#he went into the force just wanting to help other people

[soldiersgirl]

SEE ME AFTER CLASS .ᐟ

summary ⭑ good girls are bad girls that haven't been caught and the professor is about to teach his favourite student a very important lesson on responsibility. (part one found here.) cw ⭑ pornstar!reader x pornstar!soldier boy. payback era. 18+ smut (mdni). porn with some plot. corny porn names. mean soldier boy. veiled threats. professor x uni student dynamic. manipulation. kissing. finger sucking. light slapping. sir kink. spanking. degradation. praise. dirty talk. begging. shoe shining (?). protected p in v (safe sex work is important). doggy. choking with tie. name calling (slut, whore, doll, dollface, teacher's pet). female masturbation. cumming on face. swallowing. word count ⭑ 4,567 words (lmao)

honestly, you thought you would never see him again. sure, it was... fun to work with him that one time and you really thought that it would be a one-time thing. you never really understood, or dared to question, how vought thought this would help soldier boy's image, but you were proven wrong immediately. sales for soldier boy merch sky-rocketed and similarly, the sales of your previous works on VHS went flying off the shelves. the people loved you together and each fan-mail you received were begging for you to reunite. you tried for months to put it off, wanting to keep the creative control over your own career. but with vought's offers becoming more lucrative, more rewarding, you couldn't deny them or him any longer.

and here you found yourself. on another set, in another dress that was too short for your own good and another smirking soldier boy standing behind you as you got your make-up touched up and hair styled to perfection in two cute pigtails. you brushed away the stylist and you frowned at yourself in the mirror as soldier boy reached forward and tugged on your 'tails before letting out a wry chuckle. you twisted around in your chair and gave him a scowl that naturally formed whenever he was around, but it quickly turned into surprise. he was devoid of his usual supe-suit and instead a tight white shirt hugged his muscled chest with a dark-green tie nestled around his neck and round frames perched on his tall bridged nose. he tilts his head, smirking like he knows exactly what you're thinking, gazing at you over his glasses.

"ready to be taught a lesson?"

"i'm ready for this to be over already." you sneer before turning back around, just catching his smirk faltering. "still got that monstrosity you call a moustache, huh?" you nod towards his infamous pornstache, still trimmed and styled to perfection. he would have it no other way.

"god, i had forgotten how much of you bitch you were." he hums before leaning down behind you and gazing into the mirror, much like the first time you met, and running his hands over his quaffed hair, tucking down any strays. "plus, i don't remember you complainin' when you were riding my face like a fuckin' rollercoaster at disney. so shut your shitten trap if you know what's good for you." he bristles as he smooths his stache over with his pointer finger.

"looks like you didn't fuck me hard enough last time. common issue for you, isn't it?" you cock your head to the side and pout at his reflection, only earning a grunt in return as his eyes never leave his own face.

"i'm gonna fuck you so hard, you won't be able to think of anymore of those witty comebacks you got there." the threat rolls naturally of his tongue as he tightens his tie and gives himself a nod. he lazily gazes down at you and offers a sideways grin. "if i didn't know any better, sweetheart, it's almost like you're begging to be ruined." he grabs the back of your head and forces you to look at yourself as he leans in and whispers. "don't you worry, the professor is gonna show you what a good fuckin' does to a bitch, like yerself." he nips at your earlobes and shoves your head forward before straightening himself up and walking to his dressing room to prepare himself for his big scenes. although your cheeks heated up with embarrassment at how quickly you fell under his spell, you couldn't deny the way your thighs clenched together at his promising words.

after working with soldier boy for the first time, no one had really lived up to him since. you had tried to find substitutions, tried to find the same excitement and thrill that coursed through your body at the touch of his hand or lips against yours, but to no avail. although you despised the man and everything he represented, you loved what he did to you.

as you bent down to buckle your mary-janes and pull up your patterned knee socks, you took a second to gaze over the set. wooden university desks were scattered around the room with books open to random pages and pencil cases spread about the set-up classroom. an old-fashioned military green chalkboard had been hung up and the set coordinators had even taken the time to scribble some drawings and equations across it alongside today's date in the corner. to make the set more believable soldier boy's oak desk had been cluttered with various half-marked essays, a gold-rim typewriter, a forgotten cup of coffee and a plaque that read "professor b. dover". you shot up and ran your finger over the indented letters, shouting over your shoulder to anyone in earshot.

"what does the b stand for?"

"ben, my real name." you flinch as soldier boy's strong hands come up and rest on your shoulders, causing your hand to fall and your shoulders to stiffen.

"so, professor ben dover? like bend over?" you scoff as you peel his hands off you and swivel to face him. he chuckles and nods as you roll your eyes. "is everything just a joke to you?" you sigh.

"lighten the fuck up, doll. not everythin' has to be so fuckin' serious." he tugs on your pigtail again and your head jerks along with it. you wince in sudden pain and this time, it was his turn to roll his eyes. "try to have some fun for once, eh? wouldn't kill you." he walks around and settles himself in his red velour chair, running his broad hands over the armrest with a smirk, enjoying the soft fabric beneath his rough fingertips. much like how he loves them against your soft skin. he pulls and tugs on his sleeves as you silently sit down by one of the desks and wait for the director to brief you and call action. you sigh and twirl on your hair as you rest your eyes dance around the room before naturally settling on soldier boy and his hypnotic gaze. although nothing is said, everything is shared and he has you exactly where he wants and you both know it.

"so! exciting, ain't this? the people loved you the first time, so this is gonna make us all very rich." the director clutches his clipboard as his eyes flicker between the two of you, each wearing an unimpressed reaction. "right. uh, it's the well-loved storyline. irresponsible college student misses a deadline and fails the class and her caring professor is willing to bend the rules to help her pass, but..." he holds his hands out to allow you to answer, like an interactive theatre stage. you raise your eyebrows in surprise and gaze at soldier boy for a second, his expression equally as confused.

"but i gotta fuck him first." you mutter.

"exactly!" he yells in delight. he gives his clipboard a smack, glances back over at the interns and set crew as they signal that the cameras are ready and the lighting is in place. "let's make some money." he gives you both a thumbs up before he rushes back into his director's chair and yells "ACTION!". you immediately enter the mindset of your character and forget the dislike for your co-actor that simmers under your skin.

"any reason why you stayed behind after class, young miss?" soldier boy raises his eyebrows as he tugs down his circular frames and lets his eyes roam over you, sitting cross-legged behind your worn-wooden desk with a slight pout on your glossy lips. you loudly sigh and close your math book before resting your chin in your hand and gazing right back at him. as he leans back and crosses his large arms, the velour chair squeaks as it struggles to hold his muscled build.

"i know i failed your class, professor dover, but i need your help. my best friend said she had made a deal with you before and... i really need to pass." your long, manicured fingers run along the edges of your book as you nibble on your bottom lip and bat your large eyelashes at him. he couldn't help but scoff, you played the role of innocent student almost too well, but he quickly caught and corrected himself.

"you can call me ben, we're outside of office hours." he starts before settling his judging gaze on you. "but... let me get this right." the chair creaks as he leans forward and rests his forearms on the desk, sighing loudly. "you think you can just bat your little eyes at me and i'll let you pass?" you lean back, skirt your fingers across the hem of your sundress before you uncross your legs to flash your underwear and cross them again the other way whilst you shake your head. soldier boy sucks his teeth and tuts loudly at the sight of your cute underwear. he couldn't wait to dive into them, like before, and feel how wet you are for him.

"oh, no, professor. uh, sorry, ben. not at all. i wouldn't–" you stop yourself and brush your hair away from your face. "i'll do anything to pass, sir. please. my dad's gonna be so mad if i don't pass this semester." you lean over your desk, resting your chest on top of your book and exposing your cleavage to him. "are there any extra-curricular activities i can do? anything i can help with?" you let one of your sundress straps glides down and rests on your upper arm, exposing more of your breasts. "i'm a quick learner, sir." you put on your best act for the cameras, wearing the role of innocent student like a second skin; second nature. you were just simply a desperate student begging for help from her older, wiser professor.

"yeah, i bet you fuckin' are." soldier boy scoffs under his breath before running his hand over his gelled hair and looking up at you with a smirk as his eyes dart down to your chest. "listen, doll. i–" you interrupt him by shooting up and walking around to the front of his desk, clasping your hands together in desperation.

"mr. dover. please. i'll do anything, anything you want!" you lean forward and grasp his hands in your small ones, a pleading glint in your eyes. your tits are almost spilling out the top of the dress and he lets out a low groan. he could barely even contain himself any longer.

"alright, alright." he throws up his hands, palms facing forward, signalling for you to stop your begging. "i'll help you, but first, i gotta teach you a lesson on obedience and responsibility. wouldn't you agree?" it was his turn to grab your hands, holding you frozen in place as he uses the other to forcefully grab your chin. "can't believe i have a classroom filled with sluts like you." he sneers, his nose scrunching and his glasses lifting, framing and highlighting the hunger in his eyes. "i've seen the way you look at me in class. the way you fuckin' bite your lips whenever i even glance at you. the way you clench those thighs beneath the shortest fuckin' skirts and dresses, i've ever seen." he huffs as your mouth gapes in embarrassment at each of his damning words. your hands instinctively crawl up your thighs and press themselves against your weeping core, just to feel any kind of relief. you caress and glide your fingers delicately over your most sensitive bundle of nerves, wishing it was his hands instead as he continues to deliciously degrade you. "such a dirty girl, aren't ya? i bet no one's ever touched ya, the way i will. the way you really want to be touched. used." all you can do is mindlessly nod in return, a slow grin taking up your face before he gives you a small slap. you open your mouth to complain but, he takes the opportunity to jab his thumb into your mouth and admiring the way your tongue curls and slides over it, sucking on it like your life depended on it.

he couldn't wait anymore.

he pulls his thumb out, reaches around and grabs the nape of your neck before yanking you forward over his desk and crashing his lips against your own. he devours each of your mewls and moans, smirking to himself at how quickly you fall under his spell. your hands skim over his upper body, feeling the white, tight shirt under your fingertips and finally, clutching onto his biceps as you let yourself succumb to his touch. he tugged back your head and revelled in the sight of your bitten, swollen lips as you tried to catch your breath, but soldier boy was never one to be patient. he grabbed one of your perfectly braided pigtails and tugged on it, almost leading you like a dog on a leash, around the desk until you're stumbling in front of him, as he settled back into this chair. his large hand brushes over your hair, trying to get it into place before fully leaning back and just watching you. your heaving chest, your trembling knees, and your blown pupils.

"christ.." he mumbles under his breath. "take them fucking panties off. it's time for your punishment, dollface." he pushes back his chair and slaps his lap before caressing it, inviting you. tempting you. you couldn't help but gasp as it dawned on you what he had in mind and you couldn't have tugged down your cute, cotton underwear any faster. you let them stay bunched at your ankles as you leaned yourself over his broad lap, his large frame swallowing you as you lay there at his mercy. his fingers traced the hem of your sundress, lifting it slowly as he watches it dance over the curve of your ass and settle in the dip of your back. "now, you know the rules, don't ya? you gotta count out loud and so, help you god, if you stop then we start all over again until you can fuckin' get it right." he palms your ass, spreading the cheeks apart before kneading them like dough and laughing dryly as you hang your head and only nod. SMACK! "answer your professor." you yelp out in pain, your head wrenching back and your legs futilely kick.

"yes, yes! yes, sir." you whimper. he gives you a nod before muttering a "good girl." and letting a second smack reverberate around the carefully curated classroom. "one!" you yell out. SMACK! "two!". SMACK! "three.." you gasp. each smack was harsher than the last, tears brimming in your eyes. you couldn't hear much besides your heartbeat in your eyes, but between the deafening beats, you could hear soldier boy's low chuckles between each assault on your delicate skin. he smooths his palm over your cheek, laughing as you squirm under him.

"only two more, good girl. you can do it, can't you? you're a big girl now. big college student who is gonna fuck her professor to pass." his taunting tone only adds to your pain and your undeniable pleasure. usually, your co-actors were sweet and somewhat rough, but soldier boy always gave you what you desired most, no matter how much you try to deny it. a groan from you, followed by another strike to your reddened cheek and a drawn-out "fooouurr...." as you let the tears run down your face and over your gasping mouth. SMACK! "five." you cry out and hiss, your body finally relaxing as he coos, leaning down to flutter kisses over the branded curve of your ass. he pulls you up and sits you on his lap, encircling his arms around you and hugging you tight as you share short pecks that grew increasingly more urgent; the desire simmering right below the surface. he slowly pushes his off his lap and down onto the floor, sitting your slick clit right against the tip of his shoe. he flicks his chin up, indicating for you to lift your arms and he tugs off your flimsy sun-dress and throws it carelessly across the classroom.

"now, my shoe needs shining, doll. you can help with that, can't you? said you'd do anything." he leans in and down, gliding his calloused fingertip down the bridge of your nose before tapping your nose tip. "get to fuckin' work." he lifts his oxfords up and bumps them against your slick folds, making you yelp and latch onto his thigh for support. you spread your legs more and settle against his shoe, rocking your hips and rubbing your clit against the top of his shoe. the sensation of the laces and bumps against your folds and unattended clit made you feel dizzy. no man had ever made you feel this desperate for praise, for their approval. and no man had ever expected this of you, but for soldier boy, you were willing to do anything. you gritted your teeth and frowned deeply as you concentrated on rutting and grinding, spreading your arousal all over his expensive shoes, fulfilling his wishes.

he loosened his tie and patted your head as you whined and moaned beneath him, your claw-like nails digging into his full thighs. he pulled off his tie and looped it around your neck, tightening it until rested nicely between the valley of your breasts, his fingers skimming gently over you; making you shiver and moan in anticipation. his touch, his attention was like a drug you couldn't get enough of. whenever he gazed upon you it was like the sun shone only on you and made you glow in its glory. he cupped your cheek and kept your gaze on him as he bumped and lifted his shoe against your glossy folds and basked in your mewls and protests.

"hm, such a teacher's pet. willing to do anything for a good grade." he hummed, his thumb dragging across your cheek and pinching it. "let me see how much of a mess you've made." he roughly pushes you off his shoe and you land with a small yelp. he lifts his shoe an inch of the floor and a gasp falls past his lips. his eyes catch the camera as he angles his oxfords against the harsh set lights; his shoe glistening with your dripping arousal. "haven't even fuckin' touch your cunt yet and you're so soaked." he groans in approval.

"ple– please, touch me, sir. i need you. need you." you sat up on your knees and reached out, your hand grazing over his growing bulge that was barely suppressed in his black slacks. "need to pass." you mumble as you attempted to open his belt, but he quickly brushed your hands away with a devilish grin as he gazed down onto you. like a king with an effortless sense of authority and you were nothing but his adoring follower.

"needy lil' girl. huh? you need to pass, you need to get fucked, you need my cock. you think you deserve any of it, doll? hm?" his grin softens as he toys with the tip of his tie, which sat snugly around your neck. "you think you make the rules around here? since when can a ditzy slut like you make decisions?" he grabbed and tugged on it like a dog leash, bringing you to your feet and following swiftly behind. his hands reached up and smoothing the top of your head, running his hands over your frizzy pigtails, teasingly down the side of your neck, over your shoulders until they circled and tugged on your hardened nipples with a sigh of content. you stand on your tiptoes and tenderly kiss his lips, his stubble grazing against your chin and cheeks as your tongue lapped against his. each harsh tug on your nipples was followed by flittering touches, each bite of your lip was followed by a soft moan from him.

he was as harsh and untameable as the sea, but interchangeably as soft and delicate as a soft summer breeze. he gives you one final peck and places his round spectacles on your face, offering you a small smile before he leads you to stand to the side of the desk and facing away from him, out toward the classroom. behind you, you hear the promising sound of his belt unbuckling and an expectant shudder runs down your back. you twist to peek over your shoulder, but your head is immediately shoved back around and you let out a school-girl giggle. the clang and swoosh of his slacks falling to the floor, the familiar sound of a condom packet opening and a loud hiss as he lazily jerks his leaking cock.

"now do like my fuckin' name and ben dover." he chuckles to himself and thankfully, you were facing away from the camera, as you dramatically rolled your eyes before he pushes you down onto the desk by the back of your head with a grunt. you fumble as the glasses almost fall off your nose and you push them up, just in time to look back and catch the sight you had been looking forward to. his hair tousled, his shirt unbuttoned and his large cock aching to be stuffed in between your familiar folds. he ran his tip up and down your slit, coating himself in your juices and gently tapping it against your clit. your knees buckled and your heart threatened to beat out of your ribcage; you could barely wait another second. a glob of spit lands in soldier boy's rough hands as he fists his cock one last time before prodding your entrance before deliciously sinking into you. your folds and walls welcoming him as your legs shake beneath you and soldier boy shudders behind you as he buries himself deep into you. your pussy clamped down and clenched around him as he caught his breath, before tortuously dragging himself back and slamming into you with no warning. you shot forward and held onto the edges of his oak desk for support as he picked up his pace, his balls rocking into your clit with a steady beat.

"fuck, oh my god, siiiir." you drone as his tip expertly nudges against your cervix, each thrust turning your brain to mush. "fuck, fuck! ngggh–!" his harsh grip on your hips tightens as he relentlessly slams into you. his breath ragged and his eyes wild as he takes in the sight of you beneath him, all for him. in this moment, the two of you completely forget the crew on set and lose yourselves in the sensation of taking out each other's frustrations on one another. he leans forward and fumbles for a second before grabbing the length of his green tie and tugging it back. your constricted airways make your eyes flutter as he wraps it around his large fist, burying himself deeper into you. the desk groans and squeaks under the force and weight of soldier boy ramming into your aching cunt.

"i warned you." he chuckles into your ear as he picks up momentum and fucks into you at a superhuman pace. you're reminded of his harsh words from before and you silently accept your fate. "should start callin' you the teachers whore." he gasps against your neck in between vigorous thrusts, grazing his teeth against your pulsating vein. "gonna teach you how to take a real cock, how to get fucked like a real whore. you'd like that, wouldn't ya?" an absence of an answer from you makes him tug on the tie, you gasp and struggle for air before he relents. "wouldn't you, dollface, hm?" he repeats.

"yes, yes! please, oh my god. teach me, please. i wanna be your pet, teacher's pet." you choke out. he releases his unyielding grip around the tie, making you fall forward and heave for air, pushing the sliding glasses up your nose again.

"rub your lil' clit for me, yeah? let the professor see how much you wanna pass his class." without delay, you slide your hand between your thighs and clumsily rub your wet clit in frenzied circles. your climax was charging at you like a runaway train and soldier boy could sense it in how you squeezed his length. "cum for me. cream all over your professor's cock." he mutters, sweat dripping down his forehead. with a few added thrusts and harsh pinches to your clit, your climax washing over you as your knees buckled whilst soldier boy used his strength to keep you in place. the wet squelch of your cunt drove soldier boy crazy, a ring of cum forming around the base of his cock and it almost tipped him over the edge. "are you my good lil' girl? my good lil' student?" he whispers as he pokes out his tongue, gritting his teeth as his abdomen tenses. so close.

"yes, sir. your best girl, best student! your good girl." you cry out and that was all he needed. to your surprise, he yanks himself out of your inviting cunt, pulls off his condom, yanks you off his desk and down onto your knees.

