#idk i mean who knows if taylor intended for this to be connected

[taylortruther]

even if it's a stretch, i'm compelled by this thought. like, a song about love being so pure - because of your youth and innocence, but also because it's a memory of warmth and care. the face of that love doesn't even matter when the feeling that lingers, the innocence, becomes its legacy. your braids like a pattern, love you to the moon and to saturn, this love lasts so long.

and then consider how, twenty years later, as an adult, you feel like you get older but never wiser, so ahead of the curve, the curve became a sphere. you're so far from the child you were, and you have so little to show for it but scars and fear of ghosts. then you find that warm pure love again, in a person who makes you feel safe, like the child you used to be. just being in their arms takes you back to that time when you were fierce and unapologetic, you hadn't been hurt, you weren't caught up in your own web and afraid of making the wrong move again and again. been sleeping so long in a twenty year dark night... it's nice to have a friend.

[septembersghost]

I didn't mean you at ALL btw. Your discussions always seemed logical to me considering you have only found connections between the songs and linking it with what SHE CONFIRMED. I also don't mind talking about her/joe considering she herself wrote about it. But I feel like there is a line in my own brain which I don't like crossing(idk how to explain it but certain topics come and I'm like no honey dont go there)(again I never got it from you). For example I don't mind talking about how Taylor

Had fling with TH and circumstances for it because she revealed it. Or looking back at 1989 gifs knowing about her ED. But back then if someone said she had ED I would have been highly uncomfortable since we would have been making assumptions about her personal life. But her unconfirmed flings ( esp AS because they both DENIED IT or zac efron thing AGAIN BECAUSE OF DENIAL). You are right again. It speaks about the celebrity culture more than anything at this point

i didn't think you did! but thank you <3

since you mention this, i do have to admit i firmly believed she had an ED back then and was increasingly worried about her, and it got to the point where seeing her was so triggering for me that i avoided photographs of her altogether at that time, but it's only because i recognized things i'd already seen and experienced in myself, and i wasn't sure i was right, i was just concerned. if i hadn't had the firsthand experience, it likely would've not felt quite that acute to me. that said, i also didn't discuss it publicly, like i didn't say i thought CH was terrible, or didn't mention her in 2016 when i thought it was evident she was struggling pretty badly. the only person who heard me express any of this at the times it was happening was my mom (and i hate that i was right, especially in regards to her ED, because i wouldn't wish that on anyone, and i'm so proud of how far she's come and her ability to mention it and continue with her recovery). i do think sometimes we see reflections of things we understand in others, but we should still be cautious when talking about it on a public forum out of deference to them as humans.

thinking she's hooked up with people who have flat-out denied it or have only been mentioned as rumor is simply disconcerting/disrespectful to me and feels like leaning into the slut shaming culture even if it's not intended that way. but things she's written about and described in detail herself are public record, they're essential and a part of her art, so we can decide how to approach that and how to respectfully discuss it and its meaning.

I feel like there is a line in my own brain which I don't like crossing no same, and that's probably different for everyone and that's fine! we have to recognize what our own boundaries are and what we see as okay to approach. being interested/curious about artists and their experiences itself is never a negative thing! it's very human and universal, audiences have been captivated by the people who create things for centuries, it's all in how we engage and how we talk about and treat them. the moment it becomes cruel or dehumanizing is the moment i'm not interested in seeing it. but recognizing their struggles/joys and their inspirations and their complexities is an extension of empathy.

[bisluthq]

I'm sure Taylor's great movie connections (read: Lena Dunham) will love Travis and give him any role though 😂😂 since he seems to keen to just accept whatever they offer him

I think that’s unfair on both Lena and Travis lol. Like Lena never hired Austin so it’s not like proximity sways her per se. She def was biased towards Joe because of Taylor though like CCB is the one job Joe got that I think was directly related to yk Taylor. He might’ve gotten it anyway but idk that he’d have auditioned for it like in an AU where he didn’t personally know Lena and wasn’t asked to do it. So no she doesn’t hire just anyone for anything. She does have a Vision™️ that girl (pun intended) like overall.

as for Travis, and I mean this in the nicest way, I think he’s much too calculating and clever with his brand to do a Lena movie. He wants to be the next Rock/at minimum John Cena and Lena movies won’t help that at all and would actively harm that because it’d take two minutes to connect the dots as to why he’s in that movie and also no one will watch it lol because no one watches Lena’s movies these days (except middle school Language Arts classes studying CCB who will have to sit through CCB at some point or another).

[matan4il]

your meta is so in line with my own thoughts about the relationship after 4x14. it got me thinking about how bucktaylor and eddiana will be resolved in season 5 if buddie was the path the writers do intend on taking. i think ana will be easier to get rid of, but as for taylor, who seems like a more strongly established character than ana, do you think buck always prioritizing eddie and christopher will interfere with their relationship, to the point where taylor feels she can't compete?

Hi lovely, thank you so much, it makes me incredibly happy to hear my meta could echo your thoughts! :D I tend to think Ana will only be there for a short while, and Taylor will be sticking around for longer. Realistically, the way Buddie prioritize each other and their family unit with Chris over anyone else, it would HAVE to come up with any partner either man dated. Not just with Taylor, Ana realistically should also have had a few questions after what we saw in 414. Buck so fully stepped into the role of being there for Chris AND for Eddie (taking care of Chris, but also of Eddie by taking him home and before that, by connecting him to Chris... Ana is not there when Eddie finally speaks to his son from his hospital bed, which you know is the most important talk for Eddie) that it'd be weird if Ana wasn't a bit weirded out. Buck got to be the 'girlfriend' more than the actual girlfriend. And there's no way this dynamic will change in s5, so yes, realistically any partner, but especially take-no-BS Taylor, would be questioning Buck about this. Will she actually do that? It really depends on what Tim has in mind for her. I heard (I haven't read it myself) that Tim wants to explore the reporter angle, which... IDK how to tell him this, but a reporter is NOT a first responder. It makes me wonder how he plans to utilize Taylor's character. There are so many options, especially if Tim is making some eyebrow raising decisions (like using a reporter as a first responder) that I don't know I can say what's going to happen with Buck and Taylor... I'm so sorry if this isn't a more decisive answer, I'm just honestly side-eyeing Tim so hard right now. I hope this helps anyhow! xoxox

I have loved reading your metas for season 4 and I can’t wait to read your metas for season 5 later on this year! 🥰 You are so on point with the level of trust between Buck and Eddie, and Eddie making Buck Christopher’s legal guardian. I just can’t see anyway really except for Buddie going canon, because I can just see it causing an underlining level of distrust in any future relationship for Eddie, because there is no way Eddie would ever change his will and remove Buck, so any LI (Ana or anyone else) may always on some level feel that Eddie doesn’t trust them with Christopher. I mean let’s face it if he’s in a serious relationship with someone (who isn’t Buck) there would be a talk about his will and Christopher especially with the job that he does, so it would come up! Anyway this was a lot longer than I thought it would be haha. I hope you have a great day!! ☺️

@charlyrose94 Hi love, it's always such a pleasure getting an ask from you! I'm so happy you enjoyed the meta and thank you, I can't wait to be writing s5 meta for you, too! *HUGS*

And for real! Exactly, just imagine if Eddie ever had to explain why Buck is legally Chris' other guardian and why it's never going to change, knowing the levels of trust and love and connectedness this implies, especially when Buck is always there. Imagine a partner having to find a way to deal with the fact that Eddie comes not just with a kid of his own into the relationship, but another partner, too. One who has Eddie's heart (Chris) and his back in the field and can communicate with him non-verbally, and they would die for each other, and they only have eyes for each other whenever they're in the same room, which happens in game nights and late night talks way too often... yeah, I feel like this is continuing the ask above, but realistically, very few partners would be willing to put up with being second best in their own romantic relationship. Now if only the writers would acknowledge this! Thank you for the ask, hon! xoxox

Your meta of 4.14 is amazing. I wanted to add that we have two people in this talking about Buck not being expendable. Buck clearly feels guilty when he goes to Bobby and he expects a dressing down. Eddie uses a different approach and I bet this time it hits home. With Buck knowing what's on line, he will at least consider his actions. It speaks how Eddie (&Chris) are on a whole different level than Bobby (who=mentor, father figure). Meaning: Buck does stuff for Eddie he won't do for the team

Nonnie, I so agree with you! I think Bobby knew he stood no chance of changing how Buck felt and thought, which is why he backed down and had to trust that somehow, as he's done before, Buck would manage to sort himself out. And he did. With the help of Eddie, just like in the past (like in eps 301/303). Eddie is ALWAYS the person who manages to reach Buck when no one else can. The stuff soulmates are made of, honestly. Buck loves everyone on the team with his whole heart, Bobby is a special person in his life, they have a really important bond, but no one will ever get Buck and intuitively understand what he needs and how to give it to him like Eddie. I've written about this in the past and it's even truer after 414. Thank you so much for the great ask! xoxox

[unproduciblesmackdown]

really a mystery how billions writers approach winston’s material (or really, anyone’s, but as a tertiary character there’s simply less info to work with) and of course all this through a lens of seeing what’s Probably not meant to be there, like finding winston a delight already in season 3 when that three episode arc was going from “taylor can’t stand to work with him” to “taylor can tolerate him probably,” detecting the incredible sexual tension in winston & taylor’s kompenso scene/s which was probably not intended as written, the fact of [winston billions autistic character]’s incredible power when it’s surely one of those cases of writing “ha ha we all know these people who are just weird like this” characters

like as soon as they knew they wanted more scenes for quant kid 2, i wonder how they reconfigured their idea of his personality, or actually, even before that, as they were watching the quant kid 2 scene being acted, what was such a Surprise about the material in its performance that then turned into “oh we gotta have more of it”....i mean obviously will roland is the x factor there, but like, in what particular way lmfao, was it just the joie de vivre Liveliness for the character, was it the [oops, grounded human pathos] arc he has there lol which i suppose could’ve been acted as Disappointment without seeming like yes, this guy is gonna walk out and go be depressed for months until taylor calls him up....of course they had to write recurring winston differently than one & done quant kid 2, but wonder what the specific ideas in mind were besides “not liable to do exactly the kind of thing he tried in 3x03 again;” certainly 3x09 is in strong contrast to it to balance it out, but even when we see a throwback in 5x05 with his feet up on his desk, it’s hardly the same as even seeming to approach 3x03, rather than that being like, The Winston Epitome.....kept his theatrical flair, but now all his [trying to win something] is like, very spontaneously done, he might have a monologue in mind but he’ll be more straightforward about it, to taylor at least, and he’s liable to back down easily when someone’s trying to put him through the shredder or just dunk on him enough

anyways just kind of Saying Things but speaking of the [what does anyone ever have in mind when writing winston] this loose theory that he’s kind of got elements of both how team ben is handled And spyros, tragically, the Most [guy everyone hates b/c he sucks] lmao.....like re: the latter of course it’s like oh this person who could do things the right normal way but doesn’t, possible weird overlap of like physiognomy time like well for one thing if this guy was Likable he’d be sexier, or that if he was likable/sympathetic he would be Personable, a distinction from likability that i’m mostly thinking of in terms of like, say the audience or individual characters Can Like Them = likable, vs. how personable they are as like, a reaction to demeanor / more superficial assessment of Their Vibe based of any given interaction whether or not there’s actual personal info about them involved, like, are they charming or what have you, Personable....if winston deserved to be liked, he’d Seem Personable.....but where also interestingly you know that say, ben kim is judged by coworkers (more so previously) to be doing things wrong b/c he is clearly Trying to get along with people / when he would be trying to behave the supposedly normal axe cap way & get references & etc, again this would involve too much obvious Effort....team ben as members of the supposedly Too Nice people at axe cap, to quote mafee about it while spyros was doing that mensa thing. whereas winston doesn’t really ever do much to anyone & keeps being spontaneously glad to (try to) connect with people (and we do see his Trying To Be Winsome / Friendly / Appealing efforts at least with rian there in 5x07) but he isn’t “nice".....and it’s impossible to tell sometimes what one might be expected to pick up when idk you can’t count on rando audience members / viewers to not find winston either someone they’re not really willing to engage with unless it’s to dunk on him, like oops can’t remember he exists if i can help it, and/or they just have this je ne hate quoi lens going like yeah idk winston? his character is also just being the guy who we all hate b/c he sucks......like clearly that’s not exactly the approach the writing takes even if it Is mostly taking that approach when it comes to spyros over there, who’s still different (and who winston didn’t particularly vibe with in the one witnessed crossing of paths, when he also Crossed taylor which can’t have helped, & winston was aligned with rian there / they both react like :/ :[ about it....probably not meant as kindred spirits actually) but anyways, other randos are useless about it, and it sure is Interesting to me that winston and tuk were written to have this completely cooperative, constructive, brilliantly Pleasant casual exchange with each other in 5x08 there, and where possibly hanging out before wandering onscreen....winston being Some Nerd is more aligned with tuk as well. aaaand he’s also aligned with rian, as stated, where they are certainly a duo, and a duo who can work together perfectly fine it seems, and be perfectly matter of fact, and maybe even also perfectly friendly sometimes, but rian is also a more serious / more prominent character and maybe we are seeing Supposed Objective Reactions to him when she maybe is annoyed by him / disdainful (like, willing to dunk on him over nothing, even if it’s also not completely earnestly seriously done) towards him....difficult to say, rian’s been busy having serious, prominent character exchanges w/taylor, and that dynamic is hardly crystal clear either atm. anyways just kind of pondering about it, do the writers expect a [the way randos can react to any given wrole] reaction from people and incorporate that into the character, seems some level of Haha Nerd disdain is an “objective” thing that winston’s existence warrants, as seen from omniscient magic text in burn rate, but there also seems to Always be this room for him actually being taken seriously by anyone at all for five seconds / even having a mutually amicable exchange......again tl;dr mystery of winston’s material lol

