILL PREVAIL

93. Hurray for the Riff Raff - LIFE ON EARTH

92. Sunni Colón - JúJú & The Flowerbug

91. Ari Lennox - age/sex/location

90. Phony Ppl - Euphonyus

89. Toro y Moi - MAHAL

88. Interpol - The Other Side of Make Believe

87. BRONZE AVERY - SOFTMETAL

86. Darius - OASIS

85. Empath - Visitor

84. Dehd - Blue Skies

83. Soccer Mommy - Sometimes, Forever

82. Insightful - 33

81. Moonchild - Starfruit

80. Flwr Chyld - Luv N Chaos

79. Sabrina Claudio - Based On A Feeling

78. Drake - Honestly, Nevermind

77. Kehlani - blue water road

76. Larry June - Spaceships on the Blade

75. India Shawn - BEFORE WE GO (DEEPER)

74. Black Country, New Road - Ants From Up There

73. Florist - Florist

72. beabadoobee - Beatopia

71. The Simps - Siblings

70. Mabel - About Last Night…

69. Elujay - Circmvnt

68. Lizzy McAlpine - five seconds flat

67. MAVI - Laughing So Hard, It Hurts

66. Beach House - Once Twice Melody

65. Denzel Curry - Melt My Eyez See Your Future

64. BANKS - Serpentina

63. NEIL FRANCES - There Is No Neil Frances

62. Sudan Archives - Natural Brown Prom Queen

61. CKay - Sad Romance

60. Alex Isley - Marigold

59. Giveon - Give Or Take

58. Ella Mai - Heart On My Sleeve

57. Shamir - Heterosexuality

56. Fana Hues - flora + fana

55. Bakar - Nobody’s Home

54. Wet Leg - Wet Leg

53. Joji - SMITHEREENS

52. MICHELLE - AFTER DINNER WE TALK DREAMS

51. Nas - King’s Disease III

50. Megan Thee Stallion - Traumazine

49. Vince Staples - RAMONA PARK BROKE MY HEART

48. Lizzo - Special

47. Lil Silva - Yesterday Is Heavy

46. Tank and The Bangas - Red Balloon

45. Kota The Friend - MEMO

44. Saib - Unwind

43. Mallrat - Butterfly Blue

42. Hayden James - LIFTED

41. Earl Sweatshirt - SICK!

40. Vegyn - Don't Follow Me Because I'm Lost Too

39. BROCKHAMPTON - The Family

38. MIA GLADSTONE - LOOPY

37. Years & Years - Night Call

36. Ruru - Glorious Miscellanea

35. redveil - learn 2 swim

34. Bonobo - Fragments

33. alt-J - The Dream

32. OSHUN - vol ii

31. JID - The Forever Story

30. BAYNK - ADOLESCENCE

29. BROCKHAMPTON - TM

28. 070 Shake - You Can’t Kill Me

27. Joey Bada$$ - 2000

26. Shygirl - Nymph

25. Kendrick Lamar - Mr Morale & The Big Steppers

24. FKJ - V I N C E N T

23. Bjork - Fossora

22. Jadu Jadu & TAMBALA - listen//waves

21. Yeah Yeah Yeahs - Cool It Down

20. Cruel Santino - Subaru Boys: FINAL HEAVEN

19. Jacob Rochester - Holding Out, Vol. 3

18. Fred again… - Actual Life 3 (Jan 1 - Sept 9 2022)

17. Beau Diako - Nylon

16. Ethel Cain - Preacher’s Daughter

15. Thee Sacred Souls - Thee Sacred Souls

14. Obongjayar - Some Nights I Dream Of Doors

13. DOMi & JD BECK - NOT TiGHT

12. Steve Lacy - Gemini Rights

11. Kenny Beats - LOUIE

10. SAULT - 11

9. Robert Glasper - Black Radio III

8. Saba - Few Good Things

7. Beyoncé - RENAISSANCE

6. Smino - Love 4 Rent

5. SZA - SOS

4. ROSALÍA - MOTOMAMI

3. Bad Bunny - Un Verano Sin Ti

2. FKA twigs - CAPRISONGS

1. Omar Apollo - Ivory

[atherflame-theconcubus]

Well, the first, and most repeated question (until Blaze gets a straightforward answer) is how the fuck moon got to hell.

The second question is “why are you so obsessed with getting solar back?”

Third question “do you know what happens to people like you when they die?”

4. “do you know how lucky you are that you’re not a human?”

5. “do you know how to traverse the swamps and Myers of hell?”

& 6. “do you know what Flora and Fana here is safe, and which is deadly?”

Imagine if H Solars moon finds the dimension he’s in and comes to force him to come back, and then gets mauled by a pair of wee demons who H Solar was trying to hide to protect them. He forgot that even though they are babies they are in fact still literal demons

The babies are just trying to protect their favorite uncle from the mean man.

Meanwhile, if blaze entered the room, the first question they would have upon seeing moon here is how the fuck he got to hell

The second thing thing that would happen is basically blaze tying hell brambles around this man’s neck, and dragging him to the center of their territory, before, and interrogating them in the most traumatic way for moon.

[fanahues]

[frettchanstudios]

The new employee service cards have officially launched @goufv, I created an Indigenous design featuring blue herons, a hummingbird and a sturgeon, all of which are fauna from the UFV Coat of Arms. Each animal is in a leaf on a branch of which is a call to the UFV logo. I've also included a version with no copy so you can see the full design.

Read more:

https://blogs.ufv.ca/blog/2022/07/vision-values-lead-to-new-campus-card-with-indigenous-designs/

[bonvoyagenoona]

Shirt | MYG

Pairings: Yoongi x Reader

Rating: 18+ / Mature / Explicit

Word Count: 9.9k | read on ao3 | Part of the Yoongi 3(0) for 30 series!

Synopsis: You’re just returning Yoongi’s shirt. That’s all you’re doing. And that will finally be the end of it. That’s what you tell yourself. Every time you see him.

Genres | Content Warnings | Themes: Aaaaaaangst, idol!AU, exes but still lovers, one-night stand, implied cheating/infidelity, smut (hair pulling, breast play, oral [f receiving/m giving], unprotected sex). Fic idea inspired by Caretaker by Shelley ft. SZA, fana hues’ beautiful album flora + fana (these tracks specifically when they’re in bed toward the end), and the track known as Shirt by SZA. Check these tracks out and more on the Yoongi 3(0) for 30 series playlist (Spotify | YouTube). If you’re curious, couple’s backstory based on this song shuffle game.

Author’s Note: It’s an angsty fic, but it was written to celebrate some milestones! Thank you so, so much for reading with me! I’ve loved hearing from all of you, and even getting to know some of you quite well. Hanging with y’all has been super fun, and surprisingly, delightfully meaningful. As always, thanks for stopping by. 💜

It won’t change anything. Staring at the lock. Fiddling with your key card. Looking up and down the hallway. Tapping your toes. It won’t change anything because you can’t change. Whenever you catch wind of the next tour, and you get the series of texts leading you to a door like this one, you always, always walk through it.

For as certain as you are that you are going to walk through this one, there’s a sneaking suspicion that this shirt isn’t the real reason why you’re here.

But you brought it anyway.

You squeeze it. You didn’t even bring a bag for it. And just as your fingers constrict around the familiar, damp, worn, cotton roll, you feel your throat muscles cushioning your wind pipe as you swallow an uncomfortable mass of saliva, nerves, anger, guilt, and intrigue as best as you can.

The door beeps before you’re ready. The card reader is a sensor, not a slot.

You push.

Yoongi looks about the same. That’s probably the weirdest thing. There are dozens of music videos, fashion shoots, and film clips playing on some of the tallest skyscrapers in the world. So, it makes sense that to most people, seeing him in person is akin to ascent, an experience unreal and rare. He likes to leave people with things, stickers and sketches on sticky notes, evidential artifacts that later become tools of transubstantiation.

Whenever you see Yoongi, though, you see him like you see your reflection. Real, and you, but not really you, and somehow, only you.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

You can’t even tell who says it first.

When you teeter back a little on your feet, he jumps up from the edge of the bed. It seems the door caught him off-guard, too.

He strides over to you and holds the door open with his right hand. You can tell he’s just showered. Hair blow-dried, but casual. Already wrapped in his soft flannel.

“Come in.”

The door falls freely behind you. There’s hissing from the hydraulic closer. It sounds like someone shushing. Like the room wants to hear you better.

“I’m always late,” you sigh quietly.

Unnecessarily.