"open your mouth, whore mouth. lemme see that tongue." you lean your head back and flatten your tongue, readying yourself for his release. he pumps himself a few times before staggering closer to you, grabbing the top of your head to steady himself and loudly sighing as he cums all over your face. his mouth agape in awe as his seed glides down your heated-up cheeks and into the crevices of your mouth. he guides his tip down and rests it against your tongue as the last of his cum glides down your throat before you suck on his tip. "oh, fuck, doll..." he moans as you collect the scattered cum on your ring finger and suck it clean, showing your empty mouth to him.

"did i pass, sir?" you gaze up at him with those damn trusting eyes and swollen lips, your chest still heaving.

"with flyin' fuckin' colours." he huffs, brushing his loose hairs away from his face and grabbing his glasses back from you and lifting you back to your feet. the heels of mary-janes clicking against the wooden floorboards. "flying. fucking. colours." each word spoken in between chaste kisses.

"CUT!"

like every time before, your manager pushes past the set crew and wraps you in your pink, fluffy bathrobe, as well as handing you a face-wipe and a bottle of water. soldier boy loosened his limbs before pulling up the slacks and buckling them, giving you a satisfied nod accompanied by his wolfish smirk.

"think i got the job done this time, don't ya agree?" he laughs, frowning as the interns crowd him and ask him countless questions. he waves them away with a grunt, concentrating his laser gaze on you again. you simply scoff in return, acting unimpressed. he bristles and sighs. "c'mon, give a guy a break. we both know the truth." his cocky behaviour cloaking his need for approval from you.

"maybe third time will be the charm. isn't that what they say?" you wink before sauntering off with your manager following close behind. soldier boy stood stunned, speechless. in that moment, he made up his mind. he was going to do everything it took to be in between your thighs again, so help him god if it would be the last thing he'd ever get to do.

a/n: and we're back. just as fun to write as the first time and i hope everyone wants a third one because i'm already brainstorming some ideas! LIKES, FEEDBACK & REBLOGS are appreciated, if you loved this! ⭑ millie's masterlist ⭑ -`♡´- tag list: @bluemerakis @legalmente-loca @faiszt @vmiina @emeraldcrs @briiverse @figthoughts @sl33pylilbunny @jasvtsc @silverwoodlynx @bejeweledinterludes @yooyieu @0ccvltism @nperoconelcositoarriba @lanasgirlfr @velvetdandeli0n @iluvdeanwinchester @cowboysandcigarettes @daylighted @valjy @littlesoulshine @mostlymarvelgirl @syrma-sensei @rositaslabyrinth @blossomingorchids @deansbbyx @mads-ackles @lunaleah @diawinchester217 @sunnyteume @drakulana @k-slla @deansbeer @h8aaz @samslovebug @missus-ackles @barnes70stark (comment or inbox me to be added/taken off)

[ianmalcolmreynolds]

Okay, I’m writing this here instead of on Twitter because I don’t want to get Discoursed: I feel like the way some Severance fans talk about Mark’s relationships with Helly and Gemma is a great lightning rod for our weird (and kinda dismaying?) cultural shift about sex, romance, and relationships in fiction.

To be entirely clear off the top, while I’m more invested in Mark and Helly’s relationship, I think the show wants you to feel genuinely conflicted. This is not a ‘Why aren’t you guys on my team’ post or me indicating that every Mark and Gemma fan feels this way. They’re genuinely tragic, I’ve seen many great reads and insights on them, they’re a key part of the show.

But even tracking back to season one, it feels like people were looking for a reason to invalidate or dismiss Mark and Helly’s connection simply because ‘Prestige TV shouldn’t revolve around romance’ or the idea that they were too good for a show about a couple getting together. Mark and Helly and Burt and Irving’s relationship both say something essential about the show and the innies, the idea that people cannot help but fall in love with each other even when every force around them attempts to prevent and stifle that feeling. And I thought the show put some groundwork in on them! Even from the start (“I think we should kill Mark” etc), Helly’s clearly fixated on him and more interested in antagonizing him specifically, and Mark’s willingness to bend rules he used to believe in for her comfort is a pretty key aspect of his path. It’s shown in a veiled way, but I think the show made it earned and a lot of people just basically went ‘Ugh now there’s KISSING?’ And it’s not like there weren’t essential displays of platonic love between the innies either, the show makes time for those as well.

And then this season, I see SO many takes about how Mark and Helly represent lust compared to Mark and Gemma’s genuine love, and it’s hard to feel like that’s not just because we’ve seen one couple have sex and the other hasn’t? There have been so many displays of genuine understanding between Mark and Helly, from him trying to break rules to make her more comfortable in season one to her realizing he was just lashing out after the ORTBO. I mean, even earlier in the episode, she basically said he should leave her behind to have a chance to live! Sure, there’s no wedding band, but how is that not an ultimate display of devotion!

Even if you want to bring up that Mark couldn’t tell Helena and Helly apart, it feels hypocritical to then turn around and say innie Mark should have chosen Gemma because it’s *his* wife. Innies and outties are either one being or two, we can’t just flip-flop for morality and shipping.

I don’t know, maybe I’m reaching for something that isn’t there, but I feel like they’ve set up a genuinely complex story about the humanity of innies and outies that asks great philosophical questions and some fans are resorting to a weirdly puritanical way of talking about it.

[glossdebut]

PRICE OF FAME | MYG ★ 05

✧ PAIRING: yoongi x fem!reader

✧ SERIES SUMMARY: You were about ready to give up, your career nowhere near what you dreamed it’d be when you started at eighteen, bright-eyed and naive. Reality for you these past few years has consisted of pouting at a camera, ignoring whispers of your name at company events, and ensuring that the stupid, tiny designer purses they keep forcing on you can at least carry a flask. But now, you’re helping a friend in need. For the first time in a long time, it feels like you’re doing something worthwhile with your life. Too bad Min Yoongi, the newest thorn in your side, seems insistent on stopping you.

✧ SERIES TAGS: enemies to lovers, slow burn, angst, smut, fake/pretend relationship (not main couple), rockstar!yoongi, model!reader, guitarist yoongi, singer jungkook, bassist taehyung, drummer jimin, manager namjoon, yoongi & maknae line are in a rock band, reader & seokjin are best friends, yoongi & hoseok are best friends (sope duo ftw), yoongi has a tongue piercing, reader is a brat

✧ CHAPTER TAGS: we’re back to alternating POVs, many confrontations, a reveal of sorts, seoyeon is goated, namjoon is tired, yoongi learns all kinds of lessons and then instantly forgets them (as per usual), and then throws a pity party and forces MC to attend, this is the most MC and yoongi have been on the same page EVER tho, blah blah blah proper name place name backstory stuff (see series masterlist for series warnings)

✧ CHAPTER WORDCOUNT: 10k words

✧ AUTHOR’S NOTE: GLOSSDEBUT NATION! WE ARE SO FUCKING BACK! i’m sorry this took me so long but POF5 is finally here, and hopefully the 10k wordcount makes up for the delayed update. this one is a RIDE, so buckle in and enjoy! don’t forget to send me your thoughts and theories, because they truly help the updates come faster <3 thank you to my loves @ktownshizzle and @yooniivrse for beta reading this chapter!

P.S. if you can guess the two songs yoongi’s working on in this chapter by description alone, i’ll kiss you on the mouth (they’re both arctic monkeys songs)

P.P.S. congratulations to those of you who voted 2 in my poll. please heed the warnings under the cut

CH. 05: TOO FAR TO GO BACK

✧ CHAPTER WARNINGS: mentions of disordered eating, vomiting, drinking, yoongi is an asshole (wbk), dirty talk, nipple play, Yoongi’s Tongue Piercing, vaginal fingering, orgasm denial, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

Yoongi vividly remembers the night he first saw you. It’s hard to forget.

He and Namjoon were flying solo that night, sans band. Freshly signed to the label, forced into a blazer he’d never pick out for himself, surrounded by people who didn’t know his name yet and didn’t care to learn. Out of place. He felt out of place all night.

But, as the hyung, Yoongi knew it was his responsibility to do the dirty work. Shmooze. Connect. And, to his credit, when he put his mind to it, Yoongi was actually good at that sort of thing. He knew how to read people, how to play them to get what he wanted. It was how they got signed in the first place. He just needed to wipe the sour look off of his face and remember the goal. For Jeongguk.

It was a music showcase, a big name network. Comebacks and debuts, one after the other. Giddy rookies who hadn’t eaten in days in preparation for their stage, something wild in their eyes. A desire to prove themselves. Yoongi wasn’t there to perform, but his position wasn’t unlike theirs. He had something to prove, too. 

An appearance at the showcase was just that—an appearance. It was the after that mattered. It wasn’t just fans that went to things like this. The audience was full of bookers, promoters, industry magnates that could all mean big things for Burn The Stage if Yoongi played his cards right.

He spent the whole night tuning out blaring bubblegum pop, going over the script in his head—what he should say, what he should do. And then something stopped him in his tracks, forced him to sit up and pay attention.

A soloist, draped in something midnight blue and velvet.

You. Yoongi knows that now.

His first thought was that you had a voice unlike anything he’d ever heard before. His second was that you were beautiful.

All night, he couldn’t sit still. The tag of his blazer dug into the back of his neck. He couldn’t stop tapping his foot, flexing his fists, glancing around. All of the pressure made his chest feel unbelievably tight, because what if the night was a bust? What if nobody was interested in what he had to say? What if the label dropped them and he had to admit that he failed?

But as soon as you opened your mouth and sang that first note, the buzzing in his head quieted in an instant. From beginning to end, Yoongi was enraptured by you. Like nothing else in the world mattered except hearing you sing.

Being in that noraebang with you, years later… It didn’t feel any different. Not one bit.

Yoongi doesn’t follow you when you run. 

Maybe it’s cowardly of him. Maybe a better man than him would reach out, grab your hand, spin you back around. Say something. 

The thing is, Yoongi doesn’t know what to say. What to do. He doesn't understand what just happened, let alone how he’s meant to fix it. He’s not even sure if there’s anything to fix, not when everything was so broken from the beginning. 

You hate him. He hates you. That was the agreement. So he lets you go.

He goes back inside, avoids Jeongguk’s eyes. Tells everyone you felt sick, which probably isn’t a lie judging by the look on your face when you broke away from him.

It’s not like he didn’t anticipate… something. He’s noticed the way you look at him. He’d wanted to use it, to see if he could catch you in some kind of lie. Catch you staring at him a little too long to be brushed off.

But this? Your lips against his, his tongue in your mouth, the sound you made. Fuck. You almost sounded as sweet as you do when you sing. He wants to forget it ever happened. He wants to hear it again, over and over.

It all happened too fast. 

Yoongi wishes he remembered who had moved first. Someone to shoulder the blame, make things simple for him. He wants it to be you. It would be easy to slip that mask back into place, to hate you. It would be easy. He’d almost stopped, but going back would be so easy.

But something in his gut tells him it wasn’t you. That, foolishly, it was him. You wouldn’t give him everything he needs to point the finger, not like this. 

It had to be Yoongi. He kissed you.

He lifts his head, meeting Jeongguk’s gaze. Jeongguk, who looks concerned. Yoongi doesn’t deserve his concern.

Yoongi opens his mouth to speak, but guilt rises in his throat, choking him. For a moment, he thinks he might confess—his mouth has betrayed him before. But what comes out isn’t words.

Instead, Yoongi surges forward and pukes his guts up. All over the noraebang floor.

★ ★ ★

You need to get the fuck off of this island.

You’ve never booked a flight so quickly in your life. You’d take one tonight, if the option was available, but tomorrow afternoon will have to do. In the meantime, you’ll pack as quickly as humanly possible—and then drink yourself to sleep, because that’s the only way you’ll be able to catch a wink of it at this rate.

You’re freaking out.

Your phone has been buzzing incessantly since you got back to the house, your screen filling with notifications from Jeongguk, Jimin, and Taehyung. Text after text asking if you’re okay, if you got back safe, if you need them to come home. You don’t want to deal with it, can’t deal with it right now. Not when—

Min Yoongi kissed you.

Or, you kissed him? There was kissing, with Min Yoongi, the bane of your existence. Insistently, with tongue.

An incredibly skilled tongue, at that—and that piercing. And strong hands, guitarist’s hands, smoothing over your waist, pulling you closer. You can still smell him on you, citrus and leather and smoke, and—

Fuck, no! Jesus, when did you suddenly become this desperate for cock?

This is exactly why you need to leave. You cannot keep having these thoughts about Min fucking Yoongi, you just can’t. You hate him! He’s rude, and insensitive, and he doesn’t respect you in the slightest. He’s made that abundantly clear.

You text Jeongguk that you’re okay, that you made it to the house, and no, you don’t need him to come back. That’s the last thing you need right now.

What you need is to pack.

You move through the bedroom in a frenzy, tossing your clothes into suitcases that suddenly seem too small. Hyerin somehow managed to make everything fit before you came, but now, your shaking fingers struggle to secure the zippers. Of course.

Irritated, you dig your flask out from your purse. It’s running empty, but it’s more than enough to swallow down the nausea that’s been climbing up your throat since you cut and run.

By the time you’ve packed up the rest of your belongings, the room is spinning, your gut threatening a different kind of sickness. It’s a familiar one, at least. After the events of the night, a little alcohol-induced vomiting is nothing.

Still, in an effort to fend it off, you force yourself into a horizontal position. You take a steadying breath, shifting onto your side. You know the drill. In five minutes, you’ll either be dead to the world, or hugging porcelain.

Luckily, it’s the former. Before you know it, you’re drifting into a sleep so deep you don’t even stir when Jeongguk gets back.

★ ★ ★

In the morning, you say the necessary goodbyes. 

Jeongguk is clearly confused, obviously concerned, but he doesn’t twist your arm. It must be the expression you’re wearing when you tell him you’re going. You can only imagine how it screams, ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

The others are sad to see you go. Taehyung hugs you tightly, with promises to catch up when everyone is back in Seoul. Jimin does the same, although he’s remarkably quiet in comparison. 

And Yoongi…

You stop at his door last. You shouldn’t, you know that. All of the questions swarming through your brain about where you stand with him, about what last night meant—they don’t matter. A clean break. That’s what you need.

But still, you knock with a shaky fist, his stolen jacket clutched tightly in the other.

When the door swings open, you force yourself to meet his eyes. Yoongi looks surprised—for half a second, maybe—but the expression vanishes as quickly as it came, replaced by that familiar indifference. His voice is flat, unreadable.  

“What can I do for you, YN?” he asks, already stepping away, like your presence barely registers. He returns to whatever he was doing at his laptop before you knocked, attention fixed anywhere but on you as he types.

You shift your weight. “Uh, your jacket,” you say, holding it up. “I accidentally took it with me last night.”  

“You can put it on the bed.”  

You do as he says, carefully laying it down, though your fingers linger against the fabric. There’s a hesitation in your movements, a weight pressing down on your chest. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t acknowledge the silence stretching between you. You clear your throat.  

“Can we… Can we talk for a minute?” you try.

His fingers pause briefly over his keyboard. “About?”  

“Well… Um. Last night. Shouldn’t we clear the air?”  

Yoongi waves a hand dismissively, not even glancing up. “Consider it cleared.”  

You knew this wouldn’t be an easy conversation, but the casual way he brushes you off still stings. You steel yourself, pressing forward. “It’s just—I’m leaving. I don’t know if you heard. And I just wanted to—”  

He scoffs before you can finish, finally swiveling around to face you. He leans back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest as he smirks. “What, were you expecting a goodbye kiss?”  

Something inside you hardens at that. “No,” you say, voice clipped.  

His smirk doesn’t falter. “Then have a safe flight, dollface.”  

You let out a breath, scoffing under it, more at yourself than anything. Stupid to think this could have gone any other way. “Yeah,” you mutter. “Bye, Yoongi.”  

You don’t wait for a response. You turn, stepping out of the room, the weight in your chest sinking deeper with every step.

Your Uber pulls up just as you step outside, the driver barely glancing at you as you slide into the backseat. The car smells faintly of leather and mint, and the quiet crackle of the radio fills the space, but none of it does anything to settle the tightness in your chest. You swallow hard, pressing your forehead briefly against the cool window as the car pulls away from the curb. The streets of Seogwipo blur past, Yoongi’s house slipping away behind you.

Your phone buzzes in your lap, the screen lighting up with Seoyeon’s name. Shit. You forgot you texted her this morning—she must be following up. You exhale sharply before answering.

“You’re coming back?” Seoyeon doesn’t waste time with pleasantries.

“First flight out.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then, “sooner than I thought.”

“Yeah.” The word comes out thinner than you’d like. “I just—can you pack my schedule? As tight as possible. Meetings, shoots, interviews—whatever you can get me.”

Seoyeon doesn’t ask why. She doesn’t need to. It’s something you’ve always appreciated about her—she doesn’t make your personal life her business unless forced.

“Alright,” she says, brisk and efficient as always. “I’ll have everything lined up by the time you land. You sure you don’t want a day or two to breathe?”  

You close your eyes for a second, picturing the alternative—hours alone with nothing but your thoughts. “No. I just want to work.”

Seoyeon exhales, like she wants to argue, but she doesn’t. “Okay,” she says instead. “I’ll handle it.”

“Thanks.”

“Get some rest on the flight,” she says, like she knows you won’t. And then the call ends, leaving you staring at your reflection in the darkened screen.

The rest of your ride to the airport is quiet, save for the soft music on the radio. Your thoughts swirl, looping back to Yoongi. The way he barely looked at you, how easily he dismissed you. Maybe this is better. Maybe this is exactly what you needed to let it all go.

The flight into Incheon is uneventful, but fatigue pulls at you the moment you step off the plane. Everything feels hazy, like you’re just going through the motions. You move through baggage claim, through the terminal, into another car without fully registering any of it.

And then you’re home. Seoul is as grey as ever.

By the time you unlock the door to your apartment, exhaustion clings to you like a second skin. The familiar scent of home greets you, clean and untouched, but the silence is deafening.  

It’s strange—coming back to this emptiness after being surrounded by the band for so long. No voices filtering in from another room, no aroma of freshly-cooked food, no strumming of a guitar. Just you, the hum of your empty fridge, the quiet creak of the floor beneath your feet.  

You drop your bag by the door and let out a breath, rubbing your face with both hands. The weight in your chest hasn’t lifted. If anything, it’s settled deeper, heavier.

You’re alone, for the first time in weeks.

You’d almost forgotten what it felt like.

★ ★ ★

Yoongi can’t focus.

He sits hunched over his desk, fingers poised above the keys of his laptop, but the words won’t come. It’s not like he doesn’t have lyrics—he does. He always does. But now that they’re laid out in front of him, neatly transcribed from notebook to laptop, they all feel wrong. Disingenuous.

He’s been at this for hours—writing, deleting, rewriting—but it all feels pointless. He glances at the clock. 2:45 a.m.

The label needs a progress report. Yoongi has to come up with at least six usable songs soon, and his mind should be locked into it, but instead, it keeps wandering. Every minute, every second, the image of you keeps pushing its way in.

The way your voice shook when you asked to clear the air, the way you hesitated before leaving, like there was something else you wanted to say, but couldn't. He can't shake it. Even gone, you’re a distraction.

Yoongi fishes his phone out of his pocket for the millionth time tonight, his fingers moving instinctively as he searches for your username. 

He’s not proud of it. It’s beyond pathetic, checking up on you like this. He doesn’t even know what he’s looking for—some kind of indication of how you’re doing? What you’re feeling? Yoongi knows he won’t find any of that on an Instagram account that you don’t even personally run, but it’s all he has.

All he has, short of texting and asking you himself. Yeah, right.

You haven’t posted anything new since the last time he looked, so Yoongi swipes through your most recent update again. It’s a carefully curated photo dump announcing your return to Seoul. Yoongi has probably looked at it about twenty times tonight.