[sirnnsongs]

( anya taylor joy, twenty-three, she/her ) spotted ! lorelei gunther, on the steps of the met. who’d have seen that coming? what with being a music phd student and all, i’m surprised they’ve found the time. they’ve always been quite disconnected and impulsive, so i’m sure trouble will follow in their wake. then again, i’ve been told they can be perceptive and original. either way, i’ll be watching. - xoxo, gossip girl. ( alys, 23, est, she/her )

what’s up??? i’m alys (or ally if you prefer!) and it’s been a hot minute since i’ve done a tumblr rp. been dying for a good gg-style rp and then i found this yesterday and went .... well no time like the present ! so i decided to resurrect a muse i haven’t played in a while; this is lorelei aka lorrie, spoiled rich kid, quiet weirdo, big lily from pitch perfect energy. grew up on the upper east side, left for vienna, and is back doing her doctorate in music composition bc she has no clue what she wants to do with her life. like this for a plotting message !!

statistics. 

full name. lorelei amelia “lorrie” gunther.  age. twenty-three.  date of birth. february 24, 1998. place of birth. new york, ny.  gender & pronouns. cis woman & she/her. orientation. bisexual/queer.  occupation. phd candidate at columbia university.  education. bachelor of composition and music theory from the university of music and performing arts vienna. 

height. five foot eight. build. willowy.  hair. naturally blonde, typically dyed grey-blue.  eye color. brown. distinguishing features. unexpressive features, wide eyes, 

zodiac. pisces sun, aquarius moon & rising.  mbti. intp, the logistician.  enneagram. type five, the investigator. alignment. chaotic neutral. 

father. frederick gunther : b. 1959, film composer (think hans zimmer).  mother. caroline claymoore : b. 1962, art curator. sibling(s). phillip gunther : b. 1994, cellist & music instructor.  other relatives. her oma, franziska gunther, music teacher & composer. 1934-2016. her opa, stefan gunther, music theory professor. 1932-1985.

past. (tw: death)

quick gunther family history: franziska and stefan immigrated to the u.s. from austria in 1955 so stefan could take a job at julliard as a professor. they’ve been in the upper east side since the 1960s. frederick is the first-born son, married connecticut-born caroline in 1994, while she was pregnant with phillip. they divorced in 1997, while caroline was pregnant with lorelei.  

when lorrie was three, her mom moved to paris. when she was four, her dad moved to los angeles. so, he decided to leave the kids with his mother, lorrie’s oma, franziska. 

whereas her brother was kept busy by extra tutoring and music lessons, at his father’s strict request, lorrie was raised largely by her oma, who, at this point, was an eccentric upper east sider. think adelaide bonfamille from the aristocats. 

a lonely, socially awkward kid, considered a musical prodigy just like her brother and her father. i’m keeping most of her childhood and adolescence pretty open and loose for plotting purposes but she was definitely quieter and weirder, not particularly social. also def went through a phase in high school where she like cut all her hair off and went really alt bc that’s the vibe. 

her brother attended juilliard, like their father intended. lorrie intended to, too, but then in the spring before graduation, her oma died. not unexpectedly, but suddenly. 

basically, lorrie had a minor meltdown, took a gap year, and ran off to vienna, which was where her grandmother was from, and a place she always recalled fondly. 

and now that her brother has left juilliard and is currently teaching music at a private school in massachusetts, she’s returned to do a doctorate in music composition at columbia. she’s missed new york dearly. 

present. 

*insert jughead weirdo speech here*

back in high school went through the quiet girl to alt girl pipeline. one day she’s wearing burberry and shiny loafers, the next she’s chopped all her hair off and dressed like she just inherited a hot topic franchise. 

basically big “i’ve been clinically depressed since i was nine years old” energy. 

kind of directionless in life. yk the vibe of like she didn’t expect to make it this far. 

pretty quiet just by nature, kind of lives inside her own head. finds herself falling back into high school patterns now that she’s returned. 

has never learned how to process her own emotions. she’s an aquarius moon raised by a gemini, so. 

had a problem where she did reckless shit to feel alive. started with going to vienna, and then this pattern continued to get worse in europe. now that she’s back, though, she’s trying to... stay here and not just run away when things start to suck. 

after this is just fun facts: 

stoner on the dl. and by dl i mean everyone knows it but she has the decency to smoke in private. she's done other drugs, too, but she's... trying to cut back. 

that lactose intolerant bitch who pretends she’s not that lactose intolerant but. she seriously is. 

can speak six different languages, play nearly twenty different instruments, but can't cook, drive, budget, or live any kind of healthy lifestyle. 

wanted connections. 

childhood best friend. that she... ghosted when she went to vienna. whoops. probably some beef there.

partner in crime. probably underestimated her propensity for chaos at one point, but not anymore. 

high school bully. def a bullying victim at some point. things between them are weird now. 

idk man she’s got a lot of flexibility and i’d love a lot of different connections for her. professional relationships (like a mentor or mentee thing?), flings/one night stands, new friends, almost-dated, former students of her oma's, etc. 

[ddaenggtan]

black irises in the sunshine | kth

anger is everything. other gods tease you for the short fuse, but it comes with the territory. people have called you stupid, have called you dumb, oafish, useless, incompetent, insolent, rude, arrogant. all of it. insults and mockery flung at you, but even your skin isn’t thick enough to deal with constant abuse. it’s the exact reason you keep going to the underground, knuckles bloody and bruised, fighting anyone that dared enter the cage. it’s the reason you go to the clubs, surround yourself with mortals and their writhing bodies. it’s there that you see him the first time, voice husky as it rolls through the room. it’s there you find someone who treats you differently than the rest. you just never expected him to be one of the muses. | monsters and gods pt 3 (masterlist)

pairing | taehyung x reader

genre/warnings | greek god au, calliope!taehyung, ares!reader, theres a lot of violence and it does get descriptive so be aware of that, none of the main characters other than ares get hurt and its not uncalled for or anything in a narrative sense, so just be aware of that; there are mentions of other idols, but if you can guess them you get a cookie because they are Vague; suuuuper bisexual Ares, Ares Can Step On Me, like I am SO gay for her it isn’t funny; explicit smut ft: cunnilingus, taeHUNG bc hes got MASSIVE SCHLONG,  some body worship kind of and then just....regular worship? like? idk how to explain that? lots of praise and lots or orgasms

word count | 14k | cross posted to ao3

a/n | HOOOOOOO this has been sitting in my google docs for literal months waiting for an ending and i decided to try to get it out for tae's birthday bUT that didn't work because i have a Job and shit so YEET I GUESS HAPPY FUCKIN NEW YEAR??? LIKE??? YEEEEEEEEEEEEE this fic is very near to me because Ares is my sweet sad angry babie and i love her, and i love tae and i love suho and i love the muses and i just........lOVE this fic like i think this is currently my favorite of the mag series so!! i hope yall also enjoy it!!!! yall are welcome to send me messages about this even tho I'm terrible at replying to them in a timely manner!! thanks to everyone who helped me with this, and everyone who has expressed interest in it, and everyone who has ever read anything of mine, because you're genuinely the best people ever, and this is literally a gift to y'all because you deserve it. 

Fuck, that was too hard .

The guy across from you goes flying, hitting the chain link wall of the cage harder than you intended. Every nerve ending in your body is on fire, and even holding back, you've got a better buzz than even the best nectar can give. Your blood sings as the guy gets back up, and you almost wish you could remember his name, because he's put up a hell of a fight. For a mortal, anyway. 

He charges at you again, and time slows as your vision tunnels. You can see the feint as he decides on it, how he hesitates in bringing his left up. You wait, watching him get closer and closer. You start to dart to your left, letting him think he's got you, before you side-step and dart to your right instead. His punch goes wide as you steady your balance and move. The top of your foot connects with his ribcage and the resulting crack of bone is lost amid the cheers and yells of the audience. 

Your opponent steps back and you're proud of the way he doesn't show the pain. He doesn't wince, doesn't move to touch the spot you hit, just tightens his stance and clenches his jaw. It's only you that notices the hitch in his breath, the way he flinches with every inhale. Your eyes narrow at that, zeroing in on the rib. You'd meant to just crack it, had been holding back most of your strength to keep from hurting him too seriously, but as he steps forward, you can see the way he grits his teeth against the pain. 

The fight leaves you immediately, like a bucket of cold water straight to the chest, and you drop your hands. 

"Yield." He just stares at you, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Yield to me, and then go to the doctor."

"I'm not gonna yield," He says. He spits a mouthful of blood out onto the floor. "I'm not weak."

"Seriously, dude," You insist. "You're not gonna win this, and I don't want to hurt you more." 

His scoff has you seeing red. "As if a princess like you could hurt me."

Your fist connects with his face before either of you registers that you've moved. There's a voice in the back of your head reminding you that he's just mortal, he can't take the same kind of beating you can, but it's lost in the haze of fury. The next thing you know, the ref is dragging you away and slamming you into the cage wall. Your opponent is being dragged out - you still don't know his name - and he looks beaten senseless. Victory rolls through you accompanied by a sick satisfaction at the way his blood looks decorating the canvas beneath your feet. 

It lasts for less than an hour. It's always like this; the thrill of the fight, the burn of success, it's gone faster than you can blink. It's what drives you to keep fighting, to keep going to match after match, just to seek out the under-the-table stuff afterwards. It's never enough, not anymore. Back in the old days, they'd let you fight anything. Bears, bulls, lions, giants, anything they could get a noose around long enough to point it at a colosseum. That was a long time ago, though, before all the rights movements happened. You won't lie: you miss fighting beasts like that. The sheer power and strength they have, the survival instinct that makes them such fierce competitors, it's so much better than the rules and regulations of the mortal world now. Fights have gotten dull, rehearsed, more like a performance or a show than an actual fight. People make more money losing than they do winning and it's made the world boring. 

You flex your hand as you open the door to your favorite bar. Something caught it at some point in the last fight, a cheekbone or a tooth, and it stings a little. Doesn't hurt, not exactly, not for a goddess, but it did enough that you feel it at all, which means it couldn't have been anything but torture for the guy on the other end. The bartender waves at you and gets your usual ready as you sit, and you idly wonder if Busted Rib Guy will be okay. It looked painful, for a human, and you'd tried to hold back, but…

Well, you weren't really responsible for what happened to condescending little fucks, were you?

You sip the bourbon, enjoying the burn as it goes down. The lights are dim, tonight. You're glad. You don't want to deal with people looking at you, men coming over to talk to you, trying to advise you on how to properly bandage your knuckles or how to avoid the bruise on your cheek next time. If you had wanted to avoid it, you would have. You'd intended it to hurt worse, honestly, but that first guy'd had a weaker right hook than you expected. 

You look around, wondering if anyone here would provide a decent distraction for the night. There's a pretty brunette in the corner with carefully crafted braids, and as your eyes travel, you imagine what's hiding beneath the silk and leather. You're pulled from the thought by the sound of music, and you curse under your breath. You forgot that it's an open mic night and you'd meant to go to the bar across town instead. Irritation colors your vision; every open mic night is awful, full of lofty poets talking about their trauma and wannabe Taylor Swifts thinking they're on the same level as Sappho. Ah, now that was a girl with a set of pipes. You miss her, wonder what she would say to the butchering of whatever song you're about to hear.

The voice that comes isn't what you expect. It's smooth and deep. The world turns to velvet around you as the voice wanders from one speaker to another, creating a mesmerizing multi-dimensional effect despite the way the singer doesn't ever leave the stage. You turn, knuckles white around your bourbon glass; he's utterly magnetic, every eye in the room trained on him as he purrs into the vintage mic. Long fingers are wrapped around the scuffed metal, decorated with jewels that glitter in the dim light of the bar. You can smell the lingering cigarette smoke from the guy beside you and the Jäger from the girl two stools down and for once, you don't even care. He's captivating, voice travelling between speakers in the bar and coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. 

Your eyes don't leave him, and you wonder if you can memorize the way the blond waves fall against his forehead if you stare long enough. 

The red seeps away from you, slinking back into the corners of your mind, settling once more into a low thrum under your skin. It fades into the background of this man's voice, the charisma that rolls off him in waves as he pulls the mic in close just to push it to the side with a teasing smirk. It settles something in your chest that hasn't been calm since the fight in Athens so long ago. 

The music fades out sooner than you'd like, and he gives a slight bow before wandering into the crowd. You do your best to follow him, but the gold of his hair disappears almost immediately, lost in the throng of people around the stage waiting to speak to him. You turn back around, downing the next bit of bourbon that Suho pours you. 

"I know," He says with a grin. You cock a brow at him, not having said anything he could agree with. "He's good. That's what you were thinking, right? He's why we're so packed on open mics. Got the audio and lighting guy whipped, so he's got all these special effects, too. Drives people crazy.”