He shoves his hands into his jeans pockets. His eyes slowly travel down from yours, to your chin, to your curves, to your legs, to your feet. His eyes linger on your soggy Jordans.

“Damn,” he mutters at the devastating loss.

“It’s OK,” you reassure him.

“I’ll get you another pair,” he says, raising his eyebrows.

“I can easily get another pair,” you remind him as gently as you can.

He clicks his teeth. “I didn’t even know it was raining.”

There’s nothing heavier than a knowing, locked gaze.

You try to shrug off some of the weight. “Brought you something,” you say, striding over in your soggy sneakers to the desk just in front of him. “Managed to keep it dry.”

The FG logo is clearly visible through the cage that your fingers make around the shirt.

His eyes brighten and follow your hand as you gently place it, logo up, on the desk.

“Still have that thing?” he chuckles.

You shrug.

He tilts his head and smiles. “You could’ve just thrown it out.”

“Didn’t know if you’d still want it,” you tell him.

He takes a deep breath, and then he lets out a decisive grunt.

“You know what I want? Dinner.”

You smile and reach for the zipper of your coat. The tab sticks, but you get it down in a series of jagged motions. It’s frustrating when a zipper snags. It’s even more frustrating that zippers snag mostly on themselves.

He walks over to join you at the desk. At first, you think he’s going for the phone. But his fingers reach for your zipper near the bottom of the track, and he slides it down in one, easy motion.

You twirl as he helps remove your coat.

Like memorized choreography.

He stares at you for a moment, eyes lingering at your stomach, unhidden by your tight, black crop top.

He licks his lips.

“You were saying something about dinner?” you joke.

“What do you want, like, a white pizza?” Yoongi asks, draping your coat over the chair before picking up the hotel room phone. “Something with mushrooms or figs or hot honey, whatever bougie shit you’re so in love with?”

You roll your eyes, starting to kick off your ruined sneakers, and nudging them so that their toes tap the far wall. “Don’t pretend you hate it,” you say, catching his pointed glance back at you. “Let’s not forget that I was the original taste-maker out of the two of us.”

“Mmhmm.”

That signature grumble. Teasing, but relenting.

You’ve missed hearing it.

“Can I get one of the fig and arugula pizzas with the bacon and— yeah, that one.”

He looks over at you.

“Yes, a large. To share.”

You grin proudly.

“And steaks,” he continues.

Like you always do, you walk over to the window to get a glimpse of his view.

When you’re forty floors up, everything looks incredible. But it also seems unnecessary. Yoongi used to love making music underground, in graffiti-soaked tunnels long abandoned by the city. It’s weird to see him being lifted so high by the same people who always threatened to shut him down.

And it’s weird to hear him talking now. Saying these things.

“The truffle ones, yeah. Can you add lobster to that, too? And what are your desserts? Anything with that edible gold stuff? Yeah. Or wait, back up? The other one? Yeah, that one. The fancier, the better.” There’s a pause as he listens. And then— “Sorry, no, double it. All of that’s for two.”

Your heart aches when he says “two”.

You wonder how often he orders for “two” nowadays.

He mumbles a thanks and hangs up. Plastic hits plastic as you see a taxi nearly miss a pedestrian trying to catch a street car.

Yoongi looks up from the desk and over at you as you peer down at the city streets, still bustling, having no time even to acknowledge the tempest swirling around it.

“Sit down,” Yoongi offers softly, leaning on the chair where he has draped your coat. He frowns at the sofa and chairs in the corner. They look cool, but they’re uncomfortable. “Sit on the bed.”

You shrug, and you speak without turning. “My pants are wet.”

“Hyung’s the one who cares about that kind of stuff,” Yoongi says, grinning playfully. “C’mon. I want you to be comfortable.”

You turn around to face him. And you smirk.

“Fine.”

You unbutton your jeans and wiggle your hips out. Yoongi’s eyes widen as he watches the way your fingers curl around your thigh to help you smooth the denim down your legs.

The socks come off too.

Yoongi follows as you straighten back up, body on display, doing some teasing of your own, still wearing that crop top and, apparently, a pair of cherry red, silk panties. A high cut. Showing off your gorgeous, curvy thighs. Your natural waist. Your competingly soft skin. He sighs as you drop your socks on top of your crumpled jeans. He wonders what else you’ll drop.

Your playful smile is still so, so cute.

But he unfortunately has also seen the tattoo at your ankle.

And it doesn’t hit you until he clears his throat.

“How is…”

Yoongi’s eyes flick up to check your reaction before burying themselves back in the sand. He knows his name. You scream it in bed when Yoongi’s not around. Yoongi can hear it in his dreams.

Nightmares.

You tuck your tattooed ankle behind your naked one.

“Good.”

And you leave it at that.

Yes, you concede. You usually scream when it comes to good things. But this, especially now, with Yoongi, you whisper.

Yoongi nods once, glad. Glad that you still understand each other. Glad that you’ve gotten this part out of the way. Glad that guilt is so quick to disappear. Glad that, as his eyes land again on the too familiar letters on the front of that shirt, he realizes that he never really feels guilty. Nor do you. There won’t be a need to confess. Even if God is watching, there’s no Fear of him here.

He walks over to you and wraps you up in his arms.

“Been going crazy all day,” he whispers, as your bodies reconnect. Remember. Re-live, and relieve. “Where were you sitting?”

“Nosebleeds,” you tell him, moaning a little when his hand creeps up your thigh, hooking through one of the leg holes and into the panel at the bottom before running up the front. “I kept out of sight.” His hand flattens at your hip and slides around, grabbing for your ass and pulling you even closer into him. “You looked so good on stage.”

“Thought about you the whole time,” he mumbles, lips finding your neck. Hands finding your still-covered breasts. “Fuck, when am I not thinking about you?”

“I know,” you admit. “Me too.”

He secures his grip on your hips, both hands squeezing. And then tugging. Pulling you toward the king-sized bed.

You don’t budge.

“C’mon,” Yoongi whispers.

When you brush back his hair and see how deep, and dark, and wanting his eyes are, you follow.

 There was a time when sharing a bed with Yoongi wasn’t something you had to be coaxed into. It was just the end, or the start, of another day. Bodies groaning when the world called you back to it.

You’d say something like, “Why did I agree to this?”

And he’d say something like, “Maybe we just cancel.”

You’d play out the whole day that you would have if you did cancel. The food you’d share. The songs he’d write. The chapter you’d finish.

But on this particular day, you’d made a promise to a friend to go out for a change. To leave your shell of domestic bliss and reintroduce yourselves to the world. Sure, it was her birthday, and the more people who came out, the more food and drinks and presents there’d be. But it was your presence that she really wanted.

You tugged on Yoongi’s arm gently.

“We’ve gotta get ready,” you told him.

“It’s still morning.”

“Knowing us,” you pointed out, “we’ve gotta start getting ready now.”

“Five more minutes,” he mumbled, trying to roll away.

“We’ll be late,” you warned.

“We won’t be late,” he murmured into the pillow.

You let go of his arm, but he grabbed your wrist before you could leave him completely. Your body rebounded back to him, your heels slamming the floor.

“Yoongi,” you chuckled. “Seriously!”

“Seriously.”

He pulled you back into the bed with him. Made you straddle him. Squeezed your naked thighs.

“We’ll be late,” you repeated.

He looked up at you, sleepy, and smiling.

“We won’t…”

Yoongi walked his fingers up your thigh and to the hem of your shirt.

“Be late,” he smirked.

He gave your shirt a little tug.

--

You were an hour and 47 minutes late.

You weren’t particularly missed. Your friend knew you’d show, and Yoongi’s six friends were proving to be delightful entertainment.

“This one’s cute,” you heard your friend’s sister sigh, taking Jungkook’s jaw in her hand and shaking it back and forth.

He squeezed his eyes shut and giggled as she pressed a kiss onto his cheek.

“You mean we’re not all cute?” Jin demanded, placing his fists on his waist, his beer bottle tilting a little in his grasp.

“My fault we were late,” Yoongi apologized, walking over to your friend and giving her a hug. He was careful not to step on her skirt.“Happy birthday.”

“Aw, thanks, Yoongles!” she squealed. And then she reached out for you, wiggling her fingers in excitement and hopping eagerly over to you.

She smelled like honeysuckle.

“Happy birthday,” you breathed, relaxing into her arms. “You look great!”

As she raked her fingers through your hair and tucked your hair behind your ear, your three small studs up from your lobe and your double-helix gleaming in a bit of light, she let out a long, “Thaaaaank youuuu.” She laughed when she did it, slightly uncomfortable with the compliment. Just happy to see you.