It’s not like it’s a particularly interesting photo dump—Taehyung is the master at those. It’s all normal shit. Clouds outside of an airplane window, an airport selca, the details of your outfit with all of the brands tagged. It’s classic model—a pretty girl doing boring shit and documenting every last detail.

The last one, though. The last one fucks Yoongi up.

You, standing in front of your well-lit bathroom mirror wearing an Innisfree face mask, your infamous Burn The Stage hoodie—and from the looks of it, not much else.

He knows it’s not for him. If anything, it’s probably preemptive damage control. Something to appease the fans before they start asking questions, wondering why you’re back in Seoul when Jeongguk is still on Jeju. But, fuck.

Yoongi flexes his free hand, stretches his fingers before curling them into a fist again. If there are two things you excel at, it’s looking pretty and riling him up. He should be focused, should be writing, but instead, his mind insists on wandering to places it shouldn’t. Dangerous places. Places that make his cock stir in his sweatpants, while simultaneously making his throat tighten with guilt.

What a predicament Yoongi’s managed to get himself into.

He’s so consumed by his warring emotions that he barely registers the sound of Yijeong clearing his throat.

“Yoongi-yah, we’ve been at this for hours,” Yijeong says, effectively breaking Yoongi out of his reverie. His lips flatten into a thin line as he swipes out of your most recent post, back onto your profile. “Maybe we should take a break.”

“It’s fine,” Yoongi mutters dismissively, not looking up.

Yijeong sighs. “I think you’ve hit a wall.”  

“Yah, I’m fine,” Yoongi snaps, finally glancing up, agitation creeping into his voice. “I’m working.”  

“Are you?” Yijeong asks, tilting his head toward the phone in Yoongi’s hand.  

Yoongi exhales through his nose, sets the phone down with a pointed click, and swivels back toward his laptop. He taps at the keys, opening and closing files he hasn’t touched in hours. “Four mostly finished songs isn’t half bad.”  

“But you need six,” Yijeong points out. 

“Mm.” Yoongi barely responds, still clicking aimlessly. “Still two songs I didn’t have this morning.”  

“What about this one?” Yijeong rolls his chair closer in Yoongi’s periphery, sliding his open Leuchtturm across the desk.

Yoongi’s eyes flick to the page, and he immediately stiffens. It’s that song—the one he’d written about you, sang for you when he was bitter and angry. The reaction is instant, his body language shutting down before Yijeong can even say anything else. “No.” He snatches the notebook from Yijeong’s hand, shutting it with finality.  

Yijeong frowns. “What?”

“That’s not going on the album,” Yoongi says.

“But it’s fully written,” Yijeong points out, eyes narrowed. “And good. Why wouldn’t it go?”

Yoongi shrugs, feigning indifference. “Doesn’t fit the vibe.”

“The vibe,” Yijeong repeats, unimpressed.

“Yeah.”

“What vibe?”

Yoongi hesitates. “It’ll make us sound like assholes.”

Yijeong snorts. “Well, you wrote it.”  

“Ha.”

Yijeong sighs, glancing at the shut notebook. “It’s good, Yoongi-yah. It’s something to show the label, at least.”

“I have time to write something better.”

Yijeong gives him a long, exasperated look. “You haven’t written anything all day.” His patience is wearing thin, Yoongi can tell. “Come on. I’m trying to do what you asked me to come and do.”

“It’s one song, Yijeong-ah.”

“You’ve been pushing back on everything I’ve tried all day,” Yijeong replies, voice tinged with frustration. “I can’t help you if you don’t let me.”

Yoongi rubs at his temples. He knows he’s not being fair—that Yijeong came here out of the kindness of his heart, just because Yoongi asked him to. Maybe Yoongi’s monopolized enough of his time.

“Yeah, I know.” His voice is quieter now. “Look, it’s… I’m not trying to be difficult. I can do this myself. I know you have your own shit.”  

Yijeong watches him carefully, his gaze so penetrating it makes Yoongi shift in his seat. Then, he says, almost too casually, “we were making good progress over the weekend.”

Yoongi’s posture tightens. “…Yeah.” Over the weekend. Before the noraebang.

Yijeong leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “Could this lack of focus have anything to do with YN’s sudden departure?”

Aren’t you the source of all of Yoongi’s hardships lately? You and that stupid Burn The Stage sweatshirt, those deadly fucking silk shorts you flounced around in the whole time you were here. The fact that he kissed you—or you kissed him, the jury’s still out on that—and that you’re Jeongguk’s girlfriend, and that Yoongi has been shifting between guilt and delirious arousal since you left.

“You’re crazy,” Yoongi scoffs. Deflect, deflect, deflect.

Yijeong hums. “Sure.”

Yoongi pretends not to hear the knowing tone in Yijeong’s voice, shifting the conversation with practiced ease. “I’ve taken up too much of your time, Yijeong-ah. I only have to come up with two more songs.”

“You kicking me out for bringing up YN?” Yijeong teases. “Tyrant.”

Yoongi huffs a laugh through his nose, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. “I just think I need to figure the rest out on my own.”

Yijeong shrugs, seemingly disinterested in pressing the matter any further. Thankfully. “If you’re sure. I should be heading back soon anyway.”

“Yeah,” Yoongi reassures. “I’m good, Yijeong-ah. I promise.”  

“Okay. I’ll figure something out tomorrow, then.”  

Yoongi grunts in response, already turning back to his laptop.  

Yijeong stands, grabbing his jacket. On his way out, he reaches for Yoongi’s half-empty coffee cup and confiscates it with a small smile. “I’m going to sleep. I suggest you do the same, Yoongi-yah.”  

Yoongi rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. He just watches as Yijeong leaves, the room settling into silence once again. 

His eyes flick to the dark screen of his phone beside him, fingers twitching like they want to reach for it. Instead, he exhales, drags a hand through his hair, and turns back to the lyrics in front of him.

★ ★ ★

The set is busy today. Cameras clicking, makeup artists fussing over the music playing from the speakers. Hyerin, who has been buzzing around you all day like a fly, runs her fingers over the expensive garments you have yet to be photographed in, inspecting them for imperfections. Assistants flit around the room carting coffees and clipboards. You’re wearing Moschino. It’s everything you’ve dreaded for the past several years, but today, you’re thankful.

It’s familiar, muscle memory taking over as you move through poses. You arch, tilt, shift, your body following the rhythm of the camera’s shutter. The stylist adjusts the hem of your outfit between shots, fingers quick and efficient, but you barely register it. Your gaze lands just past the camera lens, somewhere indistinct. You don’t need to be fully present for this; you just need to be good.

And you are.

The morning had started before sunrise—a briefing with your team, a fitting for an event later in the week, hair and makeup. Then, a quick coffee you barely tasted before being ushered into wardrobe.

Seoyeon delivered exactly what you asked for. The next few days are stacked to the brim—more shoots, trendy pop-up events, interviews. You have no room for anything else.

Still, your mind wanders. Between outfit changes, between shots, between the moments where you stand still as hands fuss over your hair and clothes. Your phone sits face-down on the makeup counter, silent. It’s stupid that you even notice. That you’re even thinking about—

“Okay, let’s reset for the next look!” the director calls out, snapping you out of your haze.  

The second you step off set, Seoyeon is at your side, clipboard in hand. “You’re doing great,” she says, brisk. “They’re running a little ahead of schedule, so we might be able to squeeze in that interview with Elle later this afternoon. Sound good?”  

You nod automatically, reaching for a bottle of water. “Yeah. That’s fine.”  

“You holding up okay?”  

You fiddle with your straw before taking a sip, careful not to mess up your lip gloss. “I’m fine,” you insist. 

Seoyeon doesn’t push, but she doesn’t look convinced either. “This is the last outfit change. We’ll get proofs back in a few days.”

“That’s perfect.” Your smile is practiced, professional. “Just keep it coming.”

“You have an early call time tomorrow,” she reminds you. “I’ll send you the details tonight.”

And just like that, she’s gone again, moving onto the next task, making things happen. You exhale, tipping your head back, willing yourself to shake off the weight pressing against your ribcage.

One of the assistants calls you over to wardrobe, and you go, slipping seamlessly back into the performance. It’s easier that way.

★ ★ ★

Once Yijeong leaves, Yoongi knows he’s on borrowed time. He can’t stay holed up in this bedroom forever. It’s only a matter of time before Park fucking Jimin calls him on his shit.

To his credit, he’s been much more productive now that he’s alone. There’s a fifth song now, and he’s well on his way to a sixth. Sure, they’ve come at the expense of his health and hygeine, but hey. That’s the music business, baby.

At least, that’s what he tells himself. That the sleepless nights and skipped meals are for the sake of the music, that the burning in his chest is just exhaustion, not something deeper. That the guilt sitting heavy in his stomach is just another feeling to be ignored.

He’s in the middle of scrawling something down—a song about beautiful women and kissing with teeth, something reckless, maybe with a catchy bass riff for Taehyung?—when his bedroom door swings open. Yoongi hears Jimin call his name, but he doesn’t look up. He keeps his head down, pen moving across the page, clinging to his last thread of focus.

"Yoongi-hyung," Jimin says again.

Yoongi ignores him. Keeps writing, because what he’s coming up with now is way better than the song he was workshopping earlier—which, lyrically, was just a heavy handed metaphor for jerking off. Surely that says something about where Yoongi’s head is at lately.

Then—bang. Jimin’s palm slams onto the desk, making the pen in Yoongi’s hand jump. His pulse spikes in response. "Min Yoongi!"

"What?" he mutters, his grip on his pen tightening as his teeth grind together. His voice comes out hoarse, like he hasn’t used it in days. Maybe he hasn’t.

Jimin doesn’t answer. Instead, he reaches forward, snatches the pen from Yoongi’s fingers, and throws it across the room.

Yoongi watches it go, the small clatter of plastic hitting the floor echoing in his ears. "What the hell is going on with you?" Jimin demands.

Yoongi takes a deep breath. Holds and releases. Tamps down his mounting irritation. "I don’t have time for this, Jimin-ah."

"Make time,” Jimin says, tone final.

Yoongi exhales, finally pushing away from his desk. The wheels of his chair scrape against the floor as he turns to face Jimin, his patience razor-thin. "Fine. What the fuck do you want?"

"You’ve been acting like a jackass—"

Yoongi scoffs. "Because that’s so out of character for me—"

"—since YN left," Jimin finishes, crossing his arms with a smug finality.

Yoongi’s stomach lurches, but he keeps his face impassive. He’s good at that. Years of practice.

Jimin doesn’t back down. "Why did YN leave, Yoongi?"

"How should I know? What YN does has nothing to do with me."

Yoongi knows Jimin isn’t an idiot. He notices things. And even if Yoongi didn’t know that, the way Jimin confronted him (read: scared the shit out of his asshole) last week made it abundantly clear. But still, denial feels easier.

"You haven’t spoken to Jeongguk all week, either," Jimin points out.

Yoongi reaches for another pen, swallowing his guilt. He doesn’t want to talk about this, not now. Not when he’s finally getting somewhere with these songs. "Been busy,” he mumbles.

"Bullshit,” Jimin says as he grabs the new pen and throws it, too, forcing Yoongi’s now-empty fist to clench tightly. “Tell me what’s going on."

"What’s going on," Yoongi grits out through clenched teeth, "is that I have a fucking album to write. An album that nobody else but me seems to give a shit about. So I’m writing it.” He scoffs, gesturing towards his discarded pen. “At least, I was." 

Jimin shakes his head, not buying it. "What did you do to her? What could you have possibly done to make her get on a plane to Seoul with no notice? I told you that you were going too far. And then we went to the orchard, and everything was fine."

Yoongi laughs, but there’s no amusement in it. "I’m not talking about this with you, Jimin-ah. This is none of your business."

"What happened outside of that noraebang, Yoongi?"

"Nothing—"

"Don’t even try to lie to me," Jimin interrupts. His voice is sharp, unrelenting. "I’ve known you since I was twenty years old. You barely drank that night, and even if you did, you can hold your alcohol. But then you come back inside, and you’re spilling your guts all over Taehyung’s shoes."

Yoongi stays silent. That’s really the only option when receiving a certified dressing-down from Park Jimin.

"And less than twelve hours later, YN is back in Seoul. You want to tell me that’s a coincidence?"

It’s not. It’s not. Yoongi doesn’t want to fucking talk about this.

"Everybody likes YN, except for you. Jeongguk loves her. And you’re entitled to your opinion, whatever, but that doesn’t mean you can treat her like trash. And you have."

The words snap something in Yoongi. His control slips. "I kissed her." Jimin freezes, eyes wide, and Yoongi looks away. "And she kissed me back."

"She…" Jimin shakes his head, like he’s trying to make sense of it. "You and YN…"

Yoongi runs a hand over his face, frustration curling around his ribs, squeezing tight. "She drives me fucking insane, okay? I don’t know why I did it. Nothing I do makes any fucking sense anymore."

Jimin exhales. "But… Jeongguk—"

"Why do you think I’ve been in here all week?" Yoongi gestures vaguely at the cluttered desk, the crumpled papers and mugs of cold coffee. The ashtray, even though he hates to smoke inside.

Jimin’s expression softens. "Hyung…"

Ah, there it is—the pity, the concern. Yoongi shuts his eyes, his exhaustion settling into his bones. He already knows what Jimin is going to say. "I know."

"You have to tell him.”

"I know."

Jimin studies him for a long moment. "Hyung, it looks like you haven’t slept in days. I know you haven’t been eating like you should, either."

Yoongi says nothing, his gaze dropping to his lap.

Jimin shifts on his feet. "I’ve… I’ve never really understood you and Jeonggukie’s relationship. Nobody does, I mean… You’re both so…" He trails off, shaking his head. "You love each other. I don’t think anything could ever get in between you two."

Yoongi’s fingers curl into his palm as he recalls Namjoon’s warning from weeks ago. Jeongguk is a grown man. He’s fully entitled to make his own decisions, and you need to respect that if you don’t want to lose him. His voice comes out quieter than before. "Something already has."

Jimin takes a slow breath. "Jeonggukie knows you would never do anything to hurt him, not on purpose. You just need to talk it out with him, hyung."

Yoongi nods, just barely. "Yeah."

Jimin doesn’t let up. "Promise me."

Yoongi hesitates, then mutters, "I promise."

Jimin gives a small nod before stepping back toward the door. "Okay." He reaches for the handle, pausing. "Get some sleep first. You look like shit."

Yoongi huffs out something that isn’t quite a laugh. "I’ll try.”

Jimin exhales. "Just… Deal with it before it gets any worse." He pulls the door open. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight.”

★ ★ ★

Yoongi isn’t in the business of breaking promises, so the next night, he ventures out of his room.

He watches Jeongguk stare back at him, eyes dark with something unreadable. His stomach twists.

He has spent years protecting this kid’s dream—no, making it his mission, his purpose, his redemption. Jeongguk had been barely more than a teenager when Yoongi first met him, eyes bright with possibility, looking at Yoongi like he hung the damn stars. 

Back then, Yoongi had just dropped out of college, drowning in the weight of his own failure. He had been a classical piano major—a prodigy, people said. Someone who was supposed to make something of himself. 

But the pressure had been too much, the expectations too high, and when he couldn’t bear it anymore, he had walked away with nothing but a hollow chest and a name that didn’t mean a fucking thing outside those walls.

Jeongguk was an underclassman at the time. The voice of an angel and the dream of being in a rock band. It was stupid—childish, even—but Yoongi saw himself in the kid, saw what he had lost, and he had sworn right then and there that Jeongguk would never know what it felt like to give up. To be crushed under the weight of something bigger than himself. 

If Yoongi could make Jeongguk’s dream come true, then maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t feel like such a failure himself.

But now, sitting on the edge of Jeongguk’s bed, watching the hurt in his face, Yoongi wonders if he had only ever been deluding himself.

"You and YN…?" Jeongguk’s voice is careful, controlled, but Yoongi can hear the fracture beneath it.

"I’m sorry." The words taste like ash in Yoongi’s mouth. He knows they’re not enough.

"When?"

"At the noraebang,” Yoongi mumbles. He wants to look away, wants to sink into the floor, retreat from the sheer expressiveness Jeongguk’s eyes are capable of. But he doesn’t.

"That’s why she left?" Jeongguk asks, realization washing over his features. 

Yoongi exhales shakily, the guilt settling deep in his bones. "I haven’t called to confirm or anything, but…" He drags a hand down his face. "Yeah. Probably."

"I thought you hated her.”

"I do," Yoongi says automatically, but the words feel strange. False. Like he’s clinging to something that was never really there to begin with.

Jeongguk stares at him, incredulous. "But you kissed her?"

"It’s…" Yoongi clenches his fists, bitten down nails digging into his palms. "Guk-ah, it was stupid."

"It sounds stupid,” Jeongguk scoffs.

"It was." Yoongi drags a hand through his hair, frustration bubbling over. "I don’t have an excuse, okay? It happened, and I’m sorry. How can I get you to forgive me? I’ll do anything."

Jeongguk shakes his head, the laughter still on his lips, but it’s humorless. "There’s nothing to forgive, hyung."

Yoongi stills. "What do you mean?"

"YN and I aren’t really dating."

What the fuck.

Yoongi feels his mind blank out, practically hears the record scratch. The suspicion that Yoongi’s held so tightly this whole time, and Jeongguk is the one saying it out loud. No fucking way.

 "…What?"

"You think I would bring my real girlfriend around you?" Jeongguk tilts his head, expression unreadable.

Did he say real girlfriend? What the hell does that mean?

It doesn’t make sense. Jeongguk isn’t the type to lie, not like this. But the way he’s looking at Yoongi right now—like he’s daring him to deny it—tells him this is very real.

"Hyung, ever since you met YN, you’ve acted like a lunatic."

"That’s not—"

"Yoongi-hyung."

Yoongi shuts up instantly. Fair is fair.

"The girl I’m dating isn’t in the public eye, and YN is,” Jeongguk continues. "We’re friends. She agreed to help."

The idea of Jeongguk hiding something from Yoongi—through a scheme this elaborate, no less—feels preposterous. It feels like a practical joke.

But the way he’s looking at Yoongi right now? There’s nothing funny about it.

Yoongi shakes his head, struggling to process. "But… Why not tell us? Me?"

Jeongguk gives him a withering look. "Come on, hyung. The backlash from everyone else would’ve been bad, but you? You’re so much worse."

Yoongi’s chest tightens. Fair is fair, but, "I wouldn’t have—"

"You don’t think I wanted to introduce my girlfriend to you, really? I knew what would happen. Things would’ve gone exactly the same as they did with YN."

Yoongi swallows hard. "I just don’t want you to get hurt."

"You’re so protective over me, hyung. Like I’m a kid. Like I’m incapable of making my own decisions."

And that? That hurts. Because Yoongi never meant to make Jeongguk feel small. Never meant to clip his wings when all he ever wanted was to help him soar. But somewhere along the way, his protection had turned into suffocation. He’s the one who pushed him to this, he realizes. The one who made him feel like he had no choice but to lie.

"Guk-ah, I don’t want you to have to hide things from me. Please. How can I fix it? Tell hyung how to fix it,” Yoongi pleads.

"I don’t know.” The words sound so hollow. Why didn’t he come to Yoongi sooner, if he’s felt this way for so long? Yoongi would do anything for Jeongguk. He thought Jeongguk knew that.