"He's alright," You mutter. You toss a few bills down on the bartop and step back. Suho gives you a courteous nod as you leave. The bouncer gives you a dirty look when he spots the lit cigarette between your lips, but he knows better than to try to tell you otherwise. You've taught him better. 

You lean back against the brick wall of the alley and take a drag. The warm smoke fills your lungs and you close your eyes. It's a different kind of burn than you're used to, a distraction from the crawling sensation that drives you to fight. It's calmer, more controlled. Feels like the smoke from Hestia's fires. Feels like home. 

"Never expected to see you here," A voice calls out. It's deep and startling in the darkness, but you don't jump. You just open your eyes, exhale, and look to where it came from. 

The singer stands before you in the same undone white button up and black tee he performed in. He doesn't have a cig, doesn't seem to have much of any reason to be outside. He moves almost lazily, as if he doesn't even need to, just wants to, and when his gaze flicks up to meet yours, your vision fills just for a breath with every opponent you've ever faced lying at your feet. 

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" The words slip from your tongue before you can stop them. It's not his fault, the voice in your head says, he didn't mean it that way, but still, your blood is thrumming now that he's here and you want to know what he's talking about. Want to know why he thinks you wouldn't be here when there's attractive people and good bourbon and you've never seen this man before in your life. Want to know why he already seems to think you aren't civilized enough to be at a bar, why he spoke but all you heard was Zeus' voice in your memories.

"Exactly what I said. Should I be clearer?"

"Yeah, probably," you spit. Yet another person that assumes you're stupid, that you don't understand basic languages, as if you haven't been speaking them since the ancient times. As if you couldn't speak circles around him if you wanted. "Unless you want your teeth on the fucking ground."

"Good to know the stories are true." He tsks and you're filled with a strange sense of disappointment and fury, both at him and yourself. Your vision turns red at the edges and the cigarette between your fingers is crushed in your grip. He pays no mind to it, just saunters past with a lazy, swaying gait that draws your eyes to his hips and then down the long leather-clad legs. "See you around, Ares."

"That's not my fucking name," You yell after him. He doesn't respond when you shout your actual name, the one you chose, on your own, as a middle finger to the Olympians. "Get it right next time, dickwad."

He turns the corner of the alley and the streetlight catches his face just enough for you to see the smirk he wears. For once in your life, you're torn; you want to smash his face in, yes, because how dare this random guy speak to you like that when you could kill him with one finger to the right pressure point. You also find your skin's hotter than usual, stretched too thin over your bones, and you want him to run his hands over you until it feels right again.

Until it feels like it did when he was singing. 

How did he know my title?

The thought comes unbidden, days later, with the desperate hit of a palm against your shoulder. You've got the woman in a headlock, patiently waiting for her to pass out completely so the fight can be called, and your mind is wandering. 

How did the singer know who you are? You hadn't thought anything of it at the time, distracted by fury and frustration, but with time comes a special kind of clarity. You've never seen him before, not that you know anyway, yet he didn't hesitate to call you Ares. The only ones who know of your kind are your kind, but you haven't seen any of your siblings among mortals in a long time. You thought you knew the other gods and goddesses, but maybe not. It has been a while since you stepped foot in the golden city.

The woman in your grip goes slack and you release her. You're still lost in thought as the ref calls the match and leads you out of the makeshift ring. The cheers of the audience are background noise at this point, akin to static or the buzz of electricity, and you pay them no mind as you head to collect your winnings. You didn't even get any kind of buzz from success this time, too immersed in the way the singer walked and talked and looked. The image of his smirk is burned into your retinas. 

"Yeah, you didn't hear? He just got out of the hospital. They had to keep him overnight because they thought he might puncture a lung. I heard that if it had been a little worse, they would've had to wire his jaw shut." You stop, fingers brushing over the stack of bills you don't even remember being handed. You look up, making eye contact with the guy whispering nearby. Your suspicions are confirmed when his friend smacks his arm and juts his chin in your direction before they both disappear into the crowd. 

You shove your way outside, frustration creeping through you and coloring your vision. You manage to keep it contained long enough for you to make it to the alley behind the warehouse, but it explodes from you in a rush of thrown dumpsters and sheet metal. 

Fuck , you never meant to hurt him like that. You told him, you fucking told him to yield, it isn't your fault he didn't listen. It's not your fault that he went and insulted you, acted like he was better than you just by virtue of being a dude, as if you weren't worshipped in the old days for the power you had and the blessings you could give. You'd held back, through all of it, you'd told him to yield, and he insulted you. It wasn't your fault. 

You slide to the ground, running a shaking hand through your hair. It isn't your fault , you repeat. You close your eyes and take deep breaths, the way Hestia taught you, willing the fury to dissipate. It's like a fire in your veins, burning and bubbling your skin until you can't resist anymore. You take another breath. It isn't your fault. You tried. You offered an out. It isn't your fault. Fuck, what was his name? 

With a growl that quickly morphs into a scream, you kick the dumpster once more before stalking off into the darkness. You need a fucking drink and you're gonna find a distraction in someone else if it's the last thing you do. 

The club is packed when you get there; you're not usually a fan of clubs like this, too full of people who are too friendly, but they're perfect for nights like tonight. You don't even need to wait in line, just slip the bouncer a 50 as you pass, and the bartenders are quick to spot you. You're pretty notorious in the city for over-paying, which means you're knocking back bourbon before you have a chance to ask for it. There are people everywhere, pressed up against both sides of you while the bass thrums in your throat, and it takes you longer than you're proud of to realize why. 

There's a band playing, apparently. They're not bad; the vocalist isn't anything like the singer from Suho's, but it doesn't make you want to tear your ears off, so you consider it a success. 

You're dancing before you remember deciding to. Everything's a blur when you get the itch in your bones, the need to make someone bleed. To feel something that isn't rage or condescension. People are even closer here on the dance floor, suffocating in their proximity, but there's a woman grinding her ass into you, and it sparks the dying fire in your gut. The beat of the music drowns your own heart, and it's all flashing lights and heat and a body pressed against yours that is all too willing.

She follows when you go back to the bar for another drink, and giggles when you lick salt from her wrist before downing tequila. Her hands are wrapped in the leather of your jacket as she kisses you, your own resting lightly on her hips. She laughs against your lips and says something you don't hear before ordering another drink. Something makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

You take the brief reprieve to look around the club, searching for whatever it is that has you on alert. You find him on the upper level of the club, leaned over the balcony with a drink in hand. You can't make out his expression, exactly; it's too far away and too guarded. But you'd know him anywhere now. The singer knocks back whatever's in his glass, eyes never leaving yours. You don't know why he's here, if he comes here often or if the Fates are having a laugh at your expense, but you do know you want to make the most of it.

The girl is back, pressing a heated kiss to your lips and drawing your attention from him. You return it, nipping at her lips and getting a small gasp in return. You smirk and bite your way down her neck. She's breathy in your ear, hitched moans lost in the beat of the music, but you barely hear her as you suck bruises into the skin of her neck. He's still watching you. His drink is gone and he's gripping the bannister of the balcony, rings glinting in the light. You wonder if the cool metal could soothe the burn in your bones. You want to know if he can bring that calmness from before back, if he can soothe the frenzy in your mind with his hands the way he can with his voice. Just imagining it has you soaking through to your jeans.

The girl makes a particularly loud noise in your ear and you're brought out of your thoughts. As if he can sense it, the singer straightens. He gives you one last look before disappearing back into the crowd, and you wonder if you're imagining the disdain in it. You draw back from the girl's neck, about to tell her to find her friends when she slides her hands in your hair and tugs.

The burn in your blood is back, now, and you hope this girl is prepared for what awaits her.

"You're here early," Suho says when he spots you in the nearly empty bar the next night. He's not wrong, either; you skipped the fights tonight completely. There was no buzz last time, no relief, and you have no reason to believe there would be tonight. Not with the way the singer captivates your thoughts. 

Besides, you have enough money leftover from the previous few to last a couple days.

"What, did you decide not to kick someone's ass before getting wasted?" Suho doesn't wither at the look you give him, just pours you a couple fingers of bourbon and slides the glass over. "Or did they just stop letting you in completely?"

"I might change my mind if you don't shut up," You tell him. There's no real heat behind it. You've known Suho for years now, been coming to his bar for so long it almost feels like home. You're almost friends at this point. 

It helps that he knows when to bite his tongue so he doesn't get his teeth knocked out.

"Seriously though, I don't think I've ever seen you here this early. Especially not on mic nights." You're very careful in your lack of a reaction to his words. You'd seen the workers setting up for it when you came in, and even if you hadn't, you know when mic night is. You've spent enough time avoiding it.

"Does he sing every time?" You ask in lieu of an explanation. You don't look away from the amber liquid in your glass, letting the silence hang as the bartender does his best to follow your thought process. 

"Taehyung? Most weeks, yeah. It's been a nice change from the usual drunken karaoke. He goes around to some of the other places in town, too. Apparently he just likes to sing." 

"Taehyung," You repeat. The name rolls from your tongue a bit awkwardly. It's more than you expected, somehow, but you can't place exactly how . Just...more. "Is he always that good?"

"Oh, yeah. We have regulars now for mic night because of him. He's got a whole fan club and everything."

"Hm." You drain the rest of your bourbon and Suho refills it. He leaves you in peace then, serving some others that appear at the bar. 

The place fills faster than you can blink. That's what it feels like, anyway. It's like one moment there's you and a handful of other people scattered around, and now you're being jostled between some dude a million feet tall that definitely doesn't look old enough to be here and a girl with her tits up to her throat and surrounded by a cloud of perfume so thick that it starts a migraine behind your eyes almost instantly. She flirts with Suho a little, likely trying to score free drinks, and you roll your eyes. She pouts at him when he gives her the total, batting eyelashes that go on for miles, and for once, you wish Suho would just give in and comp the drinks. 

"I'll pay for them," You say. She was definitely saying something, maybe you should have been paying attention to it, but fuck , this migraine is only getting worse the longer she stands there. "I'll pay for your drinks."

"Oh, thanks," She says. Her smile is hesitant, and quickly turns apologetic as she takes in the boots and the ripped jeans and the leather jacket. "Um, I'm not...I don't, uh…"

"Do I look like I want to fuck you, sweetie?" She looks a little affronted and a laugh escapes you. You lean closer, letting your breath ghost over her cheek as you speak in her ear to be heard better. "If I wanted to fuck you senseless, you'd know it. And I can guarantee you it would be a hell of a lot better than the watered down rat piss this guy's giving you." 

When you lean back, her face is flushed and she's stammering. You smirk and hand her the drinks she'd ordered. 

"Too bad you’re not, you don’t, huh?" You tell her. The patronizing tone isn't lost on her, nor is your mockery of her earlier words, and she shuts her mouth with an audible click before strutting off. Suho glares at you as he pours more bourbon.

"Can you please try not to run off my patrons?" He mutters. "Some of us actually need money to live."

"Some of us would like decently timed refills and to not choke on perfume," You quip. "And better bourbon, for that matter." He hisses something about what he's giving you being top quality but you tune him out, throwing one leg over the stool Perfume Girl vacated. You'd like to keep just a little bit of personal space. 

Across the bar, you catch a brief glimpse of the girl from the night before and you wince. Her neck is thoroughly bruised, and you catch a peek of bruises and scratches on her back as she shrugs her jacket on. You didn’t mean to be so rough with her, even if she had been into it; you’re usually pretty good about remembering that the mortals are just that - mortal - and as such have to be handled delicately. They’re so fragile, it feels like they could break with a strong wind. Guilt settles in your gut and turns the bourbon in your glass to cough syrup. You’ve half a mind to just leave before she sees you, are about to turn and do exactly that, but the speakers screech to life and the deafening feedback from the mic keeps you glued to your seat. 

The crowd quiets even as the excitement ramps up, all talk silencing but for the occasional hushed whispers here and there. The first few notes of the song echo through the speakers, and a spotlight appears on him. 

He looks different this time, his hair dyed a vibrant blue that matches the glinting jewels in his ears and on his hands. He's an absolute vision and you wonder how Aphrodite has allowed him to live so long when he's so beautiful. His voice hangs in the air and calms you, the same settling in your chest as last time, the same freedom from the burn in your veins. It's addictive. 

The song doesn't last nearly as long as you want it to but the stillness inside you lingers long after he's done caressing the microphone. You place a few bills down for Suho and light up a cigarette as you head outside, ignoring the dirty looks from other patrons as you do. You're on a mission, the thrum of bloodlust returning with every second that passes, and you can't even be sure if he's still around or if he's wandered off already. 

You stand in the alley for what feels like hours, turning at every sound and smoking cig after cig just so you have something to do. You've almost decided to say fuck it when footsteps sound from the back of the bar, coming closer to you. 

His blue hair is visible even from the other end of the small alley, a giveaway similar to the light at the end of your cigarette and the smoke you blow into the air. There's no way he hasn't seen you, you think, you're making no effort to hide or be sneaky, and yet he's continuing forward as if he doesn't see you at all, eyes focused on a phone in his hand. You wait until he's just a few steps away before speaking.