She wrapped an arm around your shoulders and came to your side. You hung your arm on her hip.

You watched as Yoongi stepped over legs and bodies to clasp Namjoon’s outstretched hand in greeting, before finding himself being swallowed into the couch, Jimin and Taehyung dog-piling and laughing at Yoongi’s protests.

As you watched, you laughed as Taehyung tugged at Yoongi’s ear, and Yoongi grumbled about him disturbing the matching double-helix piercing that matches yours.

And, as you watched, your friend told you, “Yoongi’s looking… good,” sounding somewhat surprised.

Not because Yoongi never looked good.

Yoongi always looked good.

But there was something particularly good about this good.

You couldn’t help the smirk that popped out.

Your friend turned to you, and upon catching that smirk, realized.

“Is that why you were late?”

“Is Hobi not here?” you asked, looking around.

“Don’t change the—!”

“Didn’t see him when we walked in.”

Your friend huffed. “He’s over in the corner, talking to one of my friend’s co-workers.”

You turn and see Hobi sharing the cushions in the corner with a cute girl. She speaks incessantly, eyes widening with whatever exciting story she’s telling him, upper body bouncing as the story gets more thrilling, chest heaving as she takes gulps of air to keep going.

“That’s the quietest I think Hobi’s ever been,” you mentioned.

Your friend squinted at you. “Don’t hold out on me. It’s my birthday. I want every detail.”

“Fine, I’ll tell you when we’re done,” you said, as Yoongi’s gaze met yours again.

Eye-fucking is an art form that not a lot of people are comfortable with. In some ways, it’s more intimate than regular fucking. Your body, to some extent, can lie. Or, rather, what you learn about someone else’s body is up for interpretation, buried in context both personal and social, tangled with intuition, and assumption, and escape.

But a person’s eyes?

They always tell the truth.

Eyes are clear. Eyes have no defense. Eyes offer the kind of way in that you aren’t sure you can get out of.

Yoongi’s eyes knew how to get inside of you. They held you. Stroked you. A tilt of his head, and a quick lick of his lips, and you knew that he was imagining eating you out, quick to lap up every bit you give him, and always hungry for more.

Jungkook sang a ballad. Taehyung sang a theme song. Jimin sang one of the songs that you’d heard on the radio over and over again.

Yoongi kept eating.

People crossed your lens, but you and Yoongi always found each other. Didn’t matter if you were across the room or literally sitting on his lap. You always knew exactly what you were doing in his mind. When he shared it with you, it became the truth.

While Jin told a story about his most recent, somewhat unsuccessful fishing trip, you and Yoongi happened to be on opposite ends of the couch.

“No bass, but lots of trout,” Jin shared. “And the sea was pretty rough. Right Yoongi?”

He smacked him on the shoulder, and Yoongi nodded. “Rough.”

A quick blink and smirk meant that Yoongi was thinking about fucking you from behind.

He liked the way his skin slapped against your skin. The way it felt and looked, sure, but moreso the way it sounded. He might’ve come right there if he thought about it too much, in that way that apparently only few others could, able to play it back with extreme precision. The way your skin hit his, that sharp, crisp sound, loud, and resonant, and high, getting higher as he pumped harder, mimicking how tight you felt around him.

And the way your bodies sounded as you came apart.

Loud, ridiculous squelches. Obscene. How wet you got. How wet he got. How much wetter you made each other. Sometimes, with just yourselves. Sometimes, with oils, or lube.

Or soap.

Or candle wax.

Or melted chocolate.

Or paint.

“You OK?” Hobi asked him.

Yoongi finally blinked, and upon release, you urgently had to reach for your drink.

“Huh?”

“You seemed concerned?” Hobi asked. “Is something wrong?”

“Oh,” Yoongi answered, watching you fan yourself, “no, just thinking.”

Hobi smiled. “About?”

Yoongi mumbled, “Just about painting our accent wall thing.”

“Ooh, yeah, that came out great,” Hobi nodded along.

“Yeah.” Yoongi grinned. “Came great.”

The best was when you were sitting on his lap, though. When the eye-fucking got intense enough, you could feel him. He’d get so hard when you were looking down at him in the middle of a crowded room. One steely glance from him, and you knew that he was imagining you both, at home, in bed, your body on top of him, wrecked, gladly taking his cock as he pumped up and into you, grunting past your ear and fisting your hair as he cradled the back of your neck.

When you started to shift your body in tiny ways, just to get a taste, Yoongi gripped your thigh so tightly.

You asked him to do it again when you got home.

“I like when you grab me there,” you whined, wriggling around in your bed as he pulled off your pants.

“You dooo?” Yoongi purred playfully, tossing your pants away and crawling on top of you.

“I like when it hurts a little,” you pout.

“Yeah?” he kneels by your side, and you laugh when he slaps your thigh.

“Yoongi,” you whispered, looking up at him and biting your lip.

His hand rested against your still clothed pussy, your panties already drenched, but your pussy still too sensitive to touch with full force.

All he did was press his fingers against you, and you hissed, turning to your side and looking up at him with need. A tricky situation you always found yourself in with him. Hours and hours of eye-fucking Yoongi got you so pent up that you had to start off slower than usual. But hours and hours of eye-fucking Yoongi also meant that you needed it more than ever.

“Fuck, I want it so bad,” you confessed.

“Let me give it to you, then,” he told you, his fingers starting to swirl.

Slow. Not much pressure to start.

When your legs straightened out in surprise, he knew to ramp up the speed.

Pressure came back into the equation when you started to moan, your body stretching longer and longer across his lap, longer and longer shadows into night.

Your next, huge gulp of air, pushed out in breaths meant to steady your heart, tells him that you’re close.

He pressed his palm against your front and starts to milk your clit, massaging it between his index and middle fingers like you showed him once, and then swimming through your folds, fabric getting caught between your lips, as he circles, unyielding.

He pushed his mouth onto yours to collect your screams.

You came like only Yoongi could make you. You felt like you were losing your mind.

You didn’t need your mind for much longer.

The night was just getting started.

You stare up at the hotel room ceiling, fingers twirling your hair, chest rising and falling, your cherry red panties stained with your sweat and cum.

Yoongi walks his fingers up your body and places them against your lips.

You lock eyes with him.

And you suck his finger clean.

He bends down to you and kisses you, stroking your hair back, fingers clearing strays as he goes. Soothing. Calming.

You close your eyes.

You could fall asleep.

But when his palm rests at your hairline, you open them back up again.

He tilts his head.

“What does he tell you after?”

You sigh.

You bend your legs, dig your heels into the mattress, and push yourself up, resting your back against the pillows by the headboard.

Yoongi leans back, his elbow propping him up

“You really wanna know?” you ask.

“No,” Yoongi admits.

You cross your arms. “Because, y’know. We said.”

He reaches for your foot. Strokes it. Runs his thumb over your tattoo.

“I know.”

Three knocks at the door mean that two steaks, two lobsters, two fancy desserts, and one large white bougie pizza are ready for you.

You get out of the bed and go into the bathroom to take the immaculate robe that you know is hanging behind its door, and Yoongi gets up to get the food.

You hear him mumble more “thank you”s.

You don’t come out of the bathroom until you hear the second lock latch, and Yoongi sigh in appreciation.

He wheels the cart of food over to the uncomfortable seating area.

The judgmental, disapproving grimace on his face tells you everything you need to know, but you chuckle and ruffle his hair anyway.

“It’s fine!”

“But, it’s like, the bed is so, so great?” he complains. “Why is every other piece of hotel furniture so terrible? And obnoxiously so?”

He gestures to the seating area. There’s a set of blue chairs. Three of them. Circular, with low half-circles for backs. Velvet seats. Metal body. No arms.

“Like, what the fuck is this, right?”

You laugh. “The sofa, then?”

“Only marginally better,” Yoongi grumbles, plopping two pieces of white pizza onto two plates.

He hands you one, and you both make yourselves comfortable on opposite ends of the couch, legs sprawling inward. Toes tickling each other.

You make sure to pick the end that lets you press your tattoo against the sofa’s back cushion.

But no matter how hard you try, Yoongi always has his questions.

“You’re happy?” he asks.

“Yes,” you say, grinning, “including, and very much so, in this particular moment.”

He smiles.

You chew.

“And you have everything you could ever want?” he asks.

You soften. “Well, obviously not everything.”

Yoongi reaches for your left hand.

You move your plate to your right hand and sit up, extending it to him.

He kisses it. You run your thumb over his.

And then you both lean back, picking up your slices of pizza.