"Jeongguk—"

"No, hyung." Jeongguk snaps. "I introduce YN as my girlfriend and you act like a dick. You humiliate her. I ask her to go out of her way to work things out with you, which I shouldn’t have to do, and things are fine for like, a few days. And then suddenly she’s leaving, lying to me about why, and you’re telling me you kissed her?"

Yoongi stays silent. He’s played the protective hyung card, but where the kiss is concerned, he has nothing to say for himself.

"I haven’t heard from her at all since she left. Until now, you’ve been avoiding me, too,” Jeongguk continues. “I’m sick of it. I’m sick of everyone treating me like I can’t handle shit."

Yoongi’s voice comes out barely above a whisper. "I’m sorry."

"I don’t want to hear it, hyung. Whatever issues you’re having with her, that’s none of my business anymore. You know the truth now. Just…”

“Yeah,” Yoongi says, wiping sweaty palms off on his jeans as he stands from the bed. “Yeah, I’ll… I’ll go.”

He hates how final it feels. How he’s left wondering if this is something he and Jeongguk can bounce back from. A half-written album for a band that could be hanging in the balance, because of Yoongi.

Jeongguk doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to stop him from leaving. He just stands there, arms crossed, jaw tight—like he’s holding something back, like he’s already decided this conversation is over.

Yoongi hesitates for a moment, waiting for something. He’s not even sure what. A sign that things aren’t as broken as they feel. But Jeongguk won’t look at him.

So, he turns and walks away.

The air in the hallway feels stifling, thick with everything left unsaid. His feet carry him downstairs, back to his room. Once he’s back inside, he just stands there, staring at the door, fingers twitching at his sides.

He doesn’t know how to make this right.

Yoongi’s fingers tremble slightly as he pulls his phone out of his pocket. It’s like his body’s on autopilot, moving without him. He scrolls through his contacts and presses call before he even thinks about it.

The phone rings once. Twice.

"Hyung? Did somebody die?"

It’s so Namjoon to pick up Yoongi’s calls like that. He almost laughs, but it dies in his throat. He rubs his face, a sharp breath slipping past his lips as he fights to regain his bearings.

"You knew," Yoongi says simply. His voice comes out deceptively calm.

A long, heavy pause fills the line, a silence that stretches on as Namjoon’s brain catches up to what Yoongi is saying. But Yoongi knows he doesn’t need to say anything else. Namjoon is a smart guy.

"Yeah,” he finally says, his sigh crackling over the line. “I did."

"Fuck,” Yoongi huffs. His hands are shaking.

"Did he tell you?" Namjoon’s voice is quiet, careful.

Yoongi closes his eyes. "Yeah."

"Is it... Is everything okay?" Namjoon asks.

What a stupid fucking question. Yoongi starts pacing, desperate to change the subject. He’s working on the fly, but he’s not at all surprised by the words that end up leaving his mouth. 

"Look, I have seven songs. Book a flight for me. I’ll come show the label what I’ve come up with."

There’s another sigh on the other end of the line, like Namjoon knows better than to fight him on this. Good, Yoongi thinks. 

"Okay,” Namjoon says. “Just for you?"

"I think space would be good. For a few days." Or longer.

"Hyung… What happened?"

"YN and I kissed,” Yoongi says. Might as well.

The line falls silent. Yoongi can practically hear Namjoon’s brain processing the information, the shock and confusion on the other side. He doesn’t care. He just wants the conversation over with, wants to move forward.

"What?" Namjoon’s voice cracks with disbelief, the confusion clear even through the phone.

"Namjoon-ah, I’m really sick of talking about it, okay?” Yoongi says, struggling to tamp down the impatience in his tone. “I’m gonna fix it. I just need something from you."

"What do you need?"

"Can you get in contact with YN’s manager?" Yoongi swipes into his messages with Namjoon. His fingers shake as they fly over his keyboard, and then he presses send. “I need you to relay a message.”

Namjoon is quiet for a long time, just the static crackle of soft breaths. When he speaks again, his voice is laced with exhaustion. "Okay. I’ll get it done."

"Thanks," Yoongi mutters, voice rough. He doesn’t say goodbye, doesn’t wait for Namjoon to respond. Minutes later, he’s forwarded an email with a flight confirmation. He grabs a bag and fills it.

He has a plane to catch.

★ ★ ★

The last person you expect to see when you open your door is Min Yoongi.

It’s late. Late late. Like, ‘nothing good happens after midnight’ late. Your parents used to say that a lot when you were younger, back when your obsession with live music meant sneaking into venues past curfew. It’s funny—you never believed them. Back then, your nights only got better the later it became.

Now, though. Now you get it.

Because Min Yoongi at your door when he’s supposed to be a plane ride away from you? That can only mean trouble.

But here he is, dressed in all black, a beanie and a face mask concealing his identity from your building’s security cameras. Instead of wielding a knife like you’d expect, his arms are full of crinkly takeout bags.

"Hi, dollface."

"Yoongi? What—"

"I’m not here to fight, okay?" he interrupts, lifting the bags a little as if it’s supposed to reassure you. "Look, I brought you dinner."

Going with poison, then, you think.

"How did you figure out where I live?" you ask, dreading the answer.

"Namjoon asked Seoyeon on my behalf," he explains casually, like it's no big deal. "Or, on Jeongguk’s behalf, actually."

Oh, cool. So your manager is just giving your address away. "Why—"

"Can we have this conversation inside?" he cuts in. "The food’s gonna get cold."

You hesitate, but your curiosity gets the best of you, so you step aside to let him in. He moves past you like he belongs there, setting the bag down on your kitchen counter and methodically unpacking its contents.

"It’s chicken," he says casually. "Figured that was a safe bet."

You stare at him, bewildered. “Chicken is… Yeah, chicken is fine."

"I brought beer, too." He finally turns to look at you. You can only really see his eyes, but you can’t help but notice how tired he looks. You try not to care.

"Yoongi, why are you here?" you demand.

Sighing, he pulls off the face mask, tucking it into his jacket pocket. "Jeongguk told me the truth.”

Unable to help it, your entire body goes rigid at his words. "Oh yeah? What’s that?"

"He has a girlfriend,” he says, before clarifying, “that isn’t you."

You feel the world tilt beneath your feet. So Jeongguk told him the whole truth. Cool. You really should’ve returned those calls. The ones you were avoiding.

"Why did he tell you that?" you ask, and it’s not even anger that colors your voice anymore. Just a raw, unfiltered panic that you can't hide.

Yoongi turns and leans back against the counter, watching you. "I’ve been trying to figure out why you didn’t tell me that. From the start."

Your defenses instantly go up. It’s par for the course around Yoongi at this point.

"Because he didn’t want me to,” you reply coolly, schooling your features into something less panicked. “So, what changed? What did you do?"

"I told him we kissed."

FUCK!

Well, so much for concealing the panic. "You—why?"

"I couldn’t just not tell him, YN,” Yoongi reasons. “It was killing me. I felt like the world’s biggest piece of shit all week. You’re Jeongguk’s girlfriend." He snorts, shaking his head. "Or, at least, that’s what you both wanted me to think."

You scoff, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. "Okay, fine. You told him. How did he react?"

"To the kiss?" Yoongi tilts his head slightly. "I mean, better than I expected, considering I was under the impression he was in love with you."

Your brow furrows. "So he’s not mad?"

Yoongi lets out a humorless laugh. "Not at you, don’t worry."

Ah. "But he’s mad at you," you guess.

"I’m not getting a world’s best hyung trophy anytime soon." Yoongi shrugs like it doesn’t matter, but you can tell it does.

You stare at him for a long moment, processing. Then, slowly, the words slip out. "So… You flew back to Seoul to… What? Rub it in my face in person?"

Yoongi blinks at you. "What?"

"That you were right. That you knew it was bullshit all along."

Realization flits over Yoongi’s features. He doesn’t look defensive—he doesn’t even look surprised. In fact, he seems oddly amused, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips. "Mm. That’s more like a fringe benefit."

You throw your hands up, completely exasperated. "Then why are you here, Yoongi?"

"To have dinner with you,” Yoongi says, breaking into a full-blown grin now. 

“I’m not hungry,” you say flatly. 

"Look, I’m not exactly welcome in that house right now," he says, like that’s supposed to explain things any better.

"And you think you’re welcome in mine?"

He tilts his head, amused. "I don’t know, dollface. Am I?"

You gawk at him, your pulse thumping in your ears. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"A kiss isn’t exactly a solo activity, last time I checked."

You bristle. "You kissed me."

"Is that what we’re going with?" Yoongi asks, brow lifting.

"That’s what happened."

"Let’s say I did make the first move, then." You don’t miss the way his gaze flickers to your mouth, then back to your eyes. "You took your sweet time pushing me away."

"And then I got on a plane to get away from you,” you counter.

Yoongi hums, his eyes darkening slightly. “Couldn’t trust yourself?"

"What—"

"You think I haven’t noticed the way you’ve been undressing me with your eyes lately?" He grins, clearly enjoying himself. "I’ve felt very objectified, you know."

"Fuck you," you spit, your pulse racing.

He just laughs—low, knowing. "Everything else is all out in the open now," he says. "Might as well come clean about this, too."

“There’s nothing to come clean about,” you retort, your voice sharp, but inside, you’re shaking. “I haven’t been looking at you any type of way. You should get your eyes checked.”

“So it wasn’t good for you, then?”

"What?"

“The kiss.”

You stiffen. “No.”

His smirk deepens. “Right. Okay, then.”

“You don’t believe me?” you ask, defiant.

“Don’t get me wrong, your acting has improved. But no.” He leans in slightly. “You wanna know what I think?”

“No.”

Yoongi grins. “I think it drives you crazy, how attracted you are to me.”

Your world tilts on its fucking axis, and you know it shows on your face.

“Get over yourself,” you scoff, trying to find your footing again. But Yoongi isn’t having it.

“That sound you made when my tongue was in your mouth?” His voice drops lower, rougher, and it sends a shiver through your spine. “I fucking earned that. No way you would’ve let that slip on purpose.”

Your breath catches in your throat, your body locking up. Fuck.

“I can get all kinds of sounds out of you, if you let me,” Yoongi continues. He steps closer, cocking his head at you. “I think you know that, too. I think you know I can fuck you the way you’ve been waiting to get fucked.”

Your breath stutters, heat creeping up your neck.

“No one else has gotten it right, huh?” His voice is softer now, coaxing. “Too nice, too boring. But I can. And you hate that you want it.”

His words settle into the air between you, heavy and undeniable. You can’t look at him.

“If I’m wrong, tell me.” He studies you closely, hand raising to tilt your chin up, forcing your eyes to meet his. That first touch, skin on skin, stupidly makes your thighs clench on instinct.  “I’ll drop it. I’ll get on a plane tonight and go right back to where I came from.”

The silence stretches. Long. Loaded.

Then, more gently, “am I wrong, dollface?”

You exhale shakily, and—slowly, reluctantly—you shake your head.

“Here’s the way I see it,” he continues smoothly. “I have no reason to stand in the way of your arrangement with Jeongguk anymore. But you and I are still going to be around each other, whether we like it or not.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t even know if your ‘arrangement’ with Jeongguk is still on, after all of this. But that’s the furthest thing from your mind right now.

“Might as well make the most of it.”

Your throat is dry. Your skin feels too tight. You force yourself to take a steadying breath, despite the heat pooling between your legs.

“Beer isn’t gonna cut it,” you decide suddenly. 

You push past him, moving toward the kitchen.

Yoongi laughs, watching you. “That so?"

Wine feels right. You pour yourself a glass, glancing at him across the island. “Want one?”

“Yeah, okay,” he agrees, amusement evident in his tone.

You pour another glass before you walk to the couch in the living room, settling down with a long sip before meeting his gaze. “Let me get this straight.”

He sits beside you, taking the glass you offer to him. “Uh-huh,” he says, urging you to continue.

“You want to fuck me.”

His lips quirk. “I wouldn’t be opposed.”

You huff in frustration. “No, Yoongi,” you say. You’re over the games. If he wants to do this, he’s going to have to put a little bit more work in. “That’s what you came here for.”

Infuriatingly, Yoongi doesn’t answer right away, only taking a slow sip of his wine.

“You got in a fight with Jeongguk, and for some reason, your immediate response was to hop on a plane and proposition me,” you continue. “I’m not even gonna pretend to understand that train of thought, but I do want to hear you admit it.”

He pauses, considering. “That’s what you want?”

“Yes,” you say firmly. “That’s what I want. Why should I let you have it that easy?”

“God.” Yoongi makes a noise low in his throat, frustration and arousal combined. “Okay, yeah. I want to fuck you,” he admits, unwavering.

You let the silence linger for a moment. Then, finally, you nod. “Okay.”

“Okay?” He raises a brow.

“Okay,” you repeat. “You can fuck me.”

Yoongi’s responding laugh is quiet, amused. “Don’t sound so excited, dollface.”

Shit, if only he knew. You’re barely hanging on by a thread, shocked that you’ve made it this far without folding. You may not be Yoongi’s number one fan, but you’d be a liar if you said you don’t want to take him up on all of his offers.

“I just want you to stop acting like I’m the desperate one here,” you mutter.

“Okay. We’re both desperate, then.”

“Thank you,” you say primly, trying and failing to calm your racing heart.

Yoongi sets his glass down on your coffee table, eyes glinting as he watches you.  “So… Are you gonna come over here?”

You watch the way he leans back against the couch, his denim-clad thighs spread invitingly, and you bite your lip.

Okay. This is happening.

“Fuck it,” you huff, setting your own glass down next to his and shifting your body to straddle his lap.

In an instant, Yoongi’s hands find your waist, molding to your curves. He tilts his head up, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. Not unlike last time, there’s no finesse to it, but it feels so fucking good—lips and teeth and tongues fighting for dominance, like there’s something to win.

Now that all of the cards are on the table, it’s clear that neither of you are interested in holding back. Your teeth nip at Yoongi’s bottom lip roughly, earning a grunt from him as his hands skim over your thighs, calloused fingers catching on your shorts.

Yoongi pulls back first, his eyes inky black as he feels you up. “These fucking shorts,” he mumbles under his breath, hands smoothing over the silk before squeezing harshly. “What are the chances.”

With startling clarity, you realize that you weren’t the only one looking when you were on Jeju. You left an impression on Yoongi, too. 

It makes you feel triumphant.

“Like them?” you purr, rucking the hem of your shirt up to give him a better view of the damp fabric clinging to you. Slowly, deliberately, you roll your hips, feeling the way he strains in his jeans.

“Shit, you’re a tease,” Yoongi hisses, licking his lips as he helps you pull your shirt over your head. His eyes flick between your clothed core and your breasts hungrily, like he’s deciding where he wants to start first.

But your patience is wearing thin. You make the decision for him, dragging his hands up to cup your tits. Yoongi obliges, chuckling with amusement when he catches the way your nipples stand at attention already, without him even laying a finger on them.

Holding your gaze, he leans in, tongue flicking over a sensitive bud. You can’t look away—not when the cool metal ball of his piercing glides so skillfully over it, sending a sharp pulse of pleasure straight to your neglected cunt. It feels like he’s touching you everywhere, extra stimulation that forces a moan from your throat.

Yoongi doesn’t let up for a second, sucking and licking at your nipples until they’re aching, puffy and reddened. All you can do is take it, fingers threading through dark locks at the nape of his neck as you whimper for more.

“Look at you, dollface,” he rasps, replacing his tongue with his fingers to pinch and tease. “You can be sweet, can’t you?”

“Fuck you,” you gasp out, biting your lip to suppress the needy sounds that threaten to spill free. You can’t help it—he can’t win this quickly. He can’t know how badly you’ve needed this, needed him, ever since that fucking kiss.

Yoongi laughs, pinching a nipple one last time before retreating completely. “Always running that fucking mouth.” Eyes fixed on yours, he moves his hand down your hip, cupping your cunt so firmly it forces your legs to spread. “Should make you choke on my dick, shut you up for a bit.”

Your breath shakes in your lungs as he starts rubbing tantalizing circles over your folds. “You can be a nice girl, mm?” Yoongi growls, finding your clit such exacting accuracy that it makes your head spin, steals the moans from your throat. He noses along the line of your shoulder, murmuring against your skin, “be a nice girl for me.”

“Yoongi,” you moan, helpless. Without warning, Yoongi’s fingers slip under the leg of your shorts, slipping into you with an ease that makes him groan against your neck.

“So fucking wet,” he growls, fingers stroking inside you, rubbing your inner walls. You can both hear how wet you are. He curls his fingers, and you cry out. “Can’t wait to feel you around my cock.”

It’s his admission, the reminder that he wants this just as badly as you do, that breaks down your inhibitions. Suddenly, you’re rolling your hips, moaning as you grind down onto his fingers in a frenzied rhythm.

“Fuck,” Yoongi breathes appreciatively, watching you move with dark eyes like he’s imagining you bouncing on his cock. “I’m gonna fucking wreck you.”

You can’t take it anymore, single-mindedly focused on chasing your impending release. Yoongi’s fingers stroke so deeply inside of you that your eyes roll back in your head, your breath leaving you in staccato bursts of his name. His other hand returns to your breast, pinching hard at your nipple. You’re so close you can taste it.

“Go on,” he encourages. His thumb moves to rub at your clit as his fingers fuck into you over and over. “Come for me, dollface.”

That’s all it takes.

You sob as your orgasm hits you hard, your vision swimming. Your cunt squeezes around Yoongi’s fingers so tightly it earns a moan from him, but it barely registers. All you can do is moan, pulling hard at Yoongi’s hair until the movement of your hips slows to a stop.

When you finally come down, Yoongi’s fingers slipping out of you as you pant for breath, your eyes focus on him.

He looks fucking delicious.

Pouty lips bitten red. Dark locks mussed where they peek out beneath his beanie. Veiny hand squeezing around the thick bulge in his jeans. 

You’ve never wanted something so badly in your life, and it’s clear the feeling is mutual. He said it himself—he wants to wreck you.

It occurs to you, suddenly, that you’re not going to let him. Not tonight.

Suddenly, you reach for your discarded shirt, slipping it back over your body. You stand on shaky legs, reaching for your forgotten glass of wine and tipping your head back to finish it off. You can feel Yoongi’s eyes tracking your every movement, waiting. It fills you with immense satisfaction that he’s waiting for something that won’t come.

“Well, thanks,” you say, barely suppressing a grin. “This was fun.”

“What?” Yoongi replies, confusion evident in his tone.

“It’s late. I have an early schedule tomorrow,” you explain coolly, tilting your head at him. “Surely, Seoyeon told you?”

“But—”

“She’ll kill me if I show up with bags under my eyes,” you interrupt. “You understand.”

A long silence stretches between you as Yoongi weighs his options. You watch with triumph as his fists flex at his sides, clenching and unclenching. Finally, he schools his features into something neutral and speaks. 

“Fine,” he grumbles.

“Great,” you say, grinning as he gets up from the couch. “Thanks for stopping by. I’ll walk you out.”

The walk to the door is quiet, tension thick between you. Yoongi’s jaw is tight, his hands shoved into his pockets like he’s physically restraining himself. You revel in it, in the way you’ve turned the tables, left him aching.

You reach for the door handle, but before you can open it, Yoongi moves.

In a flash, your back is pressed against the wall, his body caging you in. His hands pin your wrists beside your head, and then his lips are on yours—hot, demanding, devastating. It’s not just a kiss. It’s a punishment. His mouth is all-consuming, his teeth grazing your bottom lip before his tongue pushes past, claiming you in a way that leaves no room for argument.