"How do you know my title?" You ask him. He stops as if he'd always meant to and doesn't even bother to glance up at you or respond. The edges of your vision turn scarlet at the blatant disregard and you're speaking before you can even process the words. "I asked you a fucking question, pretty boy, you're gonna answer me. Unless you want that precious mouth bloodied up."

"And you wonder how I know who you are," He drawls, still not bothering to spare a glance at you. A scowl grows over your face at his sarcastic tone. "If you're going to hit me just get it over with. Otherwise, I have places to be."

He stands, waiting and expectant, but you don't move. He's humming, quiet and to himself like he doesn't even realize he's doing it, and the red seeps away from your mind until you're left clear-headed once more. You sigh, long and heavy, and crush your cigarette into your denim-covered thigh to put it out. It tickles. 

"I'm not going to hit you," You tell him eventually. "I just wanna know how you know me. And how you do it."

He cocks a brow at that, finally looking up from the phone in his hand to level dark eyes on yours. "Do what? Sing?"

"No." You swallow around the sudden lump in your throat. The words are harder to find than you thought they'd be, lost in the depths of his gaze, in the clarity you're so unaccustomed to, in the way you feel like you can breathe for the first time in days. "I don't care how you sing, that's not important, it's the...fuck, you know what, never mind, it doesn't fucking matter." You push off the wall and step past him to head towards where the streetlight gleams off the bar windows. 

"Tell me." The command has you stopping in your tracks, and you're again flooded with just wanting to know how. How he clears the haze, how he stops you, how he makes you feel real. You turn, hands stuffed into the back pockets of your jeans. "How I do what?"

It takes you several long breaths before you can answer, and you aren't even sure he can hear you over the sounds of people leaving the bar, and you find yourself disappearing into the crowd without waiting for a response. Your own words are reverberating in your skull, getting louder with each step you take, and you wish you could just turn it off . 

"How you make me feel like a person again."

You avoid the bar for a few weeks, going hours away from your usual area to an unfamiliar hole in the wall just to make sure you don’t see him. You’re more deadly than usual in your fights, victories coming quicker, injuries piling up along with the guilt, but you can’t bring yourself to return. It’s unnerving, the way everything goes quiet around him, the way you can think, but the worst is the way you can feel. Everything’s calm and steady and blue, and it only makes it easier for the regret and the guilt and the anxiety to curl around your throat and squeeze until you can’t breathe, to clog in your throat while the laughter of your siblings echoes in your ears, and you...can’t. You can’t do that, you can’t let it win, you can’t let them win, they can’t know that you’re everything they think you are and worse. 

You can’t let yourself drown in that, and yet you find yourself back at Suho’s, lost among the crowd while Taehyung’s voice surrounds you. The ache in your bones fades away, chased by the thrum of the fight that still lingers despite the hours that have passed since you felt your opponent’s femur break under your palm and their screams echoed in your ears. Everything is calm again, and the guilt nearly drowns you.

He hasn’t even finished singing before you’re outside, chest heaving as you gasp against the weight on your chest. You broke someone’s femur , and did you even really need to? The fight itself is a blur even now, snapshots playing through your mind like a montage. The way they’d darted at you first, how their foot felt connecting with the backs of your knees, the determination in their eyes when you went down, the jolt of shock as your hands wrapped around their leg, the dull throb of a barrage of hits against your waist as you pulled them down as well and bloodied their face, the blood-curdling scream as you snapped the bone like a pretzel stick.

Your breath comes faster in your lungs, forced out by the growing guilt that lodges there in its place. Images swirl in your mind, chased by a never-ending stream of thought and regret that you should be used to by now. Fuck, you didn’t need to, and you still did it; you lost control, you fucking hurt them, and for what? A couple hundred? Was it even worth it? Who knew when they’d be back into shape to fight, what if they needed the money? They weren’t even half-bad. They got you down, at least, shouldn’t you have gone easy on them? You don’t even remember their face, can’t remember what the announcer said their name was, words drowned out by the buzz under your skin.

Metal crumples under your grip and you spare a half-second to mourn Suho’s dumpster before you slam your knuckles against it. It tingles, not even real pain, and you don’t hesitate to repeat it. By the time the metal is disfigured completely, a distorted mess of paint and steel and garbage, you still aren’t in pain, but there’s a sheen of gold across your knuckles and you feel less like you’re drowning and more like you’re suffocating. The usual. You can handle that. You think. 

You don’t even realize that you’ve slid down to the ground beside the dumpster until the back door of the bar opens and footsteps echo through the alley. You wish you knew how long you’ve been here, how long you’ve sat among empty bottles and stale beer and broken glass, but you can’t be sure. The brief reprieve brought by Taehyung’s voice is long gone, chased away by the guilt and rage that still sits heavy in your chest. You hope you’re not noticeable here, that whoever’s left will just pass by and leave you to piece yourself back together on your own. 

Voices tell you that it isn’t likely, the deep baritone of one too familiar to ignore. The other is new, but you’re familiar with the tone, the inflection, the intent behind it. You've heard it before, in crowded clubs as a guy pushes too close to some girl who can barely stand, in a coffeeshop when a random customer can't take a fucking hint, at the local campus when some professor insists that there could be maybe one thing her student could do to pass. It makes everything in you curdle, the bourbon from earlier threatening to work its way back up; it screams predator , and you absolutely refuse to let anyone fucking talk to someone like that, like they have some right to whatever it is they want. 

You refuse to let someone talk to him that way. 

"Seriously, Kratos, didn't I tell you to leave me alone? Did Aphrodite not teach you your lesson last time you harassed someone?" Taehyung's voice brings a calm that's an unsettling match to the anger washing over you. You're used to the red at the corners of your vision, the tint to everything you see, but you aren ' t used to the way it all turns purple and focused and clear . 

There's no haze this time, there's no abrupt shift of you moving before you know you've done it. You can feel the glass crunching under your boots with every step you take, can feel the way the air has a chill that creeps down into your lungs with every breath, can almost taste the apprehension that's rolling off of Taehyung despite his relaxed stance. The only thing that gives him away is the tense set of his jaw and the mix of relief and fear when his eyes land on you. 

"I'm pretty sure he said no, Kratos." The god turns at your voice and you watch the realization wash over him as he realizes what - who - you are. 

"Been a while since anyone's seen you, Ares." He scoffs a little, not moving from where he has Taehyung caged against the wall of the bar, one hand pressed firmly into the brick. He's entirely too close, and you have no doubt that the stench of him permeates the very oxygen around them. 

"Been busy. Doesn't change the fact that the man said no. Take the loss, walk away." Kratos' eyes narrow at your words and he steps away, but only to move closer to you. 

"Why do you care so much? You've never been one to care about any of us before." Kratos inches closer and the hyper-focus that Taehyung's voice causes starts to melt away with every twitch of your fingers. You've never liked Kratos, all brute strength with no respect for the challenge, no appreciation of the fight, too focused on sheer power and exhilaration. He is the worst of the worst of the worst of your kind, of all the war-focused gods. Every bit of yourself you hate is every piece that Kratos loves about himself. 

"I care that you don't seem to be able to understand when someone doesn't want to be around you, you absolute piece of filth. Taehyung had a point though, I really thought the whole thing with Aphrodite would've taught you how to back off. Or should I pull the video out, I think I still have it saved for when I need a good laugh." Malice and fury twitch across the other god's face and you absolute revel in it. You can feel his anger prickling across you, like needles in your very pores, and you ache for it. It's been so long since you last had a good fight, a real challenge where you didn't need to hold back at all. 

Too long since you fought a god like yourself.

"You're testing my patience, cousin," Kratos spits. It's a little generous to call the two of you cousins - you're several times removed, at best, and potentially closer than that with your family's warped history - but you let him have it. It might make him feel better. "I'm having a conversation, that's all. And if said conversation means that we end up back at my place, then, well, can anyone really blame me for what might happen to this pretty little m-"

Your fist connects with his jaw immediately and the red floods you for the few seconds it takes to register Taehyung calling your name. The calm struggles for a second, warring with the rage, but it wins out eventually. The singer's talking, but you can't make out any actual words. You're too focused on Kratos, the way he's righting and readying himself for a brawl. There's a fire in his eyes that matches the one in yours and everything in you feels alive for the first time in too long. 

This fight is different than your usual ones. There's no blur, no warped sense of time that usually comes with the adrenaline. You're focused and controlled in a way you haven't had to be for centuries, careful and precise and deliberate with every swing and every kick. The red seeps back in slowly and every time you think you're about to lose it, you hear Taehyung, still pressed against the wall of the bar. 

Kratos lunges at you for what has to be the tenth time, clearly trying his best to knock you to the ground - he succeeded, once; you let yourself get distracted, too caught up in thoughts, but it didn't last long - and you sidestep him just in time for him to ram into the ruined dumpster instead. He looks pissed when he turns back around and something in you sings at the sight. He makes for you again and you dodge again, only to be dragged back towards him by the grip he has on your jacket. Fuck, should've taken that off , whatever, he's too close.

Pain explodes in your side and you're fairly sure he's busted part of your rib, but you just slide your arms out of the sleeves and twist to plant your knee straight into his gut and then slam your heel down onto his much-less-safe toes, and then back up to knee him in the groin. It's nowhere near enough to take him out, but his nose is oozing golden ichor and he groans with every shift of his weight, and you've got him pinned against the wall with your forearm pressing hard into his windpipe. 

"Now, you're gonna listen to me you steaming pile of dog shit," You hiss. "When someone tells you no, it's not a fucking negotiation. It means you fucking leave and find someone with loose enough morals or enough internalized self-hatred that they're willing to subject themselves to your absolutely pitiful fucking excuse of an existence for the thirty-two seconds it'll take for you to get off." 

Kratos doesn't respond, just sneers and spits blood at you. It's a miracle you don't actually try to rip his head from his body, because the thought crosses your mind for a second too long. Instead, you just press harder against his windpipe and enjoy the choked gasp that it draws. 

"You don't stalk people either, the way you did with 'Dite. Don't you know it's better to let them come to you sometimes?" You tsk, ignoring the way he claws uselessly at your arm. Gods may not need to breathe, that's a fact, but they feel pain, and there is no way this isn't absolutely excruciating for him when even you can feel the small bones in his neck cracking and breaking. "And if I hear even a whisper of you pulling shit like this again, then I'm gonna find you, you pigshit. And when I do, I won't hold back even the slightest, and do you know what comes after that?" 

His eyes are full of fear now, and only grow wide with terror as you lean in close enough that he can feel your lips against his ear as you whisper. 

"You are going to wish that you could die." 

When you do release him, he disappears instantly, with a cloud of acrid grey-green smoke curling around your ichor-spattered boots. He's only been gone a second when you slump, the adrenaline fading as quick as Kratos had left. Your side is throbbing now, your knuckles are bruised and broken and gold, there's a pain in your leg that you aren't sure what's causing, your head is screaming even through the high of the fight, your face stings in the crisp-cool air. Every breath makes the pain worse so you stop breathing. The brick wall of the bar is rough against your palms, but it's the only thing around that can keep you upright, so you'll take it. 

"Well," a voice drawls from your left. You'd jump if you had anything left in you, but every ounce of energy is gone, spent teaching Kratos what Aretha Franklin meant when she sang about respect - and really, there was another fantastic singer, you really should visit her sometime soon - so instead your head lolls to the side. You aren't sure what it is that jolts through you when your eyes land on Taehyung, fingers curled carefully around the collar of-

Your jacket. That's your leather jacket. You barely remembers shrugging out of it, but you're glad it's not on the ground, trampled and covered in the gold spatters that decorate the rest of your body. 

"Well?" You echo, wincing at the pain it causes. You've definitely got a busted lip, that's for sure from the way it feels different and swollen, and you're pretty sure there's a head wound, too, because you don't remember there being a golden halo around Taehyung before the fight. 

"Well," He repeats, slinging the jacket - your jacket - over a shoulder. "You should get that looked at." He starts walking, making his way to the entrance of the alleyway. He gets halfway there before he stops and turns and cocks a brow. "Are you coming, or do I get to keep this?" Your jacket waves a little, as if he's wiggling it, and it makes you feel like a stray dog being lured off with treats. 

You're never going to tell anyone that it works.

Taehyung's place is as nondescript as the car he parks outside. It's a plain apartment building on the outside - looks like maybe it was a hotel back in the 1930s, based on the outdated carpeting in the lobby and the grate on the elevator he steps into. Even the hallway is plain and unassuming as he leads you to the end and uses an old, tarnished brass key on an older, more tarnished brass knob. You aren't sure what you expected, you can't even begin to guess what Taehyung is like outside of the dirty alley or the stage where he sings, can't fathom what kind of decor he could possibly have. 

What you step into isn't anything you could have guessed. It looks like he has the entire rest of the floor to himself based on what you can see, but there's also a spiral staircase tucked into a corner, bookshelves built in under each step that are filled to the brim, and a fireman's pole in another corner, so there's at least one more level above this, but something tells you both the staircase and the pole continue past that. There's artwork everywhere, pieces you recognize and pieces you don't, several van Goghs and a couple from Matisse and you think in the corner you spot an actual fucking da Vinci sketch that's supposed to be somewhere in Europe. There's a gramophone beside a top-of-the-line sound system, an entire wall that's just a record collection, books upon books, framed bits of poetry - including an actual hand-written rupi kaur, a signed Maya Angelou print, and a signed cover of ain't i a woman by bell hooks that you would die to know how Taehyung got his hands on. It's a museum's wet dream and yet it retains a lived in atmosphere. There are mugs left on tables, blankets strewn about as if someone just got up from a nap, an easel propped up by a far window with what looks like an impressionist painting of the cityscape, books tossed down half-read with receipts and coupons and candy wrappers and everything but a bookmark tucked between the pages. 