“I think I’m getting different things,” you remark through your bite. A bougie statement from the upper crust.

Yoongi knows how to navigate the double-talk, too. You learned together.

He lets your words simmer. You only think that you’re getting different things? Are you getting different things, but giving the same things? The things that were meant only for him? What do you mean by different?

“Like?” he asks.

It’s overwhelming to descend from this cloud when you get a chance to ride it, but you try to imagine your condo about five miles from here. The more you try to force its image, the foggier it gets. You can’t really see it from the ground, and you don’t really see it from the sky either. So you try to think of how you usually get home.

You can access it from either the red or brown lines. Purple, sometimes. Like the express train. But always the red and brown, without fail.

“Consistency,” you say. “I don’t think I understood how much I lacked that.” You almost hear the chime of train doors closing. “How much I need that?”

Yeah, you think. Consistency. Like a train chugging along.

“Wish I could give you that,” Yoongi mumbles.

“You also give me something different,” you mumble back, eyes not meeting, but that familiar fire in your voice encouraging.

But you and Yoongi know that the problem is that someone who lives the kind of life that you live often needs more Same. A person who has the Same schedule every day. The Same commute. Goes to work at the Same place. Wears the Same clothes, which you take equal turns fluffing and folding and put in the Same closet on the Same day every week. Tells the Same jokes at the Same dinner parties at the Same time every month with your friends so increasingly Same that at this point, even you can’t tell them apart from one another. Fucks you the Same. Kisses you the Same. Loves you the Same.

Yoongi gives you Same in other ways. You were thinking similar things as you reached for the last copy of a prized vinyl in your favorite record store. You shared nearly identical notes to the ones in your own heads for early drafts of his music, and your writing. And when you shared those notes, you had twin flames burning within your bellies, flames that combusted when your bodies met in ever-changing flickers. Even now, you’re in his room, but his room could be anywhere. Everywhere. You show it on your faces with separate smiles and sneers, but you both see life, existence itself, as one big, confusing, wonderful, out-of-control fireball.

And you both still think that, though it is ultimately necessary…

Same is boring.

“Yoongi, write me a rap!” you’d call out.

And he would. Right there and then. Tongue twisting like it would inside of you later. Rhythms as playful as the giggles he’d save for only you. Pull from only you. Placement slightly ahead of the beat. Eager. Joking. Not full of shit, even when he’s talking it.

Your first piece was published in a local. It was a call to action, stanzas bursting with bravado, as well as disdain for the kind of people who spend their lives deciding rather than making things happen.

“Yoongi, give me a beat!” you’d call out.

And he would. Right there and then. Hi-hats and bass and snare, through his voice in beatbox, or through MIDI tracks from his speakers. Always thoughtful. Layered. Diverse. Unexpected.

Your eighth piece was published in a small literary magazine still getting its legs. It was an ode to your vibrant city. The one that brought you Yoongi. Where you’d built a life together, buzzing with a never-ending supply of electricity. The same kind that shook the bridges and tunnels that would deign to let him and his friends showcase their growing craft.

“Yoongi,” you called out that day, “play me a ballad!”

From the next room came a mash of discordant piano notes. But it wasn’t a cause for concern. They were actually the first notes of finality that you’d heard after thirty or forty minutes of dispirited wandering.

And then.

A melody started to make itself known. Lower in pitch, and fuller as a result.

The timbre changed from piano to vibraphone.

The same melody started to play.

Something inside of you shifted.

When Yoongi joked around, he could show off his impressive dexterity. But when Yoongi played with more intention, he could make people cry. Fall in love. Stay in love.

You knew from experience.

His legato, flowing notes hugged you like his arms would around the back of your computer chair.

The melody kept repeating, never quite resolving.

“And why are there so many minor 7th chords?” you vocalized, furrowing your brow as you typed the last of your sentence. “It sounds so tortured?”

The word came to you so quickly.

Yoongi laughed and called back, “You’re such a sad girl, so I’m writing you a sad, rolling ballad!”

“Who says I’m a sad girl?”

“You do!” he cried out. “All the time!”

You huffed. “Well, I’m not!”

“Read me the last line you typed!” he challenged you.

Your eyes sunk when your brain caught up with what you were reading.

“But can anyone ever really know the parts of you that are so heavy with ugliness and rejection and resentment that you worry what you might do if you make them known to yourself for any longer than minutes at at time—”

Yoongi’s music admittedly fit extremely well.

“Wow,” you sighed, “OK, damn, Yoongles. Talk about a read.”

“Ha!”

“You’re right,” you admitted, laughing, “I clearly need to take a break.” You locked your computer and got up from your creaky desk in the just-a-foot-too-small bedroom.

You stopped just short of crossing fully into the living room, caught off-guard by a shirtless Yoongi making overdramatic faces at you to go along with his heartache of a melody.

You leaned in the doorway.

“Yoongi?”

He slowed to a fermata and squinted as he held the chord.

“What do you want to eat?” you asked, crossing your arms.

He sprinkled in a G7 chord, and his eyes lightened as he hung his jaw open in a smile, gazing happily.

Hungrily.

At you.

“Yoongi!” you laughed, his thought crossing your mind.

Yoongi giggled and switched off his keyboard. “Anything,” he told you, honestly. Genuinely. Like everything he’d ever said to you. “Whatever you want.”

“Actually, we should probably wait a while to eat,” you realized. “Your show’s kinda late.”

“You’re still coming though, right?”

“Of course,” you said, smiling. “I love when you guys perform at that venue. You always end up meeting cool people. Finding new inspiration.”

“So what if it’s in a landfill?” Yoongi laughed, picking up whatever shirt he left hanging on the edge of his keyboard the day before, his taut arms rising, and his shoulders and neck so easily sliding back into their homes.

“A renovated landfill,” you said, following him into the kitchen, “that now sells chai lattes for $10 a pop.” Your eyes followed as he opened the pantry door. “Hang on, I thought we might wait?”

“Just a snack,” Yoongi said.

He pulled a box of biscuits from the pantry. Simple, buttery, toasted biscuits with pretty, delicate, embedded almond slices from a nearby bakery that you loved. If that night’s show went well, Yoongi could get you something else from the bakery next time. Your birthday was coming up. Something chocolate, and something unexpected, but that you liked. Maybe with lavender.

Before he took a snack for himself, he pointed the box to you.

You grabbed a biscuit and started to munch.

“What were you thinking of?” you asked.

Yoongi reached into the box. “What?”

“When you wrote that piece for me, just a second ago,” you said, smiling softly. “Like, what were you actually thinking about?”

He bit into his biscuit and started to chew.

“I don’t know. I was just thinking about what we sound like.”

You blinked. “We?”

“You,” Yoongi said.

“You said, ‘what we sound like’,” you pointed out.

Yoongi waited before swallowing the last of his biscuit.

“Well… then… maybe it is what we sound like.”

--

Even when Yoongi wore the same shirt all weekend, he still looked immaculate. Like everything that was on his body was put there on purpose. He looked how people were supposed to look. He was a walking Warhol Campbell’s soup can, and everybody else was dull, dented metal being sold at a discount.

You tugged uncomfortably at your sleeve, itchy at your elbow.

“They’re killing it tonight!” someone next to you cheered.

You turned to see a group of friends excitedly chatting and pointing to the makeshift stage. One of them singled out Yoongi, jumping up and down and turning their friends with a lustful sigh.

You laughed to yourself and turned back to Yoongi on the stage. As he was hitting his verses and choreography perfectly, he still found the wherewithal to send you a tilt of the head and a lick of his lips.

Something inside tightened, and the rest of the crowd started to fall away.

The only thing that you could see clearly was Yoongi’s body, his favorite FG logo just barely hidden under the red bomber jacket that he borrowed from Hobi.

You’d seen Yoongi in his most private moments, lucky enough to be the one he shared them with, and taking you on thrilling journeys in search of them.

But even you had to admit that there was nothing like seeing Yoongi come alive on stage. It always stung to think, but you could tell by the shadow in his eyes that he always wanted more.

Wanted it more.

Still.

It felt good to know that maybe you got as close to that as someone ever could.

The group of friends to your left suddenly exploded into screams, which caught your attention. One swore that Yoongi was tilting his head and licking his lips while gazing right at them.

You wondered if he was.

--

“And Namjoon said that when he called the number on the business card, he got an answering machine! With muzak and everything!” Yoongi exclaimed, unlocking the door and leading the way in. “He’s so charming when he’s talking about our music. Our goals. He’s a leader for a reason.”

You giggled and turned behind you, locking the door back up for the night. “What label was this again?”