The way he surrounds you is dizzying, the hard planes of his body pressed against you all the way down. His hips roll once, slow and deliberate, making sure you feel it as the thick ridge of his cock in his jeans drags against your still-sensitive core. 

And fuck, you feel it. Every. Single. Inch.

Then, just as suddenly as he came at you, he pulls back.

Breathless, you barely have time to register the wicked smirk curving his lips before he steps away, smoothing a hand down his shirt like nothing happened.

“Sweet dreams, dollface,” he murmurs, voice husky, eyes dark with promise.

And then, just like that, he steps away, yanking the door open and walking out without another glance. You stand there, dazed, lips swollen, body still thrumming from the intensity of it all.

Fuck.

What the fuck have you gotten yourself into?

✧ shoot me a reply or an ask if you enjoyed this chapter! feedback is always appreciated <3 join my taglist if you want to be tagged in future chapters!

askbox ★ ao3 ★ anonymous feedback box

✧ TAGLIST:

@kkaetnipjeon @ktownshizzle @joonary @yooniivrse @chrrybbmb

@ot72025 @futuristicenemychaos @tea4sykes @sugainmybowl @wobblewobble822

@this-most-assuredly-counts @ohnothisnameisalreadytaken @sugafun @whoa-jo @amarawayne

@kimsaerom @bangtangsworld @jimingirl95 @jadestonedaeho7 @notsevenwithyou

@perfctlyunstable @yoonmetogether @kpophosblog @chimmchimmm @nnybtitts08

@itsmina29 @sophia--915 @jeanjacketjesus @kiki-zb @velvetskize

@gelijar @livi101ful @annyeongbitch7 @pitchblack0309 @goldietigers294

@hopegdbbggloss @kam9404 @jajabro @parapiop7 @mar-lo-pap

@tarahardcore @butterymin @svnbangtansworld @rainnamu @auroradamned

@mintedagustd @angellekookie @sunreads

PREVIOUS CHAPTER ✧ MASTERLIST ✧ NEXT CHAPTER

[goodeapple]

divine timing, or something like it (alpha!aemond targaryen x omega!oc)

pairing : Aemond x Ysilla (Rhaenyra'sDaughter!OC)

warnings : ABO dynamics (which imo, comes with obvious dubious consent), dreams of knotting, the standard Targcest good times that is my bread & butter

word count : 6,000+

note : i can't believe this thing is actually seeing the light of day and (hopefully) breaking me out of my writer's block. hope ya love it, idc if ya hate it <33

.

.

.

Gods, she can't fucking breathe.

Ysilla gasps wildly, one desperate inhale after another. She rips at the soft sweetheart rise of her dress' neckline with frenzied hands, nails sharp and fraying the delicate stitchings. Good, let her ruin it then, if the soaking rush of slick that's wetting her thighs hasn't stained the fabric beyond measure already.

Her cunt is a river, the swollen lips of her flower sopping and sliding along one another, and if she clenches her muscles just so, hot tiny tingles burst like sparks in her tummy. There's a pressure building, not quite unlike the kind that has her relieving herself at daybreak, but something just south of there. More pleasant, more tight. 

She careens into the side of a writing desk, the wind whooshing out of her as her stomach greets the sturdy wood. Her fingers scrabble for purchase- to anchor her down, to tear her forward, she is unsure. All she knows is that every inch of her body hurts and she'd do anything to make it better.

Her chamber door opens and it seems her prayers for help have been answered. 

"What have you gotten yourself into now, Niece?" Aemond spits, barely concealed fury fizzing and frothing at his edges. Dinner was a fucking disaster, one he enjoyed aiding in. Riling up the Strong boys had brought him more joy than he could ever remember experiencing, but the long night to get there made him want to sever the very head from his body.

Rhaenyra and her doting bitch of a husband, with their identical downturned scowls and judging eyes, laughing and snorting carefree at the end of the table. His ghoulish corpse of a father forcing them all to lend an ear to that insufferable speech. So many sons, they all blurred one into the other, all sharing the features of their mother and that of whomever their fathers may be. The hair color used to help keep them sorted but now, two fair haired sniveling brats have been added to the brood and Aemond can't keep track. 

And then, of course, there's Ysilla, with her nose upturned and self-righteousness a thick cloud perfuming her. The firstborn to the King's favorite. Destined to only receive the best and apparently, from her attitude, it's never enough. 

And now, even after he's done his duty to his mother and put on the best face he could manage tonight (before it all went belly up), it seems he still cannot escape the bastards of his blood.

"No, no, no, get him out of here!" Ysilla screams at the petrified servant girl, who doesn't even have the good fucking sense to fake like she's trying to obey the future Crown's wishes, and instead flutters soft lashes to the Targaryen son in hope of help. The girl is a waif of creamy alabaster skin and yellow blonde hair, all of it pinned underneath a sage colored cap. Her cheeks are a pinched red; delicate circles of color that match the flush of her lips. And she's looking at Aemond like he'll save her from the hellish wench that she's been stuck waiting on since Ysilla and her family returned to the capital. 

Ysilla snarls, angrier than a dragon with a toothache. "Fine then, if you are so miserably incompetent, then you leave!" Her mother would smack her in the mouth if she heard her being such a pain, but Ysilla would spit at the King himself with the agony that churns in her gut.

 

Damn these people, don't even know how to listen to the heiress. Ysilla growls, before a clenching cramp bows her over, sending her grasping for the edge of the desk before she can crumple onto the top of it. 

"You sent her for help, and this is how you treat her?" 

"Help? You?" Her snort is indignant but she deems it appropriate. 

"You are so like your mother, aren't you." It isn't a question as much as it's an accusation. Ysilla bristles at the disgust layered in between the clearly enunciated words. Aemond speaks to be heard- their family dinner drove that point home like a stake through the ground. And for him to disrespect her mother- the heir- so blatantly and in front of others, makes her vision glow crimson. 

"And damn proud of it." She spits out, watching through blurry eyes as Aemond holds the door open for the maid and softly hushes her quivering apology. He's so gentle with her, even pushing the door shut with less force than a strong gust of wind, as if he doesn't wish to frighten the girl anymore than Ysilla apparently has.

But yet, whenever he looks at her- his own kin- it's with a roughness that rivals dragon scales. Ysilla's skin shivers in annoyance, and she tears at her bracelets until the bangles free her wrists and fall to the floor in a bejeweled rain. 

"What's happening to me?" She whines, fear starting to creep over her. Mayhaps she's coming down with a fever. It would explain her scorching complexion, and the delirium plaguing her good sense. She's just not familiar with any sickness that makes her cunt wetter than the tides. 

"What is the meaning of all this?" Aemond's barbed words cut off in a choke, his hand flying to his nose as if to shield himself from something hideous. He sputters, his solo eye wrenching shut before he sucks in a heavy breath. 

The rise and fall of his chest grows labored, and Ysilla watches cautiously as he blinks himself back into the moment. His eye, once calculating and acutely focused, has gone hazy and the black dot in the center seems to have gulped down the silver steel of his iris. He looks at her then, truly looks at her, for the first time in years and takes stock of what lies in front of him. Ysilla feels no better than that roasted pig on the silver platter, left untouched on the dinner table. 

Every spot on her body that is roamed over by his singular sight erupts in a flaming burst, every sinew and stretch of supple skin being forged anew under her uncle's attention. The look on his face is one she's never seen before and she tries to find it within herself to be scared. Frightened. Petrified. Because all of his lingering animosity is absent, his signature sneer long gone and in their place, hunger has laid waste to his beauty. The Princess whimpers, the tightening behind her navel becoming nearly unbearable.

"Seven above… you're presenting." The awe in Aemond's tone is soft and it feels like balm on a blister. His voice is spiced wine and she wants to steal a sip. Ysilla blinks at him as his words register, annoyed confusion poking through the airiness of her uncle's voice. 

"What am I presenting?" 

Aemond looks at her, before he laughs. He laughs! Ysilla wasn't sure her uncle even knew how to do so. His laughter dies down into a chuckle, and he hums. "My silly girl… my Silli girl."

Ysilla melts into an even bigger puddle. Her shorthand from his lips is enough to have her swooning- he never calls her by her name. Never has he said it before so sweetly, gently, either. She enjoys it- no, she adores it. She wishes he'd say it again. She wishes for him to be closer, too, so that she can smell the musk of his odor, feel the rise of his chest… taste the flavor of his mouth-

Dinner, fighting, turmoil, all flow back into her mind, drowning her lust in a tidal pool of sense. 

"Qyybor, wait- do you know what's happening to me?" Ysilla will never doubt her willpower again as she pushes away from the desk and further into her apartments (further away from him). She shadows the wall, a shaky hand drifting along the cool stone to keep her steady. 

"Your true nature is coming through. The dawning of your destiny, burning its way through your very veins." Aemond's melodic tenor drops out, and Ysilla bites into her cheek to keep herself from begging him to continue. "Did your mother not tell you of this?"

"No, no, I don't- she didn't- ugh, I don't even know what this is! My 'true nature'? Speak plainly, Uncle. If you're here, help me." She groans, stilling in her movement. Walking is perhaps not the right answer. The continual brush of her thighs, the clenching of her abdomen, it all makes her cunt pound.

"Easy, Ysilla, relax." 

Her name again. Her spine jolts uncontrollably and she gasps. She presses her forehead into the wall, traitorous tears being summoned by the exquisite burn casting her aflame. 

She spooks like a frightened fawn as fingertips ghost over her exposed shoulder. Flinging herself away, a full circle now, Ysilla finds her back to the door and Aemond still in front of her. His hand remains outstretched, as if cast in plaster, frozen in a moment of emblazoned curiosity.

Or more, in a moment of desperate desire, per Aemond's swirling thoughts. He swings his head slowly to face Ysilla, the pearlescent wave of his hair slicing over his shoulder like a star through the sky. He feels too big for his skin, the very tissue of him, the sweet marrow in his bones pulsing, begging to be set loose and allowed to feast on the pretty little pound of flesh being presented to him. He wants to… well, he knows what he wants to do.

Her moans are soft, sweet, like succulent summer fruit, ripe and juicy and beseeching a hungry mouth. He presses a kiss to the corner of her lips to accompany the rough roll of his hips. His swollen knot tugs at the delicate tissue of her stretched opening, and the hot rush of ecstasy through her veins has gooseflesh rising along her naked skin. 

The rattle of the doorknob draws Aemond's attention to where it's demanded- on his Omega niece. Her fingertips just barely brush over the handle of the exit, one if she were to disappear through, he's sure she would be gone forever.  

"Don't run, zaldrītsos," Ysilla stumbles for breath at the Valyrian croon, wrapped up in the pretty bow of her uncle's spiked honeyed tone. He's so big, when did he get so big? Where was the boy she had stood shoulder-to-shoulder with her whole childhood? In his place now, a man grown. A man with strong, spread shoulders and capable hands, long legs and toned thighs. A man with a face chiseled and sharp, but soft in the perk of his lips. And an all consuming want in his eye for her.  

"I'll catch you. And I'll make you regret leaving me."

Something ancient inside of her roars to life, and the pulse between her legs and the beat inside of her chest are one in the same. 

"You don't own me…" 

Her uncle raises a brow, lips quirked up in a sinister sort-of smile. Ysilla bites at the tip of her tongue, keeping herself quiet, his name dancing at the backs of her teeth. 

You don't own me, Aemond.

You're still not good enough, Aemond. 

I'm meant for someone else, Aemond.  

He will accept none of the unvoiced.

She sees the muscle in his jaw flex and like the prey she is, she takes her chance. Ysilla is out the door and flying down the hall in a matter of seconds, her feet faster than her mind. She passes others, faceless smears of startled eyes and miffed mouths, not allowing her eyes to stray from the focused path in front of her.

One foot in front of the other, her skirts hiked high to her knees, slippers threatening to skid across the stones. Ysilla's lungs burn as she rounds another corner, dashing down a narrow staircase with far too much speed. She streaks through the night air like a lightning bug, her own gasps for air roaring in her ears. And if she strains her hearing just so, somewhere close behind the thundering of her heart, there's heavier footfalls in pursuit. In pursuit of her. The echoing memory of Aemond's laugh rings like sept bells in her head. 

I don't want to run from this. I don't want to run from him. 

The very appearance of that thought has Ysilla stilling in an instant. Her heels screech into the stone beneath her, the muscles in her calves twisting in tight terrible spasms. The hall she's found herself in is a well lit tomb, the final resting place of the girl she used to be and not yet the woman she'll become. 

Arms snake around her waist and the warmth of them sinks through the fine thread of her clothes. Smoke and citrus, oranges if she's being specific, wafts into her nose and she's never before felt a hunger like the one that bursts to life within her.  

"Got ya." Aemond whispers into her ear and Ysilla trembles at the dampness of his breath. He's caught her- he's won her. To the victor go the spoils. 

She's already rucking up her dress skirts to her hips to meet Aemond's hand palming at her mound. He presses hard into the bush of curls contained by her small clothes before guiding his touch further beneath her. He dips his fingertips just slightly in, pressing her soaked under slip into the blossoming folds of her core. 

"Ohhh, you're drenched, sweet girl." Aemond coos, his forearm a bar over her chest, caging her in from shoulder to shoulder. "Is this all for me?" 

Ysilla burns, in face and in cunt, letting her head drop back against his chest. He brushes his lips over the edge of her brow, and she lets a full body shiver race through her. 

"It got worse… when you were near me. I noticed it at dinner." She kept stealing looks all night at him, and for the life of her, couldn't figure out why. From where she was tucked by her mother, it had been easy to peek around her and drink her fill of her silent, brooding uncle. 

"That's why you were looking at me." He chuckles, smothering his face into her hair. He breathes in, filling his lungs with her sea salt scent. He caught a whiff of her earlier, when they all gathered to break bread, and not a scrap of food on the table was as tempting as her. 

Spurred on by the realization that it must've been him, the two of them in such close proximity after how many years apart, that has brought forward the truth of her blood is all the justification Aemond needs to take what is his. 

"Only for me." His voice is a rumbled growl and his fingers move faster, rubbing little circles over the covered peak of her clit. 

"Only for you." Ysilla moans, unable to think anymore. Her backside curves on an animal instinct, situating herself into the spread of his masculine hips. It hurts too much to wage a war with the screaming inside of her body. All she knows for certain is that Aemond's touch upon her heated flesh casts a most welcome chill and all of the layers keeping them apart is only fanning the flames scorching her innards to ash. 

"Take me, Aemond. Take what you want." She guides the hand once across her chest downwards, until the large sweep of his grip is full of her breast. He squeezes the heavy handful of it, and the hardening of her nipple cuts through the bust of her gown. Aemond wants them in his fucking mouth but he resists, if just barely, to whisper in here ear:

"No no, sweetling. Take me, Alpha." 

Ysilla screws up her brow- that's not a word she's ever heard before. She racks her brain for a possible Valyrian root but comes up empty handed.

"Alpha?"

Aemond's arms constrict around her tighter and his hips pitch forward, and the thick pulse of what's behind those leather breaches of his has her drooling. 

"Yesssss. Say it again." He commands, the threatening thunder brewing in his voice spilling over, and dripping hot into her ear.

Ysilla feels the sturdiness of him at her back- his legs planted, arms encircling her, his chin tickling at her temple. He's strong and firm and fit. He'll take good care of her, she just knows he will. Her blood, her bone. She may still be in the dark about what's overtaking her but her fear has fled. A white knight he may not be, but Aemond will be her savior tonight. 

She turns in his arms, blinking heavily at him over her shoulder. "Take me, Alpha. Now." 

A tethered force, their lips draw nearer and nearer, until suddenly, finally, they brush against one another. 

A blade meets Aemond's throat and Aegon rips him backwards and away no, no, come back to me from where Ysilla fights against sliding down the wall and melting into a puddle of dribbling want. 

"Let me go! Let me go!" Aemond thrashes about but for Aegon's credit, he plants his feet and holds strong. Dark Sister's fine point brushes at the bob of his throat, Daemon's aim too good to convey it as anything but a warning. He could spear him through with so little as a twitch. 

Ysilla shakes her head, as if to physically sort her thoughts. Without Aemond's citrus leather spice fragrant and cloying in her nose, the pain returns to her limbs tenfold and she clings to the cracks in the wall for support. Hands pat at her back, a soothing, sturdy tempo to accompany the blissful aroma of smoldering freesia. Her mother, certainly, and… Ysilla groans, and it has nothing to do with her growing discomfort. Lovely, her whole family is here to witness her debauchery. 

Jace whimpers, eyes blown big and Ysilla can see nothing of the oak brown irises that have always looked upon her with warmth. Luke, Baela, and Rhaena's heads all try to drift into focus but they're kept back and away from the dramatic scene by a sturdy line of armor-clad guards. Jace starts forward, to do what, she doesn't know because he doesn't get far. Daemon pushes him backwards, barking an order to a floundering servant to take him the fuck away from here. 

"It's okay, honey bee, it's okay." Her mother hushes her, tucking the curls Aemond had strewn about behind her ears with quivering fingers. Ysilla tries to focus, the cacophony of noise fading until it's just her and her parents in the once booming hall. But it's awfully difficult, her vision tunneling on her almost paramour. 

"Where did he go? Alph- Aemond. Where is he?" Ysilla tries to look down the corridor he had been hauled through, where a shouting Alicent had followed closely behind but it's a moot point. 

Rhaenyra looks horrified by something she said and she glances at Daemon for aid. Her stepfather stares at her and the weight of his attention is suffocating. Ysilla pulls at her dress, trying to look the least disheveled she can. Embarrassingly, the need is still there. The slick sweltering heat between her thighs still purring for attention, her breasts still peaked from her uncle's interest. 

"I'll handle him." Daemon spins on his heel, hand clenched at the hilt of Dark Sister and Ysilla frowns, worry creasing her forehead. Before she can think to do anything, her mother is pulling her away from the hall and further from the scent of Aemond still lingering in the air. 

.

The cells are olid and damp. Rats scurry about in the darkness, the scrape of their nails like the chattering of teeth. 

Aemond could see how men could lose their minds down here, how they could conjure things out of the dark that would rival their worst nightmares. How every small sound could echo down the twisting tunnels until it returned, warped and wicked before burrowing into their ears. 

Thankfully, the torches along the walls are lit- he's not a prisoner for real, it's all show. It's what he had quieted his mother with- if she were to scream any louder, he's sure the vein in her forehead would've popped. 

"Just until you've come back to yourself, Brother." Aegon had panted out, exhausted from wrestling his much taller sibling down several flights of stairs and into the bowels of the castle. "Didn't think you had it in you." Praise from Aegon was not something one usually strived for. A skewed needle on a moral compass, anything that impressed the firstborn son was certainly not of the highest caliber and not worthy of a response in Aemond's opinion. But still, the leer of Aegon's pride chafes at him something nasty.

His grandsire was there as well, something Aemond hadn't realized in his stupor, and the disappointment on his face had sobered him in an instant. He winces, thinking of the scene that his family must've come across. 

He can still feel Ysilla against him. The soft scent of the Essosi oils braided into her hair clings to his shirt where she had strained against him. The phantom press of her hips and how they had rocked against his palm, desperate for anything he was willing to give, keeps him awake and stubbornly aroused. 

A door opens and it sounds far off. Anticipation builds in Aemond's gut as someone draws closer to his cell, every small sound reverberating off the shadows. He stiffens his spine, prepared to take the brutal lashing from his mother, the decimating disapproval from his grandsire, the aberrant council from his sister. 

The caged Prince's visitor drifts closer until he stands, tall and proud, on the open side of the cell door. Aemond stares, in weary disbelief. Is he not being punished enough. Daemon smiles at him. Aemond frowns. 