It feels like a home and it makes your heart flutter in your chest at the same time that something in your stomach shrivels up into itself. 

Taehyung walks like he’s meant to be followed, so follow you do. You spy another man - older, you think, but it’s hard to tell, really - sprawled across a couch, blanket splayed across his lap as he watches some kind of dance show on a flatscreen hung above a warm and roaring fireplace, a couple of girls in what looks to be the kitchen, one sitting on the counter while the other stands between her legs and pretends not to notice the former stealing strawberries from her bowl as she taps at her tablet, and there are footsteps creaking above you, hidden behind walls even as Taehyung leads you up the staircase. They all look up when you pass, but only the man gives you a second glance; his eyes are a weight on your back that doesn’t leave until you’re upstairs and following Taehyung into a large, rather nice bathroom. 

It’s vintage as well, but it’s spacious and well-kept, like the rest of the place. Taehyung pats the marble counter by the sink and you bite your tongue against the urge to tell him you aren’t a dog. You don’t move though, instead watching him as he lays your jacket across a brass bar on the wall and then digs around in a cabinet for a minute or two. When he straightens up, he’s got a somewhat dusty off-white box in his hands, and he frowns. 

“Up,” He says. “I need to look at your ankle.” 

You don’t move, but you can tell he doesn’t miss the twitch of your nose at the thought of being commanded like an animal. Like someone who can’t understand. Like-

He sighs. 

“Please, will you sit on the counter, so I can look at your ankle?” You huff, but you do as he says. 

He doesn’t speak as he works, completely silent except for the odd command - “Roll it for me...alright, now flex that...deep breath...stop fidgeting or I’ll only make it worse…�� - and the occasional hum under his breath. It seems to be second nature, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, and it endears you more than you’d like. His touch is gentle but firm as he lightly squeezes your ankle and wraps it, lifts your pant leg to rub some kind of cream into a somewhat worrisome golden bruise forming on your calf, darts under your shirt to quickly and painlessly set your ribs before wrapping those as well. He doesn’t say anything at all until he’s almost finished with the cuts on your hands, golden ichor long gone and wounds already on their way to healing thanks to some sort of mist he spritzes on them. 

It only stings once, as he’s spraying something over some kind of cut on your thigh where Kratos ripped through the denim there without you noticing. You can’t stop the hiss as the pain hits, though you regret it when he glances up at you. 

“Sorry,” He mumbles under his breath as he dabs lightly at it with his long fingers. 

“It’s fine,” You tell him. “I’m used to it.” Your voice is rough, always, but softer than usual. You don’t know why. You can’t decide if you like it.

The entire time he works, you wait. For him to tell you it wasn’t necessary, that he can fight his own battles, that he’s not surprised a brute like yourself got into a fight, that you’re no more than what the rumours say you are. You’ve got a million different curses and insults ready to spit back at him when he finally speaks.

“Thank you,” is what comes. It shocks the words out of your mouth, and you actually look up from where you’ve been watching him methodically wipe gold away from a scrape on your forearm. His gaze is concentrated on the injury and his lips are pursed and you wish you could figure him out. 

He must take your silence for the confusion it is, because he continues. 

“I mean it,” He says. “I’m usually not someone that lets other people fight for me, but we both know that I couldn’t have taken Kratos. He’s too strong, and he was counting on that. Until you showed up.” You don’t respond. “Is there a reason you left before my set was done? Or why you were sitting in an alley beside what is possibly the most gnarled dumpster I’ve ever seen?”

You don’t answer him, instead focusing on the way his hands feel as they tilt your chin so he can look at the cuts and bruises and scrapes that decorate your face. You focus your gaze just past his shoulder, content to memorize the pattern of his gaudy vintage bathroom wallpaper, and he doesn't press for more. The distracted humming picks up again every time he stops talking, and eases the storm of guilt shame rage pain hurt grief loneliness in your chest. 

"I fight," you eventually say. Your voice is too loud in the quiet of the bathroom, shatters the silence like a sledgehammer, and you hate the way it trembles. Still, Taehyung doesn't look away from where he's carefully wiping gold from your skin, just cocks a brow, and it's as if a dam breaks in your throat. "Like, real fights. Actual competition, with rules and shit, and...sometimes the bad ones, because they tend to fight differently, it's a different kind of fight, y'know, and it's never really fair, because I'm...I'm me, but I hold back, just for fun, y'know, and it's, uh. It's alright usually, I go in, do my thing, I win, I go drink, and it all gets, I dunno, easier, maybe, for a while, like I can think right, but, um.”

You hesitate for a split second and force yourself to focus on the way the alcohol-soaked cotton tickles the cut on your head. 

“Sometimes it's not...sometimes I can't control it as well, the anger, and I kind of just lose it on people, and a while ago this guy, he almost needed his jaw wired shut, but he was kind of a prick anyway, I guess, so whatever, but, uh, today, I...there was this girl and she was doing really well, actually, y'know, managed to get me down to the mat, which is rare and pretty impressive, and I'm pretty proud of her for it now, but then, I just. I just kinda lost it, like, I just kept swinging, I couldn't stop, and then I just...I broke her leg, for no real reason, just because I wanted her to hurt, and I don't...I'm not sure why I even did it, because I'd already won, right, like what was the point of doing any more, it wasn't even helping at that point, y'know, it's not like the buzz kept up any longer because I broke this kid's leg, and I love the fights, they help clear my head for a second, but I never wanted to actually-"

You words stop short, like there are too many of them to say in too short a time, and it's then you realize Taehyung's hands are in his lap and he's looking at you fully. His expression isn't neutral anymore, it's not the carefully crafted mask of a performer, it's real and open and genuine and all you see there is pain . For you. Pain and understanding and compassion you never expected to find anywhere but the deepest corners of your soul. Looking at him looking at you like that makes you feel like you can breathe again.

"You never wanted to hurt anyone." His voice is rough, like maybe there's emotion clogging his throat as well, and you aren't sure what that does to you, but something in you jumps at the thought.

Tears mar your vision as you nod and you curse under your breath before wiping them away. He catches your quivering hand in his and just holds it for a second. His eyes don't leave yours and there are a thousand things you expect him to say but what he says is: 

"I believe you."

And that...it's more than you can take, and you break, right there on his bathroom counter, sobbing into his chest while he just rubs your back and hums and you remember the face of every person you've ever hurt and the look in their eyes as you left some of them for dead. 

You wake up the next morning curled up on the most comfortable chaise lounge in human history, sitting up and shoving the blanket off of you in a rush before you remember where you are, why you're there. A glance around tells you that you aren't alone; there's two guys bent over a table that you think might also be a tablet, conversing quietly and pointing every so often at whatever they're looking at, a girl balanced along the edge of the staircase holding a lyre - which, wow, you haven't seen a lyre in that good condition in a while - and strumming lightly along it before she frowns and shakes her head and restarts whatever melody she's playing, and the same guy sprawled over the couch with a blanket strewn haphazardly over him while he watches a different dance video on the flatscreen. He's the closest and you don't really want to talk to any of these people but you think you might have to because you aren't really sure how Taehyung got you here last night but you know it was quite a drive. You'd just mist over to the bar if you really wanted to, but your ribs hurt like a bitch still thanks to that fucker Kratos. Anything as intense as misting is out of the question for the time being.

The man on the chaise spares you a glance that feels longer than it should, full of a judgement you have no doubt you deserve and yet somehow fires your anger anyway. 

He rolls his eyes before you even say anything and waves a hand towards the kitchen. You snap your mouth closed and shoot him an irritated look, but you storm in that direction anyway. Healing is exhausting, and you want nothing more than some meat to tear into and a cold beer. 

When you get into the kitchen, however, Taehyung is standing there already, as if he’s been expecting you any minute. There’s a plate in front of him, full of food you barely recognize, and he slides it towards you. 

“Eat,” He says. You grit your teeth, unmoving, and he sighs again. “Please sit, and eat. You need the strength to heal properly.” 

You resist for a split second, but there’s a softness to him now. Something you can’t exactly put your finger on, but that you know is different , somehow, and it changes things. It makes you want to listen, to do as he asks, because he is asking . He’s not telling, he’s treating you like an animal. 

It’s a request, not a demand, and that makes all the difference. 

Taehyung is quiet while you eat. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t watch to make sure you’re doing it, but you have no doubt he’s keeping an eye on you. It’s quiet, but not unbearably so; the air is broken by the sounds of the lyre and the television, as well as the soft chattering of the men at the table. It makes it comfortable, makes it soft in a way you’re unaccustomed to being, like the way people talk about lazy Sunday mornings or that voice they get when they see a cute animal.

It feels like home should be, instead of what yours is. 

“So why’s Pretty Boy giving me the death glare?” You eventually ask past a mouthful of food. Taehyung barely looks up, just glancing past you to the guy laying on the couch. You can feel his eyes boring into your spine, but it’s nothing new. 

“Taemin’s just protective,” Taehyung says softly. “Especially considering the stories.”

“The ones about me, you mean.”

A myriad of emotions passes through his eyes when he nods, and you wish you could more easily decipher them. Maybe in time, you will. 

Maybe.

“Those, yes,” He says softly. “But he’ll learn.” He doesn’t say it, but nonetheless, you hear the words as clear as day. Just like I did.  

Someone hums behind you and you glance over to see a woman - the strawberry thief - making her way into the kitchen. She gives Taehyung a look you don’t care enough to figure out, and they have an entire conversation in the span of five minutes. Something about it irks you, and it only gets worse when they start moving around each other, Taehyung handing her things without her asking. 

It’s ridiculous, and you know it, but the air gets heavy in your lungs and your head starts to swim and suddenly you’re suffocating. It’s too much, there’s too much here, and you can’t take it anymore. 

The force with which you shove away the counter would have slammed it into the wall were it not already attached. There are slight cracks in the granite tops, though, and there’s just enough clarity as Taehyung calls your name for you to feel guilty about it. It’s not enough to stop you though; you have to get out, you need to get out, before you do something worse, and the cracks in the granite are proof of that. 

You’re out the door in an instant, your form coalescing painfully back into solid matter as you reach the hallway. Your ribs ache, screaming with the effort of trying to mist away from this place, this home , and you lean against the wall in the hope that it will help steady you. 

The door opens behind you, the creak of the old hinges deafening in the silence of the hall. There’s a commotion behind it, voices overlapping each other and reverberating in your skull until they’re a twisted mockery of your siblings. 

You stumble down the hall, one hand clutching your ribs to keep them as still as possible despite your movement. It’s not lost on you that there are footsteps following you, but you can’t focus on them now. You’re not moving fast, and you need to be, you should be running , but you can’t. Your vision is already clouding slightly at the edges, the sudden spike of adrenaline waning now that you’re out of the apartment. 

Someone says your name and you swing. 

It’s instinct, the way your fist flies through the air; you can’t control it, not this, not when the red is all you can see even as it seeps away and turns lilac. It doesn’t matter anyway. You don’t make contact with anything but the wall, plaster crumbling around your fist and onto the carpeted floor. 

“That was rude,” Taehyung says softly. He doesn’t sound mad, though he should, considering you almost decked him straight in the nose. “I’ll take you back.”

He drapes your jacket over your arm and walks away, toward emergency stairs tucked into the corner instead of the elevator, and you follow. He hums as he goes, and he lets you lead the way down the stairs, keeping pace with your quick steps until both of you step out a side door into an alleyway. 

Out of habit, more than anything, you light a cigarette and put it between your lips. You don’t miss the disgusted scrunch of Taehyung’s nose, but you do ignore it. The smoke is familiar in lungs, comforting, and he doesn’t understand it, won’t ever understand it, but he doesn’t have to. 

“Sorry, Tae,” You say after a few minutes of silence. Taehyung shrugs one shoulder and moves to lean beside you against the stone of the building. 

“Are you okay now?” You nod, taking a deep breath, remembering how Hestia had taught you, so long ago, how her hand felt against your chest, the warmth and love it held. “Then you’re forgiven. And you can call me Calliope, if you want.”

You’re both quiet after that. He doesn’t make fun of you, he doesn’t judge you, he just silently drives you back to Suho’s bar, which is when you remember that he doesn’t know where you live. You’re fine with it; you don’t want to see him in your run down hovel. It’s not much, especially compared to his own apartment, but that makes sense, too. 

What could ever live up to the home of a Muse? Not even a muse, really. The Muse. The Head of the Nine Muses, the one called on most often by those in need, the one that everyone knew, the one that Hephaestus just put statues of in the gardens of Olympus, according to the rumors that Apollo sent you. 

The calm that he brings lasts until you get back to your apartment, nearly ten full minutes after you disappear into the alley beside Suho’s bar. It’s the longest the calm has ever lasted, and the view of the city tinted lavender is one you think you love. 

If you can love. 

Things get clearer, somehow. The weight on your shoulders lessens, makes you feel less like Atlas and more like you, how you were all those years ago in the now-ancient days when things made sense. When people fought for honor and glory and justice more than they fought for oil and death and greed. 