“I don’t even remember, but this is a great first step!” Yoongi exclaimed.

He scooped you up into his arms, planting kiss after kiss all over your face.

You’d never seen him so excited.

You’d never seen the afterglow of a show permeate this deeply.

“I’m so proud of you,” you laughed happily, as you nestle into his chest.

The FG logo stared back at you.

“But I can’t believe you wore this shirt to the show,” you laughed. “You’ve been living in it all weekend. If you’re going to be meeting important record label people, you have to be more intentional.” You roll your eyes. “Cleaner.”

Yoongi pulled away from you and laughed.

“I’ll get there eventually. The person who gave us the card was honestly just some rando,” Yoongi said, walking back toward his keyboard. “We’ve got a loooong time before we’re meeting record label people for real.”

He sat down and stripped off his shirt, letting it fall on the floor, next to his feet.

The steaks and pizza have disappeared. The lobsters are just shells.

You’re still in your robe, swiveling around in one of the horrid blue chairs, as Yoongi watches you from the sofa, both of you balancing chocolate, lavender, and gold-flake sundaes in your hands.

“What stood out to you?” Yoongi asks.

You frown.

He’s so glad that you frown. Everyone usually showers him with affection when he asks people about the show. He knows they’re just so excited that they don’t realize that they haven’t actually answered his question.

“Was Taehyung injured?” As you turn, your ear facing Yoongi, you eat another spoonful of ice cream. “I noticed that he wasn’t moving his hips as much while he was dancing.”

“Yeah, he’s been sore,” Yoongi says, watching as the back of your head comes into view. “He said it felt like he pulled something early, so he toned it down for the entire show to keep it from getting worse.”

“Ugh, I know it kills him when he doesn’t get to ham it up,” you lament, digging into your sundae for more hot fudge.

Yoongi scoffs. “Jungkook is getting more daring, too,” he points out.

You face him head-on, smile wide. “I saw! The button?”

Yoongi just shakes his head.

“He played it really well,” you say, shrugging. “It seemed completely accidental. But I’ve seen the schemes. Know how the sausage gets made.”

“Sausage,” Yoongi laughs naughtily. “Hmm.”

He looks down at his empty pizza plate.

“Sau-sage!” he says again, but in realization. While nodding and raising his eyebrows. Adding it to his insatiable list of cravings.

And then he turns toward you.

Yoongi watches as your ear faces him again. You start to slow, so you kick at the floor to keep spinning.

“Tell Tae that I hope he gets better,” you say, chuckling, “and tell Jungkook that I hope that whoever found his button is a loving and merciful soul, and doesn’t go too hard on the voodoo sex doll they make with it.”

But then your spoon clinks against your glass as you plant your feet on the ground. You look slightly to the side to glance at Yoongi.

“Or, well… you don’t have to tell them I said that, but… I hope they… I hope they’re—”

“They’ll be glad to hear from you,” Yoongi says with a kind smile. “They miss you.”

He leans forward and places his empty sundae glass on the coffee table.

“They all do,” he adds, softly.

You dig a little into your glass, chasing an almond.

“They’re asking for another couple hours.”

Rehearsal usually carried on without your permission. Dancing always turned into drinks, which turned into more drinks, which turned into the guys dropping a drunk, sleepy Yoongi off on your doorstep and happily cheering for you through the lock at 3 AM.

The fact that Yoongi called, before midnight, on video, and looked so deeply apologetic, meant that he was sorry about something else.

“That’s OK,” you said. “I’ll eat our leftovers from yesterday.” You smiled a bit. “Not going out to dinner means that I can probably power through another chapter.”

“That scratch on your sneakers,” he reminded you. “I still haven’t gotten around to buffing it out.”

“It’s fine.”

“And the squeaky keyboard drawer at your desk.”

“Not a big deal—”

“There’s gotta be a screw loose, which means—”

“Yoongi.”

“—that the drawer isn’t properly sliding on the track—”

“Yoongi.”

Yoongi puffed his cheeks out and frowned.

“How about I save both things for when you’re back home with me?” you asked, swiping on your most charming smile.

Yoongi opened his mouth to say something.

But someone called him back to rehearsal.

--

“They’re extending the tour.”

You weren’t surprised. Tickets sold out much faster than anticipated, and the resale value was starting to skyrocket. Though Yoongi asked daily, the now dozens-thick management team just barely remembered to keep a comp ticket for you.

Your name was misspelled.

“More cities?” you asked, as excitedly as you could. “Multiple dates?”

“Both,” Yoongi admitted.

It struck you strange that it sounded like an admission.

“Well, that’s great!”

You started to pace, staring at your too-full hamper of laundry, and your laptop angled slightly on the coffee table, your charger just barely long enough to reach the closest end to the couch.

“How much longer?” you asked.

“I don’t know,” Yoongi admitted, again.

You weren’t talking about the tour.

--

“They’re asking me to move.”

You knew this day was coming. Jungkook’s hand-drawn fliers were quickly replaced with printed copies of volunteer-designed social media banners, which were quickly replaced with a new, bright, agency-designed logo.

Brand consolidation.

Jungkook pouted at the term.

So did you.

“Where?” you asked.

When Yoongi handed you his phone, you were anticipating a list of neighborhoods, or at most, some kind of map. You weren’t expecting a password—protected listing for a gleaming, state-of-the-art condo, the last remaining unit on a floor where six identical others had already been taken off the market.

This one was already off the market as well.

You had seen the new black key card in Yoongi’s wallet weeks ago.

There was only one.

--

You didn’t cry when you moved out of your shared apartment.

You didn’t cry when you spent the first night in your best friend’s spare twin bed.

But as you unpacked the last of Yoongi’s shirts into his new dresser, in his new bedroom, in his new condo, you knew it was only a matter of time.

Not days. Not hours. Not minutes.

Seconds.

A shame.

You were holding it together pretty well.

“Alright, all done,” you muttered quickly, zipping out of the bedroom and making a beeline for the front door that you didn’t have a key for.

“Wait! Where are you going!”

Yoongi darted after you, catching you near the elevators.

“Hyung’s making dinner at his, and we were thinking about going out to…”

When you turned around to face him, fat tears streaming down your cheeks, dropping from your chin like rain off the roof of a forgotten shed, he broke instantly.

“W-we were,” he tried again, sniffling even before the tears came, “t-thinking about going… going out to the c-club and…”

“Celebrating?” you asked weakly.

Yoongi shook his head.

He pulled you into him, desperate.

“I can’t come with you,” you whispered.

At the time, you didn’t know why you whispered. It wasn’t a secret. It was much later that you realized that you whispered because of how hard it was to get out. It wasn’t going to be a declaration. Certainly not a willing one. You needed to get it out on a technicality.

Yoongi nodded.

Wrapped you up in his arms.

Kissed you.

Wrapped you up in his arms again.

Kissed you again.

You wish you hadn’t been crying so hard.

Maybe then, you could remember what it felt like.

And you could spend your life holding onto the precious memory of the lowest you’d ever felt, instead of constantly trying to chase the high.

The hotel bed is amazing.

The mattress conforms to your shape as you lie back, stretching every fold within you into a straight line.

You start to yawn.

“Saw your latest piece,” he tells you, from the couch.

Your yawn disappears, the vapors of it trailing outward through your nose, tears less relief from exhaustion and satiation, and more stinging. The smell of acetone during a manicure. A too-cold soda drunk too quickly.

You sit up. Jostled. Body leaving wrinkles in the sheets.

“You did?”

“I better have,” Yoongi replies, checking the publication date on, yes, your most recent work. “I’m subscribed to all your sites.”

You blink quickly. He’s never brought up your writing before.

“You are not.”

“Am too.”

He pulls out his phone, or whatever phone he’s been given to use that month, and begins to read.

Your words don’t sound weird in his voice.

You notice that his thumb didn’t have to reach far to pull up your work. It didn’t even swipe the screen after he pressed his thumb to the sensor.

In some ways, you are still home to him.

You close your eyes to remember as much of it as you can. You pretend that he is reading from just over your shoulder. The image that your mind conjures is so vivid that you know immediately that the memory will keep. You will pretend he is reading proudly from his phone during brunch. You will pretend he is reading to you in bed from the physical copy that the magazine will send you. You will pretend he is reciting his favorite, memorized lines while you’re both in his car, on the way to meet his friends, at the next show.

Yoongi smiles at you.

“What?” he asks.

Your eyes slowly open, giving way to your blissful smile.

“Your voice,” you say.

He stands and walks toward you.

“What about it?”