"This suits you." Daemon gestures to the locked cell door, and he yanks on a stuck bar for emphasis. "After all, these lodgings are deserved of your kind. When I headed the Kingsguard, before your seed even found its way into your mother's womb, I oversaw the punishment we'd dole out onto the vermin of society. Thieves, murderers… rapists."

Aemond shoots to his feet, glaring daggers into the man he's ashamed to share blood with. 

"I did no such thing."

"No? I saw plenty- as did her mother, as did yours. Ysilla straining against you, heat sick and desperate, and you," Daemon sweeps him over with an acrimonious appraisal.  "You, a knothead Alpha, twice her size, flooding her senses with your stink, drowning her in it until she couldn't even command her own body. Hmm, I wonder what my brother will say, when he is told his favorite grandchild was nearly defiled by his own son. If he lets Rhaenyra chop off your balls, I'll make them into earrings for her."

"Why did you let her out of her chambers then? Why does she not know what she is?" Aemond grits out, fists clenching at his side. He still has his blade and he brushes at the hilt of it. 

"Or, was that it? Was it your plan to parade her in front of us all, and see who would take the bait so that you could banish us all down here and throw away the key?" 

Daemon doesn't grace him with an answer; he only stares, with thinly veiled fury deepening the wrinkles of his forehead. 

Aemond pauses, teeth in his tongue like it's a tough piece of meat. He'd rather swallow glass and shit out each piece instead of pleading with his father's brother. But he will not have himself be thought of as someone of such a vile nature. He won't have Ysilla think that. 

"I didn't know, Daemon. I didn't know she was an Ome-"

"Of course you fucking knew." The Alpha timbre of Daemon's voice makes the iron bars caging Aemond in quiver like a worm on a hook. "You are your grandfather's shadow. You have his gall, you have his arrogance, you have that same fucking glint in your eye that he has everytime he looks at my brother. You saw opportunity in the dawning of my daughter, and you jumped on it." 

"You're wrong."

Daemon tsks, walking backwards, drawing the curtain on his loathsome visit. "The thing is, Nephew, I'm not."

"You can't keep me here. You can't keep me away from her." Aemond doesn't have to shout, his voice reaching farther than he can follow.

"We'll see."

And then it's just him, alone, in the dimming darkness. The thoughts creep in, unbidden, like the rats, to gnaw at the edges of his mind.

The scent of Ysilla's slick, the sweet pheromones exuding from her every pore, both had sharpened when he finally had her in his arms. She had said it, had purred it, letting it drip off her lust-slick tongue. Take me, Alpha. Now.

She had wanted it. She had wanted him. 

Hadn't she? 

.

The screech of ancient hinges resounds from somewhere in the dark, and the accompanying fall of footsteps is thunderous in the still, silent air. 

"If this is the torture part of my stay, I'd rather put it off until the morrow. I'm tired." Aemond drawls, tucked into the furthest corner of his cell. Whomever his unwelcome guest is, stops in front of his locked door and stares from behind the darkness of their shroud. 

"… Uncle." In his would-be torturer's place is a tiny cloaked thing, who pushes back their hood to reveal the placid face of his niece. Aemond forces himself to rise on slow, steady feet instead of surging towards the bars like a man bewitched. 

He gets close enough that he catches the oceanic bloom of her perfume, and the sweet salt of it chases away the headache that was left after he was snatched away from her. He regards her in silence for a moment, letting the weight of what they had done together settle in the air around them. 

"How'd you get down here?" His voice is thicker than normal and Aemond has to clear his throat. 

"The guards, of course. I'm their future Queen- they know it's best to listen to me." Ysilla sniffs, digging the toe of her boot into the spongy earth below. The haughtiness in her tone is flimsy, as if she's not used to speaking in such a manner. Aemond finds that hard to believe- firstborn daughter and all. "And I may have also said I would feed them to Vhagar if they refused."

"She'd love that." He draws dryly. The silence they fall into is uncomfortable and he isn't the first to break it.

"Are you alright? No one… hurt you, did they?" Ysilla's voice is tiny, as if she's strengthening herself for an answer she may not like.

"Why?" Why do you care? 

The silence returns, heavier now, and Aemond sighs. He concedes, finding no delight in the worry written in the downturn of her mouth. "No, Niece, no one hurt me." 

The breath she releases sounds like a relieved one, or perhaps that's simply wishful thinking. Aemond rubs at his temples, the weight of the day starting to settle atop of him. 

"You look… more here." He means that she looks less likely to fall to her knees and swallow his cock, but he doesn't want to be crude. Maybe, there will be a more appropriate time for that later. 

"Well the tub full of water my mother dunked me in certainly helped." That explains the burst of her curls, springing from her head like an obsidian bouquet. 

"Did she tell you more about… earlier? About what happened to you?" About what nearly happened between us? More unspoken words, more half-truths and not quite-lies.

"She did. I'm still… letting it all sink in. Betas, Alphas… Omegas. The whole lot of it. I just wish she would've told me, obviously before what transpired between us. I wouldn't have put you in that position if I would've known. I would've… given you the option, I wish. To truly want me and not just the allure of my second sex." 

Aemond blinks and does so again, and yet her words still ring in his ears. He wonders idylly if that truly slipped from her mouth, or if the dungeon is doing it's duty and twisting them into what he wants to hear. He didn't force her. He didn't hurt her. A wisp of hope rises as if from a snuffed out candle, and he stamps it out before it can blossom into anything tangible. 

"What happened before was just your instincts talking. I… I shouldn't have let it get that far. You made me lose control is all." It's a coward's way out, blaming her for his absolute lack of resolve. But he can realize now, without her lithe body pressed invitingly against him- tucked so tightly to him, filling his every jagged edge with the bloom of her curves- that there's more at stake here than just the purity of Ysilla's virtue. 

"No! You made me… feel things. Things I've never, ever felt before. Not for anyone." Tension builds, stacking like stones, as she lets her gaze caress him from head to toe. Aemond shivers, heat trickling into his belly, a pot that sprung a leak. "I want to feel them again." Her voice is firm, even if her eyes are wide. 

Aemond swallows, feeling as if the ground beneath him has started to rock. Again. It means so many things. A repeat of what happened in that hallway only this time, no one would be there to stop them. He would take her to his apartments, spread her over his sheets, and take his time unburdening her of every suffocating layer of clothing. And then, when she was naked and bare for him to feast his famished gaze on, he'd ravage her. 

Again means hope (of a future, of a family, of happiness.) And he can't stomach it- when he nearly knows for certain that he'll never be allowed alone with her after tonight's happenings. His voice is hard when he speaks again.

"Our family is on the brink of shattering. We can't even have dinner together without being at each other's throats."

"Mayhaps we can fix that." She shrugs, a careless shift of her shoulders and a lovely little peak of a smile accompanies it. Aemond is starting to realize he'd do anything to see joy warm her face into that glorious pink flush, and same as before, he tears any chance of bliss into pieces.

"Us fucking could save our family?" It's crass and unlike him to say, but he must. He has to make her understand. 

Ysilla shakes her head, resolve bright in her burning indigo stare. "Us mating could save our family." 

Aemond stares at her as if she's grown a second head. 

"Don't speak of things you have no knowledge of."  

The weight of his influence is crushing and Ysilla fights the urge to bare her neck to him. A stubborn growl manifests instead, her annoyance overtaking whatever urge her "true nature" tries to make her bend to. She is well-read, she is smart. And it's as if every shred of knowledge she possesses is now for naught in this new life she's been tossed into. 

"Then teach me, Aemond." Ysilla stresses, and the tremble in her voice is a surprise. Why is she crying? "Don't leave me alone in this."

Despair turns his stomach inside out. She's upset, she's scared. She needs me, me, I'm her Alpha. The Targaryen son breaks, from no less than three tears swimming over his niece's lashes. 

"Sweet girl, come now, there's no need for your sorrow." He presses himself to the bars to get as close to her as allowed. 

"No, no." Ysilla huffs, lips wobbling in frustration. Aemond looks at her with worried confusion, his fingertips still chasing away the teardrops staining her cheeks. 

"Say my name." She demands in a shaky voice. "Not niece, not sweet thing. My name."

His hand overlaps her's, sharing the bar they both grip onto as if it's a lifeline. The brush of their skin, so simple, so decorous, sends them both plummeting into oblivion. 

"Ysilla."

Their lips meet through the gaps in the bars, the space not nearly wide enough to make it a proper kiss but it will have to do because Ysilla needs a taste of him. 

Maybe if she hikes her legs through the slats, he can pull her close enough to slide his cock inside of her. The vision of that, of Aemond throwing himself against the iron keeping him caged, hips pummeling as he works himself up between her thighs before finally, finally emptying his seed into her womb, has Ysilla sliding her hand to the back of his head to pull him in harder to suck at his bottom lip. Aemond moans at that and moans even deeper as she cards her fingers through his silken strands to tug. 

She has to retreat, air desperately missing her lungs. Aemond hums, the vibration echoing through his chest and scattering the shadows about the chamber. He kisses the side of her mouth and then the dip of her chin, and then lower to that long line of her throat before the blasted door gets in his way. 

"Just wait until I get out of here- I'll show you how a Princess should be treated." He growls, sucking an obvious bruise at the hinge of her jaw.

"Why not now?" Ysilla whispers, finding his loving mouth again before her tongue sweeps forward to meet his.

Like a sweet dream, visions of little Targlings running amok through the halls of the castle spring forth in her head. Boys with violet eyes and snow white hair tumble about, while little girls of a chestnut pallor clothed in black and green laugh a musical sound. 

Aemond's palm finds the small of her back, his hand wide enough to the thumb at the edge of her spine and massage the bud of her buttocks. He impels her to him and the iron gate digging into the soft flesh of her breasts has her whimpering. 

"The first time I take you," he pulls back to look into her eyes. Her lips are puffy, the color of crushed berries and she tastes just as sweet. It's only the two of them, again, and it's exhilarating. "The first time I knot you, will be in a place worthy of a princess."

Mmmm, knot, is it? For the first time that day, Ysilla doesn't feel the stinging strike of her ignorance. Whatever Aemond means, from the way he whispers that promise to her, assures her he will only bring her the greatest of pleasure. 

"Then I best get you out of here, shouldn't I?" She steals another kiss and nips at his lip for good measure. A love bite. Aemond groans as she pulls away, and the palm on her back slides down to cup the back of her thigh. He squeezes the pillowy softness of her, and tries not to bust out of his breeches at the way her body just gives for him.

A question in her gaze is answered by the apprehension in his. She rubs her thumb over his knuckles and gives him that grin again, and all feels right in the world.  

"I'll be back, promise."

He dusts his lips over the back of her hand, scenting her with his spiced attar. He likes the perfume the two of them make- it'll smell even better when his bed is soaked in it. 

"I'll be waiting."

.

.

.

Qyybor . Uncle

zaldrītsos . little dragon

[inoluvrr]

⟶ kento food court meet cute

⟶ well hey.. who missed me ;p my first time writing for sir kento nanami NGH i want him bad. ANYWAY sorry for going mia it's been a big week for me u guys i relapsed, i applied for jobs, i got in a car accident, and MOST IMPORTANTLY name change. i go by mio on other socials so from here on out all my shit will be tagged under mio i hope that's not too confusing ;p ALSO im slightly changing the layout of my posts from here on out as in im removing one of the banners ok anyway please enjoy and im very sorry for my absence 💓

cw :: fem!reader, shat this out in abt half an hour, reader wears glasses, possibly ooc!kento look ive never written for him before ALLOW IT, fluff/crack

Kento Nanami detests food courts.

So many loud, bustling people, restaurants selling overpriced, greasy food. He'd much rather pack his lunch in advance and eat it on the go.

However, even with his tight scheduling and near-perfect memory, he can slip and forget. He only realises he’s forgotten when he reaches for his packed lunch and finds nothing but stale air inside his satchel.

He sighs.

His lip curls as he taps against the sticky screen of the menu. He detests fast food, but when it's between Mcdonald's and KFC, he's choosing the latter. Boneless wings combo meal with medium fries and water.

He picks up his meal from the counter with a nod to the woman handing it to him, before turning to find an empty seat.

He furrows his brows. 1PM on a Saturday. Of course it's busy.

Circling around the food court once, twice, he can't find a single empty table. He settles for sharing a larger table with two other individuals eating alone. Sat in silence, and trying not to make eye contact with anyone, he begins eating.

He is about 30% through his meal when someone sits opposite him, and oh, God.

He glances upwards, and suddenly his French fry went down the wrong way and he's coughing, eyes tearing up.

God, how pathetic is he? One glance at a pretty woman and he's choking on his food, taking gulps of his water to wash it down. Even worse, you're staring at him with worry, frozen still as if you're not sure whether to call for help or perform the Heimlich or just offer him some more water.

“... Are you okay?” you say. People are beginning to stare, and he's taking gulps of his water.

“Yes, thank you,” he says hoarsely. “Just went down the wrong way.”

You smile placidly, before turning your attention to your meal. A McDonald’s happy meal. Interesting choice.

He returns to his own food, too. He tries not to stare, but he can't help but steal glasses. The way your hair falls around your face, and the glint of your eyes through your frames, and your manicured nails, and the way you take tiny little bites of your food, and he can't help but know that if he left without speaking to you, or getting your number, he'd be kicking himself for the rest of his life.

Tell her you like her keychains, Kento. Start simple.

“You’re very beautiful.”

Shit. That was not what he meant to say.

You glance up, furrow your brows when you realise he’s looking at you, then you're smiling slightly bashfully. “Thank you!”

His face doesn't betray how horrified he is feeling at his now evident lack of game, rather, he manages to return your sweet little smile. “Do you often eat at food courts?”

“No, not really,” you say. “It's too loud. But I forgot to pack my lunch today.”

Kento can't help but bark out a laugh, clearing his throat when you look up at him in confusion. “Pardon me. It's just that I’m here for the same reason. I can’t stand this place.”

You giggle. “Matching.”

The two of you lapse into silence as you finish eating. You finish your meal before him, but he notices that even after packing up your trash, you're lingering in your seat. This is his chance, and he knows you're thinking the same thing.

He forces his eyes to stay on yours, refusing to let his lack of game drag his gaze away from the beautiful girl before him.

“Would you like to give me your number? Then… maybe we can go to a food court together sometime,” he says.

Fucking hell Kento. ‘Would you like to give me your number?’ Like you're doing her a favour? God, you're seriously going to die al—

You slide a napkin over the table, where you've already scrawled your digits. “Maybe we can go someplace nicer than a food court, huh?”

He blinks owlishly, looking between you and the napkin. He clears his throat. “Of course. I'll… I'll call you.”

You smile once more, sling your bag over your shoulder, and leave without another word.

Kento Nanami loves food courts.

[tired-demonspawn]

im working on something else rn but a lil while ago i made a star wars au, so here you go :)

the main idea is written in the corner but imma tldr it(also i dont trust the upload quality of the pic): set in roughly prequel era robotnik used to be a high up republic special weapons group guy and, as a high up military guy, was assigned a jedi bodyguard, that being stone.

once his inventions got a bit too war-crime-y the republic had him jailed and stone (who fell in love with him) breaks him out and they start being weapons dealers

other misc details under the cut

okay so some of these are mentioned in the pic but i wanted to specify/expand/clarify:

stone never really falls to the dark side, that's actually why he couldn't bleed his own crystal (which let's be completely clear he would be willing to do for robotnik), he simply didnt have the hate and pain necessary to do it. he follows robotnik, his devotion and duty to him is what gives him strength in the force(think knights of zakuul)

to go with his brand, also just to show that he could, robotnik made stone a lightsaber with a black market red kyber crystal... smthn smthn your lightsaber is your life...

i went with orange for his original one because

it provides a nice contrast with the rest of his fit

it goes with robotnik's colour scheme

he simply does not have the temperament of a purple lightsaber, i dunno man the vibes are off

for my fourth reason let me present to you a quick clone wars episode concept:

--

(clone wars intro music)(random quote) UNCERTAINTY HAS GRIPPED THE REPUBLIC! the separatists have captured a republic military research vessel along with its scientists and military generals! it is up to only 3 brave jedi to save them.

(i fucked up the tone of the intro guy by the middle, and also i dont really have a 3rd guy i just wrote 3 cuz it seemed like a number they would use)

anyway gimmick clone wars intro aside

robotnik was forced entirely into the military uniform(including non special gloves) for a special scientific military meeting where "even jedi werent allowed" it obviously being a trap robotnik had a few aces up his sleeve, but even so, stone was told to stay on alert, because robotnik was most definitely getting kidnapped.

so when robotnik misses all 3 agreed upon check ins stone contacts the council(hes already somewhere with a lot of jedi, its not just a matter of "he thought it best to report"(and waste precious time that could be spent saving the doctor?) but "he literally cannot take a ship and leave without it raising suspicion"), he basically tells them something like "we cant waste any time arguing, im going. i am closest to the last reported location" so the council sticks 2 more people on him(if it was an actual episode they would most likely be already established, so we could see a "familiar face" interacting with this new character of stone)

anyway they find where did the seps take them because obviously robotnik chipped himself.

with the correct password(that only stone has(not that he knows that hes the only one)) robotnik can be tracked even through hyperspace(not exactly, but it at least gives a general quadrant of space, which ofc after leaving hyperspace gets pin-point accurate)

they get to the base, they sneak around trying to find how to get to the prisoners(because its nice that they have robotniks coordinates to the tenth of a milimetre, but they dont have the base blueprints)

during the dramatic peak of the ep, there's a weirdly menacing moment where the mild mannered jedi knight, that was kinda made fun of the entire episode for being "reduced to an errand boy" can actually swing a lightsaber around pretty well.

and then he unties robotnik, helps him up, asks if hes alright("of course not, imbecile! what took you?" "the tracker wasnt as accurate while in hyperspace as you theorised" "hm. well in any case none of this would happen if it werent for this stupid uniform" "i have a change of clothes prepared for you in the ship") aaannnd the errand boy is back

fast forward, robotnik was both arrested and freed, is now doing his own thing.

the two knights that were with stone in that "initial episode" are snooping around one of robotnik's labs, investigating this new arms dealer. they're on a terminal of some sort and behind them out of focus of the camera a bright orange lightsaber ignites, contrasting sharply against the red/blue tones of the lab.

"you aren't welcome here." the former jedi knight says.

--

and scene

so yea hope that last bit sold you on the orange lightsaber bit

originally wanted to post this au with more art attached but alas life had other plans.

anyway if you've read this far i hope you have a nice rest of your day :)

also dont be afraid to ask any questions about this au, i have so many thoughts about it, so im 100% sure i didnt include something i deffo have figured out because i either a) forgor 💀 or b) didnt know how to properly explain a vague feeling about a possible situation

[luvztodd]

Some Unspoken Thing

Jason Todd x Alien! Reader

In which he can’t help but fall for the enemy.

“But since i met you baby, love’s got a hold on me.”

♫ I Fooled Around and Fell in Love - Elvis Bishop

warnings: very brief mentions of violence

dividers courtesy of @/cafekitsune

Jason Todd wasn’t in love.

And he especially wasn’t in love with Darkseid’s daughter of all people. He liked you, he did. You two were good friends and you fought well together. Sure he thinks you’re pretty but who wouldn’t? The thing that puzzled him the most, was that if he wasn’t in love with you, why does he want you to run your fingers through his hair and whisper sweet nothings in his ear? That’s weird.

That’s a weird thought.