It could be because open mic nights are frequent around the city, and you’re able to figure out his schedule pretty well. You don’t go every night that he sings, just when it gets to be too much, when the scarlet haze starts to bleed into your irises like a flag in front of a bull. It helps, for a while, lets you settle long enough to pull the pieces of you back into a shape that vaguely resembles yourself. 

It could be because the fights happen every night, and Taehyung is no stranger to where to look to find them. He watches every one that he can, when he isn’t singing, and his presence anchors you. Focuses you, so that you can pull your punches just enough, so that there’s less hurting and more fighting. It doesn’t work every time, you still lose yourself in the rage and do more damage than you ever mean to, but it helps enough. And when it doesn’t, he’s there, to slide a hand across your shoulders in that exact same way that Hestia used to, that Apollo might if you let him close enough to know you’re alive, that Artemis would , were she anywhere but where she is. 

It’s a strange feeling. You’re not used to companionship, you don’t know how to have friends. You still say the wrong things and do the wrong things and he still speaks to you like he expects to be listened to, but you both are learning. You apologize more often, and he corrects himself quicker. It’s a slow, fragile thing, this friendship, but it’s there. 

Until the night when it’s not. 

You aren’t sure how it happens. It’s been weeks since you last saw Taehyung; he mentioned some project he was working on, something or another that would have most of his attention along with that of several of the other Muses. You had brushed it off when he said it, some snide remark about how you don’t need him there to win. 

You would take it back if you could. 

Because you were right, of course, you don’t need him there to win; you can do that on your own. And your control has gotten better, stronger, over the last few months, but complacency is what always leads to disaster. 

The guy deserved it, is what you tell yourself as you’re pulled out of the ring. He was a piece of shit anyway, you remind yourself as you call Apollo with shaking hands. He didn’t deserve your mercy, you tell the golden gold after you’ve begged him to help save the man’s life. Artemis would have done the same, you insist to him, long after he’s hung up the phone and left to follow the ambulance to the hospital. 

You don’t go to Suho’s. You can’t bear it, not when he might be there, not when he would read it on your face in a heartbeat. You don’t want to watch the disappointment crumble into something more familiar, something worse, you can’t watch him look at you with the knowledge that your siblings are right, that they’ve always been right, that you’re nothing better than a crazed animal. 

The club is packed full when you get there. The bartender starts to pour you a drink and you just take the bottle, leaving a too-thick wad of bills in return. The bourbon tickles as it goes down but it warms your stomach and distracts you from the haze in your mind, the repetitive beat of they were right they were right they were right they were-

“Whoops, sorry,” someone says, a second before they knock into your shoulder. You’ve been around long enough to know a fake fall, and you scowl as you glance towards them. 

He’s cute. Taller than you, with skin that would hide the marks you so love to create, and hair that looks like it would be soft in your hands. His clothes fit well, and they look like they were chosen for comfort over style despite the way he walks like a model in them, which you always find attractive. 

The smile that slips onto your face is familiar, as is the way you bring your hand up to rest on his hip in an effort to steady him. 

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart,” You tell him, not being subtle in the way you eye him. He looks soft; you love them soft. “You headed to get a drink?”

“I might be,” He says teasingly, a coy grin forming on his lips. 

“I’ve got something better, if you’re interested.”

His eyes roam along your body, his breath drawing somewhat quicker when he notices the scrapes on your knuckles. “I might be.”

It takes five minutes to get him to a corner quiet enough to talk. Less than three to get your lips on his. One and a half to start sucking a mark into his neck that makes him moan so pretty you can’t help but want to hear it again. 

One of your hands is up his shirt, playing with the pebbled buds and the metal pierced through them, while the other teasingly massages the skin of his hip when he’s torn away from you roughly. 

“What the fuck?” Your voice growls as you look up. The guy is standing there, looking for all the world like he’s ready to run, but he isn’t watching you. 

No, his eyes are on a familiar sight; Taehyung, his hair now a pretty lavender that makes you think of a home you don’t have, even as he doesn’t look at you. 

“Taken,” He growls, releasing the collar of the guy you had every intent to make cry with pleasure. The guy scurries off before you can stop him, though, and you don’t bother to hide your disdain. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” You demand, already lighting a cigarette as you head outside. Taehyung follows, pulling it from between your lips and crushing it in his hands before you have the chance to get your lighter out.

“Me? You looked like you were about to eat him .” He follows you all the way to the street outside and down the sidewalk, pulling each cigarette out of your hands before you can light it. He waits until you’re a decent distance from the crowd outside the club before he stops you, one hand lightly encircling your wrist. 

Your boots scuff against the ground as you stop, not turning to look at him. You’re too afraid to, too worried he’ll see it all on your face and just know that you’ve fucked up, maybe beyond repair. 

“Apollo called me,” is what he says instead. “Said I might want to find you tonight.”

You should’ve known. That little fuck, of course he would rat you out. 

“I didn’t-” 

The words choke in your throat. You want to say you don’t need him. You don’t need him to come running like you’re some scared little girl who can’t control her strength, you don’t need him to piece you back together because you aren’t broken, you don’t need him because you don’t need anyone, you never have. 

“I know you didn’t,” Taehyung says quietly. “I know he deserved it, I know what he did, and I know you didn’t mean to.”

Something inside of you breaks and you find yourself shaking. 

“He hurt her , Tae, I heard it, I heard her telling her friend about it on the phone, I saw her crying, I saw her clothes, okay, he-”

“I know,” Taehyung says, pulling you into a loose hug. “I know you did, it’s okay. He’s going to be okay. He’s not gonna escape his punishment from that, you didn’t send anyone to Hades today. It’s okay.”

The cloud struggles, for what feels like hours. Guilt settles like lead in your stomach, and you wish you weren’t so used to the feeling. The rage returns every time you remember what that girl looked like, what she sounded like on the phone, how you felt when you realized it was your competitor who had done that to her. 

There’s no honor in that. There’s no justice, no glory, in beating an opponent who was never aware they were in the ring, and it makes your blood boil all over again. Taehyung’s voice soothes you, slightly, makes the edges of your vision turn indigo, but it isn’t enough. 

It’s never enough. 

“I have to go,” You say, pulling yourself away from him. “I need- I have to find-”

“A distraction,” He finishes for you, too aware that you can’t find the words you need. “Some mortal that you can bruise and break and bang until you feel less like a monster?”

That’s exactly what you want to do, what you had been about to do with that guy at the club, and it’s only Taehyung’s voice calling your name in that soft, sweet way of his that makes you wonder if that’s not a good plan. 

“I’ll be a distraction, if you need one.” You whip your head around, staring at him, but he doesn’t flinch. “I’m sturdier than the mortals, I can take more. Let me be your distraction.”

“I…” You hesitate. You don’t know why. You shouldn’t even be entertaining this idea, it’s not a good one, but then...when have any of your ideas been good? “I can’t fuck in a house with eight other people.”

“You have an apartment,” He says easily. “Let’s go there.”

It’s a bad idea. You don’t do that, you don’t fuck people at your apartment, you don’t have people in your apartment, it’s your space. It’s a bad idea, it can only end in disaster. 

“Okay.”

Taehyung’s lips are soft against yours, yielding and pliant just the way you’re used to. His hands are big and warm against your ass, even through your jeans, and the feeling gives you the courage to slide your own under the ridiculously patterned button-down he’s wearing. 

He lets you lead the way through the door, kicking it closed behind you with slightly too much force. Your apartment is small, a studio with a bed tucked in the corner for the rare times that you need it. 

You push Taehyung onto it and slide yourself onto his lap, already grinding down onto the hard length you can feel there. He's not quite as enthusiastic, but his fingers are like steel against you, pulling you down with every rut of your hips. 

This, you can do. This, you're familiar with. 

You push on his shoulders, doing your best to get him on his back so you can have better access to the clasp of his jeans, but he resists. You try again, firmer, using a harsh suck against his skin as a distraction, but he still doesn't go. 

Frustrated, you pull back. 

"Not like this," He says. His voice clears some of the fog, and you frown. 

"Do you want to be on top, then? Because I don't mind, I just need it," You tell him. He sighs a little, but he flips the two of you over so he's kneeling between your open legs and your back is cushioned against the mattress. 

"How long has it been since you spent the night with someone who knows who you are?" He asks, pressing a kiss to your cheek as he sits back on his knees. 

You shift, uncomfortable. "A while. Why does that matter? Just fuck me."

"No," Taehyung says, voice gentle but firm. You cock a brow at him and move to get out from under him, but he stills you with a hand on your thigh. 

"You are a goddess," He tells you, trailing his hands down so he can undo the laces on your steel-toe boots and slide them off. "You have held Victory in your palms and set her free." 

His palms burn through the denim on your thighs, but you welcome it as he slides your jacket over your shoulders to the bed beneath. 

"You are the winner of wars. You are the one who grants battlefield wishes. You are the dead's escort to Hades." He leans down, pressing a soft kiss against your cheek and then down your throat. 

He pulls back as he gets to your collarbone, eyes blown wide with unfamiliar desire, and it makes your breath catch in your throat.

"You," Taehyung tells you, with desire in his eyes and belief in his voice, "Deserve to be treated like the goddess that you are, with the respect you have earned, and the care you deserve." 

As often as you fuck people, it's been a very long time since anyone wanted to fuck you for any reason beyond your appearance and the personality you show them. But this? This look in the muse's eyes as his hands settle on your knees as he waits? 

Taehyung wants to fuck you because you're you. Not despite it, not because he doesn't know . He has seen you at your worst and yet he keeps coming back, keeps showing up as you fall apart. Each time he stays, hands you a basket so you can pick the pieces of yourself up off the ground, holds the tape so you can mash it back together, and is ready to help steady you when you start to crumble again. 

He's here for you , to treat you in a way no one has ever treated you before. He's your friend.

He cares.

You nod, however tentatively, and his lips are on yours in an instant. They're firmer now, less pliable and more controlling, but you don't mind. Not this time. 

Not with Taehyung. 

His hands don't hesitate as he strips you both of your clothes, but you can feel it each time he checks to make sure you're okay. The way that he watches your expression, the tense of your muscles under him, the cadence of your gasps for air between kisses, he reads all of it as clear as if it's a book in front of him. He slows down before you can stop him, his lips drawing back from the kisses he draws across your thighs, and he speeds up as your thoughts start to drift, swiping his tongue and two fingers through your folds to tease and bring your attention back to him. 

His fingers bury themselves in your heat, crooking slightly to brush against that soft part of you that makes the world spin, and it's all too intense. His lips are hardly even touching your skin, just pressing gentle kisses against the skin of your thigh, a gentle complement to the way he glides his fingers in and out of you, slow and steady and delicious, but it's absolutely intoxicating. 

He's talkative, too; he gives you constant praise. He tells you how well you take his fingers, how good you look with his fingers inside you, how absolutely fantastic you taste on his tongue, how he'd live between your thighs if he could. 

It's too much, and you can't be sure why, not when your orgasm is approaching quicker than it ever has, not when your walls clench around him and you soak your sheets, not when he's cleaning your cum off his fingers with his tongue.

"Good," He purrs. "Now you're all warmed up." 

His mouth hits your heat without hesitation or warning, before the aftershocks are even finished, and your hips buck upwards. His arms slide underneath your thighs only to grip them and bring them back down. You can't move much in his grip except to grind your pussy against his mouth, which he seems to enjoy, if the muffled grunts that escape him are any indication.

He doesn't stop until his tongue is buried inside you with one finger drawing lazy circles on your clit and you're cumming again, hands gripping the soft strands of his hair so tight that you would be afraid of pulling it out if you could focus on anything besides the feel of him against you.

He lets you ride the aftershock, this time. Waits until your pants die down slightly, until you're back in your mind. 

"Good?" He asks you. His voice is deeper, rumbles instead of slides, but it breaks through the post-orgasm haze long enough for you to nod. “More?”

“More,” you agree, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders and pulling him into a heated kiss. You haven’t been this clear-headed in a while. Every sensation is clear and crisp, every sound heightened, everything is simultaneously more while also being exactly what it’s always supposed to have been. 

Taehyung’s cock is everything you could have expected from a muse; thick, long, beautiful, and it fills you in a way that’s indescribable as he slides inside. He groans at the feeling, deep and throaty and beautiful, and begins his thrusts nearly immediately. 

It’s as slow as he was with his fingers; steady and forceful, but unhurried. As if he wants to take his time. As if he wants to savor it. Savor you . 

“Do you have any idea how amazing you are?” He mutters, almost as an afterthought. “What you look like right now, what you look like when you’re fighting, when you’ve won and you’re triumphant? It’s fucking addictive, seeing that confidence in you.”

“Shit, Tae, don’t stop-”

“It’s so fucking intoxicating,” He groans, pace quickening. Your arms wrap around him more fully, nails like claws down his back as you arch your back to get him deeper. “You get this look in your eyes, like you can do anything you fucking want to, and it’s so fucking brilliant, because you can , you can do anything and everything you ever fucking want to do, and no one can stop you.”

A whine you’ll never admit to escapes your throat, and Taehyung drives his cock further into you. 

“Let go, my sweet,” Taehyung purrs in your ear. “Let yourself relax, just this once. For me.”