“Sounds good.” You smile as he slowly crawls onto the bed with you. “Sounds even better when it’s saying my words.”

“The words even look pretty,” he tells you, showing you his phone screen. “From the font that you went with to the order that you put them in.”

You notice a bright, golden star in the upper right corner.

The page is bookmarked.

Your page is bookmarked.

“And they mean things.”

Yoongi gazes into your eyes, his nose an inch away from yours. It stays an inch away from yours, as the rest of the room slides back, walls growing to your left and right, the backdrop behind Yoongi shifting from a navy blue wainscotting to a blush pink swirled ceiling.

“That’s what I love most about them,” he murmurs, as he hovers over you. “How full they are.”

You sigh when his lips hover over yours.

And then he crawls down your body, tugging at the belt of your robe.

You sit up a little to remove it. Shed your cocoon. The same way he coaxed you out when you first met. Just with his touch.

All you needed was his touch.

His touch told you that he loved your body. Didn’t see what you were so worried about. What was there to be worried about? Skin as brown as the almond biscuits you so loved. Body full with them, and only them, even when he was able to afford more. And just like those biscuits, as he had more, he wanted more.

“I don’t seem to say as many words when I’m around you,” you say.

Yoongi nods, eyes following your naked, shifting legs as you roll left and right to get the robe completely off of you. He knows too well the freakish way you just happen to understand each other. No matter where he is, he feels like, is completely convinced, that he can hear every single one of your thoughts.

But he’d never tell you that.

He wouldn’t want you to worry.

“I can appreciate them all the same,” Yoongi points out.

“They don’t get drowned out?” you ask, tilting your head and smiling with amusement. “The fan chants? The squeals?” You giggle. “The demands for marriage?”

Yoongi runs his finger along your inner thigh. He dips it into your panties, still moist.

Yoongi tastes you first, on his finger.

You think about how many people want him. How many people he’s fucked.

How you count them as wins, too.

“Speaking of drowning,” he mumbles, making you blush.

You know that he’s wondering. Wondering whether you melt this much for… him.

He pulls your panties down your legs, and you take two unnaturally steady breaths, trying to get ready.

His tongue still knows you so well. Snaking through all the folds that you usually keep so hidden and closed, in an effort to be and stay “perfect”.

How? you wonder silently. How does he still know?

“Could never forget,” Yoongi tells you, knowing the folds in your brain just as well. He feels those folds pushing back at first, and then relenting, walls flexing back with monstrous surprise, and then rushing back in to fill the gaps. Like when a crowd slowly parts for him. When that crowd transforms into an audience. All of those eyes slowly turning to see him. Realizing who he is. Making way for him. Immediately longing for him when he passes by. Seams coming together again in his wake, as he makes his way through. It’s an everyday occurrence at this point. He secretly loves it. But he has to admit that it still always feels best when his audience is just you.

And you feel his magnanimous presence. Sliding around. Caressing every square inch of you. Telling you it’s OK. Better than OK. Enjoy it. Let go. If you ever need him to remind you how, he��s here. He’s always, always here.

“Jesus,” you sigh, shaking your head from side to side.

The corner of Yoongi’s mouth points into your right lip with sharp satisfaction.

You squint at him. “Eyes?”

“Mmm?” he rumbles into your depths.

You tug at the roots of his hair. “Look in my eyes while you eat it.”

He chuckles and moans against you, neck straining as he readjusts, head angling up and showing you his pupils as

The ends of his hair brush against your hands like overgrown stalks ripe for harvest.

He eats you, eats at you, ripe for the same.

His fingers at first like thin stems rustling in the autumn breeze, helping to give way and let the fruit drop. His fingers then turn into shovels in the soil to uncover what is good and sacred and nourishing.

Tongue like baskets to be balanced on hips and heads later to furnish the dinner table.

Lips savoring you like the last sticky bits of sundae.

Sundaes.

Sundays.

How many have there been now?

“Want you,” you whisper, your hand relaxing in his hair, letting the rest of the crops that you can’t take with you fall back to the ground.

“But…” Yoongi looks at you questioningly.

You shake your head again, and he knows to crawl up your body, placing gentle kisses at your exposed stomach, your still-covered breasts, lips teasing at your scooped neckline as he unzips his jeans and kicks them off in alternating shuffles that sound like a sail whipping in the wind, lips knocking on the door just under your chin as your head tilts back, and then lips finding home when your head tilts toward him again, being met with your grunt as he lines up and pushes slowly, slowly, slowly into you, while he pulls you into a sticky, hungrier-than-ever kiss.

Sundaes.

Sundays.

How many has he had?

Your legs tighten around him. Unfamiliar eyes might think you’re trying to lock him in.

But Yoongi knows better.

You’re freezing.

Yoongi slows, understanding that he doesn’t need to fight the frost with brute force, and knowing that letting it happen will let grow the thaw.

“What happened?” Yoongi asks.

You like the way he asks this question. Not, “What are you thinking?”, or “What’s wrong?”. You hate “What’s wrong?” He already believes that whatever you say is real and important and devoid of any fault.

This simple, black, long-sleeved crop top is ribbed, and you like the feel of running your fingers up and down the columns of cotton. It’s soothing. Helps you figure out how you wanna say it.

“I counted the minutes.”

He pouts at you.

“I counted the minutes, and then I counted the minutes I spent counting the minutes…”

“I’m right here,” Yoongi says. “We’re together.” He reaches up for your face, his thumb gently grazing your cheekbone, swooping back into your hairline. “Right now.”

You smile uneasily. The most difficult part of seeing him is feeling just how much time has thrown you out of sync. It’s torturous to misstep and be forced to recalibrate your footing with someone who once made you feel like you were flying.

But Yoongi’s gentle, massaging fingers at your temple help ease the pain.

You close your eyes and get lost in it. His hand on your cheek. His other hand running up and down your thigh, to help you turn. To help you get out of your head. By giving you something to do, rather than think. His torso, which you’re about to, and then, with a gentle, caring squeeze and lift of your thigh, are, straddling. His thick cock still inside you, and still throbbing with want.

Always throbbing with want for you.

You press your palms on Yoongi’s chest and bend to him, lips nuzzling and feeling before opening and joining. Tongue swims against tongue and teeth. Bites just spur you on.

He wants to give you more of them.

He claws at your top, making you laugh a little at how eager he is to keep going. To keep you going. To keep you on track. To keep you chugging along.

You somehow feel warmer when the fabric leaves your skin.

Even warmer when your bra disappears.

Warmest when his hands cradle the swells of your breasts, nipping and wringing and fondling and cherishing.

His hands slide down your body to your hips, and he shows you how to move them. Not because you don’t know how to move them. But to remind you to move. That you can get what you want, what you both want, when you trust your own movements.

When you trust him, and when you trust yourself.

Winding, slow. Clenching. Moaning.

Now, you’re tight not with anxiety but excitement.

Now, your face is pulled in all sorts of directions not because of too many errant thoughts, but because of this layered heat, growing from a simmer to a steam. It floods you. Makes you sweat. Fills the spaces that your thoughts have been chased out of.

That you’re continuing to chase out.

With more and more fervor.

You lift with the steam.

You melt and drip back down.

You lift again.

You melt and drip back down.

With each lift, the cloud grows bigger.

Drips become raindrops, falling heavier.

Faster.

Each drop of your clenched, gripping, strong, knowing muscle onto his hard body showers Yoongi’s sturdy, turgid cock with more and more of your desire, coating him, lathering him, cleansing him. Telling him that it’s OK to feel. That he can be overly-passionate. That it doesn’t always lead to a burn out, though, when it does, that there is always a way out. You will always be here to give one to him.

Your hips roll forward and back, body sighing and stretching, showing him all the ways he can take you.

As you ride, his left hand touches your navel. Squeezes your folds of skin there. It feels like fresh, soft pillows and blankets unevenly stacked in the closet. He moans and runs his hand up those blankets, grabbing every so often as his hand slides up your body and rests, palm flat, between your breasts. His index, middle, and ring fingers spread and separate. His index and ring fingers stroke up and down at the border of each of your breasts. His middle finger strokes the center of your chest.

His cock starts to twitch inside of you.

As you shiver and grunt with pleasure, he moves his hand left, and then right, to each of your breasts. His fingers do the same with your nipples, which run rough and smooth in alternating stretches along the marble column of his middle finger.

Your moans are better than any song he will ever write.

Do you know?

Yoongi looks up at you, his left hand reaching out and brushing your hair behind your ear.

“Fuck,” he sighs. His face changes. Tenses. Lips rake under teeth. Mouth corners pull back as he takes a celebratory breath. “Fuck.”