He has to remember that ever since he met you, the two of you were always at odds, always at each others throats. Literally. You tried to stab him in the throat. But maybe that’s what drew him to you so quickly. Not the stabbing. Although he did like a woman that could kick his ass but besides that. You were a fighter, you were tough, you were fierce.

However, as he got to know you, he learned that you weren’t just the ‘badass space assassin’ you were also hurt and damaged and jaded, just like him. But despite what you had been through, despite what Darkseid and that hellish planet had done to you, you weren’t vengeful, you weren’t bitter and spiteful. You could also be soft and caring and motherly. Sometimes he wishes he could be like you in that aspect. Not that he’d ever admit that.

Jason shook his head snapping himself out of it. He probably should head back inside to the gala that was going on. He practically groaned at the thought of having to go back inside and mingle with old rich people and goody-goody hero’s all night. At least you were forced to attend, he could just stare at you in your pretty black dress but that would mean he’d also have to stare at Hal Jordan’s stupid face considering he was your date.

As he took his time walking back into the main lobby of the Manor, all he wanted was to punch Hal in his smug face right now. He knew that the Justice League had basically assigned him as some sort of Earth tour guide for you but he was just a glorified alien babysitter. Which meant he shouldn’t have his arm around your waist. You looked like you didn’t even want his arm around your waist.

Jason could clearly picture himself swooping in like a sexy white knight and saving you from the human space-dick that was Hal Jordan. He’d wait for some slow romantic song to come on from the live band, then he’d grab a glass of champagne to make himself look elegant or whatever and he’d smoothly walk up in his perfect, stylish tuxedo and ask you for a dance. In his head you’d bat your eyelashes at him and let yourself be whisked away but he knew you’d rather die than do such a thing.

He met the gaze of Dick from across the room, a subtle nod passing between the two. Dick winked and nodded in your direction, Jason visibly rolled his eyes. He knew that his family and friends had been saying there was always some kinda tension between the two of you. Dick was very adamant that there was some kind of ‘weird unspoken thing’ happening that he didn’t know about. But the more Jason thought about it, maybe there was. While in his own head he heard your voice.

“Stop trying to court me. And get your arm off of me. This, is never gonna happen.” You sharply warned Hal, peeling his arm off of your waist and taking a step away. “I’m getting a drink,” You cut him off before he has the chance to say something idiotic.

Fuck. Fuck. You were coming Jason’s way. He glanced around, trying his best not to look awkward. He thought of at most three conversation starters, one of them being ‘hows the weather?’ He cleared his throat and ran a hand through his messy black hair. Handling you when he was Red Hood was one thing, at least he had a mask to hide behind, now his face was just out in the open for you to judge and pick apart.

But it all went to shit when you walked over and he froze.

Your eyes flitted over to Jason, you were fairly good at reading people and you had come to be able to read your friend very well and he just looked…awkward? Nervous? “Are you alright?” You raised an eyebrow at him, leaning against the dark mahogany bar counter.

Jason quickly nodded, “I’m peachy. Y’know, just…fuckin’ great.” He stumbled over his words leaving awkward pauses in the middle of his sentences.

“Uh huh. Remind me what that phrase means again? Peachy?” You tilted your head at him. You’ve been on Earth for a few months now but you were still learning about Earth and still very much new to slang.

“Like…i’m fine. Good. Awesome. That’s…what it means. Sorta. Don’t take my word for it though, uh…” Jason mentally slapped himself, all of a sudden he wasn’t sure what the word ‘peachy’ meant? Why was he acting so stupid? “You look nice, tonight. Jordan pick that dress?” Jason huffed out a totally not jealous sounding laugh, trying to deflect the conversation away from anything he had to explain to you.

“Funny, Jason. I picked it myself. It’s not my usual style but Hal says i should go beyond my ‘comfortable zone’.” You rolled your eyes. Hal was friendly and flirty, yes, but you would have much preferred to hang around Jason, a man of your own caliber.

“Really? Color me surprised, this,” He vaguely gestured with his hand to your dress, “doesn’t seem like your kinda style, at all. You’re more, star girl cowboy assassin badass.”

You laughed at his comment, “Still calling me star girl, hm?”

Jason froze for about the fifth time that evening. Did he just make you laugh? He swallowed nervously, not trusting himself to say something that wasn’t completely fucking stupid.

Like please laugh again, i want to kiss you so bad.

Jason’s gaze flitted up to the ceiling and then to the bar and then to the counter and the floor. Basically anywhere but your face. He really didn’t know what was getting into him tonight. Yeah he was inexperienced with women, he’d had a kinda-girlfriend like once when he fifteen. Since then he hasn’t been able to make it to second base with a girl that didn’t want to kill him.

It was quiet between you two, so you decided to fill the strange silence, “It’s so…cramped in here. And it smells like…” You trailed off trying to find the word.

“Old people?” Jason finished with a little smile, glancing over to look at you, finally.

“Well, sure, yeah. Not quite the word i was looking for.” You thoughtfully hummed glancing out at the terrace door hidden behind elegant velvet curtains. “Would you like to go outside with me?” You offered.

“Yeah of course.” Jason answered little too quickly. But this was a golden opportunity, who knew when he was gonna get it again? Ugh, he’s doing it again. Nothings gonna happen, he doesn’t even like you.

He doesn’t know how long he can keep denying it though.

The Gotham night air was cold and breezy, the wind gently blowing the white tuft of Jason’s hair out of his face as you two leaned against the terrace railing. For about twenty minutes or so, you both made idle chat, talking about whatever came to mind, but both of you felt it. A tension that was unexplainable. A feeling that was mutual, problem was, who was going to voice it aloud?

“So…do they have a lot of gatherings on your home planet?” Jason asked casually, trying to gauge how you were feeling by how you were speaking.

“We used to all the time, yes. My people loved ceremonies. We had gatherings for courting, for days of birth, days of death, first and last days of the month. There were many, many different ceremonies each special in their own way.” You fondly said, reminiscing on what used to be your home.

“Wow. Didn’t know Apokolips was so…ceremonial.”

“Apokolips is not my home planet.” You answered quickly, sharply.

“What…? But i thought…if you’re Darkseid’s daughter how could it not be?” Jason turned his head to look at you. He had heard what Bruce said about you, he had actually been briefed on it when Bruce saw how well the two of you got along. The run down was, you were Darkseid’s daughter and Hal brought you from Apokolips to Earth to help stop him but he hadn’t heard the story directly from you.

“Darkseid orphaned me, kidnapped me and imprisoned me. I am no family to him in any way.” You scoffed, your guard going right back up. The way you were now, kind of reminded Jason of how you were when you two first met.

“I’m sorry,” He reached one of his scarred, pale hands out, wanting to lay a hand on your arm, or your shoulder for comfort but he hesitated, remembering what you said to Jordan earlier. He retreated, leaning his arm against the metal railing.

“You couldn’t have known,” You let out a deep sigh your tone surprisingly soft considering how you just sounded. “Darkseid worked hard to ensure that i gained the reputation of ‘his favorite daughter’. It’s a hard title to shake. So, my reputation proceeds me.” You paused, “Did i use that right?” You quietly asked.

“Yeah, yeah, good job.” Jason answered back just as quiet. The pair of you stood in silence for awhile. Jason debating on if he should continue a conversation with you or just leave while he’s still on your good side. He glanced over at you, your face wasn’t as emotionless as it typically was. You had a certain sadness to your eyes that he had seen in his own eyes before when he gazed at himself in the mirror.

“On your home planet, your real home planet, did you guys dance?” Jason straightened up, turning his body towards you.

You did the same, a natural reflex to always match your opponents. “We…did, yes. Why?” You narrowed your eyes at him, you didn’t know what he was getting at.

“So you must be pretty good at it, right? Maybe you can teach me a thing or two.” His lips quirked up into a smile. He then extended a large hand, “Dance with me?” He almost wanted to clap himself on the back, he was getting bolder by the second. Maybe you were into that? Not like he cares…

“I am a warrior and an assassin, i do not dance.” You crossed your arms over your chest.

“Aw, c’mon star girl. Don’t make me force you to watch Footloose or better yet make me pull a Footloose.” Jason laughed, his smile getting a little bigger at your defiance.

“You’re going to pull my foot…loose?” You blinked at him, lips parting in confusion.

“No, no. It’s a movie, princess.” Jason laughed, not mockingly or cruelly, just sweet, genuine laughter.

You found yourself smiling at his boyish laugh, feeling compelled for some reason to take his hand. “I don’t know what that is but fine. You’re lucky i don’t dislike you.” You slowly took his hand, the two of you stepping closer together.

Since the doors that led back inside to the main lobby of the Manor were paned glass, the music that was playing inside seeped through to the terrace. Whatever song was playing was slow and romantic, Jason thought it kind of sounded like George Michael but he could’ve been wrong.

The two of you swayed and stepped, keeping in a surprisingly perfect synch with one another. And much to Jason’s delight, you two were inching closer and closer. His right arm wrapped gently around your mid-section careful to keep his placement non-gropey. His left hand slowly intertwined with yours and your free arm was around his neck, your heads subconsciously leaning closer and closer.

“And you said you didn’t dance,” Jason whispered with a little smirk, his face just inches away from yours.

“I don’t but…i suppose i can make exceptions. Besides, tonight i’m supposed to be stepping out of my comfortable zone.”

Jason smiled, he loved the way you spoke. He loved the way you said words or phrases that you didn’t completely understand. He loved hearing you talk. He loved you. Well maybe it was too soon for all that but he sure as shit was in love with you. With that thought, his eyes widened just slightly. It was probably almost imperceptible to the human eye, but you weren’t human.

“What was that?” You whispered.

‘Well, it was now or never Jason.’ He thought.

“I just…was thinking about you.” He answered, trying to find a way to articulate everything he was feeling while also not scaring you off. “Since we met, i’ve kinda just been…enthralled with you, i don’t know. I know it probably sounds weird to you but, it’s the truth.”

“Enthralled?” You echoed back to him. “Why? Why am i so captivating to you?”

“How could you not be captivating star girl? I mean, you’re just…you. You’re smart and strong and intimidating but you’re not cold or vengeful. You can be soft.” He quietly said, his voice growing quiet, eyes becoming tender. There was a brief silence. “Can i kiss you?” He blurted out. Fuck, he hoped this wasn’t too soon. He hoped you weren’t weirded out. He hoped you agreed. Fuck. This was too soon wasn’t it? He was internally panicking at his rashness.

You looked up at him, your eyes meeting his piercing dark green irises. Unable to get the words you wanted to say out of your mouth, you nodded, granting him permission. Jason hesitated for a moment before he slowly leaned in, his lips brushing over yours and before you could second-guess this, he closed that gap.

The kiss wasn’t anything rushed or lewd. It was soft, it was tender and slow. It seemed like the both of you were in agreement that you wanted to prolong this for however long you could before you had to pull apart for air. And Jason wanted to keep going forever and ever, but he was starting to get light headed from the lack of air, so he reluctantly pulled away.

You leaned your forehead on his shoulder, Jason resting his chin on top of your head. As he took in breaths from his nose, he inhaled the scent of your hair, it smelled like something woodsy, yet floral. He liked it. He liked you but he knew that he didn’t need to voice it aloud. So, while the two of you stayed in silence, there was nothing that needed to be spoken. Both of you understood what this was.

It was just some unspoken thing.

a/n: omggg i’ve had this concept in my head for soooo long. i’m obsessed with starmora and i just really wanted to use their dynamic in a fic. im not sure if im really into the way i wrote it down so there might be some changes here and there. but i am a inexperienced jason lover. reader is ‘adopted’ similar to how gamora was and this time i particularly tried to make reader non descriptive so its up to interpretation how you want your alien to look lol.

[rockybloo]

The fact that Bitterbat used to bite her when they were younger until Sweetheart drew blood makes me wonder has he ever went a bit too far and hurt Sweetheart on accident? Like what happened the first time he did that and how devastated does he get when he learns that humans (and sometimes magical girls) are way more fragile than he thought they were? Like imagine younger Sweetheart gets distracted for one moment and Bitterbrat just decides to bite her and she freaks out a little bc her arm is full out bleeding and she can't make it stop (bc being a magical girl or not, she was still a kid and seeing that amount of blood freaks people out. Ignoring the fact that it might hurt af yk?)

Just wondering since he fell for Sweetheart by punching him against the wall and because she was strong, but what happened when he found out that even magical girls have weak moments?

Sorry if this question is too long. And the rambling. I'm so normal about glitter and guilt and licorice I promise💗💜

It's totally fine to ask ramble questions about Licorice - i love blabbering about Sweetheart and Bitterbat because they have a lot of meat to them SO I WELCOME ALL QUESTIONS ABOUT THEM.

ANYWAYS It took Bitterbat a bit to learn about humans and how they socialize with each other. He knew that humans were fragile but he thought Amara was an outlier since she could use magic.

So he had taken to nibbling Sweetheart here and there just as a sign of affection, though in her eyes he was being weird as hell. Occasionally his teeth hurt but a couple baps on the head made him back off. It also helped that, being a magical girl, her skin was more durable than when she was powered down.

One day he was feeling extra bold, and while hugging Amara from behind, bit her right on the back of the neck, expecting humans and Monstrums to share similar enough anatomy where they had a scruff. He did it because he wanted her attention but instead got the loudest yelp he'd ever heard out of her. He didn't have much time to react either because Amara had entered a complete state of panic and was crying for him to get off her as she struggled to get out of his arms.

He saw a lot of blood and her tears and immediately realized he made a mistake so he quickly let her go and tried to explain himself.

It's important to remember this happened when they were kids. I'm talking 10 years old so they both didn't make the best decisions. And Amara, out of a mix of instinct and fear, struck him across the face, cutting his explanation short. The mix of him being completely caught off guard and the strike being full force meant Bitterbat was sent to the ground. By the time he processed what had happened, Amara was already running away crying to Lovely for help.

He felt so bad once Halite explained humans don't have a scruff like Monstrums do. And once he learned just how vulnerable a human's neck was, along with how thin a human's skin was compared to a Monstrum's, Bitterbat was guilt-ridden and couldn't bring himself to face Sweetheart ever again.

On Amara's end, Bitterbat thankfully didn't do a whole ton of damage like she expected and she just needed some disinfectant and big af band-aid and she was basically good as new save for a scar. Bitterbat had been missing in action for a couple weeks though, which meant she had just been battling Vents without any follow up challenge.

Eventually Bitterbat returned to apologize and Amara came around to forgiving him after learning he genuinely didn't mean any harm and it was just a matter of different cultures and anatomy. It did take some time for Amara to become comfortable again with receiving hugs from behind from Bitterbat.

Honestly it took her awhile to be comfortable with having her back to Bitterbat in general. But eventually she got over her discomfort.

In the modern day, Bitterbat nibbles and bites everywhere else but when it comes to the back of Amara's neck, he just leaves kisses. I know ages ago I had mentioned he nips back there too for attention but the more I thought about how events in childhood stays with a person as they grow up, I retconned it since I imagine Amara is still nervous when it comes to his teeth back there.

[penofwildfire]

Annoys me to no end when people act like Sensei Garm was somehow the truest form of Garmadon that he'll inevitably return to if he wants to be a good person. For starters, as far as we know, he's not even part human, so why would his truest form be his human one? He's clearly comfortable with his oni/part oni self, and there's nothing wrong with that.

When I say I don't want Sensei Garm back, I don't mean I think he should never try to be more active in Lloyd's life or that he should never try teaching again or hell, that he should never try being in a relationship with Misako again. I mean that the obsession with his human form, the version of him that was so clearly trying to be someone he wasn't, trying to fit himself into a mold of "goodness" that just didn't suit him, is weird and uncomfortable to me. Sensei Garm hated himself, it's so blatantly obvious, and while that certainly makes him interesting, it doesn't make for a good ending to a character arc.

Garmadon is not inherently incapable of being a father, a husband, or a sensei, but he was trying to take on those roles when he wasn't ready. He'd spent a lifetime fighting the evil in his veins and the second it was gone he was just expected to know how to be good. So naturally it didn't go very well. People criticize Lloyd's description of his father to Harumi in season 8, ask why he talked only about the time he was evil instead of the brief period where he was good. But it makes sense for Lloyd to have complicated feelings about his father, even before his resurrection when things went to shit, does it not? Yeah the love was there, but so was the strain, the distance, the abandonment, the multiple attempts on his and his friends' lives. A couple years of being on the same team doesn't necessarily make up for that.

Crystalized Garmadon wasn't ready for those things either, but the difference is he knew that, and he was working towards being ready someday. He was doing a parenthood practice round with Christofern, in hopes he could gain the skills to try and be Lloyd's father again. He wasn't in a relationship, but he was learning to better interact and connect with other people through Vinny. He was improving, however slowly.

If we ever do see some version of Sensei Garmadon again, I want it to be a natural progression of where Garm was at last we saw him. I want him to be ready for that role, and to take it on in a way that feels authentic to who he's become. He can't force himself to shy away from his destructive nature, we've seen more than once that his vows of peace don't last long. But he can probably learn to channel it in more helpful ways. The times Sensei Garmadon was at his best were the times he wasn't trying as hard to be serious, the times he teased Lloyd or let himself have a little violence and destruction, as a treat. I think it's entirely possible for him to achieve a functional balance of chaos and order, and I think a lot of that is precisely because of who he became after his resurrection. He's not ashamed of any side of himself, and that lets him harness that power in ways Lloyd can't because he's too scared of who he is.

Idk exactly where I was going with this, I just think I've maybe been a little harsh on the "I want Sensei Garmadon back" people. But a couple stances I'm still firm on: 1) there is no "good half" or "dragon half" or even just "other half" of Garmadon trapped in the Departed Realm or wandering the merged lands, and 2) if Garmadon comes back, it would be a disservice to his character to have him assume a human form, and if he does, they better have a damn good reason for it.

[zmbiebrain]

Wayne and Kathy Harris

Wayne Nelson Harris was born in 1948, making him 77 years old in 2025, 51 years old in 1999, and 33 years old in 1981, when Eric was born.

He worked in the U.S Air Force in aircraft maintenance. Eric wrote about his family moving often, because of his father's job. They lived in Kansas, New York, Michigan, and Ohio before settling in Colorado in July of 1993. After he retired, he worked in civil aviation as a transport pilot for private companies.

Katherine "Kathy" Ann Harris (neé Poole) was born in 1950, making her 75 years old in 2025, 49 years old in 1999, and 31 years old in 1981, when Eric was born.

She worked as a homemaker for much of Eric's childhood, though in later years she worked in a food and catering service. She was described as social, organized and involved in her son's schooling.

Eric's older brother, Kevin Harris, was born in 1978, making him 47 years old in 2025, 21 years old in 1999, and 3 years old in 1981, when Eric was born.

Unlike Dylan's older brother, Byron Klebold, Kevin has never made public statements regarding Columbine. There are no known accounts or interviews from people who knew him personally.

The Harris family seems to have been structured and partly strict, likely influenced by Wayne's background. Wayne seemed to have been involved in the upbringing of his sons, spending time with them often. His mother was seen as relaxed, more emotional than his father.

In elementary school, his parents would show for parent-teacher conferences, and Kathy would help the class with events.

Kris Otten, a childhood friend of Eric's, would sleep over at their house, saying, "It was a real comforting house. Everything was neat and organized."

In April of 1993, while living in Plattsburgh, Eric was drafted for a little league team, and his coach thought he was talented. Wayne and Kathy would attend both games and practices.