His hand touches your clit and it’s so much, too much , you’re feeling everything so intensely that it takes a solid minute to realize you’re coming down from an orgasm. Taehyung has stilled inside you, unmoving but groaning as you flutter around him, and you push weakly at his shoulder. 

He slides himself out of you, looking entirely too proud of wet spot underneath you and glistening against his lower stomach. You wobble your way up to rest your elbows underneath you, and it’s like he can sense your words before they come. 

“No,” He says simply. “I don’t you to get me off with your mouth.”

“A hand then? I don’t want you to leave unsatisfied.” 

A frown pulls at the corner of his mouth, and he leans down just enough that your lips are almost touching, a not-there kiss that you can only wish for. 

“In what world is fucking you to the point of Elysium unsatisfying?”

The crowd around you is deafening; some of them are cheering for you, but the majority are rooting for your downfall. Such is the life of a challenging the champion, you suppose. 

You don’t know how Taehyung found this place; maybe Artemis had heard rumors, or maybe he searched for it himself. You can’t bring yourself to care, not when you’ve got someone worth fighting on the other side of the arena. 

The sand crunches beneath your feet. It’s hot, hotter than it should be since you’re still wearing your signature jeans and boots - without the jacket this time. You learned from that mistake. 

Your vision tints pink as you size up your opponent; he’s massive, not one to be easily defeated, and you relish the challenge. It’s been so long since you’ve fought a giant. Excitement thrums under your veins as he turns to you. He scoffs. 

If you had a little less control, you might be flying across the arena already. He clearly has no idea who’s standing across from him. Probably thinks you’re some demigod, come to challenge him for the fleece he isn’t supposed to have. 

He’ll learn. 

Something moves in the distance. It should blend in, considering how dark it is, but instead it draws your eye, and you don’t even question why. You would recognize him anywhere, have recognized him everywhere, and his presence calms you. Makes you remember a few nights ago, falling into bed in a hotel in Rome because the burn was to much and you needed him to help you release it. 

“Try not to be too quick, princess,” The giant across from you huffs. You cock a brow and send a look to your muse, who just rolls his eyes, despite the smile playing across his face. 

Violet rings your vision as you ready your stance. The announcer yells something that’s lost over the noise of the crowd. Taehyung leans forward, elbows on his knees, excitement and pride in his eyes. 

The giant swings. 

[clandestine-j]

911 - S5.01 Reaction / Review

so! this will be my first season of 911 that i watched while it was airing! and for that journey, i want to do episode reviews, idk if it'll always happen but i'm hyped so let's get to it! !

first the over-arching plot, the ransom hit. now, i saw a lot of people saying it was cheesy and over the top and took them out and etc...and but no, not for me lol. i guess i just love the visual's of the chaos, how they get out of the chaos. people paying more attention to road? love it, i love the fact that it was a bunch of people because i believe it to extent, the same as everything getting hacked. cars going crazy, clocks messing around, cars having their murder intent. it's just a mess and i love the mess.

i don't know what episodes jlh will be out for the season but before she leaves, i hope they delve into the post-partum the best they can. i know people hate seeing her cry and etc but sad maddie just does something to me. when she was late waking up, you could juse everything dragging her down. idk if the news is the best thing to watch but hey, maybe it is helping her. and chim, best husband, best boi.

also the funniest man ever, fight me.

but chim is such a loving guy and i just want the best for him. if chim wants the world, i'll get him the world.

hen is the best girl and her and karen are the cheesiest couple, i love it. karen dropping so much knowledge that david didn't get a chance to speak this episode. but hen has been her usual loving self and hen can do no wrong. ( and yes she did but if i delete that entire arch from my mind, it didn't happen ) but really, i'm glad to have her back and i don't want hen to leave even though she'd make an amazing doctor. U STILL SAVING PEOPLE GIRL.

i love the love between bobby and athena. when she woke up in the morning with bobby and harry making waffles (with cheese!) i love the family unit and how everyone works to make it work. it was heart breaking to watch bobby just watch athena and be worried about her. things are hard but if i believe in any relationship, i believe in theirs.  

also, i know some people aren't happy with that guy coming back but it's life. thing's don't move smoothly and sometimes you can't close the door on parts of your life whenever you want. but i know athena will not only overcome the trauma but kick his ass so i'm waiting for the sweet, sweet moment.

i think they shot eddie's panic attack well, the moment it started, how it took him a few seconds and the panic attack and etc. i can understand them not doing the ptsd for the shooting ( and honestly, i think buck would have it more than him ) but i do like that we see it's the normal pressure's of life. he's such a tightly wound guy that's it's good to see just life causing his crisis and that it wasn't done away with, he got a little shoot at that guy in the air control tower and i don't want to see eddie in pain but he does it well. and i'll shove it in here but worried!buck and emotional puddle!eddie, and then chim and hen being like 'these guys'

and then eddie and ana, it's so strange for me. they had a good meeting, the chemistry was there. then they had the skating hiccup but i thought they had chemistry and the writers went *boop* seriously, if i was ana's actress, i'd be offended. honestly, they could've cut half of taylor-buck to develop ana a bit more. maybe they always intended for her to go at some point because she doesn't have a job that connects to the main story but idk, maybe introduce her in another way? idk, i think potential was there and was wasted.

also, i wouldn't compare the buck-family scene to the ana-mom scene. one, it seems like she's letting eddie set the terms of their relationship because he is a father. it doesn't seem like they had an official title or maybe she was panicked about the thought of chris thinking she's trying to replace his mom so she went with friend because it's a safe and that's a touchy subject so i could get why she got tied up in a moment of awkwardness.

i also saw people saying it was awkward to flirt like that around chris but eddie started it and he didn't seem to mind. that moment had chemistry (or i'm just falling for eddie's shh face bc it was sexy) and couples do that all the time, adults do that.

i gag at the fact that they panned to ana when they asked if eddie had any new stress. and then going into that scene, i also saw comments that the relationship was ehhh (which it is) because she just looked worried and was silent but i saw it as a respect to eddie to not mention the shooting because it's his to mention. i like that it was chris who spoke up. force your dad to admit it.

and chris, eddie said he felt good about it but then it's he's not feeling it? does he really not want to go or is the suit fitting also bringing back memories of shanon and the last him he wore it? either way baby, you look amazing.

may isn't an a-lister actress but i don't think she's bad. i'm happy to see her grow as an actress and a dispatcher.

idk, i've said what i needed to say about buck-taylor but i've also seen peeps saying that buck wasn't upset about taylor grabbing his phone and using his face, which, he might not be. but you could see he wasn't expecting it and he was irritated about it but in normal buck fashion, he just pushed it away and followed along. which is fine, i guess, it's a relationship or whatever.

so, i think as far as people / relationships / things, i hit the big beats. so i'll have some more randomly listed thoughts.

i thought the judge was in on it because HIS CRIMES but i get that she was following the law and what he wanted wasn't wrong / there wasn't a reason to deny him ( i mean other than the people he hurt but i'm not a judge, just a person who watches )

and honestly, he brought up some good points, this was a good way to show how police work needs to be air-tight, it sucks but i could see him getting away with it ( and this was before he felt like skipping the court-room )

air traffic control people are mental because i wouldn't have taken for the scare to be over for me to pass out. nope. would've happened already

david is good looking

baby buck

you and chris at the christening

I DIDN'T SEE THE LAWYER COMING

my stream started to lag around that part, the audio and etc was lagging and i just...

WHY DID SHE DO MY MAN LIKE THAT???

i don't know if the whole being fired thing was real or a plan but if it wasn't real, i could see her having been attracted to him before the case or felt something for him during it, she got caught up in whatever the groupies did

i don't think it was a plan for her to cut lou because even the dude looked shocked? so idk but man, that being played along side athena being happy and calling the victims, it hit hard.

pls don't be dead, pls

is the air traffic control person's name really soup? i wanna fight

albert? ravi?

maybe more things will come later but this all i can think about right now? i loved the opening scene of the 118 being together and all of them but i can't wait to see them in action, action.

this, an entire ramble of my thoughts.

[lorelaigilmo]

Hi. Do you think Taylor has a complete idea of the stories on Folklore like she said in the prologue when making the album or do you think some of it is a way to keep things private? Basically do you think she actually created stories and characters? Like with the song Mad Woman and My Tears Ricochet she explained the stories..a woman seeking revenge on a town she cast out or someone at the funeral of their dead lover. However we know it is actually mainly about being angry and heartbroken over her masters. So she made up that story to avoid speculation? I guess it works metaphorically though. I know TLGAD is actually a true story and I think Exile is pretty complete. My problem is mainly with the love triangle. There is a theory it's about Tom and Joe in 2016 so I wonder if she told us about it to avoid speculating about her private life. Idk if I believe that. However we know that she changed the Cardigan lyrics to fit the triangle after. I kinda prefer the songs on their own and the Cardigan line seems thrown in Betty just to make it connect. August is directly related to Betty but in my opinion Cardigan isnt. It seems like Taylor just gave us the main idea, but she also threw in specific lines like about the car. Does Taylor actually have a complete story for all the characters..like who August actually is to James and how things happened? It seems like she threw in lines and it's incomplete but the lines are specific like the mall and garden so does she have a complete story? I know we are meant to fill in the blanks and interpretations but the songs stand on their own and tell a different story on their own. Together they tell a story but it changes the meaning of the song.I just dont know why she bothered to tell about the love triangle at all. I hope this makes sense. I'd rather it be a full story then just bits and pieces but idk what her intention is.

Okay there is a LOT to unpack here.

In my own personal opinion, these songs started from a very personal place and she decided to evolve them and give them more meaning and layers with the characters and metaphors. I don’t think it was necessarily from a place of concealing the songs’ true meaning to her, but maybe to challenge her songwriting, make the songs something more, use the metaphors to tell more than one story, kind of like in literature you have the plain layer of simple meaning and there’s the message the author is truly trying to send underneath the surface. I think it’s a fascinating form of songwriting and truly takes her to the next level with how complex and layered it is. You can see this in Cardigan actually - she had the birdcage metaphor in the original draft, showing us that the song originated about something more personal to her, but she decided to evolve it and give it meaning bigger than herself, kind of like in actual folklore stories. When I first listened to the album I thought the feelings she described in Illicit Affairs related to when she first started dating Joe - the secrecy, the hiding of the relationship that we heard about in Rep and in Cruel Summer. So I have this theory that she wrote Illicit Affairs as kind of a scenario in her head of how things could’ve gone differently between them if they had kept up the secrecy and not fought for their relationship or whatever. So a seed of truth and true personal feeling with a spin of fiction to it, and I think that’s what the album is.

I do think Taylor has a complete story for the characters, but I think she left it a little vague to let the listeners have their own interpretation of it. I think that a lot of original folklore stories start out as one thing and get changed to fit the narrative of the person telling it at that moment, and so the story changes a little every time a different person is telling it, and I think that’s what Taylor was trying to do. We have all of these songs that seem incredibly specific on first glance, but look at how many fandoms are being related to the songs from folklore. How many different directions the exact same words can go. And it’s all a matter of perspective, and I think that’s the real greatness in this album.

So to sum up, I think all of these interpretations can and should coexist. You can interpret the songs as individuals and you can interpret them as connected stories, you can look for Taylor’s personal input in them or you can take them as far away from her personal life as possible. They’re all just interpretations and opinions, there’s no one real truth here. And I think that’s what Taylor intended for it.

[queenismyprimejive]

How can something so wrong feel so right? (Present Day!Roger Taylor x Fem!Reader)

Synopsis: The reader develops all sorts of feelings for Roger, but doesn’t know how she feels about them, or how to act them out. And when they get caught and have to face reality, what will they do?

W/C: 3,251 oops xD

Warnings: 18+ Just some light smut. For those who are worried it is just some inappropriate yet not unwanted touching with a hint of wanting some more. Some flirting, some fluff, you know, just the usual😉 Do mind that there is an age gap between Roger and the Reader, although nothing too crazy.

A/N: I have taken a liking to our current Rog at the moment. How could I not when he is the sweetest man to grace planet earth? I’m picturing the studio as to how he showed it in his two vlogs on Instagram. Idk about you guys, but I always feel a bit weird writing about people that are still in our midst today, especially when it’s about Roger, it’s not a bad feeling though, I’m just really apprehensive when I write about real-life people.  

Present Day

That kiss. It shouldn’t have happened. Or actually it should, but it shouldn’t. It wasn’t right. He was a 69-year old celebrated musician-songwriter, I was just a 37-year old assistant-producer. Ughh why is this so hard? I guess it sort of happened. I should have seen it coming though. Two months of playful banter, innocent winking, mostly coming from him, the intense staring when no one was looking, the hand that lingered on the small of my back a little bit too long, until the warmth from his fingers seared the skin underneath my clothing whenever he let me go first. They were all signs, gestures that suggested something more and it was difficult not be swept away by them. They had ignited a feeling in me, a stirring I thought I had lost and never to find again. Until I met Roger.