His thumb rests alone on the tragus of your ear, his eyes instead focusing on the bright gold double helix rings at the middle lobe.

In the same place where he only has two faint scars.

No matter what, ink will always fade.

Kept long enough in the beginning, a piercing will last forever.

His eyes snap to yours.

You slide your fingers between the backs of his fingers, cradling his hand in yours, clutching his forearm with your free hand as you ride, squeezing him tight, pressing the pulp of his palm against your flushed cheek, and curving your lips to press a kiss at his wrist.

Eyes locked to his, you nod.

He grunts and quickly brings his other arm to nestle at your other temple, holding your head in his palms. You grasp both of his forearms and whine as he starts to bounce you, bodies meeting harder, faster, your cunt and his grip so tight that your brain might cave in.

You cry out and snap in half, collapsing on top of him. His hands curve around your body, running over your breasts in their journey across your back and to opposite ends of the beautiful landscape that is your torso, forearms pinning you down, against him.

Funny.

For how well you know each other, you always seem to be against him one way or the other.

Yoongi’s thrusts knock you forward. The vacuum of your joint seal pulls you back.

You can feel how full he is.

So full that he’s close to exploding.

When you realize that you’ve closed your eyes, you pry them open again, and you see the soft, brown leather of the headboard, tiny, sand brown lines etched into a deeper mahogany, growing near, then far, as if zooming in and out on a map meant to help you navigate this.

You feel a soft bite surround the point of your chin. It brings your head down, and you see Yoongi gaze at you before opening his mouth back up again to trace your jaw with his tongue. To part your lips. To kiss you.

The world that you were supposed to navigate goes dark.

This is where you and Yoongi belong. Where you make sense. In the dark, in the dark. Undercover, under covers. Bound by the lines of linens.

How many times have you met here? How many times does it take an ordinary person to memorize a body? And just how extraordinary is Yoongi?

You whimper, lips still locked, and Yoongi nods for you both. His kiss becomes softer, yet, somehow, more distracting. The way a whisper draws you in. Brings you closer. Carries the weight of a secret. The gentler he kisses you, the more he’s able to convince you that your sex is not a cacophony but a lullaby. You’ll forget until you see the bruises in the morning.

Which is drawing nearer, and nearer, he thinks, as he grunts and sucks on your lips before opening his mouth to gasp at you.

The first of your tears fall.

He catches them, like snowflakes, once frozen but now melting on his tongue. Licks up your cheek to lap them up.

His head tilts into the corner of his pillow, and you chuckle a little sheepishly before moaning Yoongi’s name. Your eyebrows gather and tent. Does he know what he does to you? Does he care?

“Yoongi?” you sigh desperately.

Neither of you need an answer before you fall apart.

--

You’ve shifted in your sleep.

You don’t know how many minutes have gone by when you wake, and you try to stop yourself from counting them now.

Yoongi’s lips are buried in your navel, his nose hidden. Only his eyes greet you, wide and blinking. So graceful. That slight curve of his lids, quick to plump and rise before taking their time to descend to meet his cheeks. His eyes are wings that always loft to a soft landing.

They let him take flight now, his head rising, hands folding, and then his chin resting on his knuckles on your stomach.

“You cried,” he says.

You smile fondly. “I always cry.” You bite your lip, and your eyes narrow. “And you always point that out.”

He turns onto his side, his lipstick-kissed wrist propping up his bedhead. “Why do you think you do that?” he asks with a small grin.

“And you always ask me that,” you laugh, looking back at the TV screen and flipping the channel.

Yoongi smirks as you proceed to tell him what else he always does. What else you always do. What else always ends up happening.

The slow transition from bodies talking, to you talking, to the TV talking. The progression from pure bliss, to comfortable nostalgia, to complete silence.

The criss-crossing of bodies during the gathering of clothes.

How you always reach for the shirt that you brought to return.

How you always put it on.

The fond gazes. The soft kisses. The ones on your lips. Then your cheeks. Then your forehead.

You always linger. As each second passes, you always hope that his lips will stay on you for a second more.

After Yoongi zips up your jacket to the top in one smooth moment, and then closes the door behind you, it occurs to him that there are a couple things to add to the list of what he always does. Things that you don’t know.

That the minutes that you’d left uncounted aren’t uncounted at all.

That he has kept a running total of every single minute spent gazing at you as you sleep.

That you’re not the only one who always cries.

Read the rest of the 3(0) for 30 series here!

[sylveonyie]

𓆩♡𓆪 My Introduction post!

My name is Sylveon ♡

I am 21 years old ♡

My pronouns are He/Him ♡

I have Asd Adhd & Eds ♡

I am Genderfluid and fluctuate between Demiboy, Demigender and Demigril ♡

I am Intersex! ♡

I am a Lesbian and Cupio! ♡

I am not new to tumblr, I just made a new account to start over! ♡

League ♡

My top 10 league champs are:

♡ Lux: 510,849

♡ Jinx: 157,473

♡ Neeko: 134,280

♡ Miss Fortune: 113,429

♡ Ahri: 103,327

♡ Yuumi: 103,158

♡ Janna: 102,021

♡ Ashe: 96,805

♡ Seraphine: 93,796

♡ Caitlyn: 93,114

Other characters I like: Morgana, Nami, Soraka, Qiyana, Zyra, Graves, Evelynn, Kayn, Leona, Rell, Briar & Aroura! ♡

My top 10 favourite skin lines are: Anima Squad, Coven, Elderwood, Faerie Court, Battle Queens, Snow Moon, Spirit Blossom, Star Guardian, Steel Valkyries & Arcade! ♡

Honorable mentions: Battle Academia, Cafe Cuties, Immortal Journey, Ocean Song, Porcelain, Soul Fighter & Space Groove! ♡

My favourite ships:

♡ Lightcannon: Lux x Jinx

♡ Eclipse: Leona x Diana

♡ Firefox: Mf x Ahri

♡ Banana Bread: Soraka x Pantheon

♡ Forget me not: Ahri x Evelynn

♡ Two birds of a feather: Xayah x Rakan

♡ Ezkayn: Ezreal x Kayn

♡ Dream Chameleon: Lillia x Neeko

♡ Desert Rose: Samira x Sivir

♡ Guns Blazing: Mf x Samira

♡ Moonshine: Aphelios x Sett

♡ Sandstorm: Sivir x Janna

Pokemom ♡

My top 10 favourite pokemon are: Sylveon, Dreepy, Sprigatito, Cleffa, Chansey, Lumineon, Azumarill, Flabébé, Wooper & Fidough! ♡

Honorable mentions: Clodsire, Alcremie, Hattrem, Applin, Yamper, Sobble, Mimikyu, Togedemaru, Comfey, Steenee, Lurantis, Primarina, Pumpkaboo, Goomy, Aurorus, Espurr, Joltik, Minccino, Petilil, Audino, Milotic, Altaria, Skitty, Gardevoir, Togepi, Furret, Mew, Dragonair, Eevee, Chansey & Clefairy! ♡

Ranking the Veevees in order: Sylveon, Leafeon, Glaceon, Vaporeon, Espeon, Jolteon, Umbreon & Flareon! ♡

My favourite types: Fairy, Grass, Psychic, Ghost, Water and Ice! ♡

My favourite pokemon characters are: Jessie, James, Lillie, Marnie, Nessa, Melony, Klara, Adaman, Irida, Penny, Iono, Tulip, Grusha & Rika! ♡

My favourite pokemon games are: Legends of Arceus, Pokemon Unite, Pokemon Snap and Pokemon Violet! ♡

Genshin ♡

My top 10 favourite playable characters: Kazuha, Kirara, Yae Miko, Chiori, Navia, Sigewinnie, Kaveh, Kokomi, Shenhe & Sayu! ♡

Honorable mentions: Alhaitham, Tighnari, Rosaria, Diona, Furina, Baizhu, Layla, Clorinde, Yoimiya, Sucrose, Dottore, Enjou, Clervie, Columbina, Marionette & Pantalone! ♡

My favourite elements: Anemo, Cryo & Hydro! ♡

My favourite weapons: Catalyst & Bow! ♡

My favourite nation: Fontaine! ♡

I am currently saving for: Shenhe! ♡

My favourite ships:

♡ Eimiko: Raiden Ei x Yae Miko

♡ Haikaveh: Alhaitham x Kaveh

♡ 4ggravate: Alhaitham x Kaveh x Cyno x Tighnari

♡ Clorvia: Clorinde x Navia

♡ Neuwrioclorvia: Neuvillette x Wriothesley x Clorinde x Navia

♡ Gouara: Gorou x Kirara

♡ Arlebina: Arlecchino x Colombina

♡ Chiara: Chiori x Kirara

♡ Rosaeya: Rosaria x Kaeya

My Favourites ♡

Games: Paleo Pines, Planet Zoo, Jwe2, Lol, Genshin, Crk, Calico, Slime Rancher, Sdv, Pokemon, Koi Farm & Terraria! ♡

Shows & Movies: Mlp, Winx Club, Dragon Prince, Helluva Boss, Camp Cretaceous, Chaos Theory, Httyd, Jurrasic Universe, Castlevania, Nimona & Barbie! ♡

Anime: Seraph of the End, Yona of the Dawn, Horimiya, Chainsaw Man, Link Click, I'm a spider so what, Sk8, Black Clover Fairytail! ♡

Characters: Fluttershy, Luna, Cadence, Flora, Verosika Mayday, Li Tianxi, Mikaela Hyakuya, Krul Tepes, Crowley Eusford, Power, Nacht Faust, Mereoleona Vermillion, Finral Roulacase: Vanessa Enoteca, Zora Ideale, Secre Swallowtail, Fana, Undine, Mavis Vermillion, Sting Eucliffe, Rogue Cheney, Frosch, Flare Corona, Macbeth, Cosmos & Irene Belserion! ♡

Animals: Marine Mammals, Sharks, Shrimps, Wildcats, Birds, Crocodilans & Catfish! ♡

Dinosaurs: Parasaurolophus, Triceratops, Spinosaurus, Baryonyx, Therizinosaurus, Troodon & Compsognathus! ♡

Crystals: Rose Quartz, Angel Aura Quartz, Flower Agate, Pink Sapphire, Kunzite, Opalite, Moonstone, Pink Catseye, Pink Opal, Strawberry Quartz, Calcite & Peach Moonstone! ♡

I like to draw stupid little doodles! ♡

I also collect things like figures, pins, charms Keychains, plushies etc! ♡

I also love makeup and jewellery! My favourite makeup brands are flower knows and plouise! ♡

Here are some links!

Biolink: 🌷

Pronouns: 🌸

My Blogs ♡

@leagueheaven | My league discord server

@kittykirara | My genshin blog

My Tags ♡

#Sylveonyie | All my content/posts

#Sylveonyie Posts | All my text/Image posts

#Sylveonyie Reblogs | I reblog things I like

#Sylveonyie Arts | All of my art

#Sylveonyie Games | All of my game related posts and art

#Sylveonyie Shitposts | Me shitposting

#Sylveonyie Ocs | My ocs!

#Sylveonyie Collects | Cool merch

#Sylveonyie Reviews | My reviews on merch

#Sylveonyie Sonas | My personas!

#Bean Posting | My Kitty

#Creatures | Animals :3

My Friend Tags ♡

#Sparkles | @undeadsparkles

#Fallipops | @fallipops

#Valentine | @valantinetime

#Crow | @coracries

#Cali | @apollypoly

#Jay | @jay-will-dictate

[gnbrkrs]

I read a few of mutual's fanfics and got inspired. Also, thanks for the Flora and Fana Cafe (https://floraandfana.carrd.co/) for letting me GPose in their place when my own apartment is half-destroyed.

[timeforelfnonsense]

Elderwood Forest

Climate: Taiga forests ("boreal forest")

Elderwood Forest is a large Taiga forest that is home to the wood elves of Lastfrost and a number of fey and woodland creatures. The Elderwood is an otherworldly and beautiful place. Aside from the Wood elf village of Lastfrost the forest is wild and untouched. Their winters are long, dark, and cold. Their Summers are warm and short. The wood elves and dryads are quick to deal with any outsiders that mean the Elderwood harm.

Pantheon:

Rillifane Rallathil: The Great Oak the elven god of protection of woodlands and the guardian of the harmony of nature

Silvanus: Forest Father, Wild nature, His worshipers protected places of nature from the encroachment of civilization with vigor and were implacable foes of industrious peoples

Eldath: Mother Guardian of Groves, Peace, waterfalls, springs, pools, stillness, quiet glades

Mielikki: The Forest Queen, goddess of autumn, druids, dryads, forests, forest creatures, and rangers.

Fauna & Flora

Fana:

Wood elves

Sprites

Korred

Will-o'-wisp*

Quicklings*

Dryads

Forest animals

Direwolves

Giant owls

Treeants

Fey of all sorts

Unicorns

Blink Foxes

Feyote

Grove Guardians

Flora:

oak, maple, elm, pine trees, blue spruce

Catmint: Catnip is associated with animal magic, beauty, happiness, love. It can be brewed into a mild tranquilizer and sedative.

Primrose: Associated with Fairies, Protection, Love Small Fae are thought to take shelter under primrose leaves during a rainstorm.

Lavender: Sleep, long life, peace, wishes, protection, love, purification, visions, attracting men, clarity of thought.

Valerian: useful in animal magic, especially cat magic and evoking animal spirits. Also, for turning bad situations around to one’s advantage and finding the positive in a seemingly negative situation.

Elven Clove: Aphrodisiac

Pipe Annie: A mildly hallucinogenic and calming herb native to the elderwood forest. It can be used with a pot of miraculous steam or cooked into baked goods.

 Alliances: 

Emerald Enclave 

The village of Lastfrost:

Lastfrost is a bit off the beaten path for most travelers, tucked away in the vast flora of the Elderwood. The dwellings of the wood elves built into the lofty trees of the forests. The elves of Lastfrost are amicable to non-elven rases, trading and offering aid with those who seek help navigating and surviving the wilderness. 

The Gods’ Grove:

Said to be the site of the Meeting of the Oaks, the standing stones are a place of worship a nexus of druidic power. The stones are positioned around a large oak tree. It is said the Elder Oak, the first tree to have grown in the Elderwood, Springing from a drop of divine blood from both Silvanus & Rillifane Rallathil. Outsiders are not welcome here. The stones served as the portal between the Elderwood and the Feywilds. It is through this portal the first elves of the elderwood come to the forest. Magic hangs heavy on the air and tickles your skin. Each of the four stone is engraved with the mark of each god the gods

Witchleaf Pines:

Witchleaf Pines is the most dangerous and deep part of the forest. Home to will-o'-wisps, quicklings, and The witch Faevara Myr, a Winter  Eladrin, warlock pledged to  The Queen of Air and Darkness. The Pines are vailed in a thick, icy fog that gets denser and more frigid as you approach. No matter the season the Pines are bitter cold and covered in snow and frost. Thick brambles block the path to the pines. The elves of Lastfrost have placed warnings in the forest to keep travelers from stumbling into the witch’s den. Faevara is unspeakably old, some think she is even older than the Elderwood itself. Her flesh is craked ice, her hair the color of cornflower. She is always covered in freshly fallen snow. Faevara and her creatures keep to themselves for the most part. However, there are whispers of desperate folk seeking her Assitance. Assitance she is happy to give for a price. 

The Wood elves:

A hardy, proud, level-headed people. They view themselves as keepers of their forest and defend it fervently. More so then most elves, they identify as fey and feel a strong kinship with other creatures of fey blood. Many of the elves are members of the emerald enclave and the values of the guild are much the same as. Believing the natural order must be respected and preserved and an understanding of the harshness of the wilds and a commitment to aid those who could not survive it otherwise. The Elderwood elves are much more sardonic and gruff then their high elf counterparts. They are very upfront and honest folk, meaning they can sometimes come off as rude despite good intentions. They have no taste for the politics or the squabbling of nobility. Despite their sometimes prickly demeanor, the wood elves are quite compassionate towards the nonfey races. They tend to lack the superiority complex of the high elves. Yet another factor separating them from many other elven cultures in the material plane is the deep cultural ties they feel to their fey ancestry. Many of the Elves of Lastfrost are skilled druids, rangers, hunters, and craftsmen. They do not keep pets as they would see it as disrespectful to the animal, rather they might have an animal they are closely bonded to but they view it as a form of kinship. The dire wolf and giant owl are the mounts of choice for Lastfrost rangers and scouts.

[tivytail]

more at 4, oc sketches again

team furrafinity discovered fifty clothes, how fun.

reveille belongs to @dizzpacito , boom belongs to @bbgatile ,genesis belongs to @distortioners , flora belongs to @iitsmac , and fana belongs to @arkangeles

and lachlan belongs to me of course but im saying this now i was a hundred percent tempted to put a gravity falls reference in there but surprisingly i didn’t