Wayne was aware of Eric's troubled behaviour, having kept notes on him, most likely regarding his rebellious behaviour. Eric went to Ken Caryl Middle School, where he would later meet Dylan Klebold in the 7th grade.

During his early adolescence, he was prescribed a mood stabilizer called Luvox. He may have taken this for better management of thoughts and emotions. Before he was prescribed Luvox, he took Zoloft for a brief time period. Eric's medical records indicate, "possible depression, minimal depressive symptoms."

Luvox and Zoloft (Fluvoxamine and Sertraline) are both SSRI, selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors. After his first prescription in April 1998, it was upped just a month later, and upped again a month after that, in early July of the same year.

He stated in one of the tapes, "When I don't take my medication, it makes me angry. It's working."

Eric's entry on 4/21/98:

"My doctor wants to put me on medication to stop thinking about so many things and to stop getting angry. well, I think that anyone who doesn't think like me is just bullshitting themselves. try it sometime if you think you are worthy, which you probably will you little shits, drop all your beliefs and views and ideas that have been burned into your head and try to think about why your here. but I bet most of you fuckers cant even think that deep, so that is why you must die. how dare you think that I and you are part of the same species when we are sooooooo different. you aren't human you are a Robot. you don't take advantage of your capabilities given to you at birth. you just drop them and hop onto the boat and head down the stream of life with all the other fuckers of your type. well god damnit I wont be a part of it! I have thought to much, realized to much, found out to much, and I am to self aware to just stop what am thinking and go back to society because what I do and think isn't "right" or "morally accepted" NO, NO, NO, God Fucking damnit NO! I will sooner die than betray my own thoughts. but before I leave this worthless place, I will kill who ever I deem unfit."

Kathy Harris made a 9-1-1 call on the day of the shooting, the call is sealed and has never been released. Wayne and Kathy were sued by multiple families of the victims, but settled in 2003 under confidential terms.

[jumpywhumpywriter]

Stoic Whumpee Delirious With Fever Spills Trauma to Caretaker

Warnings: mentions of torture/branding/gutting/whipping, past trauma, scars, trauma dumping, severe fever & infection, gruff/stoic whumpee

This one is directly inspired by a prompt I found from @wisteria-whump that they are letting me use (you can find the prompt HERE) and of course, despite me having 20+ WIPs already, I dropped everything to binge-write this at 3:17a.m -- I have no self control whatsoever. When the world of writing calls, I must answer!

Whumpee was... different from the others that had been rescued from Whumper's base alongside him when it was raided. He was injured far worse than the others when he arrived at the recovery facility, but... he was somehow tougher than them. It was the thing the caretakers were quickest to notice, how Whumpee always brushed off their concern with snarky remarks or humor, powering through recovery mostly on his own -- whereas the other prisoners were badly shaken up and traumatized, terrified even of the people who had rescued them -- they were unpredictable and scared all the time.

   But Whumpee was an enigma. How could someone so severely injured be so stoic and collected all the time? If someone ignored all the wounds and scars on his body, you wouldn't be able to tell what he'd been through. He didn't act traumatized, and it had all the caretakers both baffled and curious.

   He was the easiest to deal with out of all the rescued prisoners, though, since they didn't have to waste time coaxing him out of cowering in a corner to treat his wounds like the others.

   Whenever the caretakers showed up for the daily checkup to change gauze and wound dressings, Whumpee would just... tolerate it. It was clear he didn't enjoy being poked and prodded in areas that hurt, but he was known to grit his teeth and endure it in silence. It made the caretakers' jobs easier.

   Caretaker was Whumpee's primary assigned caregiver -- the one who always brought his meals to his rooms three times a day and helped him walk around when it hurt too much for him to move from bed -- though Whumpee usually brushed her off and ended up doing it alone regardless of her insistence in helping him, and regardless of the amount of pain he was in.

   Whether his refusal to accept help was through pride or shame, Caretaker never knew.

   Whumpee's file had been the most extensive of all the rescued captives -- a detailed description of his wound assessments, signs of all Whumper had done to him in the torture room that had been busted by police.

   The caretakers at the rescue facility had frequently asked him about what he went through, prying for any valuable information, but Whumpee would always deflect the questions and never told any of them the true extent of what happened. It was clear he didn't want to talk about it, and eventually the caretakers had given up trying.

   But then... one day Whumpee fell terribly ill. One wound that got badly infected, and that Whumpee had stubbornly hid until the symptoms were too much to conceal anymore.

   Caretaker had only discovered how sick he was when she brought him dinner one day, finding him sprawled out in the bed covered in sweat and trembling, face flushed and skin burning up with fever.

   Whumpee either hadn't had the time or the energy to wipe off all the sweat to pretend everything was fine before she showed up. But now he was caught -- and Caretaker was furious. Furious that he let it get this bad without notifying her. Furious that he was too darn stoic and closed-off to admit when he was suffering and in pain.

   Caretaker took a deep breath to calm herself as she approached Whumpee’s bed, setting the plate of food down on the nightstand and sitting on the edge of the bed.

   Anger wasn't what Whumpee needed right now. So Caretaker forced any frustration from her voice when she spoke.

   "Why didn't you tell me something was wrong?" She asked quietly.

   At first she didn't think Whumpee was awake, but then his eyes cracked open to peer dizzily up at her, glazed and distant.

   "Didn't think... it was that bad..." Whumpee mumbled with a groan. "My side kinda hurts... reminds me of that time when Whumper stabbed me there. That hurt kinda bad too."

   The comment was so random and casual that Caretaker had to double-check to make sure she heard it right as Whumpee spilled that bit of trauma as if it were no big deal. He didn't even sound sad about it, just... matter-of-factly. A statement, not one meant to earn sympathy or pity from Caretaker -- thought Caretaker still felt bad for him anyway.

   "I wuz always his favorite to play with," Whumpee slurred, smiling deliriously. "My snarkiness got me in trouble sooooo much... Whumper hated that about me. My wittiness and defiant sarcasm. He spent the most time on me during torture sessions, more than the others. Yeah, good times..." He laughed weakly, his voice trailing off into an incoherent mumble before he could be understood again.

   "Have you ever been branded by a hot iron before, Caretaker? I wouldn't recommend it -- it sucks. I know from experience." Whumpee giggled weakly, clearly totally out of touch with reality and having no awareness about what was spilling out of his mouth.

   "Then there was that time Whumper took it too far and almost gutted me in a fit of rage after I mouthed off at a bad time -- he didn't think I'd make it after that. But he somehow kept my organs in and cauterized the wound to hold it all inside. It was nice, actually, because he left me mostly alone for a week after that to recover enough for him to be able to hurt me again without risking killing me."

   Whumpee lifted up his shirt with a lopsided grin, revealing a long, ragged gash with old scarred burn marks around the edges that stretched from his chest all the way down to his belly button -- and Caretaker shuddered, picturing him sliced wide open like a butchered deer, screaming in agony as Whumper cursed and shoved his organs back in.

   It was absolutely mortifying to even think about. How could someone do that to a person?

   "Hey, at least I got a cool scar out of it!" Whumpee laughed weakly. "Makes me look tougher than I actually am. I'm secretly a coward, you know -- just good at hiding it after my time with Whumper. Because showing fear always excited him and made the torture worse for me. I'm honestly scared to death in this new place, but I think I do a pretty good job of controlling my emotions, wouldn't you say? Whumper would be so proud. He'd call me a clever brat and then whip my back to bloody ribbons. Heh."

   He was rambling on and on, Caretaker growing more and more horrified the more trauma he spilled. She gaped at him in sheer disbelief of what he'd gone through -- and survived.

   Her curiosity was growing alongside the horror, and a nasty part of her wanted to take advantage of this brief glimpse of vulnerability to finally get some of the answers she'd wanted ever since his arrival. To get some insight into Whumpee's past and fully understand what he went through. Better understand Whumpee.

   But this wasn't right, she told herself. The curiosity was overwhelming, but she'd never forgive herself for taking advantage of Whumpee's state of feverish delirium and weakness -- it would make her no better than Whumper.

   And she was kind of freaked out to be honest, by how wrong it felt to see Whumpee so carefree and open about his past.

   She was realizing more and more just how out of it Whumpee was, not acting like his usual self -- and Caretaker knew that if she let him share now she was going to regret it later. It would betray Whumpee's shaky trust in her, destroy the slim amount of progress she’d made with him during his recovery.

   So despite her desperation for answers, she picked up the plate of food from the nightstand to use it to distract Whumpee and keep him from casually spilling more of his trauma.

   Caretaker was curious as hell about Whumpee's past... but she just knew it wouldn't be right to find out like this.

   She stacked pillows beneath Whumpee’s back to prop him up so he could eat, and gently placed the plate of food in his hands.

   "Thank you," Whumpee mumbled, and Caretaker was once more left surprised. During her entire time caring for him since his rescue, not once had he said thank you. He would always just grunt stoically in acknowledgement whenever she finished dressing his wounds, and that was usually the extent of his gratitude.

   "...Bread?" Whumpee said with a suspicious frown, eyeing the single slice of toast on the edge of his plate. "I don't like bread. Once Whumper shoved it down my throat until I choked and passed out. I learned my lesson after that -- I don't eat dry bread-like foods anymore. Ick."

   "Oh! I had no idea." Caretaker apologized profusely, struggling not to let the horror show as she swiftly snatched the toast from his plate and wrapped it in napkins so he couldn't see it anymore, setting it aside to throw away later.

   Whumpee was all smiles again when she looked back at him, face red with fever and hair plastered to his forehead with sweat as he picked up his fork to dig into the rest of the meal -- scrambled eggs and mashed potatoes. But he hesitated once the fork was in his hand, staring down at it blanky, his mind clearly wandering somewhere else.

   "Whumpee?" Caretaker said quietly, and it was enough to snap him out of it.

   "M'sorry," he slurred. "Just reminds me of the knives Whumper used to torture me. They were made of metal too."

   Whumpee eagerly dug into the food right after with not a care in the world, leaving Caretaker to grapple with all the traumatic information she'd been told.

   Whumpee had been so... casual talking about his torture. It was so out of place with the normally guarded person Caretaker was used to seeing. The young man who dodged questions like bullets. Not... not this version.

   "This is good," Whumpee mumbled around a mouthful of egg. "Whumper never let me have good food -- he rarely let me have food in the first place, actually."

   So that explained why Whumpee had been so emaciated during his rescue, Caretaker noted. She'd originally thought he'd just been in so much pain at Whumper's base that eating hurt and wasn't worth it. She didn't realize Whumper had given him no food whatsoever for days at a time. It was barbaric.

   "Whumpee... I understand," Caretaker sighed softly, diverting his attention away from the trauma once more. "But you shouldn't keep talking. Save your energy and rest -- I'll talk to the doctor about putting you on antibiotics to get rid of that infection."

   "M'kay," Whumpee hummed in agreement, eyes cloudy and lost.

   The antibiotics worked wonders in the end, and Whumpee slowly got better.

   While Caretaker worked on gaining his full trust to get answers from him -- the right way.

Masterlist

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump

@ay5ksal @otterfrost @sausages-things @togzy

@whump-till-ya-jump @cravesunconditionallove @whumpwritinglover222 @written-in-the-stars135 @neverthelass

@starz8nk @redwinesupanover @whumpisgoodwhumpislife @theforeverdyingperson

[aithusarosekiller]

Sirius Black's favourite things about Peter Pettigrew, a list:

- his freckles. Obviously. They come out more in the sun and sometimes he zones out imagining tracing lines between them.

- the way Peter sits on his shoulder in rat form because it's warm, though neither of them ever address it

- the little black spot on his nose when he's a rat. It sort of looks like a heart, which Sirius bullies him for but they're all secretly jealous that he's the only one with a cool marking in animal form

- the way peter is the only one that can calm Sirius' temper, a feat not even James can manage. (Or especially James depending on how you look at it)

- how he is always friendly to Regulus. Peter is the only one of the gang who knows that no matter what kind of sibling rivalry you have, the way someone treats your sibling is the ultimate means test for a friendship or relationship. If they're mean to your sibling, you drop them instantly bc they're gonna turn out to be a weirdo, if they're neutral it's fine but a bit iffy, if they're outwardly nice to them even when you aren't there, that person has to stay. He always smiles at regulus in corridors or waves and asks how his day was and Sirius thinks it's one of the things that makes him so easy to trust.

- the fact he is the only person who doesn't rise to the bait whenever Sirius wants to piss someone off. It starts off as him being too scared to disappoint but once he settled in, he just decided not to give a fuck or engage when Sirius is being obnoxious. It forces Sirius to seek attention via other methods such as begging or bribing him. He still tries to taunt him into fights for fun but Peter just hums and smiles to himself.

- the way he would hide random crap in Sirius' pockets and see how long it took for him to notice. Remus called it disgusting but Peter found it so entertaining. When he went to Azkaban, his jacket pocket still had a pretty rock from months ago that he hadn't discovered. Then it was taken off him when he was arrested but even if he'd known it was there, he wouldn't have wanted to keep it after discovering the truth.

- how Peter would bitchily nitpick Sirius' outfits for being too posh or too lazy depending on the event and end up styling him himself because apparently he has a 'delicious sense of style but a tragic sense of situation'

- the ridiculous amount of coffee he drinks (Sirius drinks that same level of liquid but in tea so he can't judge)

- the passion he has for arithmancy despite being god-awful at it. similarly, his hatred for transfiguration despite being a master in it

- hes a good kisser

- how he'll sit with Remus each Monday and plan out the next week of revision and homework, because 'unlike you and James, Sirius, some people have to think in order to do well in school'

- his ability to get everybody to trust him

- how his hands are always cold, because it means that he'll let Sirius hold his hands when they're in the dorm together to 'warm them up'. Never around others but James and Remus notice.

- his brutal honesty around most people, the three of them didn't experience it for a while because he was too much of a people pleaser in their early years but when he feels comfortable it shows; he stops masking and starts saying whatever is on his mind (ASD icon)

- his habit of tapping his feet when he's thinking. They're always moving, even when he's asleep his feet are tapping. He probably has the strongest ankles in the school

- the way he'll lean into Sirius' side when they're all standing together. Sirius will wrap an arm around his shoulder and rest his chin on his head. James says that it helps to make the group look united and defensive but in reality they just find it cozy.

- how, after spending a long time in his animagus form, he would go through different rattish habits like hoarding, his head tilting so he can listen better, constantly checking his appearance to make sure he looks perfect

[wherenymphsroam]

do NOT think about leon struggling with identity issues. because he totally doesn’t. noooo way.

[starry-bi-sky]

im dedicating this to @detectivedarling. i felt inspired after seeing their little ficlet yesterday sadhjfl 🫶

-

Danny's grip on his cane tightens.

"What—"

His voice cracks. He stops, clears it, then tries again in spite of the nausea twisting in his gut. "What are — you, uh, watching, Bruce?" He sounds horribly far away.

Bruce doesn't look at him, his attention laser-focused on the screen. Which is— fine. It's usually not a problem, Bruce gets like that when he hyper-focuses on a case, and unless it's urgent — or he's been at it for hours — Danny sees no need to pull him away from it. He likes the quiet camaraderie they have, it's companionable and unique to the two of them.

He wishes he was right now though. Looking at him, that is.

That way he wasn't watching what was clearly one of Danny's ghost fights. One of the nastier ones, if the collateral damage and rubble on the street is of any indication.

Danny tries to remember which one that is. He shuffles a little closer to the desk, ignoring the rock in his stomach or the ugly weightlessness in his arms. It's not the blood blossoms, that much he knows. He just recently had an injection so it shouldn't be bothering him this soon—

So it's just nerves. Perfect.

Most footage of his fights are— messy, at best. Unusable at worst. Amity Park was obsessed with appearing 'normal' when they first started happening, and typical news stations censor the worst of the fights anyways for publishing, since they can get pretty gory at times. And ghosts move too fast to be caught on regular standard cameras, not including distance and light and—

That is to say— finding usable ghost fight videos is hard.

Danny wonders how Bruce got his hands on this one, and then stops wondering.

The audio is muted, which is - good. Good, because the fight is ugly and chaotic and clearly this was taken on someone's phone. Fuck, he can't remember if he ever saw that before — clearly not. They're hiding behind an overturned car, and Danny grits his teeth so he doesn't tell that idiot to run.

The camera turns up, and focuses on two figures in the air. It takes a few seconds, but when it does, Danny gets hit with a wave of vertigo. His grip tightens and he leans heavily on his cane, he waits for the black dots to disappear.

He- uh, he remembers this fight now. Uh, sort of.

He remembers being twelve at the time, and he remembers some of the injuries he got out of it. His eyelid spasms abruptly. This ghost wasn't one of his regulars, so he doesn't remember whatever name they had, barely remembered what they looked like up until- uh. Now.

Was he always that small? Well— Phantom's never been particularly big, perks of being a dead kid, but— it's - different. Seeing it from an outsider perspective. Was he that small? Or is it just because he's wearing a jumpsuit clearly too big for him that casts the illusion of being small?

Doesn't really - matter. Now. He can't access his ghost form, and he already knows the answers to his appearance.

Phantom is clearly bleeding, viscous and violently green like the bubbles of a lava lamp, clutching onto a limp shoulder that's missing an arm from the elbow down. Half his face is drenched in similar blood, the eye on the drenched side is closed — not because he can't see through the ectoplasm.

Danny's memories of that fight slowly come in a bit clearer. Right. He took a pole to the eye in that one. That had - hurt. A lot. Getting an eye gouged out usually does. It and the missing arm took hours to grow back.

He rubs his eye with his palm for no other reason than it itches.

The other ghost isn't untouched of any injury either, but he's not in a state of dismemberment like Phantom is.

Danny drops his gaze down at Bruce, whose sitting in his chair with his hands threaded together, looking so tense that Danny half expects to meet solid steel if he were to touch his back. His face is - blank. Terribly blank, with an intensity in his eyes that Danny doesn't see often.

He looks terribly distressed.

He opens his mouth, and finds that nothing comes out. His throat is thick with an ugly, tar-like feeling that makes his eyes sting. Kinda reminds him of when someone wraps their hands around your throat and presses. He closes his mouth, then tries again.

"B—" hhhhhh, "Buzz."

Finally Bruce looks at him, one hand slaps the space button on the keyboard, and the video pauses. His expression doesn't shift, but there's a weight in the lines of his face that reminds Danny of a set of weights sagging.

He looks quite like he's grieving something.

Bruce opens his mouth, his voice comes out terribly soft and heartbroken: "He looks like you."

Which is— a terrifying sentence in and of itself. One that makes Danny's legs shake and ignite his ragged, poison-chewed nerves alight with the need to run. An instinctive urge to deny, deny, deny.

How could he? He could say, that's a ghost, Bruce. I'm not a ghost. He could crack a joke, and ask, 'do I look dead to you?' or say something about how he knows that his parents studied ghosts, but that didn't make him one.

He could say that, and he could say it knowing full well that Bruce would see right through it. He'd probably let Danny too.

Danny closes his eyes. They sting, you see? So does his nose, right in the back like someone popped him in the face. And his throat is thick and gross and like someone stuck a spider, the big fat tarantula kind, right down into his esophagus.

He breathes in — through his mouth, because his nose stings and so it'd be best not to irritate it further with air — and it's terribly shaky and uneven. But it clears a pathway to his lungs big enough for him to say — whisper, really:

"You know, I think you're the first person to notice that."

[sysig]

If the rules are “Catch them all” ZEX already has a leg up (Patreon)

[arolesbianism]

Thinking abt my dupe ocs again... Maybe Quinn does have hashtag issues actually