A week earlier…

Two months ago, I thought I had landed my dream job as an assistant producer at a well-known music studio in central-London, but nothing was further from the truth. I thought it was my way into the world of music, at the bottom of the ladder so to speak, but a way in nonetheless, to see the dream of producing my own music become a reality. All I had gotten to do up to this point was to play a glorified secretary, handling phone calls, booking appointments and if it was my lucky day, taking notes during meetings. Some artists that came in to record their music even saw me as their personal coffee-getter and made me fetch all sorts of things. It was becoming quite a drag, to be honest. But that all changed the day I met Queen. Unlike the other artists, they were actually kind and respectful to me, appreciated my opinion when it came to their songwriting and music-making and even showed me the basics of their recording process, something of which I was very grateful of. Around that time, I felt something had shifted in my relationship with Roger. Although I was too oblivious to see what that really meant.  

At present time, the clock had struck 1 p.m. which meant lunchtime. I saw all the other staff members leave the recording booth to get lunch and saw it as my cue to get up and retreat to my usual seat behind my desk to eat my lunch.

“Where are you going?”, Roger asked as I gathered my stuff and was halfway out of the door already before figuring out what to reply.

“Eating lunch at my desk as usual”, I shrugged, but barely dared to look up at him.

“That sounds kind of lonely”, he replied. “Why don’t you come and have lunch with me? I can give you a tour of the studio if you want?”

I bit my lip and suddenly took a very profound interest in the patterns on the floor. I had been asking to get into the studio for weeks now, and this proved to be a golden opportunity. However, after weeks of silent, continuous flirting, mostly from Roger’s part, alone time with him could not remain innocent.

“Unless you don’t want to?”, Roger said. “You know I don’t bite”, he smirked and winked at me.

I wouldn’t be too sure about that. I thought as I looked up at him as he was still waiting for a reply.

“No, I-… I’d love to actually”, I stammered and smiled.

“Great!”, he said as he smiled the kind of smile that reached up to his eyes. “Ladies first, of course”.

Yet again, as I walked into the studio before him, I felt his fingers grace the small of my back, inching a little lower than intended, or perhaps it was. Again, the contact lingered a little longer than usual, and it took me all of my willpower not to react to it.

He first led me towards the guitar corner, where I stared in awe at all the different kinds of electric guitars hanging on the wall. “Wow that’s a lot of guitars’, was all I could muster.

Roger grinned. “Most of them are Brian’s, some of them are mine. Be sure not to touch Brian’s guitar’s though, he would not even let his own wife touch them without permission”.

“Roger that”, I smirked and glanced sideways to watch his reaction. The playful smirk he was wearing earlier still played at the corners of his lips, but his eyes had turned in a deeper set of blue. If the atmosphere earlier was somewhat tense, it surely was now. I stood still as he eyed me up and down slowly, not daring to speak, even to breath.

He cleared his throat and turned around as if nothing had happened and led me towards the piano corner, which harbored a grand piano and several sets of keyboards.

“I saved the best for last of course” and led me towards a small booth in the corner of the studio “my drum set”.

“That is one intense-looking drum set”, I exclaimed.

“Intimidated?”, Roger asked, raising his eyebrows in the process.

I let out a small chuckle, “only a little”

“Don’t be. Have you ever played the drums?”

I shook my head. “Can’t say that I have”.

“Want me to teach you?”

I turned around to look at him. He was wearing the same intense expression as earlier but now it seemed to have a double meaning.

I swallowed before nodding my head. “Sure, why not?” Couldn’t hurt right?

He went behind the drum set and sat down before stretching out his hand towards me, which I hesitantly took. His hand engulfed mine completely; it was warm, comforting even and sent a tingle up my arm all the way to my spine.

“So uhmm….. where should I sit?”, I asked softly and gestured to the lack of available seating options behind the drums.

“That’s ok you can sit on my lap”, he replied cheekily and patted his knee.

I gulped and once again I felt the beginnings of a blush creep onto my cheek. The audacity of this man…!

Uhmmm… o-…ok”, I stammered and slowly took my seat upon his lap. To say it was weird was an understatement, but by no means uncomfortable. I was however very aware of his upper body pressed against my back.

“So..’, he said as he handed me a pair of drumsticks. “I’ll handle the bass drum, can you tap the drums on your right twice and then the one on your left only once, can you do that?”.

I nodded and soon enough the familiar beat of ‘We Will Rock You’ filled my ears.

“I know this song!”, I exclaimed a little over-excitedly.

He chuckled, “everyone in the English-speaking world knows this song”. “You’re doing a good job but hit the right drums a little shorter this time, like this”. He slowly took my hands in his and guided my hands along with the drums. At that pointed something changed in the air. I shifted in his lap and he let out a small groan. Almost inaudible because of the sounds of the drums, but I definitely heard it. I was suddenly overly aware of his hardening member pressed against my ass. But that wasn’t all. His body pressed against mine, my hands in his, his breath fanning my cheek, his beard grazing my neck, almost teasingly.

I swallowed deeply, unsure of what to do next. Roger seemed to have an answer ready already. He let go of my hands and the drumsticks clattered onto the floor, yet we both didn’t really care where they landed. One of his arms circled my waist and the other hand rested on my upper thigh, drawing small patterns onto the fabric of my skirt.

My breath hitched when he started pressing small butterfly kisses on my neck, all while bunching up the fabric of my skirt, grazing the soft flesh underneath. Rog… I… You… We shouldn’t… it’s wrong…” I moaned, arching up to him so that he could have better access to my neck. “Wrong?’, he murmured, now moving to suck softly on my earlobe, while his beard scratched the tender skin of my neck. His fingers inched up higher, now grazing the outline of my panties. That’s when I lost it.

“You know I’ve been wanting to get some alone time with you for weeks now”, he said softly as he continued attacking my neck with his kisses, occasionally sucking on the spot too, surely creating marks for the whole world to see.

“You see, you are different from the rest. You don’t treat me like a rockstar, you treat me like a person, a normal human being. You may think you are invisible in here, but every time you come in, you’re the only person I see.”

“Oh, Rog…”, I whispered. I felt myself choking up, feeling the tears threatening to spill. He shifted a little so he could look at me. He brought up his thumb to wipe away the few tears that were about to make their way down my cheek. “You’ve ignited something in me that I thought I had lost long ago.”

“What’s that?”, I whispered back, afraid to say anything else to ruin the moment.

“Comfort, kindness, love, the will to be with someone, actually be with someone. Now tell me… tell me that what you feel right now is wrong, and I’ll stop right away”.

I looked up in his eyes, his bright blue eyes that held so many emotions, that had seen so much love, yet so much pain and realized at that moment that how he felt, mirrored what I was feeling as well. Only instead of telling him, the only thing I could do was show it.

I slid my hand in his neck and brought him closer to me, slowly connecting his lips to mine. It was all I hoped it would be. His lips were soft and gentle against mine and his beard scratching my bottom lip only heightened the feeling. He too didn’t hesitate into deepening the kiss. He softly bit my bottom lip and graced it with his tongue, and I parted my lips just enough so that his tongue could slide into my mouth.

His fingers had now slid my panties aside and were softly rubbing my clit. I moaned into his mouth and ground against his already hard member. He groaned in return, “you’re doing things to me love” he moaned, “do you have any idea how hard you make me. I replied by grinding into him again, earning an even lower groan from him. “I bet you’re all wet for me now, aren’t you?” he mumbled against my neck as he slid two fingers inside my pussy, moving them in and out in a slow pace, curling them, twisting them, driving me to a point of insanity.

“R-…Ro-…Rog, pl-…. please”, I moaned as he continued his assault on both my pussy and my neck.

“What do you need love?”, he whispered softly in my ear, sucking my earlobe in the process.

“More Rog, … I-… I need more”.

But before Roger could make any progress in his line of actions, our time alone was cut short quite abruptly.

“Rog are you done with lunch already so we can…. Oh sorry, did you need some more time?”

I paralyzed at the sound of Brian’s voice and did not know how fast I had to get up from Roger’s lap, straightening my clothes in the process stumbling against one of the cymbals that I could just keep upright. I felt my cheeks heating up with both shame and guilt and didn’t need to look up to see the look on his face.

“Rog…. Emily… care to explain what’s going on?”.

“Humm….”, I started but I couldn’t get any words out. Instead, I was strategically planning my way out. I needed to get out of here.

“So uhmmm, Mr. Taylor, thank you very much for the tour and the drum lessons, much appreciated. I need to go now but uhmmm…. I’ll see you around I guess so uhmm…. Bye”, I mumbled the last bit and turned on my heels and made a beeline for the exit. I needed some air, some time alone to think.

“Emily?!”, Roger called after me. No, Roger, I cannot deal with this right now. Don’t ask me to face this situation right now.

I collided with my boss on the way out, who asked me where I was going. I mumbled an ‘I’m sick’ apology before heading towards my car. I was lucky enough that Roger wasn’t following me. Only after I got in the car I could let my emotions run freely. I leaned back against the chair, my hands were shaking, I felt tears pricking beneath my eyelids and the only sound I could hear was the uncontrolled beating of my heart.

What have I done?

Present day

It had been a week since the day with Roger in the studio and I hadn’t gone back to work since. My boss had called a couple of times this week, asking how I was feeling and when I would get back to work. I told him the same lie every time, that I was feeling slightly better but not good enough to come back to work. I couldn’t tell him the truth. I couldn’t tell him that the only reason I wasn’t coming into work was that I was avoiding Roger and I surely wasn’t going to tell him what happened in the studio. If that ever came out I would definitely lose my job. Plus, I didn’t know how I was going to face Roger again, how I would react, how I would feel. Surely what happened in the studio was an act of lust, but it did stir some deeper feelings from within, feelings I was sure never to have again.

I was pulled from my musings by the ringing of the doorbell. Who could that be?

I got up from the couch and walked over towards the door. However, on the other side of the door stood the one person I was purposely trying to avoid.

“Roger? What are you doing here?”

He smiled sheepishly, running a hand through his hair, clearly uncomfortable.

“Hi Emily, uhmmm, can we talk?”

I nodded. “Come in.”

I felt his eyes trained on my back as we made our way into the living room. But even when we sat down I couldn’t look him straight in the eyes.

“So, how did you get my address?”, I asked casually.

“Well, actually your boss gave it to me, he was glad someone was finally going to check up on you, probably because he didn’t want to do it himself, but we both know you aren’t really sick, are you?”

For the first time he came into my apartment I looked up at him. He looked at me questioningly, boring his bright blue eyes deep into mine.

I shook my head whilst I looked down to my lap. I started fiddling with the hem of my vest, something I tended to do when I was nervous.”

“Roger, listen I….”

“Can I speak first love? And can you look at me when I do that, please?”

I nodded and brought my eyes to his level again.

“Listen, Emily, I want to apologize for what happened in the studio, you were right, it was selfish and wrong for me to do what I did, and I should never have put you in that position. But I also wanted you to know that what I said to you that day was the truth. You’ve awoken something in me, something I had lost a long time ago, and ever since you came along that feeling has only become stronger.”

I was taken back by both his confession and his apology. I thought he stood by his own actions and wasn’t afraid to act by them. Well, I guess it was wrong.

I bit my lip, unsure of what to say, how to respond.

“Please say something”, Roger pleaded while taking my hands in his.

“I don’t really know what to say, Roger. I did say it was wrong. So wrong. And it shouldn’t have happened. I’m a 37-year old wannabe music producer, you’re a 69-year old celebrated rockstar, and you’re married for Christ’s sake! But…” I trailed off.

“But…?”, Roger questioned, and raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“I can’t deny that what happened that day felt so incredibly right. I haven’t felt like that in a long time. And I have only felt it with you, but there are just too many risks, we’re over thirty years apart, you’re married and if the press ever finds out we….”

“Hey”, Roger said softly and started rubbing small circles with his thumbs across the back of my hand, and for a moment I relished the feeling of how good my hands felt in his. “Look at me”

“My marriage has not been what it was for years, sadly it’s not a matter of if, it’s a matter of when. Secondly, when has age become more than a number and thirdly, when have I ever cared about anything the press says? I like you, Emily. A lot actually, and not seeing you in the studio this week made me realize that. If there is any part of you that feels the same love, you have got to tell me”.

I abruptly pulled my hands from Rogers’ and frantically started pacing through the room. “I do, I do like you Rog, fuck. I like you so much it scares me, but I stand by what I said, I can’t have this jeopardizing your career or mine or your marriage. I cannot handle it, I just can’t.” I walked towards the window and looked down at the street below. I had only realized that it had just begun raining. How fortunate. “I don’t want to be a homewrecker Rog, and I surely don’t want to be someone’s side dish.

I felt Roger’s arms circle my waist and I couldn’t help but lean into his embrace.

You’re not a homewrecker love, never will be, and in whatever is left of my life, I will show to you, you are the one for me”.

I smiled and turned around to face him. “Then let us at least for now have a strictly business relationship, just until we have it all figured out. You may not want it but, I’ll at least have peace of mind”.

“If it’s what you want love, then that’s what we will do”, he said softly.

He brought up his hand and pushed away a few strands from my eyes and then softly let his fingers dance across my cheek. “So beautiful”, he murmured as he grazed my lips with his thumb.

“Kiss me Roger”, I whispered, and he needn’t be told twice.

He used the arm that was around my waist to pull me flush against him, while the other hand knotted itself in my hair.

“Roger”, I moaned, as he nibbled on my lip, asking permission to deepen the kiss. He groaned into my mouth as I parted my lips slightly to give him the access he wanted.

“If I get this all sorted out, will you wait for me?”, Roger whispered against my lips.

“I will always wait for you.”